Eric Ambler - Cause for Alarm

I did so and he stuffed them behind a steel locker.

“I don’t,” I said, “see the point of all this. Do you imagine that we’re going to get past the police on the strength of a couple of coats?”

“No. What we are going to do is to walk across the lines into the station and…”

“And hide in the lavatories, I suppose,” I supplemented ironically.

“Maybe. Let’s go.”

A minute later we broke cover and began to walk across the tracks towards the end of the line of trucks that separated us from the main lines.

It was a nerve-racking business. Out of the corner of my eye I could see that Zaleshoff’s victim had been found. They had lowered him from the roof of the van and he was sitting on the ground, his hands clasping his head. A group of them, including the foreman, was standing round talking excitedly. The policeman with his revolver at the ready was stalking rapidly in the direction of the warehouse. A railway official was trailing anxiously in his wake. We passed the line of trucks safely and started to cross the main lines diagonally towards the station. It may have been my nerves or it may have been that the driver’s coat was a good deal thinner than my overcoat, but by the time we had reached the station I was shivering violently.

The station platforms were practically deserted; but there were two bored-looking militiamen leaning against the wall by each exit. There was also a man with a trolley buffet talking to a porter on one of the eastbound platforms. Zaleshoff changed direction suddenly and began to walk towards it.

“What’s the idea?” I muttered.

“That buffet means that there’s a night train due in. If it’s got third-class coaches, we’ll jump it.”

“What about tickets?”

“We’ve got uniforms on. We can go third-class free.”

We reached the platform.

I think that those ten minutes we had to wait for the train were the worst part of it.

The sky was grey and a thin drizzle had begun to fall; but it was now light. The goods yard seemed very near. The station was very quiet, and small sounds, the scraping of a foot, a cough, echoed from the curved roof. To my overwrought imagination, the porter, the buffet attendant and the militiamen seemed all to be staring at us suspiciously.

“For God’s sake,” muttered Zaleshoff, “don’t look so darned sinister. You look as though you’d just made arrangements to blow up the station. Don’t look at them, look at me; and look as if you liked it. Come on, we’ll try a slow walk towards the buffet. We can’t stand here all the time. It looks too exclusive. Have you got your cigarettes?”

“Yes.”

“Break one in half in your pocket, stick one end in your mouth and light up. If those two start talking to us, keep your mouth shut and leave it to me. They’ll spot your accent.”

My fingers were shaking so much that it took me over a minute to light the cigarette. By that time, Zaleshoff was sauntering, hands in pockets, towards the buffet. Suppressing a desire to run after him, I followed slowly. I caught him up as he was nearing the buffet. The porter and the buffet attendant had stopped talking and were watching our approach. I felt sick with apprehension. Then the porter nodded to Zaleshoff.

“Trouble over at the goods yard, they tell me,” he said.

He was a youngish man with quick blue eyes.

Zaleshoff shrugged. His voice when he spoke was thick, as though he had a cold, and he slurred his words. It would have been difficult to detect any accent.

“They found a couple of tramps hiding in a truck,” he said. “One of them hit one of our chaps with a bottle and they got away. They must be hiding in another truck now. But they won’t get out of the yard.”

The porter leaned forward confidentially. “We’ve had a message here to look out for them. It is said that they may be the two foreigners that escaped from Milan.”

Zaleshoff whistled softly.

The porter smacked his lips. “Ten thousand lire! That’s something, isn’t it?”

“Not so bad. But”-he looked puzzled-“I thought there was only one of them.”

The porter whipped a newspaper out of his pocket. “No, two. The police think that he has another man with him, this foreigner. They were seen in a caffe near Treviglio the night before last. The padrone recognised one of them from the photograph in the paper. Look, here it is. No photograph of the second man, but a description. You know, I think that these are not Englishmen, but French, or perhaps English spies working for the French. The French will stab us in the back if they can. Yesterday I carried the baggage of a Frenchman, three heavy suitcases, and found him a good corner seat with his back to the engine as he wished. He gave me five lire. Five lire only!” He gazed at us in bitter triumph.

“Ah, the French!” said Zaleshoff. He glanced at the paper idly and laughed. “Well, it won’t be you or me that’ll collect that ten thousand. It’ll be a policeman. You mark my words.”

“Policeman!” chimed in the buffet attendant suddenly. He lowered his voice. “A man was telling me in the caffe last night that it was not the police whom these men escaped from in Milan, but-well-you know who I mean.” He looked from one to the other of us meaningly.

Zaleshoff shrugged again. “Perhaps.” He turned and dug me jovially in the ribs. “Hey, what about ten thousand lire, Beppe?” He turned again to the other two. “He’s sulking. His woman is at home in Udine, and he’s thinking that there will be a couple of his mates underneath the bed when he gets back.”

The three of them roared with laughter. I scowled. Zaleshoff dug me in the ribs again.

“Where did you say you came from?” said the porter suddenly.

“Udine, and that’s where we’re going back to.”

“Then how did you get this way?”

He was looking puzzled. My heart missed a beat. Zaleshoff must have blundered in some way.

“Brought a train of refrigerator vans up from Padova. Special job.” He said it easily enough; but I saw a wary look in his eyes.

The porter nodded, but I could see that he was thinking this over. I saw the blue eyes flicker once from me to Zaleshoff. It was with an inward sigh of relief that I saw that the train had been signalled. Zaleshoff nodded towards the signal.

“Where’s this one going?” he said.

It was the buffet attendant who replied.

“Belgrade and Sofia direttissimo, with a slip coach for Athens. It’s got third all right as far as Trieste.”

“Venezia’ll do for us.”

The porter opened his mouth to speak and then shut it again. I saw him shrug slightly as if dismissing a thought from his mind. Then he strolled away up the platform and began to man?uvre a trolley into position ready to transfer the packages with which it was loaded to the luggage van on the train. But I noticed that from time to time he glanced at us. Another porter appeared with a postal official and a mountainous load of mail bags. The buffet attendant began to test the automatic coffee urn on his trolley. The smell of hot coffee was exquisite torture. The attendant looked at our empty hands.

“Aren’t you eating to-day?”

“We have eaten,” said Zaleshoff promptly; “an hour ago.”

“Coffee?”

Zaleshoff grinned. “At a lira a cup! What do you take us for?”

The attendant laughed and began to push the trolley towards the end of the platform. We were left alone.

“That porter…” I began under my breath.

“I know,” he murmured; “but we’ll be out of it in a minute. Heavens, I could have done with a cup of coffee.” He glanced up at the clock. “Two minutes after six. It’ll probably be late.” He looked casually along the platform at the porter. “It would be our luck,” he muttered vindictively, “to strike a guy with eyes in his head. The only consolation is that he’s feeling afraid of making a fool of himself.”