Eric Ambler - Cause for Alarm

For a moment I could scarcely believe my good fortune. I walked on, expecting at any moment to feel hands grasping my arms, pulling me back. But no hands came. Then I was standing in a dream by the cloakroom counter and the porter was standing there waiting for a tip. I plunged my hand into my pocket and pulled out the first coin my fingers touched. I saw the porter stare at it as I dropped it into his hand and realised, too late, that I had made a mistake. I had given him ten lire. He would remember me. I waved away his thanks irritably and turned to go. The cloakroom attendant called me back. I had forgotten my counterfoil. I took it and, sweating profusely, clumped towards the station yard.

Zaleshoff was waiting for me a little way away. I told him what I had done. He shrugged.

“It can’t be helped. Have you got your cloakroom check? Well, tear it up and throw it away. I picked suitcases with name and address tags on them. The owners’ll get them back eventually. Now let’s go and have some breakfast. The shops won’t be open for an hour or so yet.”

By the time we had established ourselves in a caffe some distance from the station, reaction had set in. I was trembling from head to foot. The last thing I wanted was food. Zaleshoff grinned sympathetically.

“You’ll feel better when you’ve had some coffee. It wasn’t so bad as all that. Don’t forget that they were looking for a couple of guys in drivers’ uniforms.”

“Maybe. But I’ve got the jitters.”

“Well, we’ve got plenty of time. We can take it easy for a bit. As soon as the shops are open, we’ll get some shoes, two new hats, two shirts and a couple of small suitcases. I’ll get you a pair of glasses, too. They’re not much good as a disguise, but they’ll give you confidence. We can change in a lavatory somewhere and put this stuff we’re wearing now into the suitcases. Then we’ll buy tickets, like ordinary respectable folks, for Vicenza. We ought to get to Udine this afternoon.”

“If we don’t get caught here.” I noticed that his face was looking normal again. “What did you do to your face?”

“Tore my handkerchief into strips and made me some little wads like the things dentists put in your mouth. They were poked inside my cheeks. They nearly made me throw up as I walked down the platform. I’ve shaved my eyebrows a bit, too.” He got up. “I’ll be back in a minute, I’m going to get a paper.”

By the time he returned I had drunk some coffee and was feeling cooler, both mentally and physically. He was looking solemn.

“What’s the matter?”

He gave me the paper. As the blue-eyed porter had said, Zaleshoff’s description had been added to mine. We were still believed to be in the vicinity of Treviglio. But the paper had been printed some hours before.

“I don’t see,” I said, “that this makes it any worse.”

“No, it doesn’t make it any worse. But it’s what they haven’t printed that I’m worrying about.”

“Such as what?”

But he did not answer. “There’s something inside that may interest you,” he said: “page three, column two, near the top.”

I found it. It was a short paragraph under the caption:

“THE P OLICE S USPECT SUICIDE ”

It went on:

MILAN,

Friday.

A woman was found late to-night behind a house in the Corso di Porta Nuova. She was seriously injured, and is believed to have fallen from a fourth-storey window. She died on the way to the hospital. A servant, Ricciardo Fiabini, identified the dead woman as signora Vagas, wife of Maggiore Generale J. L. Vagas of Belgrade, who is well-known in Milan musical circles. The General is at present abroad.

I looked up. “Why did she do it?”

He shrugged. “She was crazy; and when Vagas got away… but you can’t begin to explain how the mind of a dame like that works.” He stopped and looked at me quizzically. “What are you thinking about? Want to send a wreath?”

I shook my head.

“No,” I said slowly; “I was wondering if Ricciardo would attend the funeral.”

As soon as the shops were open, we made our purchases. Soon after nine we boarded a slow “omnibus” train to Vicenza. We arrived there at about half-past ten. From Vicenza we doubled on our tracks by bus to Tavernelle, where we caught a train to Treviso. We repeated the doubling-back process at Castelfranco and later at Casarsa. We reached Udine at half-past nine that evening.

It was a worrying day. Most of the stations were heavily guarded and we travelled in constant fear of being asked to show our papers. From time to time we dozed fitfully. The early drizzle cleared away during the morning and it became sunny and very warm. As we drew out of a station our heads would nod forward and for a minute or two we would sleep, only to wake up with a nerve-racking jerk if the train slowed for a signal or crossed points. My eyes ached and smarted with fatigue. This misery was aggravated by the pair of thick pebble glasses which Zaleshoff had bought for me at a street market stall, and which rendered me practically blind when I was forced to look through instead of over them. To add to my discomfort, I developed a bilious attack. Zaleshoff ate a solitary luncheon out of a paper bag. The only redeeming feature of the journey was that for most of the time we travelled with compartments to ourselves.

At Udine we left our cases in the cloakroom.

“Do you feel like something to eat yet?” said Zaleshoff as we walked warily out of the station.

“I might tackle an omelette.”

“Then we’ll find somewhere good. We may as well take our time about it, too. We’ve got time to kill.”

I groaned. “Isn’t there some small shady hotel where we could spend the night without being asked for our passports. I know we’ve had a nap or two to-day, but it’s a bed I want. My back feels as if it’s got a hole in it.”

“So does mine. But you’ll find that the shadier the hotel the more fuss they’ll make about passports. Still, if you know of a place we’ll go there. Otherwise…” He shrugged. “We’ve spent a lot of money to-day one way and another. We’ve got to wait for the banks to open in the morning or we shall run short.”

“Supposing the police…”

“They won’t. I’ve got an account in another name with the Rome branch of the Industrial Bank. I told Tamara to write a letter in that name to the Rome office telling them to arrange drawing facilities at their branch here.”

“That sounds to me as if she’d have to forge a signature.”

“Your hearing’s perfect. That’s just what she has done.”

We found a restaurant and stayed there until it closed at midnight. The next two hours we spent in a caffe drinking coffee. Then we went for a walk. Towards three we returned to the station, found that there was a Vienna-Rome train due at a quarter to six and spent the rest of the dark hours at a nearby wine-shop on the pretext of waiting for it. We played a card game called scopa with the proprietor and two of the railway workers, for whose benefit the place was kept open all night. At five o’clock we ordered spaghetti, ate it and left soon after, ostensibly to catch the Rome train. Actually we went for another walk. Twice we had to scuttle down side-streets to avoid encountering patrolling policemen, but a little before seven we found an open caffe.

By this time the sight and smell of coffee had become unbearable, and we disposed of the coffee we had to order by pouring it over the roots of the privets which stood in green wooden tubs along the pavement in front of the tables. I was feeling sick and wretched. Zaleshoff looked ghastly. We had sat there for an hour, and I was wondering how on earth we were going to spend the time until the banks opened, when I saw his face light up. He snapped his fingers.