Night Journey (12 page)

I stuffed papers and passport in my pocket, walked quietly out on to the balcony. Almost below, to the left of the hotel door, a square-built hatless man in a raincoat was standing.

It was now after four o'clock. Where was the nearest public telephone? The station was not very far away: a five or six minute walk. One could probably telephone is perfect safety from there.

But could one
walk
in perfect safety? The trams, I thought, did not start till six. The chance of a taxi was small. But if this man who followed me had wanted to, he could have killed me last night.

There was a tired dark man behind the reception desk now, but he only raised tired dark eyes as I passed. As I came out I had to turn left, away from where the man in the raincoat would still be standing; I walked off at a brisk pace in the direction of the
Stazione Centrale
.

There was no one at all about; Milan was making up for its disturbed night. I did not turn, though office I heard footsteps behind. The moon was still bright and unsullied. Not a cloud. There might never have been a raid. Dawn could not be so very far away, but as yet there was no sign.

As the great marble façade of the station loomed up, I bent to tie my shoe. There should have been some subtler way but I had not been taught it. Two men. Not one. Two men followed. This perhaps was the direct result of an unfortunate accident in a Venetian canal. I had thought all along that had been a mistake. Such confidence as had been growing in me hurriedly left by a back door.

The enormous booking hall, usually crowded, was almost deserted. Telephones to the left. Just to cover myself I went to a booking window and asked what was the next train for Venice. Then I stopped to buy a magazine and got a first good glimpse of the two men buying grapes in cellophane paper from a girl with a wagon. The light was bright there. Both young; one tall with a square Teutonic face, fair hair, steel-blue eyes; the other hook-nosed, thin. Their looks dispersed the last hopes that they might not belong to the U.A.I. branch of the German Secret Police. Even in Germany, I think, they would have looked what they were.

Telephone booth, Andrews's number in Venice. A matter of two or three minutes only. Andrews's soft-spoken accentless Italian.

“
Pronto, si?
”

“Signor Brevio?”

“
Si, si?
”

“Catania speaking. From Milan.”

“Just a minute … Yes?”

“An air-raid to-night.” I said. “The meeting arranged for to-morrow has been postponed. The principal speaker has been put out of action.”

A longer pause. I had an offensive picture of Jane waking in the dark beside him, Andrews with a palm over the mouth-piece saying, keep quiet, it's Mencken.

“Out of action?” Andrews's voice. “Temporarily or permanently?”

“Permanently.” I had been thinking how to tell what had happened without its being understandable to a listener. “ Reich Doctor was there and took down what notes he could, but I arrived too late. This may make a big difference as it may be that all other notes have been destroyed. Shall I be seeing you as arranged?”

“Certainly. Follow your instructions.”

“I do not think my instructions cover the present situation. Do you remember that—er—that dealer who went into liquidation only last Monday?”

“Yes?”

“Well, two representatives of the same firm are again in touch with me.”

“Oh … You're sure it is the same firm?”

“Quite sure.”

“Oh … Have they attempted to interfere with your normal trading?”

“Not yet. But one has just entered the next telephone box to me now.”

“Where are you?”

“Milan station.”

“Has your employer arrived yet?”

“No, not yet.”

“Listen, Catania. We are coming to join you to-day. Until then you must try to do the best you can. If your employer arrives, keep in close contact with him. This will be a protection for yourself. If he does not come, then the initiative as to how you spend the day is very much your own. You won't need me to urge you to avoid any dealings with the representatives of the rival firm.”

“I have no wish to go into liquidation,” I said drily.

“Nor do we wish you to. But spend the day as I say. This afternoon—early this evening—go to see our friends, whose address we gave you. We have arranged for you to call, but at a special time only.
Not
before six o'clock and
not
after six thirty.
Capito?
”

Capito
.”

“Between those times arrangements have been made to meet all eventualities. If by then you have been able to disengage yourself from these rival representatives, it will be a very desirable thing. But in any case go.”

“I'll go.”

In the next box the hook-nosed German was thumbing through the phone book. I could not see the other man. After I had hang up I telephoned two other numbers at random, from which, not unnaturally at that time of the morning, there was no reply.

I left. In the square outside workmen were waiting for a tram to take them into the centre of the city. The sky was bright behind the station, green and gold and blush pink.

The tram came and there was a rush for it. Somehow I got on board, pressed like a sardine. The hook-nosed man was left behind. I got off at the Piazza Cavour. Unfortunately there had been a taxi.

Early breakfast at a small popular café where there were already soma customers. Safety in numbers again; and after the nightly raid people wanted extra nourishment before the day began. They needed to talk, to sip a drink and relax. My friend took a table by the door and ordered something in a glass.

The waiter, thin and middle-aged, had a worried, depressed look. He had a brother, he said, making aircraft engines at the Faroni works. One had tried to get through before coming on duty but they said the line was engaged. Why not say “ down” and have done with it? The main railway line, one heard, had been hit, five kilometres north of the city. One did not at all know where it was going to end. This bombing of cities was so
barbarous
; it was like sacking a town in the old days; it was a return to Alaric. Things were at a pretty pass.

“Do not worry,” I said. “ The Germans have done far worse to the British. We must trust in our friends.”

He nodded unconvincingly. “ Yes, yes, of course. But it is all rather confusing, this war. Not like the last; that was dear-cut eh? Enemies, friends? Does one reverse them at will like a tablecloth? And all in a lifetime,
signore
. I do not know.”

Afterwards I walked to the Duomo and went inside. Mass was being celebrated in one of the aisles, and on impulse I joined the group praying and took the sacraments. It was the first time for nearly a year, but to-day it seemed proper, as a man might before battle. In times of danger the old rituals count.

Later I sat in the square in brilliant sunshine and read the
Corriera della Sera
. Censored and regimented by Fascism, the great Liberal newspaper still clung to the dignity of its original outlay as if the façade would deceive people into thinking it could still call its soul its own. To-day there was an angry editorial against the “un-neutral” attitude of Greece.

I put a hand up to scratch my chin, and this led me to a barber's shop where I had a shave, a haircut, shampoo, a manicure. This exhausted my inventiveness, but before it was done a tall blond young man with a square head and blue-grey eyes took a chair beside me. His Italian accent was good but not good enough. He came from Berlin, or even farther east We ignored each other.

There was a telephone in the shop and I rang the Hotel Colleoni. Yes, there had been a message for me from a Captain Bonini of Venice, cancelling his booking of the two rooms. Would I kindly collect my case when convenient?

Did that mean the conference was altogether cancelled? It might be specially helpful to Andrews if I could find out. Why not go to the Faroni works now?

Observing that the German was still having his hair cut I left the shop rapidly and was lucky enough to see a taxi. I got in and in a moment we were skimming through the streets. A glance through the back window showed no one following. I might just be free, but to be sure I leaned forward and gave the driver instructions to take a roundabout way, choosing his own way through the back streets of the industrial district.

He gave a sidelong stare but did as he was told. When we turned in at the gates of the factory I thought the double manoeuvre had been successful. There was certainly no car in sight.

The gates were not guarded and we drove on until where the floes of broken glass began.

“Wait here,” I said, and crunched across to the houses. Some of the sheds were still smouldering and very little had been done to clean ap the debris of the night.

I knocked on the door of the house with drawn blinds, waited, knocked again and then saw the secretary with the bandaged head coming across the garden towards me.

“What can I do for you?”

“You will remember me. Catania of the Admiralty Staff. I have been instructed to call and make one or two inquiries.”

He fidgeted with the bandage. “ Oh, very well. Come in.”

He opened the door and led the way into a room on the right. The sun filtered in through the fine cracks in the venetian blind.

“Ferocchi is my name. I can only give you a few minutes.”

“Chiefly I want to know if the conference has been cancelled or postponed.”

“You should know that. The Admiralty was informed this morning that it was postponed for one week.”

I frowned. “I am sorry. I have been out of touch since early this morning. Am I to understand, then, that the results of Professor Brayda's researches are not lost after all?”

Ferocchi hesitated. “So far nothing useful has been found. The laboratory is burned out. But the conference will be held to review other matters. It was not convened solely for one purpose.”

“Of course. Of course. Can you tell me whether Dr von Riehl will attend the conference next week?”

“No. Dr von Riehl is returning to Germany to-morrow.”

“Thank you. I'll not trouble you further. You must be very tired.”

“War is a tiring business,” said Ferocchi.

I moved to go. “ There is one thing: it is a purely personal matter but I could not help noticing and resenting Dr von Riehl's attitude towards you. He seemed to think you doubted his word.”

“Oh, that,” Ferocchi closed his eyes. “One becomes used to arrogance … But last night—I have worked for Professor Brayda for three years. I am no scientist, but I am convinced he was not talking nonsense after we carried him upstairs.”

“Then …”

“Oh, who am I to say?” He shrugged. “This is just a personal opinion and I must ask you not to pass it on …”

“Of course.”

“I do not feel that the Herr Doktor will break his heart if nothing is ever found. In wartime there is patriotism to add to professional jealousy. I thini Dr von Riehl knows what Professor Brayda succeeded in doing, and I think he is taking the knowledge home with him to Germany.”

“But Germany is our ally!”

“And how long before she is something mart? The Herr Doktor is making sure and putting Germany first.”

“If you have been with the professor so much,” I said, “ even though you are not a scientist, have you not gathered what he hoped to do?”

Ferocchi looked at me suspiciously. “ He was working on a blister gas and experimenting with its effect on rats. He was startled and somewhat alarmed by the results. That is all I can tell you.

“Thank you. I gathered that was so from what he said just before he died. I also got the impression that he was not wandering in his mind until immediately before the end.”

“He had a very clear mind,” said Ferocchi. “ It would be the last part to succumb.”

I walked back to the taxi and got in.

“Piazza del Duomo,” I said. There was no sign of the men who had been following me. I was free again.

Meeting the secretary had been a lucky chance. I had quite a lot to tell Andrews. Perhaps I could tell him and then leave the country. The thought of peaceful work in the, at present, peaceful English countryside was like a healing balm to frayed nerves.

Yet, for a person conditioned all his life to intellectual rather than physical activity, I had not done so badly. Acting on my own initiative here, I had discovered a lot.

I peered out of tne back window. A tram car, a donkey cart, a large black limousine. No sign of the other taxi. This part of Milan was unfamiliar. I realised that the driver thought his earlier instructions still applied and was making a devious way back.

I leaned forward. “Go straight back,” I said. “ Don't bother to drive round.”

He half turned his head and nodded. My stomach congealed and became liquid. It was not the same driver.

The difference between cool action is a crisis and losing one's head is surprisingly small.

My first thoughts were: this
is
the other taxi: they're in the limousine: you're alone yet: don't let them know you suspect.

I sat on the edge of the seat and tried to swallow something in my throat as big as a billiard ball. Think. It's your only chance. Think.

Probably an ordinary taxi with an ordinary Italian driver acting on their instructions. Which way going? Towards the sun? South. Must act soon while car still in Milan. But going too fast to jump. Screeching but slowing at corners; broken leg better than capture.

This the long-expected move. The zig-zag drive to the Faroni works a bad mistake; it showed I knew they were following me and therefore would not lead them to any other members of my organisation. So they'd now try their own means: persuasion by the
totschiäger
. Taxi door opened away from me, hinge at back, so hard to slip out of car. Suburban villas flashing past; a church, trees, a railway bridge. What if I told the man to stop? If he was not one of them he had heavily bribed.