I thought carefully. It could not possibly have been the chambermaid. As soon as I had finished writing the letter, I had put it in the pocket of the suit I had been going to wear the following day. I had posted it in the hotel letter-box on my way out in the morning.
Then an unpleasant idea flashed through my mind. I examined the back of the envelope in which Claire’s letter to me had arrived. There, unmistakably, was the ridge of gum to which she had referred. There was no longer any doubt in my mind. My correspondence was certainly being read. The question was: by whom?
It might, of course, be one of the hotel employees; but there was an objection to that solution. The hotel letter-box was opened and cleared by the postman. I had seen him do the job. Probably, none of the hotel employees would have access to the contents of the box. In any case, it was located in full view of everyone near the reception counter. Very odd!
I bathed, changed, had some breakfast and went to the office. Bellinetti welcomed me effusively. Everything had arranged itself admirably while the Signore had been away. Umberto smiled shyly. Serafina was not there. I went to my room.
“Who opened the post this morning, Bellinetti?”
“I did, Signore, as you instructed.”
“Good. I want to see the envelopes in which the letters came.”
“The envelopes, Signore?” He smiled condescendingly. “You mean the letters?”
“No, I mean the envelopes.”
His eyebrows nearly touching his scalp, he retrieved the envelopes. I went through them one by one. The ridge of gum was evident in every case. I dropped the envelopes back into the wastepaper basket. He was watching me in mystified silence.
“Can you think of anyone who would have either a reason for or an opportunity of steaming open and reading our correspondence, Bellinetti?”
He blinked. Then his face became blank. “No, Signore.”
“You haven’t an idea?”
“No, Signore.”
“Did you know that it was happening?”
“No, Signore.”
I gave it up. Obviously, the news was no surprise to him. Equally obviously, he did not propose to discuss it. Grimly, I got on with my work.
After lunch, I went to the Amministrazione.
This time I was kept waiting for only five minutes. Then I was shown into the signor Capitano’s office.
He nodded curtly.
“Yes, your identity card is ready.” He handed it to me. “I will remind you again that it must be presented here each week for stamping.”
“I have to travel about the country a good deal on business. It is possible that I shall not be in Milan every week.”
“In such cases you will notify us here in advance.”
“Thank you. And my passport, please?”
He frowned. “But that matter has already been explained to you.”
For some reason, my heart missed a beat.
“Nothing has been explained to me. I was told last week that it was in the hands of the Foreign Department.”
“That is so. Unfortunately,” he said blandly, “it has been mislaid. We expect it to be found at any moment. When it is found it will be restored to you immediately. Until then, you have your permit.”
“But…”
“You do not wish to leave Italy at present, do you?”
“No, but…”
“Then your passport is unnecessary.”
I swallowed hard.
“But it is a valuable document. It cannot be mislaid.”
He shrugged irritably. “These things happen.”
“I shall report the matter to the British Consul immediately.”
“It has already been reported to your Consul.”
This, as I soon found, was correct. I was interviewed at the Consulate by the same exquisite suit.
“Bad luck, of course,” agreed its owner amiably, “but we can’t do anything much about it, you know. We shall have to give them every chance to find it. Still, you’re not wanting to leave the country at the moment, are you?”
“Not at the moment,” I said reluctantly.
“Then we’ll see what happens. Very serious matter, you know, a lost passport. We’ll have to be very careful. Of course, if you did want to leave we could issue you with papers that would get you home. But then, that doesn’t clear up the question of the passport. We’ll let you know as soon as we hear.”
Back in the office, I lit a cigarette and sat down to think things over.
It may have been that, as I had spent the previous night dozing fitfully in a railway carriage, my powers of self-deception had fallen off a little; for now I began, for the first time, to allow myself to take Zaleshoff seriously. Zaleshoff had said that my passport would be mislaid. He had been right. A coincidence perhaps? No, that just would not do. It was too much of a coincidence. People didn’t lose passports like that. And my comfortable explanation about commissions and introduction wouldn’t do either. It didn’t fit. My thoughts went back to the evening I had spent with him. There were a lot of things about that evening that needed explanation. Was it, for instance, pure coincidence that had led Zaleshoff to leaving his office at precisely the same time as I? I began to wonder. Then there was Vagas, with his obscure hintings, and Zaleshoff’s curious insistence on my seeing the General again. Ferning came into it somewhere, too. I remembered that in my wallet was the page out of Ferning’s loose-leaf note-book. S.A. Braga of Turin was still unaccounted for. Card indexes… V. 18… “as phoney as a glass eye…”
I crushed my cigarette out impatiently. Ferning’s business was not my business. General Vagas sent cold shudders down my spine. Zaleshoff irritated me. The best course was to ignore the whole thing. It was absurd for a man of my age to take any notice of such childish nonsense. And then I remembered again about my passport. That was something I could not ignore. And there was this wretched business of the letters. Perhaps Zaleshoff knew something about that…
I should probably have continued to think in this sort of circle if Umberto had not come into the room at that moment and put some papers on my desk. I looked up.
“The list, Signore.”
“Oh yes. Thank you.”
I had instructed Umberto to prepare for me a complete up-to-date list of all the Italian firms on the Spartacus books, together with the amount spent by each during the past year. I glanced at it. It was in alphabetical order. The fourth name down caught my eye. The reason was that the initial letter which determined its place in the list belonged to the third word in the title of the concern and for a moment I had thought that Umberto had made a mistake. Then, I looked again. Yes, there it was in black and white-Societa Anonima B RAGANZETTA, Torino. I had found S.A. Braga of Turin!
For a minute or two I sat looking at the name. There was no doubt about it. “Braga.” was simply Ferning’s abbreviation. I looked at the figure entered against the name. S.A. Braganzetta had spent a lot of money with Spartacus. I rang for Umberto.
“Signore?”
“Bring me the records of all our transactions with the Braganzetta company of Turin.”
He returned a few minutes later with a thick wad of papers. I went through them carefully. Soon I had learned all I wanted to know. I retained a series of specifications and returned the rest to Umberto. Then I took Ferning’s page of notes from my wallet and went through it item by item.
The first two lines were easy.
In December, Spartacus had delivered to the Braganzetta works three special high-production shell machining units. That accounted for the “3 specials.” What followed immediately after that was just as obvious. The special feature about these machines had been, I saw from the specifications, the fact that they were adapted for producing a very much smaller class of shell than that for which the standard S2 range allowed. The shells in question were those for the twenty-five and forty millimetre automatic anti-aircraft guns, types L/64 and L/60, made by the Swedish firm of Borfors. “I stand. 10.5 c.m. N.A.A.” was a reference to a fourth and standard machine supplied for machining ten-point-five centimetre naval anti-aircraft gun shells. The “ 1,200 plus” and “ 150 plus” were references to the output potentialities of the machines in question.