Beyond that point, however, I could make nothing of it. What did “Spez.” and “6 m. belt” and the rest of the page mean? I could trace no connection between it and any Spartacus dealings with Braganzetta. I puzzled over it for a bit and then put the paper back in my pocket. This much was clear. Ferning’s dealings with Vagas had had something to do with Spartacus. Therefore-I forced myself to face the conclusion with some reluctance-I, as the present representative of Spartacus in Milan, had more than my curiosity to satisfy. It was (I boggled at the word) my duty to keep my appointment with Vagas for the following evening-if only to hear his proposition.
The next moment I cursed myself for a fool. Vagas had said nothing about having any proposition to put to me. That was Zaleshoff’s idea. Blast Zaleshoff! I was getting the man on the brain. And then I thought again. One of Zaleshoff’s ideas had been right. This one might be. It would be wiser to see Vagas. Yes, that was the word-“wiser.” It could do no harm, anyway, and an evening at the ballet would do me good. There was this to be considered too: if I did not see him I should probably worry over the affair and wish that I had done so. Better get it over.
Having made this decision, I felt better. For the rest of the day I put the whole thing out of my mind and got on with the work in hand. My trip to Genoa had cost me time that I could ill afford at the moment, for, quite apart from the current work which had accumulated in my absence, there was the pressing business of a complete office reorganisation. As far as Bellinetti was concerned, I had come to a definite conclusion. His activities during my absence had confirmed me in my earlier opinion that he was thoroughly incompetent to organise the work of the office. His technical knowledge was non-existent. Ferning, I decided, must have been mad to engage him. Before I left the office that night and when the others had gone, I sat down at Umberto’s typewriter and composed a confidential memorandum to Pelcher. I concluded by asking for permission to give Bellinetti notice. I added that I proposed to promote Umberto and engage a good typist, thus saving money and securing a more efficient organisation. This done, I went to the restaurant near the Piazza Oberdan, had some dinner and decided to walk back to the hotel and go straight to bed.
It was a cold night, but as it was fine, and as I needed the exercise, I took the slightly longer route through the Public Gardens.
A faint ground mist was rising and the electric lights glowed yellowly among the trees. Couples sat huddled on the benches or stood in the shadows or walked sedately arm-in-arm along the stone paths. But towards the centre of the gardens, where the lakes made the mist thick and dank, there were fewer persons about. I turned into a tree-shadowed path that ran parallel to one of the main avenues. It was then that I noticed the man behind me.
I had been thinking that, so far, I had been able to do nothing about moving from the Parigi, that every day I stayed there was a waste of money, and that, at the earliest possible moment, I must make a real effort to find a pensione. Something must be done, too, about my passport. Was it, I wondered vaguely, any use asking Fitch or Pelcher to try to press at the Foreign Office in London for action. The next moment, I tripped over one of my shoe laces.
I bent down near the railings to retie the lace. As I did so I saw out of the corner of my eye a slight movement near the railings about twenty yards back.
If I had not moved close to the railings with the idea of leaning against them while I tied the shoe, I should not have seen him. It was very dark beneath the trees. But the railings were in a direct line with a lantern over a gateway about a hundred yards along and, from where I stood, I could see, in faint silhouette, his head and shoulders.
I took no notice at first and finished tying up my lace. Then I glanced back again. The man had not moved. Mentally I shrugged. I walked on. A second or two later I heard a slight click behind me. I recognised the sound. A few yards back I had trodden on a loose drain cover. The man behind me had done the same thing. And then I stopped again. I don’t quite know why I did so. It may have been the half-formed suspicion in my mind that the man behind me might be some sort of footpad. There had been something odd about the way he had remained motionless while I had re-tied my shoe. I went to the railings again and pretended to adjust the knot. I could no longer see him, but there was not a sound of footsteps, only the distant hum of traffic along the Corso Venezia. He must, I knew, still be there. I walked on quickly and cut across by the shortest possible route out of the gardens.
There was light now and I could see him, a short, stocky, overcoated figure with a high-crowned soft hat. He had dropped back a little, and was sauntering along with his hands in his pockets and his collar turned up. There was, I thought, something familiar about that hat. But I did not look back again. There was no doubt about it. I was being followed. Obviously, the motive could not be robbery. The opportunity for that had passed. The man might be a pimp who had marked me down as foreign, and therefore a sound business prospect; but it was unlikely. Pimps did not have the sort of staying power this man seemed to possess. A pimp would have tackled me before.
I turned off the main road and threaded my way quickly through a series of back streets to the Via Alessandro Manzoni. Then I looked back again. He was still there, a shadowy figure keeping close to the shadow of the wall.
I decided on action. I walked on rapidly until I came to a fairly quiet side street. On the corner I hesitated as though I were uncertain as to my whereabouts, then turned down the side street. A few yards along it I stopped and moved into the darkened entrance to a shop. A second or two later I heard the footsteps of the man behind me approaching. He was almost level with the shop when I stepped out and stood in the middle of the pavement. Facing me and looking as though he would have given anything to be able to turn tail and run, was Bellinetti.
He made a gallant effort to carry off the situation.
“I thought I recognised you, Signore, but I could not be sure. I was alone. I thought that we might drink a cognac together.”
“With pleasure.” We began to walk back to the main road. “Do you often walk in the Gardens at night, Bellinetti?”
“On fine evenings, yes. You walk very fast, Signore.”
There was a note almost of insolence in his voice. He had clearly recovered his composure. I took up the challenge.
“Then, Bellinetti, I advise you not to try to keep up with me. Who knows what may happen to a man in your state of health.”
“My state of health, Signore?”
“You might be seriously injured at any moment,” I said blandly.
He frowned. “I am always very careful, Signor.”
“I am glad to hear it.” We were passing a caffe. “Shall we have our drink here?”
Ten minutes later I resumed my walk back to the hotel. It would, I decided, be a distinct relief to be rid of signor Bellinetti. It was bad enough to have an inefficient assistant. An inefficient assistant who supplemented his office work by spying upon one’s movements outside the office was intolerable.