Read Online Cause for Alarm by Eric Ambler - Free Book Online
Authors: Eric Ambler
Tags: Suspense
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small loose-leaf note-book. I put these objects aside and began to sort the papers.
I became so immersed in the task that it was eight o’clock when I glanced at my wrist-watch and decided to finish for the day. I had told Bellinetti that he was to be in the office at nine. I should have to see that I was on time myself. Besides, except for some fruit that I had sent Umberto for during the afternoon, I had had nothing to eat since breakfast. It was time that I had dinner.
I rose and got my coat. As I was putting it on it brushed against the desk and knocked the note-book on to the floor. I picked the note-book up. It had fallen open and one of the leaves had come adrift. Almost automatically I patted it back into place and refastened the loose-leaf catch. Then I stopped and looked at it again. The page was covered with minute pencil notes. But it was not the notes that had made me look twice. Roughly printed in pencil at the head of the page was the word “VAGAS.”
I carried the book to the light and began to read. This, I remember, is how it began:
VAGAS
Dec. 30
S.A. Braga. Torino
. 3 specials. adapt. 25 + 40 m.m. A.A.A. L.64, L.60. Borfors 1,200 plus. I stand. 10.5 c.m.N.A.A.150 plus 40 m.t.bp. Spez. rept. 6 m. belt mg.s.a. 1.2 m. 14 mths. 6 × 55 c.m. 30 o el. Mntgs. Gen.
The rest of the page was filled with similar hieroglyphics. I examined them carefully. It could, of course, be that the name and the date referred to an appointment and were nothing to do with the rest of the page; but that was unlikely. The whole page had the appearance of having been written at the same time. I looked at the other pages. Theywere all blank. A man didn’t write an appointment down in a book that he didn’t use fairly constantly. Well then, supposing Vagas and December the thirtieth
were
part of the rest of the page, who was S.A. Braga of Turin, and what did the rest of it mean? It looked as though Ferning had had some sort of business dealing with Vagas. That possibility didn’t quite fit in with the impression I had received from Vagas concerning his relationship with Ferning.
I folded the page and put it in my wallet. After all, it was nothing to do with me. I could enclose the page when I wrote to Vagas to put off our appointment for the following Wednesday. All the same, those notes
were
curious. I found myself wishing that I knew more about Ferning. I had only the vaguest picture of the man in my mind. According to Pelcher he had been nervous and sensitive. According to Vagas he had been a “Platonic realist,” with a penchant for ballet girls. The British Consulate had described him as “charming.” No doubt it didn’t matter what he had been like; but I still felt curious. I wished that I could have seen a photograph of him.
I switched off the lights, locked up and began to walk down the stairs. They were in darkness, but from a half-opened door on the third floor a shaft of light cut across the landing. I crossed it and was about to start down the next flight when the door swung open and a man came out. I half turned. He had his back to the light, and for a moment I did not recognise him. Then he spoke. It was the American.
“Hullo, Mr. Marlow.”
“Good evening.”
“You’re working late.”
“There’s rather a lot to be done just now. You’re none too early.”
“It’s not so good as it looks. I’ve been waiting for a long-distance call. What about a drink?”
I had a sudden desire for the company of someone who spoke English.
“I was just going to have some dinner. Will you join me?”
“Glad to. I’ll just lock up if you don’t mind. Not,” he went on as he turned to do so, “that it matters a row of canned beans whether you lock or don’t lock here. The
portinaia
has a duplicate key. But it preserves the illusion. The great thing is not to leave anything private or valuable where she can lay her hands on it.”
I had been trying to read the name of his firm on the door, but he had
I became so immersed in the task that it was eight o’clock when I glanced at my wrist-watch and decided to finish for the day. I had told Bellinetti that he was to be in the office at nine. I should have to see that I was on time myself. Besides, except for some fruit that I had sent Umberto for during the afternoon, I had had nothing to eat since breakfast. It was time that I had dinner.
I rose and got my coat. As I was putting it on it brushed against the desk and knocked the note-book on to the floor. I picked the note-book up. It had fallen open and one of the leaves had come adrift. Almost automatically I patted it back into place and refastened the loose-leaf catch. Then I stopped and looked at it again. The page was covered with minute pencil notes. But it was not the notes that had made me look twice. Roughly printed in pencil at the head of the page was the word “VAGAS.”
I carried the book to the light and began to read. This, I remember, is how it began:
VAGAS
Dec. 30
S.A. Braga. Torino
. 3 specials. adapt. 25 + 40 m.m. A.A.A. L.64, L.60. Borfors 1,200 plus. I stand. 10.5 c.m.N.A.A.150 plus 40 m.t.bp. Spez. rept. 6 m. belt mg.s.a. 1.2 m. 14 mths. 6 × 55 c.m. 30 o el. Mntgs. Gen.
The rest of the page was filled with similar hieroglyphics. I examined them carefully. It could, of course, be that the name and the date referred to an appointment and were nothing to do with the rest of the page; but that was unlikely. The whole page had the appearance of having been written at the same time. I looked at the other pages. Theywere all blank. A man didn’t write an appointment down in a book that he didn’t use fairly constantly. Well then, supposing Vagas and December the thirtieth
were
part of the rest of the page, who was S.A. Braga of Turin, and what did the rest of it mean? It looked as though Ferning had had some sort of business dealing with Vagas. That possibility didn’t quite fit in with the impression I had received from Vagas concerning his relationship with Ferning.
I folded the page and put it in my wallet. After all, it was nothing to do with me. I could enclose the page when I wrote to Vagas to put off our appointment for the following Wednesday. All the same, those notes
were
curious. I found myself wishing that I knew more about Ferning. I had only the vaguest picture of the man in my mind. According to Pelcher he had been nervous and sensitive. According to Vagas he had been a “Platonic realist,” with a penchant for ballet girls. The British Consulate had described him as “charming.” No doubt it didn’t matter what he had been like; but I still felt curious. I wished that I could have seen a photograph of him.
I switched off the lights, locked up and began to walk down the stairs. They were in darkness, but from a half-opened door on the third floor a shaft of light cut across the landing. I crossed it and was about to start down the next flight when the door swung open and a man came out. I half turned. He had his back to the light, and for a moment I did not recognise him. Then he spoke. It was the American.
“Hullo, Mr. Marlow.”
“Good evening.”
“You’re working late.”
“There’s rather a lot to be done just now. You’re none too early.”
“It’s not so good as it looks. I’ve been waiting for a long-distance call. What about a drink?”
I had a sudden desire for the company of someone who spoke English.
“I was just going to have some dinner. Will you join me?”
“Glad to. I’ll just lock up if you don’t mind. Not,” he went on as he turned to do so, “that it matters a row of canned beans whether you lock or don’t lock here. The
portinaia
has a duplicate key. But it preserves the illusion. The great thing is not to leave anything private or valuable where she can lay her hands on it.”
I had been trying to read the name of his firm on the door, but he had
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