‘This is Mr. Farrell,’ I answered. ‘Can I speak to Signer Sismondi?’
‘ Un momenta.’ Very faintly I heard the woman’s voice call ‘Riccardo.’ Then a man’s voice came on the wire, rather harsh and grating. ‘Signer Farrell? Bene. You know who I am per’aps?’
‘Ferrometalli di Milano?’ I asked.
‘Si si signore, I do business with your company before the war. I hear you arrive in Milano yesterday — from Pilsen?’
‘That’s correct,’ I murmured.
‘Do you see Signer Tucek of the Tuckovy ocelarny while you are in Pilsen?’
It was the suddenness of the question that rattled me. I hadn’t expected it. I naturally thought he’d rung me on business. Instead he was asking me about Tucek. The happy, laughing Milan I’d walked through that morning faded in my mind. I felt as though a long arm had been stretched out across the borders of Czechoslovakia, to fetch me back into the clutches of the Czech security police.
‘Ullo, ‘ullo, signore. Are you there plees?’ The voice sounded impatient — harsher and more grating.
‘Yes?‘I said.
‘I ask you do you see Signor Tucek when you are in Pilsen?’