‘Once and for all,’ I said angrily, ‘will you please understand that I have no package either for you or Tucek.’
There was another pause and I thought perhaps he’d rung off. I was sweating and I wiped my face with my handkerchief. ‘Per’aps, Signor Farrell, we do not understand each other, no?’ The voice was softer, almost silky. ‘You see, if I have the specifications and can proceed with the organisation of the new factory, then I need several of the sort of machine tools fabricated by your company. Per’aps I require them in a hurry and pay a bonus to you for arranging the quick delivery, eh? Now you have another look through your baggage, signore. It is possible you cannot remember what is in it until I remind you, eh?’
It was a straight bribe and I wanted to tell him what I thought of him. But after all he was a potential customer, so all I said was, ‘I’m sorry, Mr. Sismondi. I just haven’t got what you want. I will call on you later at your office if I may and talk about equipment for the Ferrometalli di Milano.’
‘But, Signor Farrell—’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said quickly. ‘I cannot help you. Goodbye.’ And I put the receiver back on its rest.
For a while I stood there, staring out of the window at the colossal bulk of the Stazione Centrale. The grey stone stood out almost white against the dark underbelly of the cumulus that was piling up across the sky. Sismondi knew that Tucek had visited me at the Hotel Continental. That was the thing that stood in the forefront of my mind. I told myself I was imagining it. Sismondi couldn’t possibly know. But the thought stayed there and I felt as though the fingers of that imaginary arm stretched out across the Czech frontier were closing round me. The sunshine streaming in through the open window faded. The Piazzale Duca d’Aosta looked suddenly grey and deserted. I shivered and closed the window.
I started towards the door and then stopped. Suppose Tucek had put a package amongst my things that night. I hadn’t searched through my suitcases. It could have lain there without my noticing it. My hands were trembling as I got out my keys and unlocked the two cases. But though I searched even the pockets of my suits and felt the linings there was nothing there. I searched the clothes I was wearing and my overcoat and went through the papers in my briefcase. I found nothing and with a feeling of relief went down to the bar.
It was lunch-time and the place was half empty. I sat down at the bar and got a drink. I felt less alone with a glass in my hand and the cognac was comforting. There was a paper on the bar counter and I concentrated on that, trying to forget Sismondi and that damned telephone conversation. But even the paper contained something to remind me of Tucek. On an inside page I found a paragraph headed: CZECH TABLE TENNIS STAR TO STAY IN ITALY. The story began — When the Czech table tennis team, which has been touring Italy, left Milano yesterday, Sgna Hilda Tucek was still in her hotel. She refused to return to Czechoslovakia. She intends to remain in Italy for the present. Hilda Tucek is the daughter of…
I stared at the paragraph, remembering how Jan Tucek had said — Fortunately my daughter play table tennis well. So that was what he had meant. Father and daughter had planned to be together and now. … I pushed the paper away. Poor kid! She must be wondering what had happened.
A hand touched my arm and I spun round with a start.