Cause for Alarm Read Online Free PDF Page A

who was dependent on him. Very hard lines.”
    “Yes, very.”
    “Ferning’s assistant, Bellinetti, is carrying on at the moment. But we are not regarding that arrangement as permanent. A good assistant, no doubt, but not yet ready for responsibility. Besides, he’s not a trained engineer. That’s what we need, Mr. Marlow. A trained man, a man who can go into the works and show the customer how to get the best out of our machines. With the Germans so active at the moment, we’ve got to keep well in with the people who matter, and”—he winked broadly—“and co-operate with the Italian officials. However, Mr. Fitch will tell you more about that.” He lifted the telephone again. “Hullo. Is Mr. Fitch coming over, Jenny? On his way? Good.” He clawed at his collar and turned to me again. “Naturally, Mr. Marlow, if we were to come to terms we should want you to spend a week or so here in the works before you left. But there again, that’s something we can discuss later. Of course, you may not like the look of
us
”—he chuckled as if at the idea of such a fantastic possibility—“but I must say I feel that we might profitably discuss the matter in more detail first.”
    I laughed politely, and was about to intimate that more detail, and in particular more detail in connection with the financial aspects of the job, was precisely what I
should
like, when there was a knock at the door.
    “Ah!” said Mr. Pelcher, “here’s Fitch.”
    Mr. Fitch was a very tall man with a long, thin head and a way of holding himself that made him look as though he were standing under a low, leaking roof on a wet day. He surveyed us from the door with the mournful air of an elderly borzoi being teased by a pair of fox terrier puppies.
    “This, Fitch,” said Mr. Pelcher briskly, “is Mr. Marlow. He is a trained engineer and he can speak Italian.”
    Mr. Fitch shambled forward and we shook hands.
    “I was just telling Mr. Marlow,” pursued Mr. Pelcher, “some of the circumstances of our Italian connection.”
    Mr. Fitch nodded and cleared his throat. “The bottom’s out of the export market,” he asserted gloomily.
    Mr. Pelcher laughed and twitched at his collar. “Mr. Fitch has been saying that for ten years now, Mr. Marlow. You mustn’t take his pessimism too seriously. Nothing less than doubling our turnover every year would satisfy him.”
    Mr. Fitch looked at me doubtfully. “Do you know Italy very well, Mr. Marlow?”
    “Not as well as I should like to,” I replied evasively.
    “Play golf?”
    “I’m afraid not.”
    “Fitch,” said Mr. Pelcher fondly, “is a scratch golfer. Hits a terrific ball and as accurate as the devil. However”—he dragged his thoughts back to earth with a visible effort—“to business! Perhaps you’d like to have a look round the works, Mr. Marlow? Fitch, do you mind showing Mr. Marlow round? When you’ve done, come back here and we’ll have another chat.”
    Whatever the shortcomings of the Spartacus offices, they were nowhere visible in the works. The Works Manager, to whom I took an instant liking, was obviously competent and the standard of work being turned out was extraordinarily high. “Pelcher,” said Mr. Fitch, as we crossed from one shop to another, “likes everything just so. He’s a fine engineer. If he had his way and we hadn’t got a Board of ex-Generals and Members of Parliament with a titled nitwit thrown in, this place would be twice the size. He’s a damned smart business man too. But did you ever see anything like his office? He’s a lousy golfer as well. The last time I played with him he took a slide-rule out to deal with problems of drift and wind resistance. Not that it made any difference to his game. On the first tee he spent two solid minutes with the slide-ruleand then pulled his drive somewhere round the back of his neck.”
    As if to make up for this burst of confidence, Mr. Fitch maintained an unhappy silence for the rest of the tour; but