Читать книгу The Mussolini Murder Plot - Bernard Newman - Страница 3

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Suppose Mussolini had been killed on the first day of the Abyssinian War! He very nearly was.

On October 3, 1935, Italian troops marched into Abyssinia. I wonder if Mussolini knows how near to death he stood on that eventful day? And I wonder if he realizes that he has to thank me for his escape? Presumably not, for no Italian decorations or orders have been bestowed upon me—on the contrary! Not that I want them; Mussolini is no hero in my reading of history, and many times I have wondered if I were right in saving him from the sudden death which threatened him.

This is a strange story which I have to tell. Quite frankly, I do not expect it to be believed. “Truth is stranger than fiction,” emphasizes many a wagging head—but nobody really believes it. Maybe in this case it is just as well. Does it sound grandiloquent when I suggest that, if accepted as true, my story might lead to international complications? And, sooner or later, we have got to resolve our quarrel with the Italians, whether we or they like it or not. Let us pretend, then, that this story is a mere romance—that when I speak of Italy, I really mean Ruritania, and that Mussolini is merely a colloquial name for Dando.

In my previous books, Spy and Secret Servant, I have mentioned my association with Inspector Marshall, of the Special Branch of Scotland Yard. Our work together led inevitably to a deep friendship; with many essentials in common, we held widely different views—which is a good foundation for friendship. Naturally I have been keenly interested in his very fascinating job, and since I retired from Intelligence work I have been informally associated with him in some of his cases. I want to emphasize that I am not a detective. I have the deepest respect for Dr. Thorndyke, and even compared with Lord Peter Wimsey I feel a bit of a fool. Still less do I play the Watson to Marshall’s Holmes. Marshall is not an Inspector French or a superintendent Wilson—he is just a keen, active, intelligent police-officer. I have been of use to him, not for any flashes of inspiration or miracles of deduction, but because of my knowledge of Europe and my most un-English command of languages—the latter the heritage of an Alsatian mother. Had Marshall been an ordinary C.I.D. officer I could scarcely have helped him; the Special Branch, concerned with political crime, is acutely interested in foreign affairs, and there I was on familiar ground.

I have had it in mind to set down a record of some of the cases in which we have been associated—a remarkable range, covering raids on Russian premises, expulsion of alien suspects, and more than one case of political assassination. If only on account of its topicality, however, I have written up the last first. It is not the least interesting, and to me it was certainly exciting. I ought to warn readers again, however, that this is no conventional detective story; there is no body discovered in the first chapter, no succession of clues and red herrings, no dramatic arrest and dénouement in the last chapter. My title alone indicates this; Mussolini, of course, was not murdered. My story is therefore one of preventive action—a more important side of police work than the mere detection of crime. And, if not so spectacular, at least as fascinating.

My story of the Mussolini murder plot begins on a summer evening in 1935. Marshall and I had been playing tennis at Mason’s house at Harrow. Mason—who also appears in my previous books—is a Foreign Office wallah—a principal secretary, to be precise. He is now on the verge of bigger things, and at any time will begin to collect C.B.s and M.V.O.s. Nevertheless, he is a grand fellow, and I hope that one day he will become Permanent Secretary. I have doubts, however—he is a little unorthodox in some of his opinions and methods.

We had had a great game. Mason’s wife, Leonie, was of county standard, and easily held her own in a men’s four—particularly as I am a mediocre player. I like hitting a ball hard, but am not nearly so certain about its direction. Every other smash is a winner, but the other is a lost ball. Marshall and I have a kind of permanent feud with Mason and his wife, but we don’t often win.

As we sat in the cool of the evening, the conversation drifted to the subject of anonymous letters. I forget by what roundabout route we had arrived at such an unsavory destination. Mason, quite naturally, despised the whole idea.

“Oh, yes, we get a large number at the F.O.,” he said, in answer to my question.

“And what do you do with them—W.P.B.?”

“Yes—almost without exception.”

“I think you’re wrong,” Marshall put in. “I’m not condoning the habit of writing anonymous letters—it’s despicable, of course. But I must say that the Yard finds them useful sometimes. The devil is to sort out those that matter from the tripe.”

“You really make serious use of them?”

“Of course,” he reported. “Anonymous letters and squeaking are the detective’s stand-bys. Read the prosecution scene in a burglary—first in a book, then in a verbatim police-court account. The detective in the book begins to talk about clues and deductions; in the second he begins, ‘From information received ...’ Where does he receive the information from? Some ‘friend’ of the burglar; sometimes he comes along to sell his information, sometimes he writes it, anonymously.”

“But what about the proverbial honor among thieves?” asked Mason.

“There isn’t any,” said Marshall, emphatically. “A darn good job for us, too. If there were, we should have a job to catch anybody. Half our convictions in major cases are based on information from other thieves. But that wasn’t really what I was meaning in this anonymous letter business—I was out to show that you can’t ignore them. Let me quote an outstanding case. You remember that Virginia Water case last year? Body found in bracken, no clue—not even to identity. We worked, issued appeals, and so on. And at last a letter arrived—but it was anonymous. Yet it put us directly on the track of the murderer.

“I don’t remember the letter word for word, but it ran like this: the writer explained that it was quite impossible for him to come forward personally, but on the day of the murder he had been at Virginia Water and had seen a man with a girl answering the murdered girl’s description: in particular, he had seen them disappear among the fatal stretch of bracken. His description of the man was so good that we got on to his track.”

“But how about evidence?” I asked.

“We had to build up our case from other sources,” he replied. “We issued appeals in the press and through the B.B.C. for the writer of the letter to come forward, but he didn’t. But we did get another letter from him. He repeated that it was impossible for him to come forward, as he was a married man, and had been taking another girl to Virginia Water that day!”

“Oh, but that’s an unusual case,” Mason protested. “I can see the fellow’s point of view. If I were taking a girl out on the sly—I’m not, Leonie—and saw something which turned out to be criminal, imagine my position. My duty as a citizen demands that I should come forward. But if I do, my wife catches me out.”

“Well, we might square that part for you,” said Marshall dryly. “But my point is just this—that the W.P.B. isn’t the place for an anonymous letter. Every one must be considered on its merits. We have a man who’s darned good with them; he’s a psychologist, and what he can read into some of those letters is marvellous. I got a man three years for forgery last month—and I was put on his track by an anonymous letter, which turned out to have been written by a neighbor who was jealous of his wife’s fur coat.”

“But what about threatening letters?” I said to Mason. “You must get plenty of them.”

“Oh, yes, they’re a class by themselves,” he agreed. “Any that look serious we pass on to Marshall and his gang.”

“You ought to pass on the lot,” Marshall grumbled. “How do you know whether they’re serious?”

“Well, as they are usually from political malcontents, generally alien, we ought to know as well as you. But ninety-nine per cent are ridiculous.”

“Threats are never ridiculous,” Marshall argued.

“But all statesmen receive them.”

“Yes, and some of them can thank their lucky stars that there’s a Special Branch to protect them from the madmen at large. But, of all the batch you’ve sent us recently, the pick of the bunch is that from the League of International Amity.”

“The League of what?” I demanded.

“Oh, but that was merely puerile,” Mason insisted. “It should never have come to you at all—the W.P.B. was definitely the place for that.”

“Well, we should have got it elsewhere. The Prime Minister had one, the First Lord of the Admiralty, the Secretary for War—”

“But surely,” I broke in, “surely Mr. Baldwin doesn’t see these things himself?”

“Of course not. His job’s big enough without complications. I doubt if any minister is allowed to see his threatening letters. In any case, you can say what you like about our politicians, but they don’t usually lack physical courage—they wouldn’t be where they were unless they were pretty tough. Some of the threats are fearsome—they are scarcely conducive to cool thinking. You should see the Home Secretary’s weekly batch!”

“But what about this League of Amity?” I reverted.

“I can show you one if you like,” said Marshall. “I’ve got one in my bag—it came from the Air Ministry just as I was coming out.”

He went into the hall, and returned carrying a single sheet of paper, which he handed to me. Leonie had taken no part in our discussion, but was obviously interested, and we read it together.

“League of International Amity [I read out its heading], The Council of the League has come to the considered opinion that leaders, not peoples, are responsible for war. Peoples are helpless, friendly flocks, and only if they are misled by pan-nationalist propaganda do they think of war. The Council has decided that any man who leads a nation to war of aggression (as defined by the Covenant of the League of Nations) commits a crime against humanity, and is personally responsible for the subsequent murder of thousands of people. Therefore he must die.

“The League hereby gives notice to all statesmen that whoever commits the said crime against humanity shall be tried and sentenced to death, and the League undertakes to carry out the execution.”

“Well, and what do you think of that?” Marshall chuckled.

“I think it’s almost right,” said Leonie, unexpectedly.

“What?”

“At least, there’s a lot in it. The leaders are more responsible than they pretend. It is perfectly true that people are not naturally warlike. Would the English people ever have fought the German people, if somebody had not egged us on?”

“Possibly not,” Mason agreed, “but the French might have fought the Germans, leaders or no leaders.”

“Have you done anything about this?” I broke off.

“Nothing much,” said Marshall. “We’ve never heard of this League—can’t find anybody who has. There are, of course, dozens of pacifist leagues, some genuine, some merely cranky. But this is a new one to me.”

“Probably some students’ foolery,” was Mason’s comment. “Its ingenuousness breathes youth in every line. ‘The said crime against humanity—’ a glorious touch, to make the thing look like a legal document. And the unquestioned assumption that anyone could ever decide which was a war of aggression and one of defence. Why, I will undertake to prove any war in history either or both.”

“There’s something reminiscent about it,” I mused. “Wasn’t there something in the papers a couple of years ago?”

“Yes, I remembered that,” Marshall grinned. “I looked it up—but it was a different league; a students’ organization—it’s gone bust now, as they always do.”

Yet somehow the incident remained in my mind. I can claim this seriously, for Marshall and Mason admit that they dismissed it completely. Somehow the ultimatum impressed me—ingenuous it certainly was, shrieking of the immaturity of youth, yet I felt that its sincerity was evident. I ought to emphasize that I was not in the slightest degree troubled. It is one thing to pass pious resolutions, and quite another to execute them—or even to agree on them when the moment for action arrives. I have belonged to youth organizations myself.

I was reminded of it twice within the succeeding weeks. A Fleet Street acquaintance button-holed me one day.

“I say, Newman,” he began, “you know a lot about stunts. Have you ever heard of the League of International Amity?”

“Yes,” I admitted.

“I thought as much. Well, what about it? What is it?”

“Tell me your end first.”

“I only know that my chief has had a letter from it, saying that if he leads the nation into war, he will be executed. My God, can you imagine the chief leading the nation to anything? Except perhaps bankruptcy.”

I had to tell him that I knew no more than he did. He was not treating the thing seriously, of course—merely wanted to dig up something about the League so as to be able to guy it amusingly.

Then in Paris I met my old friend Favre, of the Sûreté. Some casual prompting made me ask, and I was not surprised to find that the leading French statesmen had received the warning too! When I asked what had been done, Favre’s action was expressive but not quite polite.

But nothing further happened until the early autumn, when the Abyssinian crisis showed obvious signs of coming to a head. During the intervening weeks I had almost forgotten the ultimatum by the extraordinary league. Only occasionally did my thoughts flash back to that evening at Mason’s house. I suspected, as he had done, that the organization, being obviously a youthful one, would fall to pieces when it came to grips with a real problem. I did, however, ask Mason and Marshall to keep me posted as to any further development—which in itself shows that this ultimatum, ridiculous as it sounded, had made some small impression upon me.

A second letter, shorter, but of the same character as the first, was received at the Foreign Office—and presumably at the other principal offices of state in England and foreign countries—on September 3. It was brief and very much to the point.

If the Italians invade Abyssinia [it read], this will be unquestionably an act of unprovoked aggression, contrary to the Covenant of the League of Nations, the Kellogg Pact, and many other treaties to which Italy is a party; consequently, in accordance with the resolution of the Council of the League, Signor Benito Mussolini has been tried and has been condemned to death, should the Italian troops actually invade Abyssinia.

You are requested to use your good offices to persuade Signor Mussolini, even at this last moment, to countermand his orders for war, to save his honor and to save himself.

Mason, Marshall, and I had another heated, three-cornered argument on the subject of this letter. I took it far more seriously than they did—in fact, my chief claim to credit in the Mussolini murder plot is that I saw its potential dangers before most other people.

“But, damn it,” Mason emphasized, “you admit yourself that it’s nothing more than a cranky organization—probably one of the international student affairs that spring up on all sides. They never get anywhere, because they are all so personal. A fellow starts a movement of this kind, not so much because he is impelled by the ideals he proclaims, but because he wants to go down to history as a kind of Gandhi. Then, when his movement begins to assume some sort of international proportions, he finds that in other countries the local leaders there want to be Gandhis as well; consequently they quarrel between themselves and the movements collapse. In any case, did we not argue it out before—that these student organizations have a habit of talking gloriously—very often using phrases which they do not completely understand—but when the moment of action comes, they fade away?”

“I agree for the great part,” I said. “I agree that such is the habit of student organizations. But, nevertheless, remember that there have been student organizations which have changed the course of history. Remember that it was a Bosnian student organization which started off the World War—Gavrilo Princip was only seventeen when he assassinated the Archduke Franz Ferdinand at Sarajevo. I can’t explain the why and wherefore, but there’s something about these communications that makes me feel that they are serious. Serious in intent, that is. Whether the people who drafted them are able to do anything is quite another matter. I agree that these things are so ingenuous as to be almost comic, and yet I have a sneaking feeling that they ought not to be ignored.”

“But what would you do?” Marshall interposed. “How the hell can we track them down when the only clues we have are two pieces of paper?”

“Well, Dr. Thorndyke or one of the other detectives would do that quite easily,” I suggested. “By the way,” I continued, turning to Mason, “I take it there is no doubt whatsoever that the Italians are about to invade Abyssinia—that this business is not one huge flop?”

“No,” said Mason seriously, “I am afraid it is absolutely certain that they are going to do it. We’ve tried everything we know through diplomatic channels, but it has all been useless. Within a week or two the Italians will have crossed the frontier. I doubt if there will even be the formality of a declaration of war—they will just march straight in.”

“Well, it’s a dirty business,” Marshall commented. “I’m not very fond of Mussolini, you know. Speaking for a moment as a private individual and not as a police-officer, I must say that my opinion is that it would be a very good thing for the world if someone did bump him off, if only as an example to the rest. As I look at it, this Abyssinian business is only the beginning of things.”

“That’s right enough,” Mason agreed. “If Mussolini gets away with Abyssinia, the consequences will be serious. Italy’s territorial aims are not all to be found in Africa—there are always Slovenia and the Dalmatian Coast. That would mean, of course, a European War. And, further, we have to keep an eye on Hitler. If Mussolini manages to get away with his big bluff, think what an encouragement that would be. I am open to make a prophesy—I am speaking quite unofficially, of course. If Mussolini succeeds in getting his Abyssinia adventure well under way without serious interference from the League of Nations or the Great Powers, then Hitler in his turn will try something big. In the first instance I think he will march troops into the Rhineland; then, when he has got away with that—as he would be almost certain to do—he will turn his attention to the East.”

“The Polish Corridor?” I queried.

“I doubt if that would come first; his business eye is on Silesia. The Polish Corridor has affected nothing but German pride. Silesia had affected German pockets—the pockets of big business men. And remember that it is the big business men of Germany who are behind Hitler. Actually, however, I anticipate that he would patch up some sort of an arrangement with Poland, so as to be able to get at Russia.”

“So it seems I’m right, then?” Marshall argued. “If Mussolini isn’t stopped now, this is only the beginning, and we shall find ourselves landed in another European war.”

“But that’s a very different thing—stopping him—to bumping him off,” I protested. “The proper way to deal with Mussolini is to discredit him, not to murder him. If you murder him, you will make him a martyr, and then he is far more dangerous dead than alive.”

“But the Italians have no one to replace him.”

“Yes, they have,” I contradicted; “you forget General Balbo. I have met him. He is a man far more able than Mussolini. He is one of the original marchers on Rome—for, in spite of the legends in Italy, Mussolini wasn’t there. With the Fascist organization behind him, and with the legend of Mussolini and his memory as a martyr to sway the masses, General Balbo would be able to do precisely as he pleased.”

“But I thought Balbo had been banished to Libya,” said Marshall.

“Quite, simply because Mussolini was jealous of him, particularly after his success in that spectacular round-the-world flight. A dictator cannot have a rival. But, nevertheless, if Mussolini goes at any time, you can be perfectly certain that Balbo is the man who will take his place. They may put up the Crown Prince as a figure-head, but Balbo will be the boss.

“Now in Germany the situation is very different. There is no obvious candidate for Hitler’s job. Who would follow him? Would it be Goering or Goebbels or Hess? You remember the story I told in my Polish book^[1]—I believe you did me the honor of reading it. I was cycling across East Prussia and got to Hindenburg’s own village, Neudeck. I had actually been invited to stay with the old man, but very unfortunately he had died a few weeks before I got there. But a man in the village, who certainly ought to have known what he was talking about, told me that Hindenburg actually died twenty-four hours before his death was announced. During that time Goering and Goebbels were squabbling as to which of the two should become Chancellor while Hitler became President. It was only when they seemed likely to come to blows that Hitler decided to solve the problem by taking on both offices himself.”

[1] See Pedalling Poland.

“And that is really true?” Marshall queried.

“Well, my informant was an honorable man, and a man who ought to have known,” I said.

“And it’s a story that is current in certain circles in Germany,” Mason added. “I actually heard it from quite an independent source—and a good one at that.”

“Anyway, to get back to Mussolini,” I said, “my argument is that it would be very dangerous to make a martyr of him. Then all his faults, if any, would be forgotten, and his memory would be the most dangerous thing to European peace. Why, just look at the kudos he has got out of attempts on his life! Some of them were pitifully crude. I could make a shrewd guess that more than one was a put-up job, merely to excite the public. There was one man arrested for firing a rifle at Mussolini, and it appeared that he must have fired round a corner—which is unusual! Why, if Mr. Baldwin felt that his popularity was waning, he’d only have to get someone to have a pop at him, and he’d be top of the world. It’s low, and we don’t use the method in England, but in Italy it’s quite reasonable.

“But there is another danger that I can see about the present scheme, a very practical one,” I continued. “It appears that this plot is being hatched in England. There is a suggestion that there is an international league behind it, but nevertheless its headquarters appear to be in London. I noticed that the letters which were received in Paris were posted in London.”

“That’s true enough,” Mason agreed. “They’ve had these things in Germany too—and they were posted in London.”

“Well, you see what that means,” I explained to Marshall. “England is already suspect in Italy—the people have already been goaded to fury against us because of our attitude to their Abyssinian adventure. If, therefore, a plot of British manufacture succeeded in murdering Mussolini—well, the balloon would then definitely go up!”

“But just because the plot was engineered in England, it doesn’t follow that it’s an English plot,” he said.

“No,” I agreed, “but you must not expect the masses to reason logically. I have recently returned from Yugoslavia. Just run over there and see and feel the sentiments of hatred towards Hungary on account of the murder of King Alexander.”

“But it was a Macedonian or a Croat who murdered him—a Yugoslav subject.”

“Yes, but the organization behind him had found sanctuary in Hungary; consequently, nine-tenths of the Yugoslavs believe that the organization was encouraged by Hungary—that is describing their suspicion very mildly. The same thing would happen in this case. It is perfectly certain, to my way of thinking, that if this plot succeeded we should be in a real mess.

“Mind you, I don’t want to pretend that England isn’t capable of holding her own with Italy. Although some of the other nations have the habit of looking at us with a kindly smile, reminiscent of past glory, we can still give Italy a darned good hiding without disturbing ourselves tremendously. But of course it wouldn’t end at that. Inevitably it would mean a European war. Don’t you agree, Mason?”

Mason did. He agreed with me, too, that the murder of Mussolini would be a world disaster, however desirable from the personal or moral point of view. In any case, quite naturally, Mason held strong opinions about the assassination of political leaders. Gradually we convinced Marshall—I ought again to emphasize perhaps that he had been speaking purely privately, and all we had to do was to reconcile his private opinions with his official duty.

“But what ought I to do?” Marshall asked. “If you think it important, I’ll certainly try to trace this organization again. We failed last time. There is nothing to go on. We combed dozens of similar organizations, but couldn’t find anyone who had ever heard of this one. The only clues we have are two sheets of paper with perfectly plain typing on them—not even a line of writing. Why, even your Dr. Thorndyke would find that a bit of a poser, surely. Of course, the obvious thing to do would be to warn the Italian police.”

“That’s the very last thing we want to do,” I argued. “If we did it, then it definitely proclaims the plot as of British origin. In any case, it is almost certain that they know as much about it as we do—if the Germans and French have received these letters, you can bet your bottom dollar that the Italians have as well.”

“But would they take any notice of them?”

“I doubt it. You tell me that our own statesmen—who, with all their faults, are very mild and harmless—receive threatening letters at the rate of a dozen a week. In that case it’s very reasonable to suppose that Mussolini receives hundreds, for the Fascist United Front only means that opposition has been literally squashed out of the open—it exists surreptitiously.”

“Then my only other suggestion is that you should go to Italy yourself,” said Marshall. “You have the great advantage—which has been darned useful to us more than once—of having no official connections. I can’t go; but you can, without committing anybody. Further, you speak the language. Why not go and have a look round? Mason will give you introductions to the right people, and you could easily fish for information and find out what is happening.”

I had to confess that this had been my own idea. From the very moment of seeing the second warning I was quite convinced that some drastic action was essential; and I was the obvious man to take it. It was a confounded nuisance. I did not need Mason’s introductions, for I was already acquainted with Italians who would be able to give me all the information I needed. As the train pounded through the night across France, I was alternately optimistic and despondent. There is something in my blood which urges me on when exciting enterprises are afoot. At the same time, there is a sober strain in my ancestry which makes me say to myself, “You fool, why don’t you sit down and enjoy yourself at home? Haven’t you had enough excitement to last you for the rest of your life?” That is the worst of being the son of an Alsatian actress and an English farmer.

Of course, at first sight, my present task was simple enough. I had only to investigate the situation on the Rome front, and to hand out a diplomatic warning. If I had had the slightest hint of the difficulties and dangers which were to follow this poking of my nose into other people’s business, then I might have passed on through Italy to take a second Balkan holiday.

I sensed a difference in my reception in Rome—just a trifling coolness on the part of my friends which I had never remarked before. It is very strange what propaganda can do. A year ago Italy had been extraordinarily friendly towards England. The people had been brought up to regard England as the traditional friend of their country. Italy had even inserted a Saving clause into the Triple Alliance, by which if England were involved in the prospective war, then Italy should have the right to back out. But now, very definitely, England was the bad man of Europe.

I tried hard to keep off Abyssinia, on which I held strong opinions, because it was obvious that my friends were not in the mood to receive serious argument. I was really dismayed at the effect of this continuous propaganda. One acquaintance of mine was a newspaper correspondent who had been busily engaged on writing this anti-British propaganda. One night I caught him in confessional mood, and he told me that when first instructed to write this bilge his soul revolted, and he did it only under protest. Gradually, however, he said, the stuff he wrote began to influence him, and by this time he had almost begun to believe it to be true! It was only in his more sober moments that he realized that his work was one great sham.

The first part of my mission was easy enough. I met my friends—I will not mention them by name for fear of causing them annoyance or inconvenience—after all, they are employees of a Fascist State and must at least profess Fascism or lose their jobs. I think I did credit to Mason’s diplomatic training in the casual way in which I brought the subject after dinner round from the English-Italian football match to the protection of Mussolini. Without any mention of the absurd League or the letters that I had seen, I was able to elicit the information that the principal Italian statesmen had been literally bombarded with letters of this kind. One of my friends reeled off a whole list of fancy leagues of various origins which had threatened Mussolini with the direst consequences should he dare to invade Abyssinia. Of course, he argued, a man like Mussolini was bound to make enemies—a man with new ideas, who placed the welfare of the state above that of selfish individuals, he was bound to give offence to people who only thought of themselves.

His tremendous success, too, was bound to arouse jealousy among lesser people. Throughout his career he had been a regular recipient of anonymous letters. No, of course, they were never shown to him, but his personal bodyguard was a sufficient protection against any potential consequence. True, there had been many attempts made to assassinate the Duce—two of them had very nearly succeeded—but the arrangements for his protection were now as nearly perfect as was humanly possible.

That was all right so far as it went, and it certainly relieved me of a good deal of responsibility. As a matter of interest, however, I made what inquiries I could about the current arrangements for guarding the life of Mussolini. Certainly they were on a big enough scale. Whenever he left his private house in the Via Nomentana, I found, there were at least forty plainclothes guards on duty—in advance, by the side, and in the rear of the Duce. In addition, of course, were the uniformed police, who were always told when their master was to pass along any route.

I hung on in Rome for three days, and while I was there Mason’s prophesy came true—the Italians marched into Abyssinia without the formality of a declaration of war. Rome was literally buzzing with excitement; the complete absence of news led to ready invention, as it always does. Great crowds gathered in the great square before the Palazzo Venezia, expecting Mussolini to appear on the balcony, but they were disappointed. One of my friends did inform me, however, that he would appear and make a patriotic speech the following evening. I had intended to go back to London, feeling that I was simply wasting my time, but I decided to stop and listen to Mussolini. He was one of the European figures I had never met, and had never heard him make one of his mass-compelling orations.

I shall have to give a name to my friend, after all; he appears periodically throughout my narrative. I will call him Count Aderno, which is nothing like his real name; I have suitably disguised any incidents which might lead to his identification. He calls himself a Fascist, but is really a Royalist. I believe that he clings to his job so as to keep on the inside of the Fascist régime. He was only a Fascist in so far as he thought that Fascism would bring good to Italy. He had faith in Mussolini, but was no hero-worshipping fanatic. Certainly he inspired confidence, and was angry at the absurd propaganda which turned other friends away from me.

Was it merely curiosity, or was it an instinct, that made me suggest to my friend that I would like to go into the Palazzo Venezia and stand on the Duce’s balcony? He made the necessary arrangements without demur, and asked me to call at the palace the following morning. By this time it was obvious that something of importance was afoot, for the balcony over the portal had been covered in purple drapery. The square was absolutely deserted, for police and soldiers were turning away all traffic, either pedestrian or other. Not until the time of the speech would the square be open again, and then only after the various patriotic processions had marched to their appointed places.

Aderno halted at some of the principal rooms of the palace, but I was scarcely so interested as I ought to have been. He talked to me interestingly of the various renovations and restorations which had recently been made—it had been necessary to replace portions of the stonework, which had suffered from atmospheric effects in much the same way as our own Houses of Parliament in London. A uniformed attendant walked before us, conducting us on our journey round the building. I had particularly asked that I might see the balcony from which Mussolini would speak. My excuse, obvious enough, was that, as I would see Mussolini from the point of view of the crowd, I would like to get an impression of what the scene would look like to him.

The attendant threw open a draped window and made way for us to step on to the balcony. Aderno looked hard at the purple drapery.

“That’s not a very good job,” he said. “Who did this?”

“Three workmen,” said the messenger; “they took long enough about it; they ought to have done it well enough. But this draping is certainly very ragged. I’ll get someone to help me straighten it up.”

“As a matter of interest,” I put in, “exactly what will happen this afternoon?”

“Well,” said my friend, “a great crowd, of course will be gathered down below, and suddenly, without any warning, the Duce will make his appearance. He will come from this side.”

“Excuse me, sir,” the attendant broke in, “he will come from this side. He usually takes a drink from this table just before entering the balcony; he walks on to the balcony and stands in the middle here. First he gives the salute to the crowd below—and it is a tiring business, I can tell you, for their acclamations are strong and long. Then he will begin to speak. Oh, but you should hear our leader speak; he is magnificent; his voice thrashes the air; his arms flung about in dramatic gestures; and sometimes, such is his power, he will speak to the people gently, leaning on the balcony, so.”

And then followed drama and tragedy; for the man, suiting the action to the word, leaning on the purple-covered balcony, suddenly fell forward. I saw a stone mullion and a flat stone hurtle through the air before him as the stone rail of the balcony collapsed. The messenger made a desperate effort to recover his balance; both Aderno and I sprang forward. We were too late; our grasping hands missed him by inches. As he fell, his body turned, and I saw his eyes, wide with terror; he gave a great cry—the cry of a man who knows that death awaits him.

We rushed to the edge of the balcony, avoiding the rail. Just as I looked down, the body crashed to the pavement below. It was immediately still, without a twitch or shudder, and the blood from its battered head began to trickle towards the gutter.

I saw police rushing to the spot, standing helplessly beside the body which might so easily have been the body of Mussolini.