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shoes, and a white whirt and tie.
    The
partigiano
entered the flow of human traffic to the exit doors. Savarone followed ten yards behind, then stood immobile on the crowded platform outside the constantly opening doors, pretending to read the newspaper.
    He saw what he wanted to see. The camel’s hair coat and the green Tyrolean hat stood out among the worn leather jackets and frayed workers’ clothing. Two men beyond the throngs signaled each other and began the chase, making their way through the crowd as best they could in an effort to catch up. Savarone squeezed himself into the stream of workers and arrived at the gate in time to see the door of the Fontini-Cristi limousine close and the huge automobile roll into the traffic of the Via di Sempione. The two pursuers were at the curb; a gray Fiat pulled up and they climbed in.
    The Fiat took up the chase. Savarone turned north and walked swiftly to the corner bus stop.
    The house on the riverfront was a relic that once, perhaps a decade ago, had been painted white. From the outside it looked dilapidated, but inside the rooms were small,neat, and organized; they were places of work, an antifascist headquarters.
    Savarone entered the room with the windows overlooking the murky waters of the Olona River, made black by the darkness of night. Three men rose from straight-backed chairs around a table and greeted him with feeling and respect. Two were known to him; the third, he presumed, was from Rome.
    “The hammer code was sent this morning,” said Savarone. “What does it mean?”
    “You
received
the wire?” asked the man from Rome incredulously. “All telegrams to Fontini-Cristi in Milan were intercepted. It’s why I’m here. All communications to your factories were stopped.”
    “I received mine at Campo di Fiori. Through the telegraph office in Varese, I imagine, not Milan.” Savarone felt a minor relief in knowing his son had not disobeyed. “Have you the information?”
    “Not all,
padrone,”
replied the man. “But enough to know it’s extremely serious. And imminent. The military is suddenly very concerned with the northern movement. The generals want it crippled; they intend to see your family exposed.”
    “As what?”
    “As enemies of the new Italy.”
    “On what grounds?”
    “For holding meetings of a treasonable nature at Campo di Fiori. Spreading antistate lies; of attempting to undermine Rome’s objectives and corrupt the industrial arm of the country.”
    “Words.”
    “Nevertheless, an example is to be made. They demand it, they say.”
    “Nonsense. Rome wouldn’t dare move against us on such tenuous grounds.”
    “That is the problem,
signore,”
said the man hesitantly. “It’s not Rome. It’s Berlin.”
    “What?”
    “The Germans are everywhere, giving orders to everyone. The word is that Berlin wants the Fontini-Cristis stripped of influence.”
    “They look to the future, don’t they,” stated one of theother two men, an older
partigiano
who had walked to the window.
    “How do they propose to accomplish this?” asked Savarone.
    “By smashing a meeting at Campo di Fiori. Forcing those there to bear witness to the treasons of the Fontini-Cristis. That would be less difficult than you think, I believe.”
    “Agreed. It’s the reason we’ve been careful.… When will this happen? Do you have any idea?”
    “I left Rome at noon. I can only assume the code word ‘hammer’ was used correctly.”
    “There’s a meeting tonight.”
    “Then ‘hammer’ was called for. Cancel it,
padrone
. Obviously, word got out.”
    “I’ll need your help. I’ll give you names … our telephones are unsafe.” Fontini-Cristi began writing in a notebook on the table with a pencil supplied by the third
partigiano
.
    “When’s the meeting scheduled?”
    “Ten thirty. There’s enough time,” replied Savarone.
    “I hope so. Berlin is thorough.”
    Fontini-Cristi stopped writing and looked over at the man. “That’s a strange