Epitaph for a Spy (14 page)

“Of course, I denied it absolutely, and then he sent for Batista. The moment Batista came into the room I knew that I’d been done to a turn. There was a smug grin on his face that made me long to knock him down. He pleaded complete ignorance of the whole affair. He said that he was very shocked.”

I saw the Major clench his fists until the knuckles showed white.

“There’s not much more to it,” he went on at last. “Apparently
old Staretti had altered his will, leaving half his money to Maria. Batista was out to scotch that. And he did. He also relieved me of my four thousand. I had a dreadful scene with the old boy. He accused me of trying to blacken his son’s name and of marrying his daughter for his money. He said that the marriage was off and that if I didn’t get out of Italy within twenty-four hours he’d have me arrested and risk the scandal. I went,” he added slowly, “but I hadn’t finished being a damned fool yet because I let Maria go with me against her father’s wishes. We were married in Bale.”

He stopped. I said nothing. There was nothing to say. But he hadn’t finished yet. He cleared his throat.

“Women are funny creatures,” he said inanely. He paused. “I don’t think my good lady knew just how little money I had when she said she wanted to go with me. She’d been used to something different from cheap hotels. We tried England for a bit, but my chest wouldn’t stand it. Then we went to Spain. When the trouble started we had to clear out. We went to Juan les Pins for a time, but it got too expensive in the season, so we moved along here. She hates it all. She should never have left her own people. We’re all foreigners to her. She even hates speaking English. And sometimes I think she hates me. She’s never really forgiven me for letting Batista put it across me. She says that I must be mad. Sometimes she tells other people that, too.” There was infinite weariness in his voice now.

“You should have seen her when she recognized Batista yesterday. She knows what he did to me, yet she was overjoyed to see him. It fairly bowled me over. And then he started. He’s got the old man’s money now, and he laughed
at me. He made a joke out of the way he’d treated me. A joke! Good God, if I’d had a gun in my hand I’d have shot him. As it was, I just hit him and not even in his smug, grinning face, but in his fat belly. The swine!” His voice had risen and he began to cough. But he managed to stop himself. He looked at me challengingly. “You probably think I’m a damned fool, eh?”

I muttered a denial.

He laughed bitterly. “You aren’t far wrong. And you’re going to think me a damned outsider as well because I’m going to ask you to do something for me.”

For some reason my head throbbed painfully. At last we were coming to the point. I said, “Yes?” and waited.

He had become formal and embarrassed again. He stumbled over the words as though each one was an effort. “I wouldn’t have told you all this, Vadassy, but I wanted you to understand the circumstances. Damned difficult thing to ask anyone. My good lady and I, we can’t stay in this place after that business yesterday. Everybody gossiping. Embarrassing for all concerned. Climate doesn’t suit my chest, either. There’s a boat that leaves Marseilles every Monday for Algiers. Thought we’d catch it. Trouble is—” he hesitated. “Hate to bother you with my private affairs like this, but the fact is I’m in a bit of a corner. Wasn’t expecting this Algiers trip. Quite a bill from Köche as well. These things happen. Must sound to you horribly like a hard-luck story. Can’t stand cadgers myself. But the fact is, Vadassy, that if you could possibly lend me a couple of thousand francs until the end of the month it would be helpful. Hate to ask you, but you know how it is.”

I had not the slightest idea what to say, but I opened my mouth to speak. He forestalled me.

“Of course, I shouldn’t expect you to lend me money without security. I’ll naturally give you a post-dated cheque on Cox’s bank—that is, if you don’t mind it in pounds. Safer than francs, what!” He gave a forced laugh. There were small beads of perspiration on his temples. “Shouldn’t dream of troubling you at all, of course, but as we’ve got to leave this place it puts me in a damned awkward position. Know you’ll understand. You’re the only person here I should care to ask, and—well, I don’t have to tell you how much I should appreciate it.”

I stared at him helplessly. At that moment I would have given almost anything to have had in my pocket five thousand francs, to have been able to smile cheerfully, to produce my notecase, to reassure him. “Good heavens, yes, Major! Why didn’t you say so before? No trouble at all. Better make it five thousand. After all, it’s only a matter of cashing a cheque, and a Cox’s cheque is as good as a Bank of England note any day. Delighted to be of assistance. Glad you asked me.” But I had no five thousand francs. I had not even two thousand. I had my return ticket to Paris and just enough money to pay my bill at the Réserve and live for a week. I could do nothing but stare at him, and listen to the clock ticking on the mantelpiece. He looked up at me.

“I’m sorry,” I stammered, and then again: “I’m sorry.”

He stood up. “Quite all right,” he said, with ghastly unconcern; “not really important. Just wondered if you could manage it, that’s all. Sorry to have taken up so much of your time. Damned inconsiderate of me. Forget about the money. Just
wondered, that’s all. Enjoyed having a jaw, though. Not often I have a chance of speaking English.” He drew himself up. “Well, I’ll be getting along to do a little packing. Expect we shall be leaving early tomorrow. And I shall have to get that wire off. See you before we go.”

Too late I found tongue.

“I can’t tell you how sorry I am, Major, that I can’t help you. It’s not a question of not wanting to cash a cheque for you. I haven’t got two thousand francs. I’ve only just got enough to pay my bill here. If I had any money I should be only too delighted to lend it to you. I’m terribly sorry. I—” Now that I had started I wanted to go on apologizing, to embarrass myself to restore his self-esteem. But I had no chance to do so for, even as I was speaking, he turned on his heel and walked out of the room.

When, some ten minutes later, I telephoned to the Commissariat and asked to speak to the Commissaire, Beghin’s irritable voice answered.

“Hello, Vadassy!”

“I have something to report.”

“Well?”

“Major and Mrs. Clandon-Hartley may be leaving tomorrow. He has tried to borrow money from me to pay his and his wife’s fare to Algiers.”

“Well? Did you lend him the money?”

“My employers have not yet paid me for the Toulon photographs,” I retorted recklessly.

To my surprise this impertinence was greeted with a squeaky chuckle from the other end.

“Anything else?”

Rashly, I gave way to the impulse to deliver a further gibe.

“I don’t suppose you’ll think it important, but last night I was knocked down by somebody in the garden and searched.” Even as I said it I knew that I had been very foolish. This time there was no answering chuckle but a sharp order to repeat myself. I did so.

There was a significant silence. Then:

“Why didn’t you say so at first instead of wasting time? Did you identify the man? Explain yourself.”

I explained myself. Then came the question that I had been dreading.

“Has your room been searched?”

“I think so.”

“What do you mean by ‘think so’?”

“Two rolls of film were taken from my suitcase.”

“When?”

“Yesterday.”

“Was anything else taken?” The question was very deliberate.

“No.” The camera, after all, had been taken from the chair in the hall.

There was another silence. Now he was going to ask me if the camera was safe. But he did not do so. I thought we had been cut off, and said: “Hello!” I was told to wait a minute.

My head throbbing painfully, I waited two minutes. I could hear a murmur of voices, Beghin’s squeak and the Commissaire’s growl, but I could not catch what they were saying. At last Beghin returned to the telephone.

“Vadassy!”

“Yes?”

“Listen carefully. You are to go straight back to the Réserve, see Köche, and inform him that your suitcase has been forced open and that several things have been stolen—a silver cigarette-case, and a box containing a diamond pin, a gold watch-chain and two rolls of film. Make a fuss about it. Tell the other guests. Complain. I want everyone at the Réserve to know about it. But don’t ask for the police.”

“But—”

“Don’t argue. Do as you are told. Was your suitcase forced?”

“No, but—”

“Then force it yourself before you tell Köche. Now understand this. You are to bring in the question of the films as an afterthought. You are annoyed principally about the valuables. Is that clear?”

“Yes, but I have no cigarette-case or diamond pin or gold watch-chain.”

“Of course you haven’t. They have been stolen. Now get on with it.”

“This is impossible, absurd. You cannot force me to do this—” But he had already hung up.

I walked back to the hotel with murder in my heart. If there was a bigger fool than myself in this business, it was Beghin. But he had nothing to lose except a spy.

I
went about the business of concocting the evidence with bitter thoroughness.

I got out my suitcase and locked it. Then I looked round for something with which to force the latches open. I made the first attempt with a pair of nail scissors. The locks were flimsy enough, but it was difficult to get any leverage on the scissors. After five minutes’ unsuccessful labor, I snapped one of the blades. I wasted several more minutes searching idly for a stronger tool. In desperation I took the key from the bedroom door and used the flat steel loop on it as a jimmy. The locks eventually yielded to this treatment, but I bent the key and had to spend more time straightening it. Then I opened the lid, stirred up the contents and, contorting my features into an expression of outraged innocence, hurried downstairs to find Köche.

He was not in his office. By the time I had traced him to the beach where he was lounging about in a bathing suit,
my outraged innocence had relaxed into a sort of cringing anxiety. The Skeltons, the French couple, and Monsieur Duclos were down there with him. I played with the idea of awaiting a more opportune moment; but rejected it. I must remember that a robbery had been committed. Objects of value had been stolen from my room. I must behave as any normal person would behave under such circumstances; I must report to the manager even if he was clad only in a pair of bathing trunks. A sleek, black-coated manager would have been more appropriate to the occasion, but I must do the best I could with Köche.

I ran down the steps to the beach and started across the sand towards him. At this point, however, there was a disconcerting interruption. Skelton, hearing my footsteps on the stairs, had looked round the edge of his sunshade and seen me.

“Hey!” he called over. “Haven’t seen you all morning. Are you coming in the water before lunch?”

I hesitated; then, realizing that there was nothing else for it, I went over. Mary Skelton, who was lying face downwards on the sand, turned her head and cocked an eye at me.

“We thought you’d deserted us, Mr. Vadassy. You’ve no right to trifle with the kiddies’ affections like that. Get into your bathing suit and come and give us the dirt on the affair Clandon-Hartley. We saw you talking to him through the writing-room window after breakfast.”

“No finesse!” complained her brother. “I was going to introduce the subject gradually. What about it, Mr. Vadassy?”

“If you’ll excuse me,” I said hurriedly, “I must have a word with Köche. See you later.”

“That’s a deal!” he called over to me.

Köche was talking to Roux and Duclos. Evidently the quarrel of the previous night had been forgotten. I interrupted him in the middle of a disquisition on the virtues of Grenoble. I was tight-lipped and grave.

“Excuse me, Monsieur, but I should like to speak with you privately. It is rather urgent.”

He raised his eyebrows and excused himself to the others. We moved a little away.

“What can I do for you, Monsieur?”

“I regret to disturb you, but I am afraid I must ask you to step up to my room. While I was in the village just now, my suitcase has been broken open and several valuable objects stolen from it.”

The eyebrows went up again. He whistled softly between his teeth and glanced at me quickly. Then with a muttered “excuse me” he walked across the sand, picked up his bathing wrap and sandals, put them on, and rejoined me.

“I will come with you immediately.”

Under the curious eyes of the others we left the beach.

On the way up to my room he asked me what was missing. I gave him Beghin’s grotesque selection and added the tidbit about the films. He nodded and was silent. I began to feel apprehensive. True, there was no possible way of his discovering the whole business was a put-up job; yet, now that I had started the thing moving, I was uneasy. For all his lazy, indolent manner, Köche was no fool and I could not quite forget the fact that it was not impossible for Köche himself to have taken the films and also stunned me in the garden the night before. In that case he would know that I was lying.
The consequences might be distinctly unpleasant for me. I cursed Beghin with renewed fervor.

Köche inspected my work on the suitcase locks with gloomy interest. Then he straightened his back and his eyes met mine.

“You say that you left your room at about nine o’clock?”

“Yes.”

“Was the suitcase all right, then?”

“Yes. The last thing I did before I went down was to lock the case and push it under the bed.”

He looked at his watch. “It is now eleven twenty. How long ago did you return?”

“About fifteen minutes ago. But I did not go to the suitcase straight away. As soon as I saw what had happened, I came straight to you. It is disgraceful,” I added lamely.

He nodded and eyed me speculatively. “Do you mind coming down to my office, Monsieur? I should like a detailed description of the missing objects.”

“Certainly. But I must warn you, Monsieur,” I mumbled, “that I shall hold you responsible and that I shall expect the immediate return of the valuables and the punishment of the thief.”