Epitaph for a Spy (15 page)

“Naturally,” he said politely. “I have no doubt that I shall be able to return your property to you within a very short time. There is no cause for you to worry.”

Feeling rather like an amateur actor who has forgotten his lines, I followed Köche down to his office. He closed the door carefully, drew up a chair for me and picked up a pen.

“Now, Monsieur. The cigarette-case first, if you please. It is, I think you said, a gold one.”

I looked at him quickly. He was writing something on the paper. I panicked. Had I said that it was a gold one when we were coming up from the beach? For the life of me I could not remember. Or was he trying to trap me? But I had an inspiration.

“No, a silver case, gold lined. It has,” I said, warming to my work, “my initials, ‘J. V.’, engraved in one corner and is machined on the outside. It holds ten cigarettes and the elastic is missing.”

“Thank you, and the chain?”

I remembered a second-hand chain I had seen displayed in a jeweler’s window near the Gare Montparnasse.

“Eighteen-carat gold, thick, old-fashioned links, heavy. It has a small gold medallion on it commemorating the Brussels Exhibition of 1901.”

He wrote it all down carefully.

“And now the pin, Monsieur.”

This was not so easy. “Just a pin, Monsieur. A tie-pin about six centimeters long with a small diamond about three millimeters in diameter in the head.” I gave way to a weak impulse. “The diamond,” I said, with a self-conscious laugh, “is paste.”

“But the pin itself is gold?”

“Rolled gold.”

“And the box in which these objects were left?”

“A tin box. A cigarette box. A German cigarette box. I cannot remember the brand. There was also in it two rolls of film, Contax film. They had been exposed.”

“You have a Contax camera?”

“Yes.”

He looked at me again. “I assume that you made sure that the camera was safe, Monsieur. A thief would get a good price for a camera.”

My heart missed about two beats. I had blundered badly.

“The camera?” I said stupidly. “I did not look. I left it in the drawer.”

He stood up. “Then I suggest, Monsieur, that we go and look immediately.”

“Yes, of course.” I was, I felt, very red in the face.

We went upstairs again and along to my room. I prepared myself carefully for the emission of the suitable cries of dismay and anger that would be necessary.

I rushed anxiously to the chest of drawers, pulled open the top drawer and rummaged feverishly inside it. Then I turned round slowly and dramatically.

“Gone!” I said grimly. “This is too much. That camera is worth nearly five thousand francs. The thief must be found without delay. I demand, Monsieur, that something is done immediately.”

To my surprise and confusion a faint smile appeared on his lips.

“Something will certainly be done, Monsieur,” he said calmly, “but in the case of the camera, nothing will be necessary. Look!”

I followed the direction of his nod. There, on the chair beside the bed, was a Contax camera complete with case.

“I must,” I said stupidly, as we went downstairs again, “have forgotten that I had left it on the chair.”

He nodded. “Or the thief removed it from the drawer and
then forgot to take it after all.” I thought it was my guilty conscience that detected a faint note of irony in his voice.

“Anyway,” I said, with unaffected gaiety, “I have the camera.”

“We must hope,” he said gravely, “that the other things will reappear as quickly.”

I agreed as enthusiastically as I could. We returned to the office.

“What,” he asked, “is the value of the cigarette-case and the watch-chain?”

I thought carefully. “It is hard to say. About eight hundred francs for the case and about five hundred for the chain, I should think. Both were presents. The pin, though intrinsically worthless, possesses great sentimental value for me. As for the films: well, I should be sorry to lose them, naturally, but—” I shrugged.

“I understand. They were insured, the case and the chain?”

“No.”

He put down his pen. “You will appreciate, Monsieur, that in these affairs suspicion is bound to fall on the servants. I shall question them first. I should prefer to do it alone. I hope you will not think it necessary to call in the police at this stage and will trust me to handle the matter discreetly.”

“Of course.”

“Also, Monsieur, I would personally appreciate it if you would say nothing of this unfortunate affair to the other guests.”

“Naturally not.”

“Thank you. You will realize that considerable damage is done to the reputation of a small hotel such as this by such
unpleasant affairs. I will report to you the moment I have completed my inquiries.”

I went, feeling distinctly uncomfortable. Köche had asked that the other guests should not be told; and for my part I would have been only too pleased to comply with the request. The less said about the business the better I should have been pleased. But Beghin had insisted on the news being broadcast to the other guests; he had been quite clear on the point. I must make a fuss. And there were the wretched servants to be considered. It was altogether a most unhappy situation; and, as far as I could see, utterly pointless as well: unless there was something going on about which I knew nothing. What cigarette-cases and watch-chains had to do with spies was beyond my comprehension. Did Beghin propose to use the alleged robbery as a pretext on which to arrest the spy? Absurd! Where was the evidence to come from? My two rolls of film were, no doubt, developed and thrown away by now; and the cigarette-case and watch-chain did not exist. There was only one sensible way of tackling the problems. Identify the spy first, then catch him with my camera in his possession. My camera!

I took the last few stairs at a run and dashed for my room. It did not take me more than a few seconds to confirm my fears. This
was
my camera. The incriminating evidence had been politely returned.

I changed into my swimming trunks miserably. I could, of course, lie to Beghin. I could say that the cameras had been re-exchanged without my knowledge. I could plead ignorance. I could suggest that it had been done when my room had been searched. After all, I couldn’t be expected to examine
the number on the camera at hourly intervals throughout the day. If I was careful there was no reason why Beghin should know that for about eighteen hours I had had neither of the cameras. That was unless he caught the spy. Then the fat would be in the fire. Beghin might even have to release the man again. Not that there was the remotest chance of catching him with stories of forced suitcases and stolen watch-chains. Still, that was Beghin’s affair. I was only a pawn in the game, a fly caught in the cog-wheels. A sickly, sticky stream of self-pity welled up into my mind. I stood in my shirt and looked at myself in the mirror. Poor fool! What skinny legs! I finished changing. As I went down the stairs I saw Schimler follow Köche into the office and shut the door. Schimler! I experienced an empty feeling inside my chest. That was another thing. Today I was to search Schimler’s room.

The Vogels had now joined the French couple on the beach. The Americans were in the water. I went over to Monsieur Duclos, drew a deck-chair alongside his and sat down. For a minute or two we exchanged commonplaces. Then I began work.

“You, Monsieur, are a man of the world. I should be grateful for your advice in a delicate matter.”

A look of pure pleasure suffused his face. He stroked his beard gravely. “My experience, such as it is, is at your disposal, Monsieur.” He rolled his eyes archly. “It is, perhaps, concerning the American miss that you wish my advice?”

“I beg your pardon.”

He chuckled roguishly. “You need not be embarrassed, my friend. If I may say so, your glances in her direction have been
remarked by all. But the brother and sister are inseparable, eh? Believe me, Monsieur, I have some judgment in these affairs.” He lowered his voice and brought his head nearer mine. “I have noticed that the miss also looks at you.” He dropped his voice still further and sprayed the next sentence right into my ear. “She is especially interested when you are dressed as you are now.” He giggled into his beard.

I stared at him coldly. “What I had to say was nothing to do with Miss Skelton.”

“No?” He looked disappointed.

“I am more concerned at the moment with the fact that several objects of value have been stolen from my room.”

His pince-nez quivered so much that they fell off. He caught them neatly and replaced them on his nose.

“A robbery?”

“Precisely. While I was in the village this morning my locked suitcase was forced open and a cigarette-case, a gold watch-chain, a diamond pin, and two rolls of film were stolen. The value of the property is over two thousand francs.”

“Formidable!”

“I am desolated by the loss. The pin was of great sentimental value.”

“C’est affreux!”

“Indeed it is! I have complained to Köche, and he is questioning the servants. But—and this, Monsieur, is the matter in which I should welcome your guidance—I am not satisfied with the way in which Monsieur Köche is conducting the affair. He does not seem to realize the gravity of the loss. Should I be justified in putting the matter before the police?”

“The police?” Monsieur Duclos wriggled with excitement. “Why, yes! It is without a doubt an affair for the police. I will, if you wish, come with you now myself to the
Poste
.”

“And yet,” I said hurriedly, “Köche was of the opinion that the police would be well left out of the affair. He is to question the servants. Perhaps it would be better to wait and hear the result of this questioning.”

“Ah, yes. Perhaps that would be better.” He was clearly reluctant to abandon the police so soon. “But …”

“Thank you, Monsieur,” I put in smoothly; “I am grateful for your advice. It has confirmed my own inclinations in the matter.” I saw his eyes straying towards the Vogels and the French people. “Naturally, you will appreciate that I speak in confidence. We must be discreet at this stage.”

He nodded portentously. “Naturally, Monsieur. Please consider my experience as a businessman at your disposal. You may trust me.” He paused, then tweaked the sleeve of my wrap. “Have you any suspicions?”

“None. Suspicions are dangerous things.”

“That is so, but—” He dropped his voice and began to spray into my ear again: “Have you considered this English major? A violent man, that! And what does he do for a living? Nothing. He has been there three months. I will tell you something more. This morning after breakfast he came to me on the lower terrace and requested a loan of two thousand francs. He needs money badly, that one. He offered five per cent interest per month.”

“You refused?”

“Naturally. I was very angry. He said that he required the
money to go to Algiers. Why should I pay for him to go to Algiers? Let him work like other men. There was also something about his wife, but I could not understand. His French is incomprehensible. He is certainly a little mad.”

“And you think he stole from my room?”

Monsieur Duclos smiled knowingly and held up a protesting hand. “Ah, no, Monsieur, I do not
say
that. I merely
suggest.”
He had the air of negotiating a very tricky legal subtlety. “I point out merely that this man has no occupation, that he needs money, that he is desperate. No man who was not desperate would offer five per cent per month. He said something to me of expecting money that had failed to arrive. I do not accuse this Major. I merely suggest to you.”

I saw that the Americans had come out of the water. I stood up.

“Thank you, Monsieur. I will bear the suggestion in mind. Meanwhile, of course, we must be discreet. Perhaps we could discuss the matter further later in the day.”

“When,” he agreed, “we have heard the results of the preliminary interrogations.”

“Precisely.” I bowed.

By the time I had got across the beach to the Skeltons he was deep in conversation with the French couple and the Vogels. I did not have to guess at the subject of the conversation. Monsieur Duclos could be relied upon to carry out Beghin’s instructions to the letter.

In defiance of the printed notice in the bedrooms, Skelton was drying himself on one of the hotel towels.

“Ah!” was his greeting. “The man with the news!”

His sister made room for me under the sunshade. “Come and sit down, Mr. Vadassy. No more snooping off with Monsieur Köche. We want the truth—all of it.”

I sat down. “I’m sorry I had to run off like that, but something rather nasty has happened.”

“What, again?”

“I’m afraid so. This morning, while I was down in the village, my suitcase was broken open and several things taken from it.”

Skelton sat down beside me as though his legs had given way. “Phew! That
is
nasty. Anything valuable?”

I repeated the list.

“When did you say it happened?” It was the girl who spoke.

“While I was down in the village. Between about nine and ten thirty.”

“But it was about nine thirty when we saw you talking to the Major.”

“Yes, but I left my room at nine.”

Skelton leaned forward confidentially. “Say, you don’t suppose the Major was engaging you in conversation while his wife did the job, do you?”

“Shut up, Warren. This is serious. It was probably one of the servants.”

Skelton snorted impatiently. “Why should it be? It makes me tired. Whenever anything’s stolen everybody always looks around for a servant or messenger-boy or somebody else who can’t hit back to blame it on. If we’re going to be serious, what was Papa Switzer doing gumshoeing about the corridor this morning?”

“That wasn’t on Mr. Vadassy’s side of the house. What’s the number of your room, Mr. Vadassy?”

“Six.”

She began to rub oil into her arms. “There you are! It was the other side of the house, the room next but one to mine. That friend of Monsieur Köche’s has it.”

I grasped a handful of sand and let it trickle through my fingers. “What number is that?” I said idly.