Epitaph for a Spy (16 page)

“Fourteen, I think. But the Switzer wasn’t gumshoeing. He’d dropped a five-franc piece in the corridor.”

“What does Köche say about it, Mr. Vadassy?”

“I’m afraid he suspects the servants.”

“Naturally,” said the girl vigorously. “Warren’s too darn fond of taking up the appropriate attitude. We all know that it
ought
to be a rich old meany with a touch of kleptomania. The fact of the matter probably is that it’s some poor little underpaid chambermaid with a boy friend in the village she wants to give a cigarette-case to.”

“And
a gold watch-chain,
and
a diamond pin,
and
a couple of spools of film?” queried her brother sarcastically.

“Maybe it’s a waiter.”

“Or maybe it’s old Duclos or the Major. Incidentally, what about the Major, Mr. Vadassy?”

I decided not to regale them with the Major’s life story. “He merely wanted to offer a general apology for the disturbance down here yesterday. The man from the yacht was his brother-in-law. He had had a quarrel with him over some money matter. The brother-in-law brought the question up again and the Major lost his temper. He explained that his
wife was distraught and that she did not really mean that he was mad.”

“Is that all? Why did he tell you about it?”

“I think he was very embarrassed by the whole affair. As I was not here, he picked on me.” I was not going to tell them that Monsieur Duclos had received an abridged apology but the same request for money. “The Major and his wife are, in any case, leaving, and …”

“In other words, Warren,” put in the girl, “we’re to mind our own business and not behave like a couple of nosy kids. Is that right, Mr. Vadassy?”

It was, but I blushed and began to protest. Warren Skelton interrupted me. “I smell drink! Come on. You can’t go swimming now; it’s nearly lunchtime.”

While he had gone to fetch the drinks the girl and I walked up to the tables on the lower terrace.

“You mustn’t take any notice of anything Warren says,” she said, smiling. “This is his first trip abroad.”

“You’ve been before?”

For a moment she did not reply, and I thought she had not heard me. She seemed to hesitate as though she were about to say something important. Then I saw her shrug her shoulders slightly. “Yes, I’ve been before.” As we sat down she smiled at me. “Warren says there’s something mysterious about you.”

“Does he?”

“He says that you look like a man with something to hide. He says, too, that it’s not natural that a man should speak more than one language perfectly. I think he rather hopes you’ll turn out to be a spy or something exciting like that.”

I felt myself reddening again. “A spy?”

“I told you you mustn’t take any notice of what he says.” She smiled again at me. Her eyes, intelligent and amused, met mine across the table. Suddenly I wanted to confide in her, to tell her that I was indeed a man with something to hide, to gain her sympathy, her help. I leaned forward across the table.

“I should like …” I began. But I never told her what I should like, and I have forgotten now what I was going to say, for at that moment her brother reappeared carrying a tray of drinks. It was, no doubt, as well that he did so.

“The waiters were busy on the terrace,” he said, “so I brought them myself.” He raised his glass. “Well, Mr. Vadassy, here’s hoping that the chambermaid’s boy friend doesn’t like your cigarette-case!”

“Or,” the girl added gravely, “the two spools of film. We mustn’t forget
them
.”

I
did not eat much lunch.

For one thing, my head had begun to ache again; for another, I received with my soup a message from Köche. The manager would be grateful if Monsieur Vadassy could spare the time to call in at the office after luncheon. Yes, Monsieur Vadassy could and would spare the time. But the prospect disturbed me. Supposing Köche had decided that some “poor little underpaid chambermaid” was the culprit. What was I supposed to do? The idiotic Beghin had made no allowances for that contingency. The wretched girl would naturally deny the charge. What could I say? Was I to stand by and see some perfectly innocent person browbeaten by a zealous Köche and accused of a theft that had not taken place? It was an abominable state of affairs.

But I need not, as it happened, have worried about that. The chambermaid was perfectly safe.

Monsieur Duclos pounced on me as I left the terrace.

“Have you decided to call in the police, Monsieur?”

“Not yet. I am going to see Köche.”

He stroked his beard gloomily. “I have been thinking, Monsieur. Every hour we delay is in the thief’s favor.”

“Quite so. But …”

“Speaking as a businessman, I counsel immediate action. You must be firm with Köche, Monsieur.” He thrust his beard forward ferociously.

“I shall be very firm, Monsieur, I …”

But before I could get away the Vogels came up, shook hands with me and expressed their sorrow at my loss. Monsieur Duclos was not in the least put out by this evidence of his treachery.

“We have agreed, Monsieur Vogel and I,” he stated, “that the Commissaire of Police should be called in.”

“Five thousand francs,” nodded Herr Vogel weightily, “is a serious loss. A matter for the police, without a doubt. Monsieur Roux is of the same opinion. There is the safety of the other guests’ property to be considered. Mademoiselle Martin, a young lady of nervous disposition, is already frightened for her jewels. Monsieur Roux calmed her, but he informed me that unless the thief is discovered he will be forced to leave. Köche will be well advised to treat the matter more seriously. Five thousand francs!”—he requoted Monsieur Duclos’s version of my loss—“It is a serious thing.”

“Yes, indeed!” said Frau Vogel.

“You see!” put in Monsieur Duclos triumphantly, “the police must be called in.”

“With regard,” pursued Herr Vogel in a whisper, “to the question of your suspicions, Herr Vadassy, we feel that at the moment the police should not be told of them.”

“My suspicions?” I glanced at Monsieur Duclos. He had the grace to avoid my eye and fumble a little ostentatiously with his pince-nez.

Herr Vogel smiled indulgently. “I understand perfectly. It would be better to say nothing that might be construed as referring to”—he looked round swiftly and lowered his voice—“a certain person of English nationality, eh?” He winked. “These affairs must be handled with discretion, eh?”

“Yes, yes!” echoed Frau Vogel cheerfully.

I mumbled something about having no suspicious at all and made my escape. Monsieur Duclos was proving a rather compromising publicity agent.

Köche was waiting for me in the office.

“Ah, yes, Monsieur Vadassy, please come in.” He shut the door behind me. “A chair? Good. Now to business.”

I played my part. “I hope, Monsieur, that you have satisfactory news for me. This suspense is most distressing.”

He looked very grave.

“I am very much afraid, Monsieur, that my inquiries have yielded no result whatever.”

I frowned. “That is bad.”

“Very bad. Very bad, indeed!” He glanced at a paper before him, tapped it once or twice with his forefinger and looked up at me. “I have examined every member of the staff, including the waiters and the gardener, hoping that one of them might, at any rate, be able to throw some light on the affair.” He paused. “Frankly, Monsieur,” he went on quietly, “I feel that they are all telling me the truth when they say that they have no knowledge of the theft.”

“You mean that it must have been one of the guests?”

He did not reply for a moment. I began, for no reason that I could identify, to feel even more uneasy. Then he shook his head slowly. “No, Monsieur, I do not mean that it was one of the guests.”

“Then someone from outside?”

“Nor that either.”

“Then …?”

He leaned forward. “I have decided, Monsieur, that this is a case for the police.”

This was difficult. Beghin had made it clear that the police were not to be called in.

“But surely,” I protested, “that is the last thing you would wish to do. Think of the scandal.”

His lips tightened. This was a new Köche, no longer easygoing and good natured, a very businesslike Köche. There was, quite suddenly, an ugly tension in the atmosphere.

“Unfortunately,” he said bitingly, “the damage is already done. Not only are my guests aware of and discussing the affair, but one of them is actually being regarded by the others as a possible culprit.”

“I am sorry to hear that, I—”

But he ignored my interruption. “I asked you, Monsieur, to remain silent until I could investigate this matter. I find that, far from remaining silent, you have discussed the affair with your fellow guests in the most unfortunate manner.”

“I asked the advice in confidence of Monsieur Duclos relating to the question of informing the police. If Monsieur Duclos has been indiscreet, I am sorry.”

There was something very much like a sneer in his voice as he answered. “And what, pray, was Monsieur Duclos’s advice?”

“He advised me to call in the police, but out of deference to your—”

“Then, Monsieur, we are in perfect agreement. You have your opportunity.” He reached for the telephone. “I will communicate with the police at once.”

“One moment, Monsieur Köche!” His hand paused on the instrument. “I merely repeated Duclos’s advice. For my part I see no necessity for calling in the police.”

To my intense relief he took his hand from the telephone. Then he turned slowly and looked me in the eyes.

“I thought you wouldn’t,” he said deliberately.

“I feel sure,” I said, with all the amiability I could muster, “that you will handle this affair far more efficiently than the police. I do not wish to make a nuisance of myself. If the stolen articles are returned, well and good. If not—well—it cannot be helped. In any case, the police will be more of a hindrance than a help.”

“I believe you, Monsieur.” This time there was no doubt about the sneer. “I can quite believe that you would find the police a very grave hindrance.”

“I don’t think I understand you.”

“No?” He smiled grimly. “I have been in the hotel profession for a number of years, Monsieur. You will not, I feel sure, think me impolite if I tell you that I have encountered gentlemen of your persuasion before. I have learned to be careful. When you reported this alleged theft you told me that you had lost a cigarette-case. Later, when I suggested to
you that you had described it as a gold case, you hesitated and got out of your difficulties by saying that it was both gold and silver. A little too ingenious, my friend. When I went into your room I noticed the blade of a pair of scissors lying on the floor by the suitcase. On the bed was the rest of the scissors. You looked at them twice, but did not comment on them. Why? They had obviously been used to force the case. They were important evidence. But you ignored them. You saw nothing significant in them because you knew how the case had been forced. You had forced it yourself.”

“Preposterous! I—”

“Again, you showed real concern when the camera was mentioned. When I pointed it out to you on the chair your emotion was quite genuine. No doubt you were afraid for the moment that something really had been stolen.”

“I—”

“You made another mistake over the valuation of the case. A case such as you described would be worth at least fifteen hundred francs. True, you said it was a gift, but even so you would scarcely undervalue it by fifty per cent. People who have lost things invariably go to the other extreme.”

“I have never—”

“The only thing that has puzzled me is your motive. The usual idea is for the injured guest to threaten the hotel with the police and the discomfiture of the other guests unless he or, more often she, receives compensation. It is well known that hotels are insured against such contingencies. But you are either new to the game or you have some other motive, for you told the guests immediately. Perhaps you would like to tell me what your motive really is.”

I had risen to my feet. I was genuinely angry now.

“This is a monstrous accusation, Monsieur. I have never been so insulted,” I stammered with rage. “I … I shall …”

“Call in the police?” he put in solicitously. “Here is the telephone. Or perhaps you do not wish to call in the police.”

I put on as dignified a front as possible. “I have no intention of prolonging this farce.”

“You are wise.” He tilted his chair. “I have had suspicions of you, Vadassy, since your rather lengthy interview with the police on Thursday. The French police do not usually search a person’s room unless they have very grave suspicions of him. The passport explanation was a little thin. I can appreciate your anxiety to avoid further encounters with the Commissaire. I am also in complete agreement with you concerning the undesirability of prolonging the present situation. I have, accordingly, made out your bill. Please do not interpret this as an act of mercy on my part. My own personal inclination is to hand you straight over to the police; or at any rate to tell you to clear out within an hour. My wife, however, is of the opinion that either of those courses would arouse still further comment among our guests. She is a more practical person than I am. I bow to her decision. You will leave the Réserve early tomorrow morning. Whether or not I then inform the police depends on your behavior during the brief time you remain here. I shall expect you to inform the other guests that your complaint was unfounded, that you had merely mislaid the articles and that the damage to your suitcase was caused by your own carelessness in using the wrong key and jamming the locks. I have no doubt that you will be able to make your
story convincing enough for inexperienced ears. It is understood?”

I did the best I could with the few shreds of self-possession that were left to me. “I understand perfectly, Monsieur. I had, in any case, no intention of staying here after your fantastic behavior.”

“Good! Here is your bill.”

I studied the bill ostentatiously for mistakes. It was a childish thing to do, but by this time I felt childish. He waited in silence. There were no mistakes. I had only just enough money. He took it with an air that told me that he had not expected to be paid in full.