Epitaph for a Spy (23 page)

Sometimes, after a day’s work, I have gone back to my room and, without troubling to turn on the light, sunk into my easy chair and remained there, motionless, relaxed, savoring the slow, pleasant ache that creeps through the limbs when they are very weary. That was what happened to me that evening as I listened to Frau Vogel playing. Only, now, it was not my body that yielded so thankfully, but my mind. Instead of the slow, pleasant ache creeping through my limbs there was the melody of a choral prelude entwining itself in my consciousness. My eyes closed. If only this would go on. If only this would go on. If only …

When the interruption came I did not at first notice it. There was a murmur of voices from the hall, someone hissed a request for silence, a chair grated on the floor. I opened my eyes in time to see Köche disappearing hurriedly through the door, which he closed softly behind him. A few moments later I heard it open again noisily.

It all seemed to happen in the fraction of a second; but the first intimation I had that anything was wrong was that Frau Vogel stopped suddenly in the middle of a bar. Instinctively I looked across at her first. She was sitting, her hands poised over the keys, staring fixedly over the top of the piano, as though she were looking at a ghost. Then her hands
dropped slowly on to the keyboard, sounding a soft discord. My gaze traveled to the door. There, standing on the threshold, were two uniformed
agents de police
.

They looked round the room menacingly. One of them took a step forward.

“Which of you is Josef Vadassy?”

I stood up slowly, too dazed to speak.

They clumped across the room towards me.

“You are under arrest. You will accompany us to the Commissariat.”

Frau Vogel let out a little cry.

“But …”

“There are no ‘buts.’ Come on.”

They gripped my arms.

Monsieur Duclos darted forward.

“What is the charge?”

“That does not concern you,” retorted the leading
agent
curtly. He jerked me towards the door.

Monsieur Duclos’s pince-nez quivered. “I am a citizen of the Republic,” he declared fiercely. “I have a right to know.”

The
agent
glanced round. “Curious, eh?” He grinned. “Very well, the charge is one of espionage. You’ve had a dangerous man among you. Come on, Vadassy. March!”

The Skeltons, the Vogels, Roux, Mademoiselle Martin, the Clandon-Hartleys, Schimler, Duclos, Köche—for an instant I saw their faces, white and motionless, turned towards me. Then I was through the door. Behind me a woman, Frau Vogel, I think, screamed hysterically.

I had received my instructions.

I
was taken to the Commissariat in a closed car driven by a third
agent
.

I suppose that this fact should have surprised me. Arrested men are not usually afforded the luxury of a car to convey them to a police
poste
no more than half a kilometer away. But it did not surprise me. Nothing short of a civic reception by the mayor and corporation of St. Gatien would have surprised me. It had come. That which I had known all along in my heart
would
happen,
had
happened. I was under arrest again. My parole had been withdrawn. This, then, was the end. True, I had not expected quite so dramatic an exit from the Réserve; but, all things considered, it was probably better this way—I had at least been spared another night of suspense. It was almost a relief to feel that I had to think for myself no longer, that Monsieur Mathis’s sarcasms could no longer touch me, that I could do nothing but acquiesce.

I wondered what the Skeltons were thinking about it all. It must have been a shock to them. Duclos, of course, would
be beside himself with excitement. He would probably be telling the others that he’d known about me all along. Schimler? That
did
worry me a little. I would have liked him to have known the truth. As for the rest … Köche would not be surprised. The Major, however, would be horrified. He would probably advocate a firing squad. Roux, no doubt, would laugh unpleasantly. The Vogels would click their tongues and look solemn. And yet one of them would be thinking hard, one of them would know that I was neither a spy nor dangerous. That man, the man who had slammed the writing-room door, who had searched my room and taken two spools of film, who had knocked me down, whose fingers had fumbled in my pockets; he would go scot free, while I rotted in prison. What would his thoughts be like? Triumphant? What did it matter? What did it matter what any of them thought? Nothing. All the same, it would be interesting to know which of them really was the spy—very interesting. Well, I should have plenty of time in which to make my guesses.

The tires grated on the shingle square in front of the Commissariat. I was taken into the waiting-room with the wooden forms. As before, an
agent
waited with me. This time, however, I did not attempt to talk. We waited.

The hands of the clock in the room had crept round to half past ten before the door opened and Beghin came in.

So far as I could see he still had on the same tussore suit that he had been wearing three days previously. In his hand was the same limp handkerchief. He was still sweating profusely. One thing only surprised me. He seemed to be smaller than I had imagined. For the first time I realized what a
monster my thoughts had made of him. In my imagination he had grown into an ogre, a foul, corrupt colossus of evil preying upon the innocent who crossed his path—a devil. Now I saw before me a man, fat and gross and sweating, but a man.

For a moment the small, heavy-lidded eyes stared down at me as though he were unable to remember who I was. Then he nodded to the
agent
. The man saluted, went out of the room and shut the door behind him.

“Well, Vadassy, have you enjoyed your little holiday?” Once again the high-pitched voice took me unawares. I stared back at him coldly.

“I am to be the scapegoat after all, eh?”

He bent down, pulled one of the forms away from the wall and sat down on it, facing me. The wood creaked under his weight. He wiped his hands on the handkerchief.

“It’s been very warm,” he said, and then glanced up at me. “What did they do when you were arrested?”

“Who, the
agents?
”

“No, your fellow guests.”

“They did nothing.” I heard my own voice develop an edge to it. I knew, somehow, with half my brain, that I was losing my temper and that I could not help doing so. “They did nothing,” I repeated. “What would you expect them to do? Duclos wanted to know what the charge was. Frau Vogel screamed. Otherwise they just looked. I don’t suppose they’re used to seeing people arrested.” My temper rose suddenly to boiling point. “Though I expect that if they stayed long enough in St. Gatien they would get used to it. Next time one of the fishermen gets drunk and beats his wife you might try arresting Vogel. Or would that be too dangerous? Would the
Swiss consul have something to say? Perhaps he would. Or wouldn’t the Department of Naval Intelligence have enough intelligence to see that? Do you know, Beghin, that when you talked to me in that cell three days ago I actually thought that, although you might be a bullying blackguard of a policeman, it was possible that you had some sense. I thought that even if you did threaten and ask insane questions, you at least knew what you were doing. I have found since that I was wrong. You haven’t any sense and you don’t know what you’re doing. You’re a fool. You’ve blundered so many times that I’ve lost count of them. If I hadn’t had a little sense and interpreted your instructions in my own way, your …”

He had been listening calmly; now he got to his feet, his fist drawn back as though he were about to strike me. “If you hadn’t
what?
” he shouted savagely.

I did not flinch. I felt reckless and vindictive.

“I see you don’t like the truth. I said that if I hadn’t interpreted your instructions in my own way your precious spy would have taken fright and bolted. You told me to question the guests about their cameras. A lunatic would have seen that that was a fatal mistake.”

He sat down again. “Well, what
did
you do?” he said grimly: “Fake the information for me?”

“No, I used some sense. You see”—this bitterly—“in my simple innocence I thought that if I could get the information you required without jeopardizing the chances of catching the spy when he had been identified, I should receive some consideration at the hands of the police. If I had known just how badly you were going to bungle your end of the business, I doubt if I should have bothered. However, I obtained the information
about the cameras by the simple process of using my eyes. When, as was inevitable, the fake robbery was discovered to be a fake, I managed to retrieve the situation by confusing the others’ minds sufficiently to make them—or at any rate most of them—accept the story that the whole thing was a mistake. Now, of course, the fat is in the fire. This time I can’t retrieve your mistake. You’ve given the alarm. The Clandon-Hartleys are leaving tomorrow in any case. I don’t suppose any of them will care to stay after this. You’ve lost your suspects. Still,” I shrugged, “I don’t suppose you care. The Commissaire will be satisfied. You’ve got someone to convict. That’s all you policemen want, isn’t it?” I stood up. “Well, now that’s over. I’ve been wanting to get that off my chest. If you don’t mind, and have quite finished gloating, I’d like to be locked in my cell now. For one thing, this room is stuffy; for another, I didn’t get much sleep last night. I’ve got a headache and I’m tired.”

He took out a packet of cigarettes.

“Cigarette, Vadassy?”

I sneered. “The last time you said that you had something dirty up your sleeve. What do you want now, a signed confession? Because if you do you’re not going to get it. I absolutely refuse. Understand that, I absolutely refuse.”

“Take a cigarette, Vadassy. You’re not going to sleep yet.”

“Oh, I see! Third degree, eh?”

“Sacré chien!”
he squeaked. “Take a cigarette.”

I took one. He lit his and tossed me the matches.

“Now!” He blew a cloud of smoke in the air. “I have an apology to make to you.”

“Oh?” I put all I could into the word.

“Yes, an apology. I made a mistake. I overrated your intelligence. And I underrated it. Both.”

“Splendid! And what am I supposed to do, Monsieur Beghin? Burst into tears and sign the confession now?”

He frowned. “You listen to me.”

“I am listening—fascinated.”

He ran his handkerchief round the inside of his collar. “That tongue of yours, Vadassy, will get you into trouble one of these days. Has it not occurred to you that it is a little unusual for a prisoner to be sitting where you are now instead of in a cell?”

“It has. I’m wondering where the trick is.”

“There is no trick, you fool,” he squeaked angrily. “Listen. The first thing you ought to know is that every one of the instructions you have been given has had one object—that of making the spy leave the Réserve. You were told to make those inquiries about the cameras with just that object in view. We wanted to alarm him. When that failed—and I can see now why it did fail—we told you to report the faked robbery. The man had searched your room; he had searched your pockets. I say we wanted to alarm him, not enough to put him to flight—that is why we ourselves kept away from the Réserve—but just enough to make him think that he was running a risk by staying. Again we failed. The first time I had failed to reckon on your reasoning the way you did from the facts in your possession. That was my fault. I had forgotten how little you knew. The second time I failed to reckon with your inexperience. Köche saw through you too quickly.”

“But,” I protested, “how on earth did you expect to catch
the spy like that? What was your idea? Arrest the first man to pack up and leave the Réserve? If so, you’d better arrest Major Clandon-Hartley. He’s leaving first thing in the morning. If that’s your idea of catching a spy, then heaven help France.”

To my surprise, I saw the beginnings of a grin at the corner of his mouth. He drew at his cigarette, inhaled deeply and let the smoke trickle out through his nose.

“But then, my dear Vadassy,” he said sweetly, “you do not know all the facts. In particular, you are ignorant of one very important one—the fact that we had discovered the identity of the spy before you left here three days ago, that we could have arrested him at any time we wanted to do so.”

It took me a moment or two to take this in. Then hope and despair began to chase themselves through my brain. I looked at him.

“Who
is
the spy, then?”

He was leaning back, watching me with obvious interest. He flapped his hand airily. “Oh, we’ll come to that later.”

I swallowed hard. “Is this another trick?”

“No, Vadassy, it isn’t.”

“Then,” my temper rose again, “will you explain what the devil you mean by—by torturing me like this? If you knew what I’ve been through these last three days you wouldn’t be sitting there like a fat, complacent slug, grinning as though it were a good joke. Do you know what you’ve done to me? Do you realize, damn you? You—you …”

He tapped me on the knee. “Now, now, Vadassy! This is a waste of time. I know that I am fat, but I am certainly not
complacent. Nor am I a slug. What I have done I have had to do, as you will see if you will give me time to explain instead of losing your temper.”

“Why have you arrested me? Why are you keeping me here?”

He shook his head protestingly. “Just be quiet, my good Vadassy, and listen. You’ve broken your cigarette in your emotion. Have another.”

“I don’t want a cigarette.”

I watched him, cold hatred in my heart, while he lit his second cigarette. When he had done so he sat for a moment staring at the match-stalk.

“I was quite sincere,” he said at last, “when I apologized to you. I had a job to do. You will see.”

I was about to speak, but he waved me into silence.

“About nine months ago,” he went on, “one of our agents in Italy included in his report news of a rumor that the Italian Intelligence Department had established a new base in Toulon. In my business, of course, we hear many such rumors, and I paid little attention to this one at the time. Subsequently, however, I was compelled to take it seriously. Information about our defenses along this coast was finding its way into Italy with disconcerting regularity. Our agent in Spezia, for instance, reported that particulars of a secret change in the fortifications of an island near Marseilles were being freely discussed by Italian naval officers three days after it was made. Worse, we had absolutely no clue to the source of this information. We were very worried. When that chemist walked in here with those negatives we seized the opportunity with
both hands.” Dramatically his fat, babylike hands tightened on an imaginary object.