Epitaph for a Spy (8 page)

We had reached the gates of the Réserve. I gave the detective a two-franc piece and went in.

At the entrance I met the Skeltons coming out. They wore bathing suits and were carrying wraps, newspapers, and bottles of sun oil.

“Hallo there!” said he.

The girl smiled a greeting.

I said hallo.

“Are you coming down to the beach?”

“I’ll go and change and follow you down.”

“Don’t forget to bring your English with you,” he shouted after me, and I heard his sister telling him to “lay off the nice gentleman.”

A few minutes later I came down again and started across the gardens to the steps leading to the beach. Then I had my first piece of luck.

I had nearly reached the first terrace when excited voices were raised ahead. The next moment Monsieur Duclos appeared hurrying anxiously towards the hotel. A moment or two later Warren Skelton dashed up the steps and flew after him. As he passed by he flung a sentence over his shoulder. I caught the word “camera.”

I hurried down to the terrace. Then I understood the reason for the stampede.

Sweeping into the bay under full sail was a big white yacht. Men in white jeans and cotton sun-hats were running along her spotless deck. As I caught sight of her she came up into the wind. The sails fluttered and the mainsail crumpled as the gaff came down. The topsail, jib, and staysail followed and the bubbling water at her bow subsided into a long, deep ripple. An anchor chain clattered.

An admiring group clustered at the end of the terrace. There was Köche in bathing clothes, Mary Skelton, the Vogels, the two English, the French couple, Schimler, and a plump, squat woman in an overall whom I recognized as Madame Köche. Some of them had cameras in their hands. I hurried over to them.

Köche was squinting through the sights of a ciné camera. Herr Vogel was feverishly winding a new film into position. Mrs. Clandon-Hartley was examining the yacht through a pair of field-glasses slung round her husband’s neck. Mademoiselle Martin was operating a small box camera under her lover’s excited direction. Schimler stood slightly apart, watching Köche work the ciné camera. He looked ill and tired.

“Lovely, isn’t she?”

It was Mary Skelton.

“Yes. I thought your brother was chasing that old Frenchman up the path. I didn’t know what all the fuss was about.”

“He’s gone to fetch a camera.”

At this moment her brother appeared holding an expensive Kodak. “All this boyish enthusiasm!” he complained. “Why I should want to take pictures of somebody else’s yacht, I do not know.” Nevertheless, he took two shots of the yacht.

In his wake, clutching an enormous filmpack reflex of an ancient pattern, trotted Monsieur Duclos. Breathing heavily, he unfolded the hood of the reflex and clambered onto the parapet.

“Do you think he works with his beard inside that viewfinder or out?” murmured Skelton.

There was a loud clicking as Monsieur Duclos wound up the shutter of the reflex, a moment’s silence, then a soft crash as he released it. He scrambled off the parapet with a satisfied air.

“I bet he’s forgotten to put a plate in.”

“You’ve lost,” said the girl. “Let’s go back down.”

Major and Mrs. Clandon-Hartley were leaning over the parapet at the top of the steps. He nodded to me.

“Nice little craft, that. British built, by the look of her. Spent a leave yachting on the Norfolk Broads in ’17. Grand sport. Got to have money to do it like this, though. Ever go to the Broads?”

“No.”

“Grand sport. By the way, meant to introduce you to my good lady. This is Mr. Vadassy, my dear.”

She glanced at me impassively, indifferently; yet I had the impression that she was weighing me. I wished somehow that I had more clothes on. She smiled slightly with one side of her mouth and nodded. I bowed. I had an uncomfortable feeling that any form of verbal greeting would be regarded as an impertinence.

“We might have a game of Russian billiards later,” put in her husband breezily.

“Delighted.”

“Good. See you later.”

Mrs. Clandon-Hartley nodded curtly.

It was a dismissal.

I found the Skeltons lying on the sand under a sunshade at one corner of the beach. They made room for me and I sat down.

The girl sighed happily. “Say, Mr. Vadassy, did you ever see anything like those Switzers?”

I followed her gaze. Herr Vogel had mounted his camera on a long steel tripod. Blushing and giggling in front of the lens stood Frau Vogel. As I watched, Vogel operated the delayed action shutter and skipped round the tripod to strike a pose with his arm round his wife. There was a faint whir from
the camera, the shutter clicked and the Vogels burst into roars of laughter. The dear, dead friend was evidently forgotten.

Watching these antics with undisguised amusement were the French couple and Köche. The latter glanced across at us to see if we had been watching. He walked over.

Skelton said: “Do you hire those two to entertain the guests?”

He grinned. “I’m thinking of asking them to stay on as a permanent attraction.”

“I get it. Les Deux Switzers. Good, clean fun and a laugh in every line. Straight from their New York success. Swell dressers on and off.”

Köche looked slightly bewildered, and was about to reply when the air was rent by a shrill call from the terrace above.

“Al-baire!”

I looked up round the edge of the sunshade. Madame Köche was leaning over the parapet, her hands cupped round her mouth.

“Al-baire!”

Köche did not look up.

“The voice from the minaret,” he remarked lightly, “calling the faithful to prayer.” With a nod to me he started towards the steps.

“You know,” commented Skelton dreamily, “if I were our Albert, I’d murder that old battle-axe.”

“Tut-tut!” murmured his sister, and to me: “How about a swim, Mr. Vadassy?”

Both she and her brother were excellent swimmers. By the time I had churned out fifty meters or so on my ponderous
side-stroke they were paddling round the anchored yacht halfway across the bay. I swam slowly back to the beach.

The Swiss were now in the water. At least, Herr Vogel was in the water. Frau Vogel was lying on a rubber raft quivering with laughter while her husband cavorted round her, splashing furiously and yodeling at the top of his voice.

I went back to the sunshade and dried my hair on my wrap. Then I lay down and lit a cigarette.

The camera situation was becoming clearer. Mentally I sketched out the results of my observations.

I considered the last three names.

The two English were probably not the sort of people who took photographs. Mrs. Clandon-Hartley would probably disapprove. As for Herr Schimler, I was beginning to think that it was hardly worth while bothering to collect more evidence against him. Still, Beghin has asked for the information; he should have it.
Köche?
Well, we should see. I rolled over on
my stomach out of the shadow of the sunshade. The sand was hot and the sun very strong. I draped a towel over my head. By the time the Skeltons, dripping and exhausted, rejoined me I was asleep.

Young Skelton poked me in the ribs.

“Time to eat,” he said.

The essence of all good plans, I reminded myself as I ate my lunch, was simplicity. My plan was simple, all right.

One of twelve persons had my camera. I had an identical camera belonging to that same one person. Beghin had pointed out that when and if that person discovered the loss of his or her photographs, he or she would be anxious to recover them. Now, for all that person knew, they were still in the camera. Therefore, if that person saw an opportunity of re-exchanging the cameras, he or she would certainly take it.

My idea was to plant the Contax I had in some conspicuous place at a time when all the guests would have an opportunity of seeing it, retreat somewhere whence I could see the camera without being seen and wait for results. If nothing happened it meant that the exchange of cameras had not yet been discovered. In that case no damage would be done. If something did happen, then I should know beyond doubt the identity of the spy.

I had given much thought to the question of where to set the trap. I had finally decided upon the chair in the hall on which the original exchange had been made. It was the logical spot and had the additional advantage of being easy to watch. In the writing-room that opened off the opposite side of the hall there was a small gilt-framed mirror, hanging from a hook in the wall and tilted slightly forward. By maneuvering
one of the big armchairs in the room I could sit with my back to the door and see the hall chair in the mirror. It would be impossible to see me from the hall except by stooping down to chair level and looking through the writing-room door into the mirror. Nobody, however cautious, was likely to do that.

I finished my lunch hurriedly, left the terrace for the writing-room, and put the armchair in position. Then I fetched the camera. A minute later I sat down breathlessly to wait.

The other guests started to leave the terrace.

First came the Vogels. A longish interval followed. Then Monsieur Duclos walked past, removing a crumb from his beard as he went. There followed Roux and Mademoiselle Martin, Major and Mrs. Clandon-Hartley, and the Americans. Schimler came through last. I waited. If there were going to be any exchanging done, my own camera would have to be fetched first to replace the one on the chair.

Ten minutes went by. The clock on the mantelpiece chimed two. I stared at the mirror, trying not to blink lest in the infinitesimal fraction of a second during which my eyes were closed something should happen. The effort made my eyes water. Five past two. Once I thought a shadow moved across the room as though something or someone had passed by outside the window. But the sun was on the other side of the house, so that I could not say for certain. In any case, I was looking for something more substantial than shadows. Ten past two.

I was beginning to get bored. I had relied too much on theories. There had been too many “ifs” in my reasoning. My eyes were smarting with the strain. They began to wander.

There was a slight creak from somewhere behind me. I looked sharply in the mirror. There was nothing to be seen.

Then suddenly I leapt from the chair and hurled myself at the door. But I was not quick enough. My hand just missed it as it swung to. It slammed. A key turned quickly in the lock.

I tried the handle once, then looked round wildly. There was the window. I dashed over, fumbled for a second or two with the catch and flung it open. I trampled frantically over a couple of flowerbeds to the door of the hotel.

The hall was deserted and silent. The chair on which I had left the camera was empty.

My trap had worked. But it had caught me. I had lost the one piece of evidence that proved my own innocence.

I
spent quite a long time in my room that afternoon trying to persuade myself that the best thing I could do would be to leave the Réserve, make my way across country to Marseilles, and ship as a steward or deck-hand in an east-bound cargo liner.

I had the whole thing planned. I would take Köche’s motorboat and land at some deserted spot west of St. Gatien. Then I would lock the rudder of the boat, start the engine and leave it to chug out to sea while I made off inland to Aubague. There I would catch a train for Marseilles.

At this point doubts began to creep in. One was always reading of young men running away to sea, of people shipping as deck-hands and working their passages. There seemed to be no special qualifications needed. No ropes had to be spliced. No rigging had to be climbed. All you did was paint the anchor, chip rust off the deck plating, and say “aye, aye, sir,” when addressed by an officer. It was a tough life and you met tough men. There were weevils in the ship’s biscuits and
you had little to eat but skilly. Quarrels were settled with bare fists and you went about naked to the waist. But one of the crew always had a concertina and there were sing-songs when the day’s work was done. In after life you wrote a book about it.

Yet would it work out quite like that for me? I was inclined to think that it wouldn’t. I may be unlucky, but I find that my enterprises never proceed along classical lines.

Rust-chipping would probably prove to be a highly skilled trade. They would laugh at the idea of a landsman imagining that he could do it. There would be no vacancy. Or if there were a vacancy it would be on a coastal steamer bound for Toulon. Or there would be some strange permit that had to be obtained from the police three months prior to sailing. Or they would find that my eyesight wasn’t sufficiently good. Or they would insist on previous experience. Reality is always so obstructive.

I smoked a cigarette and reconsidered my position.

One thing was clear. I must not let Beghin know that I had lost the second camera. To do so would be to invite immediate re-arrest. The Commissaire was out for convictions. Without the evidence of the camera I would stand no chance of proving my innocence before an examining magistrate. What a fool I had been! Now it was more than ever necessary that I should clear up the mystery for myself. I must take risks. I
must
know for certain that Schimler had the cameras. I must be in a position to convince Beghin. There was only one thing to do. I would have to search the German’s room.