Epitaph for a Spy

15

T he beach was deserted earlier than usual. A cool wind had sprung up and, for the first time since I had left Paris, I saw the sky heavy with cloud. The sea had changed in color to a dingy gray. The red rocks no longer glowed. It was as if, with the going of the sun, the life of the place had also gone.

As I went up to put on some warmer clothes I saw that the waiters were laying the tables in the dining-room on the first floor. In my room I heard the first drops of rain patter through the leaves of the creeper outside my window.

I finished changing and rang for the chambermaid.

“What is the number of the room of Monsieur Roux and Mademoiselle Martin?”

“Nine, Monsieur.”

“Thank you; that is all.” The door closed behind her. I lit a cigarette and sat down to evolve my plan of action, to get everything quite clear before I started.

This plan, I told myself, was utterly foolproof. Here was a Gestapo agent bent on tracking down a man named Schimler. What was more, there was every likelihood that he had succeeded in doing so. That meant, then, that in all probability this agent had ferreted out information about the guests at the Reserve which would be of immense value to me. If I could get that information out of him, if I could get him to talk, perhaps I should find myself in possession of the very clue I needed. It was a real chance. But I should have to go carefully. Roux must not become suspicious. I must not appear curious. I must draw the information out of him, pump him very gently, make it look as though I were listening under protest. I should have to keep my wits about me. This time there must be no mistake.

I got up and walked along the corridor to room number nine. There was a murmur of voices coming from inside. I knocked. The voices ceased. There was a scuffle. A wardrobe door squeaked. Then the woman called: “Entrez!” I opened the door.

Mademoiselle Martin, swathed in a semitransparent pale blue peignoir, was sitting on the bed manicuring her nails. The peignoir, I guessed, had been hurriedly snatched from the wardrobe. Roux was standing in front of the washbasin, shaving. They both stared at me incredulously.

I had opened my mouth to excuse my intrusion, but Roux got in first.

“What do you want?” he snapped.

“I must ask you to excuse my intruding on you like this. Actually I came to offer you an apology.”

His eyes flickered over me suspiciously.

“What for?”

“I was afraid that you might think that I was in some way responsible for Duclos insulting you this afternoon.”

He turned away and began to wipe the soap off his face. “Why should you be responsible?”

“It was, after all, my mistake that led to the disagreement.”

He threw the towel on the bed and addressed the woman. “Have I said one word about this man since we left the beach?”

“Non, cheri.”

He turned to me. “You are answered.”

I stood my ground.

“Nevertheless, I feel a certain responsibility. If I had not been so foolish it would never have happened.”

“It is now finished,” he said irritably.

“Fortunately, yes.” I made a desperate effort to touch his vanity. “If you will allow me to say so, I thought you conducted yourself with dignity and restraint.”

“If they had not held my arms I should have throttled him.”

“You were undoubtedly provoked.”

“Of course.”

This did not seem to be leading anywhere. I tried again.

“Are you staying here long?”

He shot a suspicious glance at me.

“Why do you want to know?”

“Oh, no special reason. I just thought that we might play a game of Russian billiards together-to show that there is no ill feeling.”

“Are you a good player?”

“Not very good.”

“Then I shall probably beat you. I am very good. I beat the American. He does not play well. I do not like playing with inferior players. The American I found dull.”

“A pleasant young man, however.”

“Possibly.”

I persevered. “The girl is pretty.”

“I do not like her. She is too fat. I prefer thin women. Don’t I, cherie? ”

Mademoiselle Martin emitted a tinny laugh. He sat down on the bed, leaned across and pulled her to him. They kissed passionately. Then he pushed her away. She smiled triumphantly at me, smoothed down her hair, and resumed her manicuring.

“You see,” he said, “she is skinny. She pleases me.”

I perched myself tentatively on the arm of a chair. “Madame is charming.”

“Not bad.” He lit a thin black cheroot with an air of a man to whom such successes were commonplace and blew a jet of smoke in my direction. Suddenly: “Why did you come here, Monsieur?”

I jumped. “To apologize, naturally. I have explained… ”

He shook his head impatiently. “I asked you why you came here-here to this hotel.”

“For a holiday. I spent part of it in Nice, then I came here.”

“You have enjoyed your stay?”

“Of course. It is not ended yet.”

“When do you expect to leave?”

“I have not made up my mind.”

Fleshy lids dropped over his eyes.

“Tell me, what do you think of this English major?”

“Nothing in particular. A common type of Englishman.”

“Did you lend him any money?”

“Why, no. Did he ask you, too?”

He grinned sardonically. “Yes, he asked me.”

“And did you oblige him?”

“Do I look such a fool?”

“Then what made you ask about him?”

“He will be leaving the hotel early in the morning. And I heard him ask the manager to book a cabin on the Algiers steamer from Marseilles. He must have found a mug.”

“Who could it have been?”

“If I knew that I would not ask you. These little things interest me.” He twisted the cheroot between his lips to wet the end of it. “Another little thing interests me. Who is this Heinberger?”

It was said without the least hint of emphasis, the question of a man idly determined to find something of interest in an uncongenial conversation.

For no reason my spine tingled as if with fear.

“Heinberger?” I repeated.

“Yes, Heinberger. Why does he sit always by himself? Why does he never bathe? I saw you talking to him the other day.”

“I know nothing about him. He is a Swiss, isn’t he?”

“I don’t know. I am asking you.”

“Then I’m afraid I don’t know.”

“What were you talking about?”

“I can’t remember. The weather, probably.”

“What a waste of time! I like to find things out about people when I talk to them. I like to know the differences between what people are saying to you and what they are thinking.”

“Indeed! Do you find that there is always a difference?”

“Invariably. All men are liars. Women sometimes speak the truth. But men, never. That is right, is it not, ma petite? ”

“Oui, cheri.”

“Oui, cheri!” he echoed derisively. “She knows that if she lied to me I would break her neck. I tell you this, my friend; all men are cowards. They dislike a fact except when it is so wrapped up in lies and sentiments that the sharp edge of it cannot hurt them. When a man tells the truth he is, depend upon it, a dangerous man.”

“You must find that point of view very fatiguing.”

“I find it entertaining, my dear Monsieur. People are intensely interesting. You, for instance. I find you interesting. You call yourself a language teacher. You are a Hungarian with a Yugoslav passport.”

“I’m sure you didn’t find that out by talking to me,” I said playfully.

“I keep my ears open. The manager told Vogel. Vogel was curious.”

“I see. Quite simple.”

“Not at all simple. Very puzzling. I ask myself questions. Why, I ask, does a Hungarian with a Yugoslav passport live in France? What is this mysterious little trip that he makes every morning to the village?”

“You are very observant. I live in France because I work in France. I am afraid that there is nothing mysterious about my trips to the village either. I go to the post office to telephone my fiancee in Paris.”

“So? The telephone service has improved. It usually takes an hour to get through.” He shrugged. “It is nothing. There are more difficult questions.” He blew the ash off his cheroot. “Why, for example, were the locks of Monsieur Vadassy’s suitcase broken open in the morning and not broken in the afternoon?”

“Very simple again. Because Monsieur Duclos has a bad memory.”

His eyes flickered from the end of his cheroot to my face. “Exactly. A bad memory. He could not remember exactly what was said. Bad liars never can remember these things. Their minds are choked by their own lies. But I am curious. Were the locks of your suitcase broken open?”

“I thought we had settled that. No, they were not.”

“Of course not. Please smoke. I do not like to smoke alone. Odette will smoke. Give her a cigarette, Vadassy.”

I produced a packet from my pocket. He raised his eyebrows. “No case? That is careless of you. I should think that you would keep it in your pocket for safety. How do we know that this Heinberger or the English major is not at this moment stealing it?” He sighed. “Well, well! Odette, cherie, a cigarette? You know I do not like to smoke alone. It will not hurt your teeth. Have you noticed her teeth, Vadassy? They are fine.”

He leaned suddenly across the bed, dragged the woman backwards, and thumbed her upper lip back from her teeth. She made no effort to resist.

“Good, aren’t they?”

“Yes, very.”

“That’s what I like. A thin blonde with fine teeth.” He released her. She sat up, kissed him on the lobe of the ear, and took one of my cigarettes. Roux struck a match for her. As he blew it out he looked at me again.

“You had a day with the police, didn’t you?”

“Everybody seems to have heard about that,” I said lightly. “They didn’t seem to like my passport.”

“What’s the matter with it?”

“I forgot to renew it.”

“How did you get into the country?”

I laughed. “You remind me of the police, Monsieur.”

“I told you that I found people interesting.” He lounged back on one elbow. “One thing I have found out. That all men, liars or not, have one thing in common. Do you know what that is?”

“No.”

He leaned forward suddenly, grasped my hand, and tapped the palm with his forefinger. “A love of money,” he said softly. He released my hand. “You, Vadassy, are fortunate. You are poor and money is very sweet to you. You have no political sentiments to confuse your mind. You have an opportunity of making money. Why don’t you take it?”

“I don’t understand you.” And I didn’t understand him for the moment. “What opportunity are you talking about?”

For a moment he was silent. I saw that the woman had stopped filing her nails and, with the file still resting on the end of her finger, was listening. Then:

“What is today, Vadassy?”

“Today? Saturday, of course.”

He shook his head slowly.

“No, it isn’t, Vadassy. It’s Friday.”

I emitted a bewildered laugh.

“But I assure you, Monsieur, it is Saturday.”

Again he shook his head.

“Friday, Vadassy.” His eyes narrowed. He leaned forward. “If, Vadassy, I had a certain piece of information that I think you could give me, I should be prepared to bet five thousand francs that today was Friday.”

“But you would lose.”

“Precisely. I should lose five thousand francs to you. But, on the other hand, I should gain the little piece of information.”

And then I saw the point. I was being offered a bribe. A sentence of Schimler’s flashed through my mind. “He won’t act until he’s sure.” This man had seen me talking to Schimler. He might even have seen me enter his room. I remembered suddenly the sound of a door closing after I had left room number fourteen. He obviously thought that I was in Herr Heinberger’s confidence; and he was prepared to buy evidence of Heinberger’s real identity. I looked at him blankly.

“I can’t think what information I could give you, Monsieur, that would compensate you for the loss of five thousand francs.”

“No? Are you quite sure?”

“Yes.” I stood up. “In any case, I never bet on certainties. For a moment, Monsieur, I thought that you were serious.”

He smiled. “You may be sure, Vadassy, I never allow a joke to go too far. Where are you going when you leave here?”

“Back to Paris.”

“Paris? Why?”

“I live there.” I stared him in the eyes. “And you, I suppose, will be going back to Germany.”

“And why, Vadassy, should you think that I am not a Frenchman?” His voice had dropped. The smile was still on his face, a very ugly smile. I saw the muscles of his legs tighten as though he were about to spring.

“You have a slight accent. I don’t know why, but I assumed that you were a German.”

He shook his head. “I am a Frenchman, Vadassy. Please do not forget that, you, a foreigner, cannot tell a true French accent when you hear it. Do not, please, insult me.” The fleshy lids had dropped over his bulbous eyes until they were almost closed.

“Forgive me. I think it is time I had an aperitif. Will you and Madame join me?”

“No, we shall not drink with you.”

“I hope I haven’t offended you.”

“On the contrary, it has been a pleasure to talk with you-a great pleasure.” There was a note of exaggerated cordiality in his voice that was very disconcerting.

“It is good of you to say so.” I opened the door. “Au ’voir, Monsieur, au ’voir, Madame.”

He did not get up. “Au ’voir, Monsieur,” he said ironically.

I shut the door. As I walked away his loud, unpleasant laugh rang out in the room behind me.

I went downstairs feeling several kinds of fool. Instead of doing the pumping I had been pumped. Far from skillfully extracting valuable information, I had been forced into a defensive position and answered questions as meekly as if I had been in the witness-box. Finally, I had been offered a bribe. The man had obviously realized, too, that I had faked the robbery. He had assumed, as Koche had, that I was a petty crook. A charming specimen! Schimler, poor devil, had a very slim chance of bluffing a man like that. As usual, I began to think of the crushing things I ought to have said. The trouble was that my brain moved far too slowly. I was a dullard, a halfwit.

In the hall a waiter accosted me.

“Ah, Monsieur, we have been trying to find you. You are wanted on the telephone. A call from Paris.”

“For me? Are you sure?”

“Quite sure, Monsieur.”

I went to the office and shut the door behind me.

“Hello!”

“Hello, Vadassy!”

“Who is that?”

“Commissaire de Police.”

“The waiter said that it was a call from Paris.”

“I told the operator to say that. Are you alone?”

“Yes.”

“Have you heard whether anyone is leaving the Reserve today?”

“The English couple leave tomorrow morning.”

“No one else.”

“Yes. I leave tomorrow.”

“What do you mean? You will leave when you are told to do so. You know Monsieur Beghin’s instructions.”

“I have been told to leave.”

“By whom?”

“Koche.” All the pent-up bitterness of the day’s disasters welled up within me. Briefly and very acidly I described the outcome of Beghin’s instructions of the morning.

He listened in silence. Then:

“You are sure no one else is leaving besides the English?”

“It is possible, but if so I have not heard about it.”

Another silence. At last:

“Very well. That is all now.”

“But what shall I do?”

“You will receive further instructions in due course.”

He hung up.

I stared wretchedly at the telephone. I would receive further instructions in due course. Well, I could do no more. I was beaten.