by Eric Ambler
I had not the slightest idea what to say, but I opened my mouth to speak. He forestalled me.
“Of course, I shouldn’t expect you to lend me money without security. I’ll naturally give you a post-dated cheque on Cox’s bank-that is, if you don’t mind it in pounds. Safer than francs, what!” He gave a forced laugh. There were small beads of perspiration on his temples. “Shouldn’t dream of troubling you at all, of course, but as we’ve got to leave this place it puts me in a damned awkward position. Know you’ll understand. You’re the only person here I should care to ask, and-well, I don’t have to tell you how much I should appreciate it.”
I stared at him helplessly. At that moment I would have given almost anything to have had in my pocket five thousand francs, to have been able to smile cheerfully, to produce my notecase, to reassure him. “Good heavens, yes, Major! Why didn’t you say so before? No trouble at all. Better make it five thousand. After all, it’s only a matter of cashing a cheque, and a Cox’s cheque is as good as a Bank of England note any day. Delighted to be of assistance. Glad you asked me.” But I had no five thousand francs. I had not even two thousand. I had my return ticket to Paris and just enough money to pay my bill at the Reserve and live for a week. I could do nothing but stare at him, and listen to the clock ticking on the mantelpiece. He looked up at me.
“I’m sorry,” I stammered, and then again: “I’m sorry.”
He stood up. “Quite all right,” he said, with ghastly unconcern; “not really important. Just wondered if you could manage it, that’s all. Sorry to have taken up so much of your time. Damned inconsiderate of me. Forget about the money. Just wondered, that’s all. Enjoyed having a jaw, though. Not often I have a chance of speaking English.” He drew himself up. “Well, I’ll be getting along to do a little packing. Expect we shall be leaving early tomorrow. And I shall have to get that wire off. See you before we go.”
Too late I found tongue.
“I can’t tell you how sorry I am, Major, that I can’t help you. It’s not a question of not wanting to cash a cheque for you. I haven’t got two thousand francs. I’ve only just got enough to pay my bill here. If I had any money I should be only too delighted to lend it to you. I’m terribly sorry. I-” Now that I had started I wanted to go on apologizing, to embarrass myself to restore his self-esteem. But I had no chance to do so for, even as I was speaking, he turned on his heel and walked out of the room.
When, some ten minutes later, I telephoned to the Commissariat and asked to speak to the Commissaire, Beghin’s irritable voice answered.
“Hello, Vadassy!”
“I have something to report.”
“Well?”
“Major and Mrs. Clandon-Hartley may be leaving tomorrow. He has tried to borrow money from me to pay his and his wife’s fare to Algiers.”
“Well? Did you lend him the money?”
“My employers have not yet paid me for the Toulon photographs,” I retorted recklessly.
To my surprise this impertinence was greeted with a squeaky chuckle from the other end.
“Anything else?”
Rashly, I gave way to the impulse to deliver a further gibe.
“I don’t suppose you’ll think it important, but last night I was knocked down by somebody in the garden and searched.” Even as I said it I knew that I had been very foolish. This time there was no answering chuckle but a sharp order to repeat myself. I did so.
There was a significant silence. Then:
“Why didn’t you say so at first instead of wasting time? Did you identify the man? Explain yourself.”
I explained myself. Then came the question that I had been dreading.
“Has your room been searched?”
“I think so.”
“What do you mean by ‘think so’?”
“Two rolls of film were taken from my suitcase.”
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
“Was anything else taken?” The question was very deliberate.
“No.” The camera, after all, had been taken from the chair in the hall.
There was another silence. Now he was going to ask me if the camera was safe. But he did not do so. I thought we had been cut off, and said: “Hello!” I was told to wait a minute.
My head throbbing painfully, I waited two minutes. I could hear a murmur of voices, Beghin’s squeak and the Commissaire’s growl, but I could not catch what they were saying. At last Beghin returned to the telephone.
“Vadassy!”
“Yes?”
“Listen carefully. You are to go straight back to the Reserve, see Koche, and inform him that your suitcase has been forced open and that several things have been stolen-a silver cigarette-case, and a box containing a diamond pin, a gold watch-chain and two rolls of film. Make a fuss about it. Tell the other guests. Complain. I want everyone at the Reserve to know about it. But don’t ask for the police.”
“But-”
“Don’t argue. Do as you are told. Was your suitcase forced?”
“No, but-”
“Then force it yourself before you tell Koche. Now understand this. You are to bring in the question of the films as an afterthought. You are annoyed principally about the valuables. Is that clear?”
“Yes, but I have no cigarette-case or diamond pin or gold watch-chain.”
“Of course you haven’t. They have been stolen. Now get on with it.”
“This is impossible, absurd. You cannot force me to do this-” But he had already hung up.
I walked back to the hotel with murder in my heart. If there was a bigger fool than myself in this business, it was Beghin. But he had nothing to lose except a spy.
11
I went about the business of concocting the evidence with bitter thoroughness.
I got out my suitcase and locked it. Then I looked round for something with which to force the latches open. I made the first attempt with a pair of nail scissors. The locks were flimsy enough, but it was difficult to get any leverage on the scissors. After five minutes’ unsuccessful labor, I snapped one of the blades. I wasted several more minutes searching idly for a stronger tool. In desperation I took the key from the bedroom door and used the flat steel loop on it as a jimmy. The locks eventually yielded to this treatment, but I bent the key and had to spend more time straightening it. Then I opened the lid, stirred up the contents and, contorting my features into an expression of outraged innocence, hurried downstairs to find Koche.
He was not in his office. By the time I had traced him to the beach where he was lounging about in a bathing suit, my outraged innocence had relaxed into a sort of cringing anxiety. The Skeltons, the French couple, and Monsieur Duclos were down there with him. I played with the idea of awaiting a more opportune moment; but rejected it. I must remember that a robbery had been committed. Objects of value had been stolen from my room. I must behave as any normal person would behave under such circumstances; I must report to the manager even if he was clad only in a pair of bathing trunks. A sleek, black-coated manager would have been more appropriate to the occasion, but I must do the best I could with Koche.
I ran down the steps to the beach and started across the sand towards him. At this point, however, there was a disconcerting interruption. Skelton, hearing my footsteps on the stairs, had looked round the edge of his sunshade and seen me.
“Hey!” he called over. “Haven’t seen you all morning. Are you coming in the water before lunch?”
I hesitated; then, realizing that there was nothing else for it, I went over. Mary Skelton, who was lying face downwards on the sand, turned her head and cocked an eye at me.
“We thought you’d deserted us, Mr. Vadassy. You’ve no right to trifle with the kiddies’ affections like that. Get into your bathing suit and come and give us the dirt on the affair Clandon-Hartley. We saw you talking to him through the writing-room window after breakfast.”
“No finesse!” complained her brother. “I was going to introduce the subject grad
ually. What about it, Mr. Vadassy?”
“If you’ll excuse me,” I said hurriedly, “I must have a word with Koche. See you later.”
“That’s a deal!” he called over to me.
Koche was talking to Roux and Duclos. Evidently the quarrel of the previous night had been forgotten. I interrupted him in the middle of a disquisition on the virtues of Grenoble. I was tight-lipped and grave.
“Excuse me, Monsieur, but I should like to speak with you privately. It is rather urgent.”
He raised his eyebrows and excused himself to the others. We moved a little away.
“What can I do for you, Monsieur?”
“I regret to disturb you, but I am afraid I must ask you to step up to my room. While I was in the village just now, my suitcase has been broken open and several valuable objects stolen from it.”
The eyebrows went up again. He whistled softly between his teeth and glanced at me quickly. Then with a muttered “excuse me” he walked across the sand, picked up his bathing wrap and sandals, put them on, and rejoined me.
“I will come with you immediately.”
Under the curious eyes of the others we left the beach.
On the way up to my room he asked me what was missing. I gave him Beghin’s grotesque selection and added the tidbit about the films. He nodded and was silent. I began to feel apprehensive. True, there was no possible way of his discovering the whole business was a put-up job; yet, now that I had started the thing moving, I was uneasy. For all his lazy, indolent manner, Koche was no fool and I could not quite forget the fact that it was not impossible for Koche himself to have taken the films and also stunned me in the garden the night before. In that case he would know that I was lying. The consequences might be distinctly unpleasant for me. I cursed Beghin with renewed fervor.
Koche inspected my work on the suitcase locks with gloomy interest. Then he straightened his back and his eyes met mine.
“You say that you left your room at about nine o’clock?”
“Yes.”
“Was the suitcase all right, then?”
“Yes. The last thing I did before I went down was to lock the case and push it under the bed.”
He looked at his watch. “It is now eleven twenty. How long ago did you return?”
“About fifteen minutes ago. But I did not go to the suitcase straight away. As soon as I saw what had happened, I came straight to you. It is disgraceful,” I added lamely.
He nodded and eyed me speculatively. “Do you mind coming down to my office, Monsieur? I should like a detailed description of the missing objects.”
“Certainly. But I must warn you, Monsieur,” I mumbled, “that I shall hold you responsible and that I shall expect the immediate return of the valuables and the punishment of the thief.”
“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 Koche 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. Koche 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 broa
dcast 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 Koche 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.
