Epitaph for a Spy
Page 21
“Monsieur, when the Commissaire arrived tonight, the English couple, the Americans and Duclos were still in the lounge discussing your arrest. After he had gone I took the liberty of inventing an explanation of your arrest that would clear you of all suspicion of any criminal activity and at the same time satisfy their curiosity. I told them in the strictest confidence that you were really Monsieur Vadassy, of the counter-espionage department of the Second Bureau, and that the arrest was merely a ruse, part of a special plan about which not even the police knew anything definite.”
I was startled. I gaped. “And do you expect them to swallow that nonsense?” I asked at last.
He smiled. “Why not? They believed your story about the theft of the cigarette-case and the diamond pin.”
“That was different.”
“Agreed. Nevertheless, they believed that, and they believed this. They wanted to believe it, you see. The Americans liked you and didn’t want to think of you as a criminal, a spy. Their immediate acceptance of the story convinced the rest.”
“What about Duclos?”
“He claimed that he had known it all along, that you had told him.”
“Yes, he would claim that. But”-I looked at him squarely-“what was your object in telling this story? I don’t understand what you’re getting at.”
“My idea,” he said blandly, “was simply to save you trouble and embarrassment. Monsieur,” he went on persuasively, “if you will sleep soundly tonight, if you will keep to your room in the morning, if you will leave the affair in my hands, I can promise you that you will have to answer no questions or give any explanations. You will not even have to see any of these people.”
“Now, look here-”
“I know,” he put in quickly, “that it was most impertinent of me to tell them this without your permission, but under the circumstances-”
“Under the circumstances,” I interrupted him acidly, “a theft, an arrest, and a violent death all in one day would have been bad for business, so you got in first with a cock-and-bull story about my being a counter-espionage agent. Roux is politely forgotten. The police are happy. I am caught between two fires. Either I have to go on lying like a trooper and explain what the famous counter-espionage agent is doing back at the Reserve or I have to crawl out without anyone seeing me. Nice work!”
He shrugged. “That is one way of looking at it. But I should like to ask you just one question. Would you prefer to make up your own explanation?”
“I should prefer to tell the truth.”
“But the police-”
“Damn the police!”
“Yes, of course.” He coughed a little self-consciously. “I shall have to tell you, I am afraid, that the Commissaire left a message for you.”
“Where is it?”
“It was verbal. He told me to remind you that a citizen of France must be ready to assist the police on all possible occasions. He added that he hoped soon to be in touch with the Bureau of Naturalization.”
I drew a deep breath. “I suppose,” I said slowly, “that you didn’t, by any chance, discuss your little story with the Commissaire?”
He reddened. “I did, I believe, mention it in passing. But-”
“I see. You both worked it put between you. You-” I stopped. A sudden feeling of helplessness swept over me. I was tired, tired, sick to death of the whole wretched business. My limbs were aching, my head felt as if it were falling in two. “I’m going to bed,” I said firmly.
“And what shall I tell the servants, Monsieur?”
“The servants?”
“About calling you, Monsieur. Their present instructions are that you are officially no longer here, that your breakfast will be served discreetly in your room, that when the car arrives to take you to Toulon in time to catch the Paris train, none of the other guests is to see you leave. Am I to alter those instructions?”
I stood there in silence for a moment. So it was all arranged. Officially, I was no longer at the Reserve. Well-what did it matter? In my mind’s eye I saw myself walking on the terrace the next morning, I heard the exclamations of surprise, the questions, the cries of astonishment, my explanations, more questions, more explanations, lies and more lies. This way was the easier. Koche knew that, of course. He was right and I was wrong. Heavens, how tired I was!
He was watching my face. “Well, Monsieur?” he said at last.
“All right. Only don’t let them bring the breakfast too soon.”
He smiled. “You may be sure of that. Good night, Monsieur.”
“Good night. Oh, by the way!” I turned at the door and drew Beghin’s envelope from my pocket. “The police gave me this. It contains five hundred francs for my expenses during the last few days. I haven’t spent anything like that amount. I should like you to give the envelope to Herr Heinberger. He might be able to make use of it, don’t you think?”
He stared at me. For a moment I had the curious impression that I was looking at an actor who with one movement had wiped the make-up off his face-an actor who had been playing the part of a hotel manager. Slowly he shook his head.
“That is very generous of you, Vadassy.” He no longer addressed me as “Monsieur.”
“Emil told me that you and he had talked together. I am afraid I was annoyed. I see now that I was wrong. However, he no longer needs the money.”
“But-”
“A few hours ago, perhaps, he would have been glad of it. As it is, he is returning to Germany in the morning. It was arranged early this evening that they should leave by the nine o’clock train from Toulon.”
“They?”
“Vogel and his wife will be going with him.”
I was silent. I could think of nothing to say. I picked up the envelope from the table and put it back in my pocket. Absently, Koche splashed some more wine into his glass, held it up to the light, then glanced at me.
“Emil always said that those two laughed too much,” he said. “I found them out yesterday. A letter arrived. They said it was from Switzerland, but it had a German stamp. While they were out of their room I had a look at it. It was quite short. It said that if they wanted more money they must offer immediate proof that they needed it. They did so. Emil is right. They laugh, they are grotesque. No one suspects that they are also obscene. That is her secret.” He drank the wine and put the glass down with a bang. “In Berlin, years ago,” he said, “I heard Frau Vogel give a recital. Her name then was Hulde Kremer; I didn’t remember her until she played tonight. I had often wondered what happened to her. Now I know. She married Vogel. It’s very odd, isn’t it?” He held out his hand. “Good night, Vadassy.”
We shook hands. “And,” I added, “I shall hope to see the Reserve again.”
He inclined his head. “The Reserve is always here.”
“You mean that you won’t be here with it?”
“In confidence, I shall leave for Prague next month.”
“Did you decide that this evening?”
He nodded. “Just so.”
As I climbed slowly to my room I heard the clock in the writing-room strike two. A quarter of an hour later I was asleep.
At noon that day I drank the remains of my breakfast coffee, strapped my suitcase together, and sat down by the window to wait.
It was a glorious day. The sun was pouring down and the air over the stone windowsill was quivering, but the sea was slightly ruffled by a breeze. The red rocks glowed. In the garden, the cicadas were droning. Down on the beach I could see two pairs of brown legs beyond the shadow of a big striped sunshade. On the lower terrace, Monsieur Duclos was addressing some new arrivals, a middle-aged couple still in their traveling clothes. As he talked he stroked his beard and adjusted his pince-nez. The couple listened intently.
There was a knock at the door. Outside was a waiter.
“The car is here, Monsieur. It is time for you to go.”
I went. Later, from the train, I caught a glimpse of the roof of the Reserve. I was surpri
sed to see how small it looked among the trees.
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