Yet I could not quite rid myself of the suspicion that the look on Schimler’s face had nothing to do with cameras or photographs. There was, too, something about the man, something about his voice, the look of him, that… But then you couldn’t expect a spy to look like a spy-however a spy was supposed to look. He didn’t advertise his trade. All over Europe, all over the world, men were spying, while in government offices other men were tabulating the results of the spies’ labors: thicknesses of armor plating, elevation angles of guns, muzzle velocities, details of fire-control mechanisms and rangefinders, fuze efficiencies, details of fortifications, positions of ammunition stores, disposition of key factories, landmarks for bombers. The world was getting ready to go to war. For the spies, business was good. It might be profitable to start a bureau of espionage, a sort of central clearing- house for all this vital information. I had a vision of Koche walking quickly down a side street, turning into a doorway, and leaving by another exit. Would he have been quite so ready to admit to a mistress if she had really existed? Anyone but a fool like this English major would have seen that. I knew better. Headquarters in Toulon. Koche and Schimler. Schimler and Koche. Spies.
I shivered. The night was getting cold. I went back to bed.
Then, as my eyes closed once more, a new fear began to gather in my mind, turning over and over, growing bigger, a terrible possibility. Supposing one of the guests left the hotel?
It might easily happen. Tomorrow, Herr Vogel or Monsieur Duclos or Roux and his blonde, any of them, might say: “I have decided to leave at once.” For all I knew one of them might already have his luggage packed to leave in the morning. What could I do to stop him? Supposing I were wrong about Koche and Schimler. Supposing that Roux and his blonde were foreign agents with false French passports. Supposing that the Americans or the Swiss or the English were spies. They would slip through my fingers. No use to tell myself that I would deal with the question when it arose. That might be too late. What exactly should I do? Quickly now! Imagine they’re all going, leaving you here alone in the morning. What would you do? Get a pistol from Beghin. Yes, that was it, get a pistol from Beghin. Stand no nonsense. “Stand where you are or I’ll fill your guts with lead.” Ten rounds in the magazine. “One for each of you.” No, eight rounds in the magazine. It depended on the type of pistol. I should need two.
I threw back the clothes and sat up. At this rate I should be a lunatic by the morning. I went to the washbasin and sluiced my face with cold water. I must, I told myself, have been dreaming. But I knew perfectly well that I had not been to sleep.
I drew back the curtains and looked out at the fir trees with the moonlight on them. I must examine the facts calmly-coolly and calmly. What exactly had Beghin said?
I must have stood there a very long time. When I finally went back to bed the sky across the bay was beginning to lighten. I was stiff with cold, but my mind was at rest. For I had a plan, and to my tired brain it seemed infallible.
As I closed my eyes once more a thought crossed my mind. There was something that English major had said that I had found curious, something quite small. But I no longer cared. I went to sleep.
6
I awoke with a headache.
I had forgotten to redraw the curtains and the early morning sun streaming through the open windows was already hot. It was going to be a warm day. And I had a lot to do. At the first possible moment I must telephone to Beghin. Then I must put my plan into operation. I was pleased to find it appeared as foolproof now as it had in the darkness of the small hours. I began to feel better.
I was early down on the terrace, and as I ate my croissants and drank my coffee I congratulated myself. Here was I, a teacher of languages with a nervous disposition and a dread of violence, evolving within a few hours a neat, clever plan for the capture of a dangerous spy. And I had been harrying myself with fears of being unable to reach Paris by Monday morning! After my second cup of coffee even my headache began to disappear.
The Vogels were sitting down at their table as I passed on my way out. I stopped, and said good morning.
Then I noticed that they were both looking uncommonly serious. Their smiles as they acknowledged my greeting were automatic and very watery. Herr Vogel must have noticed my curious glance.
“We are not happy this morning,” he said.
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“We have had bad news from Switzerland.” He patted a letter lying on the table. “A dear friend has died. You must excuse us, please, if we seem a little distrait.”
“Naturally. I am very sorry.”
They were obviously itching to be rid of me. I passed on. Then other things drove them from my mind. I was being followed.
The post office was situated in the grocer’s shop at the bottom of the village. As I walked down the hill, I became conscious of a man sauntering along a few paces behind me. I stopped outside the first cafe and looked back. He had also stopped. It was the detective who had arrested me the day before. He nodded genially to me.
I sat down at one of the tables and he came over and sat two tables away. I beckoned to him. He moved up. His manner was friendly.
“Good morning,” I said. “I suppose you have been told to follow me?”
He nodded. “Unfortunately, yes. I find it very fatiguing.” He glanced down at his Sunday blacks. “This suit is very hot.”
“Then why do you wear it?”
His long, cunning, peasant’s face became suddenly solemn.
“I am in mourning for my mother. It is only four months since she died. She had a stone.”
The waiter approached.
“What will you have to drink?”
He thought for a moment, then asked for a limonade gazeuse. I told the waiter to get it, and stood up.
“Now then,” I said, “I am going to the post office down the street to telephone Monsieur Beghin. I shall be out of your sight for less than five minutes. You sit here and have your drink. I will join you on my return.”
He shook his head. “It is my duty to follow you.”
“I know, but everyone in the village will know that you are following me. I do not like that.”
A mulish look came into his face.
“My orders are to follow you. I am not to be bribed.”
“I am not attempting to bribe you. I am asking you to consider your own comfort and mine.”
He shook his head again.
“I know my duty.”
“Very well.” I walked out of the cafe and on down the street. As I went I heard him arguing with the waiter over the responsibility for the limonade gazeuse.
The telephone in the post office was public in every sense of the word. It was flanked on one side by a cascade of garlic sausages hanging from the ceiling; on the other side by a pile of empty meal sacks. There was no cabinet. As I cupped my hand round the transmitter and murmured “Police Station” into the mouthpiece, it seemed to me that the whole of St. Gatien stopped to listen.
“Poste Administratif,” said a voice at last.
“Monsieur Beghin?”
“Il est sorti.”
“Monsieur le Commissaire?”
“De la part de qui?”
“Monsieur Vadassy.”
“Ne quittez pas.”
I waited. Then the Commissaire’s voice came on.
“Hello! Vadassy?”
“Yes.”
