“Have you anything to report?”
“Yes.”
“Telephone Toulon Ville eighty-three, fifty-five and ask for Monsieur Beghin.”
“Very well.”
He hung up. Evidently the Commissaires responsibility ended with seeing that I remained in St. Gatien. I asked for Toulon Ville 83–55. My request produced a curious effect. Within less than a minute I was connected. Another few seconds and I was speaking to Beghin. His voice squeaked irritably over the wire.
“Who gave you this number?”
“The Commissaire.”
“Have you obtained the information about the cameras?”
“Not yet.”
“Then why are you bothering me?”
“I have discovered something.”
“Well?”
“The German, Emil Schimler, is calling himself Paul Heinberger. I overheard a conversation between him and Koche which sounded suspicious. There is no doubt that Schimler is the spy and that Koche is his accomplice. Koche also visits a house in Toulon. He states that he has a woman there; but this may be untrue.”
Even as I said it I felt my self-confidence draining away like water from a sieve. How very stupid it all sounded. Over the wire came a sound that I could have sworn was a hastily suppressed laugh. But what followed showed me that I had been mistaken.
“Listen,” squeaked Beghin’s voice angrily, “you were given certain instructions. You were told to find out which of the guests had cameras. You were not asked to think or to play detectives. You had your instructions. They were clear and straightforward. Why have you not carried them out? Do you want to go back to your cell? I want no more of this nonsense. Return to the Reserve immediately, question the guests, and give me the information I require the moment you have it. In all other matters mind your own business. You understand?” He hung up abruptly.
The man behind the counter was looking at me curiously. In my anxiety to impress Beghin with the importance of discoveries I must have raised my voice. I scowled at him and left the shop.
Outside, red in the face with heat and annoyance, was my detective. As I stalked off furiously up the street he lumbered along at my elbow hissing in my ear that I owed him eighty-five centimes plus pourboire, one franc, twenty-five in all. I had commanded the limonade gazeuse, he kept repeating, it was my duty to pay for it. He himself would not have ordered a limonade gazeuse unless I had invited him to do so. He was not allowed expenses by the government. I must pay the one franc, twenty-five. There was eighty-five centimes for the limonade gazeuse with a pourboire of eight sous only in addition. He was a poor man. He knew his duty. He would not be bribed.
I scarcely heard him. So I was to question the guests and find out which of them had cameras! It was madness. Obviously the spy would take fright and leave. Beghin was a fool and I was in his hands. My whole existence depended upon him. Mind my own business! But the capture of the spy was my business. I had everything to lose if he escaped. One had always heard that Intelligence Departments were noted for their stupidity. Here was evidence of that fact. If I had to trust myself to Beghin and the Department of Naval Intelligence in Toulon my chances of getting to Paris on Monday were remote. No, I would do my own thinking. It was safer. Schimler and Koche must be unmasked. And I must do the unmasking. I would carry out my plan as I had originally intended. Beghin would look very foolish when I presented him with the evidence he needed. As for finding out about the cameras, well, I was not going to do any direct questioning. I would get the information; there was no harm in that. But I would get it discreetly.
“Eighty-five centimes plus a pourboire of eight sous…”
We had reached the gates of the Reserve. 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 Koche 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 Koche. Some of them had cameras in their hands. I hurried over to them.
Koche was squinting through the sights of a cine 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 Koche work the cine 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.”
