Mrs. Clandon-Hartley nodded curtly.
It was a dismissal.
I found the Skeltons lying on the sand under a sunshade at one corner of the beach. They made room for me and I sat down.
The girl sighed happily. “Say, Mr. Vadassy, did you ever see anything like those Switzers?”
I followed her gaze. Herr Vogel had mounted his camera on a long steel tripod. Blushing and giggling in front of the lens stood Frau Vogel. As I watched, Vogel operated the delayed action shutter and skipped round the tripod to strike a pose with his arm round his wife. There was a faint whir from the camera, the shutter clicked and the Vogels burst into roars of laughter. The dear, dead friend was evidently forgotten.
Watching these antics with undisguised amusement were the French couple and Koche. The latter glanced across at us to see if we had been watching. He walked over.
Skelton said: “Do you hire those two to entertain the guests?”
He grinned. “I’m thinking of asking them to stay on as a permanent attraction.”
“I get it. Les Deux Switzers. Good, clean fun and a laugh in every line. Straight from their New York success. Swell dressers on and off.”
Koche looked slightly bewildered, and was about to reply when the air was rent by a shrill call from the terrace above.
“Al-baire!”
I looked up round the edge of the sunshade. Madame Koche was leaning over the parapet, her hands cupped round her mouth.
“Al-baire!”
Koche did not look up.
“The voice from the minaret,” he remarked lightly, “calling the faithful to prayer.” With a nod to me he started towards the steps.
“You know,” commented Skelton dreamily, “if I were our Albert, I’d murder that old battle-axe.”
“Tut-tut!” murmured his sister, and to me: “How about a swim, Mr. Vadassy?”
Both she and her brother were excellent swimmers. By the time I had churned out fifty meters or so on my ponderous side-stroke they were paddling round the anchored yacht halfway across the bay. I swam slowly back to the beach.
The Swiss were now in the water. At least, Herr Vogel was in the water. Frau Vogel was lying on a rubber raft quivering with laughter while her husband cavorted round her, splashing furiously and yodeling at the top of his voice.
I went back to the sunshade and dried my hair on my wrap. Then I lay down and lit a cigarette.
The camera situation was becoming clearer. Mentally I sketched out the results of my observations.
I considered the last three names.
The two English were probably not the sort of people who took photographs. Mrs. Clandon-Hartley would probably disapprove. As for Herr Schimler, I was beginning to think that it was hardly worth while bothering to collect more evidence against him. Still, Beghin has asked for the information; he should have it. Koche? Well, we should see. I rolled over on my stomach out of the shadow of the sunshade. The sand was hot and the sun very strong. I draped a towel over my head. By the time the Skeltons, dripping and exhausted, rejoined me I was asleep.
Young Skelton poked me in the ribs.
“Time to eat,” he said.
The essence of all good plans, I reminded myself as I ate my lunch, was simplicity. My plan was simple, all right.
One of twelve persons had my camera. I had an identical camera belonging to that same one person. Beghin had pointed out that when and if that person discovered the loss of his or her photographs, he or she would be anxious to recover them. Now, for all that person knew, they were still in the camera. Therefore, if that person saw an opportunity of re-exchanging the cameras, he or she would certainly take it.
My idea was to plant the Contax I had in some conspicuous place at a time when all the guests would have an opportunity of seeing it, retreat somewhere whence I could see the camera without being seen and wait for results. If nothing happened it meant that the exchange of cameras had not yet been discovered. In that case no damage would be done. If something did happen, then I should know beyond doubt the identity of the spy.
I had given much thought to the question of where to set the trap. I had finally decided upon the chair in the hall on which the original exchange had been made. It was the logical spot and had the additional advantage of being easy to watch. In the writing-room that opened off the opposite side of the hall there was a small gilt-framed mirror, hanging from a hook in the wall and tilted slightly forward. By maneuvering one of the big armchairs in the room I could sit with my back to the door and see the hall chair in the mirror. It would be impossible to see me from the hall except by stooping down to chair level and looking through the writing-room door into the mirror. Nobody, however cautious, was likely to do that.
I finished my lunch hurriedly, left the terrace for the writing-room, and put the armchair in position. Then I fetched the camera. A minute later I sat down breathlessly to wait.
The other guests started to leave the terrace.
First came the Vogels. A longish interval followed. Then Monsieur Duclos walked past, removing a crumb from his beard as he went. There followed Roux and Mademoiselle Martin, Major and Mrs. Clandon-Hartley, and the Americans. Schimler came through last. I waited. If there were going to be any exchanging done, my own camera would have to be fetched first to replace the one on the chair.
Ten minutes went by. The clock on the mantelpiece chimed two. I stared at the mirror, trying not to blink lest in the infinitesimal fraction of a second during which my eyes were closed something should happen. The effort made my eyes water. Five past two. Once I thought a shadow moved across the room as though something or someone had passed by outside the window. But the sun was on the other side of the house, so that I could not say for certain. In any case, I was looking for something more substantial than shadows. Ten past two.
I was beginning to get bored. I had relied too much on theories. There had been too many “ifs” in my reasoning. My eyes were smarting with the strain. They began to wander.
There was a slight creak from somewhere behind me. I looked sharply in the mirror. There was nothing to be seen.
Then suddenly I leapt from the chair and hurled myself at the door. But I was not quick enough. My hand just missed it as it swung to. It slammed. A key turned quickly in the lock.
I tried the handle once, then looked round wildly. There was the window. I dashed over, fumbled for a second or two with the catch and flung it open. I trampled frantically over a couple of flowerbeds to the door of the hotel.
The hall was deserted and silent. The chair on which I had left the camera was empty.
My trap had worked. But it had caught me. I had lost the one piece of evidence that proved my own innocence.
7
I spent quite a long time in my room that afternoon trying to persuade myself that the best thing I could do would be to leave the Reserve, make my way across country to Marseilles, and ship as a steward or deck-hand in an east-bound cargo liner.
I had the whole thing planned. I would take Koche’s motorboat and land at some deserted spot west of St. Gatien. Then I would lock the rudder of the boat, start the engine and leave it to chug out to sea while I made off inland to Aubague. There I would catch a train for Marseilles.
At this point doubts began to creep in. One was always reading of young men running away to sea, of people shipping as deck-hands and working their passages. There seemed to be no special qualifications needed. No ropes had to be spliced. No rigging had to be climbed. All you did was paint the anchor, chip rust off the deck plating, and say “aye, aye, sir,” when addressed by an officer. It was a tough life and you met tough men. There were weevils in
