I smiled. His manner was abrupt, almost brusque, but there was something tremendously sympathetic about him. I felt myself wanting to be friendly. I had almost forgotten that this was Suspect Number One.
I said I would like another game. He turned the scoring dials back to zero, chalked his cue, and leaned forward to make the first shot. The light from the window falling on his face threw the rather wide cheekbones into relief, modeled the tapering cheeks, put a highlight on to the broad forehead. It was a beautiful head for a painter. The hands, too, were good; large, but finely proportioned, and firm and precise in their movements. His fingers lightly grasping the cue moved it easily across the thumb of his left hand. His eye was on the red ball when he spoke.
“You’ve had some trouble with the police, haven’t you?”
It was said as casually as if he were asking the time. The next moment there was a crash as three balls dropped in quick succession.
I tried to be equally casual.
“Good shot! Yes, there was a mistake over my passport.”
He moved round the table slightly to alter the alignment of the balls.
“Yugoslav, aren’t you?”
Only one ball dropped this time.
“Hungarian.”
“Oh, I see. Treaty of Trianon?”
“Yes.”
His next shot knocked the pin over. He sighed.
“I was afraid that would happen. Total score-zero. Your shot. Tell me about Yugoslavia.”
I bent over the table. Two could play at this game.
“I haven’t been near it for over ten years. You’re German, aren’t you?”
I managed to hole the red in a low number.
“Good shot! You’re improving.” But he didn’t answer my question. I tried again.
“It’s unusual to meet Germans holiday-making abroad these days.”
I potted the red again.
“Splendid! You’re doing very well. What were you saying?”
“I said it was unusual to meet Germans on holiday abroad these days.”
“Yes? But that doesn’t worry me. I am from Basel.”
This was a direct lie. In my excitement I holed my own ball without cannoning off another.
“Bad luck! Where’s the chalk?”
I passed it to him in silence. He chalked his cue carefully and started to play again. His score mounted rapidly.
“What’s that now?” he murmured at last. “Sixty-four, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
He bent over the table once more.
“Do you know Germany well, Herr Vadassy?”
“I’ve never been there.”
“You should go. The people are so nice.” The red ball hovered on the brink of a high number. “Ah, not quite enough energy behind that one. Sixty-four.” He straightened his back. “Your German is very good, Herr Vadassy. You might have lived there many years.”
“At the University of Budapest we spoke mostly German. Besides, I teach languages.”
“So? It is your shot.”
I played, but I played badly, for I could not keep my thoughts on the game. Three times I knocked the pin over. Once I missed the ball completely. Questions were twisting and turning in my mind. What was this man trying to get out of me? Those questions of his had not been idle. What was the point of them? Did he suspect me of taking the photographs intentionally? And mingled with those unanswerable questions was the thought that this man could not be a spy. There was something about him that made the idea seem absurd. A certain dignity. Besides, did spies quote Hegel? Did they read Nietzsche? Well, his own answer would do there: “Why shouldn’t they?” What did it matter, anyway? One might just as well ask: “Do spies make good husbands?” Why shouldn’t they? Why not, indeed?
“Your shot, my friend.”
“I’m sorry. I was thinking of something else.”
“Oh!” He smiled slightly. “This can’t be very entertaining for you. Shall we stop?”
“No, no. I had just thought of something I had forgotten to do.”
“Nothing important, I hope.”
“No, nothing important.”
But it was important. I would telephone Beghin, throw myself on his mercy, explain the loss of the camera, ask for Schimler’s room to be searched as mine had been. There was the excuse of the false name. But if only I could get one concrete piece of evidence against him, something that would establish his connection with the camera, something that would satisfy me that I was not making a stupid mistake. Supposing I were to take a risk! Supposing I were to ask point-blank if he had a camera? After all, it could do no harm now. The person who had slammed the writing-room door and taken the second camera would have no doubts about my connection with the business.
I holed two balls simultaneously.
“I did not,” I said, “expect that.”
“No, I thought not.”
“I am,” I went on, as I moved round for the next shot, “a man of one hobby.”
I failed to score and he took his place at the table.
“Indeed?”
“Yes. It is photography.”
He squinted along his cue.
“How nice.”
I watched him narrowly as I asked the fatal question.
“Have you a camera?”
He stood up slowly and looked at me.
“Herr Vadassy, do you mind not talking while I make this shot? It is difficult. You see, I am going to hit the cushion there, graze that white, hit the cushion again, and send the red into maximum. The white should roll into a five.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“It is I who should beg yours. This absurd game interests me. It is an utterly antisocial device. It is like a drug. It deprives you of the necessity for thinking. As soon as you start to think, you play badly. Have I a camera? I have no camera. I cannot, indeed, remember the last time I held a camera in my hands. It should require no thought on my part to produce that answer. Yet the distraction is sufficient to break the spell. The shot would have failed.”
He spoke solemnly. The fate of worlds might have depended on the success of the shot. Yet in his eyes, those very expressive eyes, there was a gleam of mockery. I thought I knew the reason for that gleam.
“I can see,” I remarked, “that I shall never be able to play this game.”
But he had bent over the table again. There was a pause, a soft click-click, and the sound of two balls rumbling down to the tray.
“Magnificent!” said a voice.
I turned round. It was Koche.
“Magnificent,” murmured Schimler, “but it is not war. Herr Vadassy has been very patient with me. The game has no attraction for him.”
I fancied that I saw the two exchange a significant glance, What did Schimler mean by that ridiculous allusion? I protested hastily that I had enjoyed the game. Perhaps we could play again tomorrow.
Schimler assented without enthusiasm.
“Herr Heinberger,” said Koche jovially, “is an expert at Russian billiards.”
