I had risen to my feet. I was genuinely angry now.
“This is a monstrous accusation, Monsieur. I have never been so insulted,” I stammered with rage. “I… I shall…”
“Call in the police?” he put in solicitously. “Here is the telephone. Or perhaps you do not wish to call in the police.”
I put on as dignified a front as possible. “I have no intention of prolonging this farce.”
“You are wise.” He tilted his chair. “I have had suspicions of you, Vadassy, since your rather lengthy interview with the police on Thursday. The French police do not usually search a person’s room unless they have very grave suspicions of him. The passport explanation was a little thin. I can appreciate your anxiety to avoid further encounters with the Commissaire. I am also in complete agreement with you concerning the undesirability of prolonging the present situation. I have, accordingly, made out your bill. Please do not interpret this as an act of mercy on my part. My own personal inclination is to hand you straight over to the police; or at any rate to tell you to clear out within an hour. My wife, however, is of the opinion that either of those courses would arouse still further comment among our guests. She is a more practical person than I am. I bow to her decision. You will leave the Reserve early tomorrow morning. Whether or not I then inform the police depends on your behavior during the brief time you remain here. I shall expect you to inform the other guests that your complaint was unfounded, that you had merely mislaid the articles and that the damage to your suitcase was caused by your own carelessness in using the wrong key and jamming the locks. I have no doubt that you will be able to make your story convincing enough for inexperienced ears. It is understood?”
I did the best I could with the few shreds of self-possession that were left to me. “I understand perfectly, Monsieur. I had, in any case, no intention of staying here after your fantastic behavior.”
“Good! Here is your bill.”
I studied the bill ostentatiously for mistakes. It was a childish thing to do, but by this time I felt childish. He waited in silence. There were no mistakes. I had only just enough money. He took it with an air that told me that he had not expected to be paid in full.
While he was making out the receipt I stared blankly at an Istalia Cosulich Line sailing list pinned to the wall beside me. I had read it through twice before he handed me the receipted bill.
“Thank you, Monsieur. I regret that I cannot hope that we shall see you again at the Reserve.”
I went.
By the time I had got up to my room I was trembling from head to foot. The discovery that the towels, the fruit bowl, and every other portable object belonging to the Reserve, with the sole exception of the bedclothes, had been removed did not improve matters. I put my head under the tap, drank some water, lit a cigarette, and sat on the chair by the window.
I began to think of things I ought to have said to Koche, cool, bitter things. Then, after a bit, I ceased to tremble. This was Beghin’s fault, not mine. He might have known that such a childish plot would fail. True it was my carelessness, my inefficiency, that had brought about its failure; but I was not used to behaving like a common crook. A wave of righteous anger swept over me. What right had Beghin to place me in such a despicable position? If I had been an ordinary person with a consul to defend my rights he would not have dared. Where was the sense in it, anyway? Or had it been his idea that I should be found out? Was I a sort of guinea pig being used for the purpose of some crazy experiment? Maybe I was. What did it matter, anyway? The point was that unless Beghin liked to step in and exert his authority I should be out of the Reserve in the morning. What then? Presumably a cell at the Commissariat. Perhaps I should telephone to Beghin now and explain the situation…
But even as the thought crossed my mind I knew that I could not do it. The truth was that I was afraid of him, afraid that he might blame me for my discovery by Koche. Above all, I was terrified of being taken back to the Commissariat and locked up again in that small, ugly cell.
I looked out of the window. The sea lay like a great sheet of rippled blue glass in the sun. It was infinitely peaceful. In its cool depths a man would have no more fears, no doubts, no uncertainties. I could go down to the beach and into the water and swim out beyond the bay into the sea. I could go on swimming until my arms were too tired to bring me back to the land. My strokes would get slower, more labored. Then I would stop and sink. The water would rush into my lungs. I would struggle, the desire for life would surge up-life at any price! — but I should have made my preparations so that there would be no returning. There would be a moment or two of torment, then I should slide gently into oblivion. And what then? A Yugoslav citizen named Joseph Vadassi (they would misspell the name) got into difficulties while bathing yesterday at St. Gatien. Attempts to rescue him failed. His body has not yet been recovered. Nothing else? No, nothing else. That was all. The body rotted.
My cigarette had gone out. I pitched it out of the window, went over to the mirror in the wardrobe, and looked at myself. “You’re going to pieces,” I murmured. “Better pull yourself together. Suicide one minute and now you’re talking to yourself. Come on now. And don’t be so damned hearty about it. It’s no good squaring your shoulders like that. You’re not going in for a weight-lifting contest. Muscle’s no use to you. What you need is a little intelligence. This business probably isn’t nearly as serious as you think. And for goodness’ sake get this. It’s about three o’clock. Between now and tonight you’ve got to find a person here with a Contax camera. That’s all. It isn’t difficult, is it? You’ve only got to look in their rooms. Now start with this man Schimler. He’s the most likely. He’s going under a false name. He says he’s a Swiss when he’s really a German. He’s worried and he’s got some understanding with Koche. You’ve got to bear in mind, too, that Koche may be in on the secret. Maybe that’s the real reason why he’s anxious to get rid of you without calling in the police. Yes, that’s an idea, isn’t it? You’re not beaten yet. But be careful. Use a little sense. You’ve been caught out once. Don’t let it happen again. If he’s the man, you’ve got to be clever to catch him. He’s dangerous. He’s the man who slugged you on the head last night and gave you this damnable headache. You know his room number. The girl gave you that. Number fourteen, and it’s on the other side of the house. But first find out where he is. You’ve got to be careful! Now, get busy.”
I turned away from the mirror. Yes, I must get busy. I must know where Schimler was. He usually sat by himself on the terrace. I would try there first.
I got to the lounge without meeting anyone, and tiptoed over to the window. Yes, there he was, reading as usual, his pipe in his mouth, his head bent forward over the book in an attitude of concentration. For a moment I watched him. It was a fine head. It didn’t seem possible that this man could be a spy.
But this time I hardened my heart. Get busy! It probably wouldn’t seem possible that anyone was a spy-until you knew for certain that he was. Anyway, it was my liberty or someone else’s. Schimler was undoubtedly a suspicious character. Very well, then!
I went upstairs again. Outside my own room I paused. Was there anything I wanted? A weapon? Nonsense! this wasn’t going to be that sort of affair; just a quiet examination of the room, that was all. My heart beating furiously, I went on past my own room, along the passage. Then a new fear took hold of me. Supposing I met someone! The Skeltons or the Vogels! How should I explain my presence here? What was I supposed to be doing? Then I passed a door labeled Salle de Bain. If necessary I could go in there and pretend to be having a bath. But I met nobody. A few moments later I was outside room number fourteen.
Bridging the gulf between thought and action is often a very arduous process. It is easy to contemplate searching someone’s room-standing before the mirror I had had no qualms-but when it comes to the mechanics of the business, the actual entry into the room, it is far from easy. It is not merely the fear of discovery that deters. It is the sense of privacy that is violated. There is a strange door, a strange door-handle and, beyond it, part of another person’s life. To open the door seems as inexcusable an intrusion as spying on a pair of lovers.
I stood there for a second or two fighting down this sense of guilt, rationalizing it into all sorts of minor objections. Perhaps Mary Skelton had been mistaken; perhaps this was the wrong room. It was too soon after lunch; I should have given Schimler longer to settle down. It was a waste of time; he would have hidden the camera. The door might be locked and someone might come along just as I was trying it. Someone might…
There was only one way to deal with this. I would make no attempt to go in stealthily. If the room were occupied or anyone saw me, then I had made a mistake. Monsieur Skelton had asked me to call in when I was ready to bathe. The wrong room? I was sorry. I would retire. That was unless it was one of the Skeltons who saw me. But if I stood outside here much longer I should be seen, anyhow. Drawing a deep breath, I rapped on the door, grasped the handle and turned it. The door was unlocked. Still standing on the threshold, I pushed it and let it swing open. The room was empty. I waited a second, then walked in and shut the door behind me. The deed was done.
I glanced round. The room was smaller than mine and looked out over the outhouse containing the kitchens.
