stay with him there.”
“How pleasant for you.”
“Yes. Naturally, I expect we shall discuss a good deal of business.”
“Naturally.”
“When businessmen meet for pleasure, my friend, the talk is always of business.
“Quite so.”
“Again, it is possible that we may be able to be of service to one another. Co-operation, you understand? It is most important in business. That is what I tell the work-people in my factories. If they will co-operate with me, I will co-operate with them. But they must co-operate with me first. Co-operation cannot be one-sided.”
“Of course not.”
“What’s he saying?” inquired Skelton. “I’ve heard the word co-operation ten times.”
“He says that co-operation is important.”
“That’s fine.”
“Did you know,” pursued Monsieur Duclos, “that Major and Madame Clandon-Hartley are leaving tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“Someone, clearly, has lent them money. Curious, is it not? Personally, I would not lend the Major money. He asked me for ten thousand francs. A trifling sum. I should not miss it. But it is a question of principle. I am a businessman.”
“I thought it was two thousand francs he wanted. That was what you told me before.”
“He has increased his demands,” he said blandly. “A type of criminal, without a doubt.”
“Personally, I should not have thought so.”
“A businessman must have an eye for a criminal. Fortunately, English criminals are always very simple.”
“Oh?”
“It is well known. The French criminal is a snake, the American criminal a wolf, and the English criminal a rat. Snakes, wolves, and rats. The rat is a very simple animal. He fights only when he is in a corner. At other times he merely nibbles.”
“And you really think that Major Clandon-Hartley is an English criminal?”
Slowly, deliberately, Monsieur Duclos removed the pince-nez from his nose and tapped me on the arm with them.
“Look carefully at his face,” he said, “and you will see the rat in it. What is more,” he added triumphantly, “he told me so himself.”
This was fantastic.
The Skeltons tired of trying to follow Monsieur Duclos’s rapid French, had found a copy of L’Illustration, and, were penciling in mustaches on the faces reproduced in it. I was left to deal with Monsieur Duclos alone. He edged a chair close to mine.
“Of course,” he said impressively, “I speak in confidence. The English major would not like to know that his identity was discovered.”
“What identity?”
“You do not know?”
“No.”
“Ah!” He stroked his beard. “Then I had better say no more. He is relying upon my discretion.” He rose, gave me a meaning look, and moved away. I saw that Koche had come into the room with Schimler. Monsieur Duclos hurried across to intercept them. I heard him announce that the rain had ceased. Koche stopped politely, but Schimler walked round them and came towards me. He was looking terribly ill.
“I hear that you are leaving tomorrow, Vadassy.”
“Yes, was that all you heard?”
He shook his head. “No. I think that a few explanations would be helpful. Koche is afraid that there is something going on in his hotel that he does not know about. He is worried. You, it seems, might be able to clear the matter up.”
“I am afraid not. If Koche cares to apply at the police station…”
“So that’s it! You are from the police.”
“From them, but not of them. Another thing, Herr Heinberger: I should advise you not to talk to me for very long. I was seen leaving your room this afternoon. I have been questioned on the subject by a certain gentleman.”
His smile was ghastly. His eyes met mine. “And did you answer the question?”
“I hope I lied convincingly.”
“That was good of you,” he said softly. He nodded to me and to the Skeltons, and walked away to join Koche.
“He looks as though he’s going to fall to pieces,” said Skelton.
For some reason the comment irritated me. “Some day,” I said rashly, “I hope to be able to tell you something about that man.”
“Won’t you tell us now, Mr. Vadassy?”
“I’m afraid I can’t.”
“You’ve cooked your goose,” he said; “you’ll get no peace now. Look, darling, the Roux outfit has finished with the table. What about a game? Do you mind, Mr. Vadassy?”
“Of course not. Go ahead!”
They got up and went over to the billiard table. I was left alone to think.
This, I told myself, was in all probability my last night of freedom. These were the people I should remember. This was the scene that I should picture: the Vogels and the Clandon-Hartleys talking together, with Duclos listening, stroking his beard, waiting for a chance to break into their conversation; Koche talking to Roux and Odette Martin; Schimler sitting by himself, idly turning the pages of a newspaper; the Skeltons bending together over the bagatelle table. And with them all there was the warm, scented night, the drip-drip of water on the terrace, the faint hiss of the sea against the rocks at the point, the stars and the light of the moon striking through the trees. It all seemed so very peaceful. And yet there was no peace. Outside in the garden the monstrosities of the insect kingdom were creeping along the wet branches and stems in search of food; watchful, intent, preying and preyed upon. In the darkness, dramas were being enacted. Nothing was at rest, nothing was still. The night was moving, alive with tragedy. While inside…
There was a movement from the opposite corner of the room. Frau Vogel had risen to her feet, and was standing smiling diffidently at the others. Her husband seemed to be trying to persuade her to do something. I saw Koche break off his conversation with Roux and cross to her.
“We should all be most grateful,” I heard him say.
She nodded doubtfully. Then, to my astonishment, I saw Koche lead her over to the upright piano against the wall and open it for her. She sat down stiffly and ran her short, thick fingers over the keys. The Skeltons turned round in surprise. Schimler looked up from his paper. Roux sank rather impatiently into a chair and drew Mademoiselle Martin on his knee. Vogel glanced round the room in triumph. Duclos removed his pince-nez expectantly.
Frau Vogel began to play a Chopin ballade.
I saw Schimler lean forward, a strange look on his face as he watched the stiff, dumpy figure, her ridiculous wisps of chiffon agitated by the quick movements of her hands and arms.
Frau Vogel, it was clear, had once had a talent. There was about her playing a curious, faded brilliance, like that of a paste buckle in a hamper of old ball-dresses. And then I forgot Frau Vogel and listened to the music.
When she had finished there was a moment of dead silence in the room, and then a burst of clapping. She half turned on her chair, flushed, and blinked nervously at Koche. She went to get up, but her husband called over to her to play again, and she sank back on the chair. For a moment she appeared to be thinking; then she raised her hands to the keyboard and Bach’s “Jesu, joy of man’s desiring” stole out softly into the room.
Sometimes, after a day’s work, I have gone back to my room and, without troubling to turn on the light, sunk into my easy chair and remained there, motionless, relaxed, savoring the slow, pleasant ache that creeps through the limbs when they are very weary. That was what happened to me that evening as I listened to Frau Vogel
