He nodded. “There’s no point in your staying any longer. Henri is downstairs. He will take you back to St. Gatien in the car.” He turned once more to his papers.
I hesitated. “There’s just one more thing, Monsieur Beghin. Can you explain why he should have stayed on at the Reserve, trying to get his film back?”
He looked up a trifle irritably. He shrugged. “I don’t know. He was probably paid on results. I expect he needed the money. Good night, Vadassy.”
I walked downstairs to the street.
“He needed the money.”
It was like an epitaph.
19
It was nearly half past one when I arrived back at the Reserve.
As I tramped wearily down the drive, I noticed that there was a light in the office. My heart sank. According to Beghin, the St. Gatien police had explained the situation to Koche, and prepared him for my return; but the prospect of discussing the affair with anyone was one I could not face. I tried to slip past the office door to the stairs, and had my hand on the banisters when there was a movement from the office. I turned. Koche was standing at the door smiling at me sleepily.
“I have been waiting up for you, Monsieur. I had a visit from the Commissaire a short while ago. He told me, amongst other things, that you would be returning.”
“So I understand. I am very tired.”
“Yes, of course. Spy-hunting sounds a tiring sport.” He smiled again. “I thought you might be glad of a sandwich and a glass of wine. It is here, ready, in the office.”
I realized suddenly that a sandwich and some wine was precisely what I should like. I thanked him. We went into the office.
“The Commissaire,” he said as he opened the wine, “was emphatic but evasive. I gathered that it is most important that no hint of Roux’s real activities should get about. At the same time, of course, it is necessary to explain why Monsieur Vadassy is arrested on a charge of espionage yesterday, and yet is back again today as if nothing has happened.”
I swallowed some sandwich. “That,” I said comfortably, “is the Commissaire’s worry.”
“Of course.” He poured out some wine for me, and took some himself. “All the same,” he added, “you yourself will have to answer some embarrassing questions in the morning.”
But I refused to be drawn. “No doubt. But that will be in the morning. All I can think of now is sleep.”
“Naturally. You must be very tired.” He grinned at me suddenly. “I hope you have decided to forget our interview of this afternoon.”
“I have already forgotten it. It was hardly your fault. The police gave me orders. I had to obey them. I didn’t like doing it, as you may imagine, but I had no alternative. They threatened to deport me.”
“Ah, so that’s what it was! The Commissaire didn’t explain that.”
“He wouldn’t.”
He took one of my sandwiches and chewed for a minute or so in silence. Then:
“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “these last few days have worried me.”
“Oh?”
“I once worked in a big Paris hotel as assistant manager. The manager was a man named Pilevski, a Russian. You may have heard of him. He is, in his way, a genius. It was a pleasure to work with him, and he taught me a lot. The successful restaurateur, he used to say, must know his guests. He must know what they are doing, what they are thinking, and what they are earning. And yet he must never appear inquisitive. I took that to heart. It has become instinctive to me to know these things. But during the past few days I realized that there was something going on here that I did not know about, and the fact worried me. It offended my professional sensibilities, if you see what I mean. Some one person, I felt, was at the bottom of it. At first I thought that it might be the Englishman. There was that trouble on the beach, to begin with, and then I found out this morning that he was trying to borrow money from the rest of you.”
“And he succeeded, I believe.”
“Oh, yes. That young American lent him two thousand francs.”
“Skelton?”
“Yes, Skelton. I hope he can afford it. I don’t think he will see it again.” He paused, then added: “Then there was Monsieur Duclos.”
I laughed. “I actually suspected Monsieur Duclos of being a spy, at one stage. You know, he’s a dangerous old man. He’s the most appalling liar, and an inveterate gossip. I suppose that’s why he’s such a successful businessman.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Businessman? Is that what he’s been telling you?”
“Yes. He seems to have a number of factories.”
“Monsieur Duclos,” said Koche deliberately, “is a clerk employed in the sanitary department of a small municipality near Nantes. He earns two thousand francs a month, and he comes here every year for two weeks’ holiday. I heard once that a few years ago he spent six months in a mental home. I have an idea that he will soon have to return to it. He is much worse this year than he was last. He’s developed into a new tendency. He invents the most fantastic stories about people. He’s been badgering me for days trying to get me to handcuff the English major. He says he’s a notorious criminal. It’s very trying.”
But I was getting used to surprises. I finished the last of the sandwiches and got up. “Well, Monsieur Koche, thank you for your sandwiches, thank you for your wine, thank you for your kindness, and-good night. If I stay here any longer I shall spend the night here.”
He grinned. “And then, of course, you would have no chance of evading their questions.”
“They?”
“The guests, Monsieur.” He leant forward earnestly. “Listen, Monsieur. You are tired now. I do not want to worry you. But have you considered what you are going to say to these people in the morning?”
I shook my head wearily. “I have not the slightest idea. Tell them the truth, I suppose.”
“The Commissaire…”
“Hang the Commissaire!” I said explosively. “The police created the situation. They must accept the consequences.”
He got up. “One moment, Monsieur. There is something that I think you should know.”
“Not another surprise, surely?”
“Monsieur, when the Commissaire arrived tonight, the English couple, the Americans and Duclos were still in the lounge discussing your arrest. After he had gone I took the liberty of inventing an explanation of your arrest that would clear you of all suspicion of any criminal activity and at the same time satisfy their curiosity. I told them in the strictest confidence that you were really Monsieur Vadassy, of the counter-espionage department of the Second Bureau, and that the arrest was merely a ruse, part of a special plan about which not even the police knew anything definite.”
I was startled. I gaped. “And do you expect them to swallow that nonsense?” I asked at last.
He smiled. “Why not? They believed your story about the theft of the cigarette-case and the diamond pin.”
“That was different.”
“Agreed. Nevertheless, they believed that, and they believed this. They wanted to believe it, you see. The Americans liked you and didn’t want to think of you as a criminal, a spy. Their immediate acceptance of the story convinced the rest.”
“What about Duclos?”
“He claimed that he had known it all along, that you had told him.”
“Yes, he would claim that. But”-I looked at him squarely-“what was your object in telling this story? I don’t understand what you’re getting at.”
