Even supposing that the photographer had gone by night and started work at sunrise, he would have to be very quick and clever to get my camera back into my room while I was lying in bed looking out of the window. And, anyway, why return it to me with the spool still inside it? How had the police got into the business? Had the taker of the photographs told them anonymously? There was, of course, the chemist. The police had obviously been in ambush for the owner of the negative. Perhaps the chemist had been caught with the photographs and sworn that they had belonged to me. But then, that didn’t account for their being with my experimental shots. There had been no sign of a join in the negative. It was hideously puzzling.
I was feverishly going over the ground for the third time when there was the sound of footsteps in the corridor outside and the door of my cell opened. The fat man in the tussore suit came in. The door closed behind him.
For a moment he stood wiping the inside of his collar with his handkerchief, then he nodded to me and sat down on the bed.
“Sit down, Vadassy.”
I sat down on the only other piece of furniture in the room, an enamelled iron bidet with a wooden lid on it. The small, dangerous eyes surveyed me thoughtfully.
“Would you like a bowl of soup and some bread?”
This I had not expected.
“No, thank you. I am not hungry.”
“A cigarette, then?”
He proffered a crumpled packet of Gauloises. This solicitude was, I felt, highly suspicious; but I took one.
He gave me a light from the end of his own cigarette. Then he carefully wiped the sweat from his upper lip and from behind his ears.
“Why,” he said at last, “did you admit that you took those photographs?”
“Is this another official interrogation?”
He brushed cigarette ash off his stomach with the now sodden handkerchief.
“No. You will be interrogated officially by the juge d’instruction of the district. That is no business of mine. I am of the Surete Generale and attached to the Department of Naval Intelligence. You may speak quite freely to me.”
I did not see why he should expect a spy to speak quite freely to a member of the Department of Naval Intelligence, but I did not raise the point. I had, indeed, every intention of speaking as freely as I was allowed to.
“Very well. I admitted taking the photographs because I did take them. That is, all those on the spool with the exception of the first ten.”
“Quite so. Then how do you account for those first ten photographs?”
“I think the spool in my camera was changed.”
He raised his eyebrows. I plunged into a long account of my movements since leaving Nice and the deductions I had made concerning the origin of the incriminating photographs. He heard me out, but was obviously not impressed.
“This, of course, is not evidence,” he said when I had finished.
“I don’t offer it as evidence. I am just trying to find a rational explanation of this fantastic affair.”
“The Commissaire thinks that he has found the explanation. I do not blame him. On the face of things the case against you is perfectly good. The photographs are on a negative which you have admitted to be yours. You are also a suspicious person. Simple!”
I looked him in the eye.
“But I take it that you are not satisfied, Monsieur?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“No, but you would scarcely be here talking to me in this way if you were satisfied.”
His jowl distorted into the beginnings of a grin.
“You overrate your importance. I am not interested in spies, but in who employs them.”
“Then,” I said angrily, “you are wasting your time. I am not the person who took the photographs, and my only employer is Monsieur Mathis, who pays me to teach languages.”
But he did not appear to be listening. There was a pause.
“The Commissaire and I agreed,” he said at last, “that you were one of three things-a clever spy, a very stupid one, or an innocent man. I may say that the Commissaire thought that you must be the second. I was inclined from the first to think you innocent. You behaved far too stupidly. No guilty man would be such an imbecile.”
“Thank you.”
“I am not in the least desirous of your thanks, Vadassy. It was a conclusion that I disliked exceedingly. In any case, I can do nothing for you now. Understand that, please. You have been arrested by the Commissaire. You may be innocent, but it will not disturb my rest in the slightest if you are sent to prison.”
“I feel sure of that.”
“On the other hand,” he continued thoughtfully, “it is essential that I should know who did take the photographs.”
There was another silence. I felt that I was expected to make some comment. But I waited for him to go on. After a few moments he did so.
“If the real criminal is discovered, we may, Vadassy, be able to do something for you.”
“Do something for me?”
He cleared his throat noisily.
“Well, of course, you have no consul to intervene on your behalf. It is our responsibility to see that you are treated properly. Providing, naturally, that you co-operate with us in a satisfactory manner, you need have no fears.”
“I have already told you all I know, Monsieur…” I stopped. There was a lump in my throat and the words would not come. But the fat man evidently thought that I was waiting to be supplied with his name.
“Beghin,” he said, “Michel Beghin.”
He paused and looked at his stomach once more. The cell was insufferably hot and I could see the sweat from his chest staining through his striped shirt. “All the same,” he added, “I think you may be able to help us.”
He got up from the bed, went to the cell door and banged on it once with his fist. The key clicked in the lock and I saw the uniform of an agent outside. The fat man muttered something I did not hear and the door closed again. He remained standing there and lit another cigarette. A minute later the door opened again and he took something from the agent. As the door closed once more he turned round. In his hand was the camera.
“You recognize this?”
“Of course.”
“Take it and examine it very closely. I want to know if you find anything curious about it.”
I took it and did as I was told. I tried the shutter, the viewfinder, and the distance meter; I took out the lens and undid the back; I peered in every nook and cranny of the instrument. Finally I put it back in the case.
“I don’t see anything curious about it. It is just as I left it.”
He put his hand in his pocket and drew out a piece of folded paper. He held it up.
“This, Vadassy, we found in your pocketbook. Have a look.”
I took the paper and opened it. Then I looked at him.
“Well, what about it?” I said defensively. “This is merely the insurance policy on the camera. As you reminded me, it is an expensive instrument. I paid a few francs to insure myself against its loss or,” I added pointedly, “theft.”
He took the paper from me with a patient sigh.
“It is lucky for you,” he said, “that French justice takes care of imbeciles as well as criminals. This insurance policy indemnifies Josef Vadassy against the loss of the Zeiss Ikon Contax camera, serial number F/64523/2. Please look at the serial number on the camera you have there.”
I looked. The serial number was different.
