It faintly irritated him that they should sit there with their hats on.
“We’re only staying a minute,” said one of them. “We were passing and as the concierge said you would be in at once, we thought we would wait.”
He did not remove his hat. Ashenden unwrapped his scarf and disembarrassed himself of his heavy coat.
“Won’t you have a cigar?” he asked, offering the box to the two detectives in turn.
“I don’t mind if I do,” said the first, Fafner, taking one, upon which the second, Fasolt, helped himself without a word, even of thanks.
The name on the box appeared to have a singular effect on their manners, for both now took off their hats.
“You must have had a very disagreeable walk in this bad weather,” said Fafner, as he bit half an inch off the end of his cigar and spat it in the fireplace.
Now it was Ashenden’s principle (a good one in life as well as in the Intelligence Department) always to tell as much of the truth as he conveniently could; so he answered as follows:
“What do you take me for? I wouldn’t go out in such weather if I could help it. I had to go to Vevey today to see an invalid friend and I came back by boat. It was bitter on the lake.”
“We come from the police,” said Fafner casually.
Ashenden thought they must consider him a perfect idiot if they imagined he had not long discovered that, but it was not a piece of information to which it was discreet to reply with a pleasantry.
“Oh, really,” he said.
“Have you your passport on you?”
“Yes. In these war-times I think a foreigner is wise always to keep his passport on him.”
“Very wise.”
Ashenden handed the man the nice new passport which gave no information about his movements other than that he had come from London three months before and had since then crossed no frontier. The detective looked at it carefully and passed it on to his colleague.
“It appears to be all in order,” he said.
Ashenden, standing in front of the fire to warm himself, a cigarette between his lips, made no reply. He watched the detectives warily, but with an expression, he flattered himself, of amiable unconcern. Fasolt handed back the passport to Fafner, who tapped it reflectively with a thick forefinger.
“The chief of police told us to come here,” he said, and Ashenden was conscious that both of them now looked at him with attention, “to make a few enquiries of you.”
Ashenden knew that when you have nothing apposite to say it is better to hold your tongue; and when a man has made a remark that calls to his mind for an answer, he is apt to find silence a trifle disconcerting. Ashenden waited for the detective to proceed. He was not quite sure, but it seemed to him that he hesitated.
“It appears that there have been a good many complaints lately of the noise that people make when they come out of the Casino late at night. We wish to know if you personally have been troubled by the disturbance. It is evident that as your rooms look on the lake and the revellers pass your windows, if the noise is serious, you must have heard it.”
For an instant Ashenden was dumbfounded. What balderdash was this the detective was talking to him (boom, boom, he heard the big drum as the giant lumbered on the scene), and why on earth should the chief of police send to him to find out if his beauty sleep had been disturbed by vociferous gamblers? It looked very like a trap. But nothing is so foolish as to ascribe profundity to what on the surface is merely inept; it is a pitfall into which many an ingenuous reviewer has fallen headlong. Ashenden had a confident belief in the stupidity of the human animal, which in the course of his life had stood him in good stead. It flashed across him that if the detective asked him such a question it was because he had no shadow of proof that he was engaged in any illegal practice. It was clear that he had been denounced, but no evidence had been offered, and the search of his rooms had been fruitless. But what a silly excuse was this to make for a visit and what a poverty of invention it showed! Ashenden immediately thought of three reasons the detectives might have given for seeking an interview with him and he wished that he were on terms sufficiently familiar with them to make the suggestions. This was really an insult to the intelligence. These men were even stupider than he thought; but Ashenden had always a soft corner in his heart for the stupid and now he looked upon them with a feeling of unexpected kindliness. He would have liked to pat them gently. But he answered the question with gravity.
“To tell you the truth, I am a very sound sleeper (the result doubtless of a pure heart and an easy conscience), and I have never heard a thing.”
Ashenden looked at them for the faint smile that he thought his remark deserved, but their countenances remained stolid. Ashenden, as well as an agent of the British Government, was a humorist, and he stifled the beginnings of a sigh. He assumed a slightly imposing air and adopted a more serious tone.
“But even if I had been awakened by noisy people I should not dream of complaining. At a time when there is so much trouble, misery and unhappiness in the world, I cannot but think it very wrong to disturb the amusement of persons who are lucky enough to be able to amuse themselves.”
“En effet,” said the detective. “But the fact remains that people have been disturbed and the chief of police thought the matter should be enquired into.”
His colleague, who
