“I notice by your passport that you are an author, monsieur,” he said.
Ashenden in reaction from his previous perturbation was feeling exceedingly debonair and he answered with good humour:
“It is true. It is a profession full of tribulation, but it has now and then its compensations.”
“La gloire,” said Fafner politely.
“Or shall we say notoriety?” hazarded Ashenden.
“And what are you doing in Geneva?”
The question was put so pleasantly that Ashenden felt it behoved him to be on his guard. A police officer amiable is more dangerous to the wise than a police officer aggressive.
“I am writing a play,” said Ashenden.
He waved his hand to the papers on his table. Four eyes followed his gesture. A casual glance told him that the detectives had looked and taken note of his manuscripts.
“And why should you write a play here rather than in your own country?”
Ashenden smiled upon them with even more affability than before, since this was a question for which he had long been prepared, and it was a relief to give the answer. He was curious to see how it would go down.
“Mais, monsieur, there is the war. My country is in a turmoil, it would be impossible to sit there quietly and write a play.”
“Is it a comedy or a tragedy?”
“Oh, a comedy, and a light one at that,” replied Ashenden. “The artist needs peace and quietness. How do you expect him to preserve that detachment of spirit that is demanded by creative work unless he can have perfect tranquillity? Switzerland has the good fortune to be neutral, and it seemed to me that in Geneva I should find the very surroundings I wanted.”
Fafner nodded slightly to Fasolt, but whether to indicate that he thought Ashenden an imbecile or whether in sympathy with his desire for a safe retreat from a turbulent world, Ashenden had no means of knowing. Anyhow the detective evidently came to the conclusion that he could learn nothing more from talking to Ashenden, for his remarks grew now desultory and in a few minutes he rose to go.
When Ashenden, having warmly shaken their hands, closed the door behind the pair he heaved a great sigh of relief. He turned on the water for his bath, as hot as he thought he could possibly bear it, and as he undressed reflected comfortably over his escape.
The day before, an incident had occurred that had left him on his guard. There was in his service a Swiss, known in the Intelligence Department as Bernard, who had recently come from Germany, and Ashenden had instructed him to go to a certain café desiring to see him, at a certain time. Since he had not seen him before, so that there might be no mistake he had informed him through an intermediary what question himself would ask and what reply he was to give. He chose the luncheon hour for the meeting, since then the café was unlikely to be crowded and it chanced that on entering he saw but one man of about the age he knew Bernard to be. He was by himself and going up to him Ashenden casually put to him the prearranged question. The prearranged answer was given, and sitting down beside him, Ashenden ordered himself a Dubonnet. The spy was a stocky little fellow, shabbily dressed, with a bullet-shaped head, close-cropped, fair, with shifty blue eyes and a sallow skin. He did not inspire confidence, and but that Ashenden knew by experience how hard it was to find men willing to go into Germany he would have been surprised that his predecessor had engaged him. He was a German-Swiss and spoke French with a strong accent. He immediately asked for his wages and these Ashenden passed over to him in an envelope. They were in Swiss francs. He gave a general account of his stay in Germany and answered Ashenden’s careful questions. He was by calling a waiter and had found a job in a restaurant near one of the Rhine bridges, which gave him good opportunity to get the information that was required of him. His reasons for coming to Switzerland for a few days were plausible and there could apparently be no difficulty in his crossing the frontier on his return. Ashenden expressed his satisfaction with his behaviour, gave him his orders and was prepared to finish the interview.
“Very good,” said Bernard. “But before I go back to Germany I want two thousand francs.”
“Do you?”
“Yes, and I want them now, before you leave this café. It’s a sum I have to pay, and I’ve got to have it.”
“I’m afraid I can’t give it to you.”
A scowl made the man’s face even more unpleasant to look at than it was before.
“You’ve got to.”
“What makes you think that?”
The spy leaned forward and, not raising his voice, but speaking so that only Ashenden could hear, burst out angrily:
“Do you think I’m going on risking my life for that beggarly sum you give me? Not ten days ago a man was caught at Mainz and shot. Was that one of your men?”
“We haven’t got anyone at Mainz,” said Ashenden, carelessly, and for all he knew it was true. He had been puzzled not to receive his usual communications from that place and Bernard’s information might afford the explanation. “You knew exactly what you were to get when you took on the job, and if you weren’t satisfied you needn’t have taken it. I have no authority to give you a penny more.”
“Do you see what I’ve got here?” said Bernard.
He took a small revolver out of his pocket and fingered it significantly.
“What are you going to do with it? Pawn it?”
With an angry shrug of the shoulders he put it back in his pocket. Ashenden reflected that had he known anything of the technique of the theatre Bernard would have been aware that it was useless to make a gesture that had
