Epitaph for a Spy Page 5

  “There is no reason why I should mind your saying so. I am a Hungarian.”

  “Are you now! I thought you were British. My good lady said so, but she hadn’t heard you speak.”

  “I spent some years in England.”

  “Oh, I see. That accounts for it. In the war?”

  “I was too young.”

  “Ah, yes, you would be. Difficult for us old stagers to realize now that the war’s all ancient history. Went right through from fourteen to eighteen myself. Just got my battalion in time for the March offensive in eighteen. Got put out of action a week later. Just my luck. Reverted to second-in-command and invalided out. Never had anything to do with your lot, though. Heard the Austrians are damned good soldiers.”

  This did not seem to call for a reply on my part, and there was silence again. He broke it with an odd question.

  “What do you think of our respected manager?”

  “Who? Koche?”

  “That’s how you fellows pronounce it, is it? Yes, Koche.”

  “Well, I don’t know. He seems a very competent manager, but-”

  “Exactly! But! Slovenly, untidy, lets those damn waiters do what they like. They pinch your wine, you know. I’ve caught ’em at it. Koche ought to put some ginger into them.”

  “The food is very good.”

  “I dare say it is, but you’ve got to have more than good food to be comfortable. If this place was mine I’d put some ginger into things. Have you talked to Koche much?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll tell you something funny about him. My good lady and I were in Toulon the other day doing some shopping. We’d finished what we had to do and went into a cafe for an apperitivo. Well, we’d just ordered when along comes Koche, walking faster than I’d ever seen him move before. He doesn’t see us, and I was just going to call him over for a drink when he crosses the road and ducks down the side street facing us. Then he walks two or three doors down, gives a quick look round to see if anyone’s looking and goes through a doorway. Well, we had our drink and I kept my eye on that doorway, but he never came out. But what do you think? When we get to the bus terminus there he is, as large as life, sitting in the St. Gatien bus.”

  “Extraordinary,” I murmured.

  “That’s what we thought. And I must say we were a bit bowled over.”

  “Naturally.”

  “You haven’t heard the best of it, though. You know his wife?”

  “No.”

  “A regular tartar. She’s French and older than he is, and I think she’s got a bit of money. Anyway, she keeps our Albert right under her thumb. He likes going down to the beach with the guests and bathing. Well, she’s looking after the ordering and the chambermaids and likes to have him where she can keep her eye on him. So by the time he’s been down on the beach for ten minutes she’s usually hanging over the terrace at the top yelling at him to come up. In front of all the guests, too! That’s the sort of woman she is. You can’t help noticing it, and you’d think Koche would be embarrassed. But not he. He just grins-you know, that sleepy grin of his; mutters something in French which must be pretty hot, judging by the way the Frogs start laughing, and does what he’s told.

  “Anyway, we got on the bus and said how do you do. Well, naturally we couldn’t resist telling him that we’d thought we’d seen him in the town. I don’t mind telling you I was watching him pretty closely, but, would you believe it, the fellow didn’t bat an eyelid!”

  I murmured amazement.

  “It’s a fact. Didn’t bat an eyelid. Of course, I thought he was just going to deny the whole thing and say we’d been mistaken. You see, my good lady and I had thought at once that the place he’d gone to was one of those sailors’ houses with two entrances, and that he’d got a bit of goods there. It was damned embarrassing.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, you see, the fellow didn’t deny it at all. He was as cool as you please. He said that he didn’t care for his wife very much and that he had a brunette there he liked better. Well, that was a bit of a facer. But when he went on to tell us all about her charms in that sleepy, grinning way of his, I thought it was time to stop. My good lady’s a bit religious, and I had to hint pretty broadly that we’d rather not hear about it.” The Major looked up at the stars. “Women are a bit touchy about some things,” he added.

  “I suppose so,” was all I could think of to say.

  “Funny creatures, women,” he mused, then uttered a short, self-conscious laugh. “Still,” he went on facetiously, “if you’re a Hungarian, you probably know more about women than an old soldier like me. By the way, my name’s Clandon-Hartley.”

  “Mine is Vadassy.”

  “Well, Mr. Vadassy, I shall have to be getting inside now. Night air’s supposed to be bad for me. Usually play Russian billiards in the evening with that old Frenchman, Duclos. As far as I can make out he’s got a fruit-canning factory in Nantes. But my French is not too good. He may be only the manager. Nice old boy, but he’s always giving himself a few extra points when he thinks you aren’t looking. Get’s on your nerves after a bit.”

  “It must do.”

  “Well, me for bed. Those young Americans have got the table this evening. Pretty girl, and a nice lad. But he talks too much. Do some of these young fellows good to be under my old colonel. Speak when you’re spoken to was the rule for junior officers. Well, good night to you.”

  “Good night.”

  He went. When he reached the top of the steps he began to cough. It was an ugly sound. As his footsteps died away up the path he was still gasping and choking. I had heard a cough like that once before. The owner of it had been gassed at Verdun.

  For a long time there was silence. I smoked several cigarettes. Investigate Koche! Well, Beghin certainly had something to investigate.

  The moon had risen and I could see the outlines of the clumps of bamboo canes below. A little to the right of them there was a patch of beach. As I watched, the shadows moved and I heard a woman’s laugh. It was a soft, agreeable sound, half amused, half tender. A couple came up into the patch of light. I saw the man stop and pull the woman towards him. Then he took her head in his hands and kissed her eyes and mouth. It was the unshaven Frenchman and his blonde.

  For a while I watched them. They were talking. Then they sat down on the sand and he lit a cigarette for her. I looked at my watch. It was half past ten. I crushed out my cigarette and walked along the terrace and up the steps.

  The path was steep and winding. I went up slowly with my hand before my face to ward off the twigs that projected from the bushes on either side. Between the top of the path and the entrance to the house there was a small paved forecourt. My leather sandals were soft with use and my footsteps made no sound. I was halfway to the door when I stopped and stood perfectly still. The hall was in darkness except for a light streaming through the glass partition of Koche’s office. The door of the office was open and from inside came the sound of voices-Koche’s voice and that of another man. They were speaking in German.

  “I will try again tomorrow,” Koche was saying, “but I am afraid it is useless.”

  There was a pause. Then the other man spoke. He had a deeper voice, but he spoke so quietly that I could scarcely hear him.

  “You must keep trying for me,” he said slowly. “I must know what has happened. I must know what I have to do.”

  Again a pause. When Koche spoke there was a curious quality of softness in his voice that I had not noticed before.

  “There is nothing you can do, Emil. You can only wait.”

  Emil! I could barely contain my excitement. But the other man, Emil, was speaking again.

  “I have already waited too long.”

  Another pause. There was an odd, emotional quality in those pauses.

  “Very well, Emil. I will try again. Good night. Sleep well.”

  But the other did not answer. There was a step in the hall and, my heart thumping against my ribs, I move
d quickly into the shadow of the wall. A man came out and stood for an instant in the doorway. I recognized his clothes but his face I had not seen before. It was the man whom the waiter had called Heinberger.

  He walked quickly down the path to the terrace, yet as the light shone for that brief instant on his face I had seen a thin, firm mouth, a strong jaw, sunken cheeks, a fine, broad forehead. But these things were incidental. I scarcely noticed them. For I had seen something else, something that I had not seen since I had left Hungary: the eyes of a human being with nothing left to hope for but death to end his misery.

  When I got to my room I opened the shutters, drew the curtains, and sank into bed with a sigh of relief. I was very, very tired.

  For a time I lay with my eyes shut, waiting for sleep. But my mind was too busy for oblivion. My head was hot, and the pillow became warm and sticky. I turned and twisted. I opened my eyes, closed them again. Paul Heinberger was Emil Schimler. Emil Schimler was Paul Heinberger. Koche must keep trying. Schimler must know what had happened. Schimler and Koche. Spies, both of them. I had discovered the truth. Beghin must know. Tomorrow morning. A long time to wait. Early. Six o’clock. No, the post office would not be open and Beghin would be in bed. Beghin in pajamas. He should know immediately. Absurd. Heavens, but I was tired. Must go to sleep. Heinberger was Schimler. Spies.

  I got out of bed, put on a bathing-wrap, and sat by the window.

  Heinberger was Schimler. He must be arrested without delay. On what charge? Giving the police a false name? The police had his correct name. Emil Schimler-German-Berlin. A waiter had told me that his name was Heinberger. Was it an offense to tell people that one’s name was Heinberger if one’s name was really Schimler? Could I, Vadassy, say that my name was Karl Marx or George Higgins if I wished? What did it matter? Schimler and Koche were spies. They must be spies. They had my camera. And now they were wondering what had become of their photographs.

  Yet I could not quite rid myself of the suspicion that the look on Schimler’s face had nothing to do with cameras or photographs. There was, too, something about the man, something about his voice, the look of him, that… But then you couldn’t expect a spy to look like a spy-however a spy was supposed to look. He didn’t advertise his trade. All over Europe, all over the world, men were spying, while in government offices other men were tabulating the results of the spies’ labors: thicknesses of armor plating, elevation angles of guns, muzzle velocities, details of fire-control mechanisms and rangefinders, fuze efficiencies, details of fortifications, positions of ammunition stores, disposition of key factories, landmarks for bombers. The world was getting ready to go to war. For the spies, business was good. It might be profitable to start a bureau of espionage, a sort of central clearing-house for all this vital information. I had a vision of Koche walking quickly down a side street, turning into a doorway, and leaving by another exit. Would he have been quite so ready to admit to a mistress if she had really existed? Anyone but a fool like this English major would have seen that. I knew better. Headquarters in Toulon. Koche and Schimler. Schimler and Koche. Spies.

  I shivered. The night was getting cold. I went back to bed.

  Then, as my eyes closed once more, a new fear began to gather in my mind, turning over and over, growing bigger, a terrible possibility. Supposing one of the guests left the hotel?

  It might easily happen. Tomorrow, Herr Vogel or Monsieur Duclos or Roux and his blonde, any of them, might say: “I have decided to leave at once.” For all I knew one of them might already have his luggage packed to leave in the morning. What could I do to stop him? Supposing I were wrong about Koche and Schimler. Supposing that Roux and his blonde were foreign agents with false French passports. Supposing that the Americans or the Swiss or the English were spies. They would slip through my fingers. No use to tell myself that I would deal with the question when it arose. That might be too late. What exactly should I do? Quickly now! Imagine they’re all going, leaving you here alone in the morning. What would you do? Get a pistol from Beghin. Yes, that was it, get a pistol from Beghin. Stand no nonsense. “Stand where you are or I’ll fill your guts with lead.” Ten rounds in the magazine. “One for each of you.” No, eight rounds in the magazine. It depended on the type of pistol. I should need two.

  I threw back the clothes and sat up. At this rate I should be a lunatic by the morning. I went to the washbasin and sluiced my face with cold water. I must, I told myself, have been dreaming. But I knew perfectly well that I had not been to sleep.

  I drew back the curtains and looked out at the fir trees with the moonlight on them. I must examine the facts calmly-coolly and calmly. What exactly had Beghin said?

  I must have stood there a very long time. When I finally went back to bed the sky across the bay was beginning to lighten. I was stiff with cold, but my mind was at rest. For I had a plan, and to my tired brain it seemed infallible.

  As I closed my eyes once more a thought crossed my mind. There was something that English major had said that I had found curious, something quite small. But I no longer cared. I went to sleep.

  6

  I awoke with a headache.

  I had forgotten to redraw the curtains and the early morning sun streaming through the open windows was already hot. It was going to be a warm day. And I had a lot to do. At the first possible moment I must telephone to Beghin. Then I must put my plan into operation. I was pleased to find it appeared as foolproof now as it had in the darkness of the small hours. I began to feel better.

  I was early down on the terrace, and as I ate my croissants and drank my coffee I congratulated myself. Here was I, a teacher of languages with a nervous disposition and a dread of violence, evolving within a few hours a neat, clever plan for the capture of a dangerous spy. And I had been harrying myself with fears of being unable to reach Paris by Monday morning! After my second cup of coffee even my headache began to disappear.

  The Vogels were sitting down at their table as I passed on my way out. I stopped, and said good morning.

  Then I noticed that they were both looking uncommonly serious. Their smiles as they acknowledged my greeting were automatic and very watery. Herr Vogel must have noticed my curious glance.

  “We are not happy this morning,” he said.

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “We have had bad news from Switzerland.” He patted a letter lying on the table. “A dear friend has died. You must excuse us, please, if we seem a little distrait.”

  “Naturally. I am very sorry.”

  They were obviously itching to be rid of me. I passed on. Then other things drove them from my mind. I was being followed.

  The post office was situated in the grocer’s shop at the bottom of the village. As I walked down the hill, I became conscious of a man sauntering along a few paces behind me. I stopped outside the first cafe and looked back. He had also stopped. It was the detective who had arrested me the day before. He nodded genially to me.

  I sat down at one of the tables and he came over and sat two tables away. I beckoned to him. He moved up. His manner was friendly.

  “Good morning,” I said. “I suppose you have been told to follow me?”

  He nodded. “Unfortunately, yes. I find it very fatiguing.” He glanced down at his Sunday blacks. “This suit is very hot.”

  “Then why do you wear it?”

  His long, cunning, peasant’s face became suddenly solemn.

  “I am in mourning for my mother. It is only four months since she died. She had a stone.”

  The waiter approached.

  “What will you have to drink?”

  He thought for a moment, then asked for a limonade gazeuse. I told the waiter to get it, and stood up.

  “Now then,” I said, “I am going to the post office down the street to telephone Monsieur Beghin. I shall be out of your sight for less than five minutes. You sit here and have your drink. I will join you on my return.”

  He shook his head. “It is my duty to follow you.”
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  “I know, but everyone in the village will know that you are following me. I do not like that.”

  A mulish look came into his face.

  “My orders are to follow you. I am not to be bribed.”

  “I am not attempting to bribe you. I am asking you to consider your own comfort and mine.”

  He shook his head again.

  “I know my duty.”

  “Very well.” I walked out of the cafe and on down the street. As I went I heard him arguing with the waiter over the responsibility for the limonade gazeuse.

  The telephone in the post office was public in every sense of the word. It was flanked on one side by a cascade of garlic sausages hanging from the ceiling; on the other side by a pile of empty meal sacks. There was no cabinet. As I cupped my hand round the transmitter and murmured “Police Station” into the mouthpiece, it seemed to me that the whole of St. Gatien stopped to listen.

  “Poste Administratif,” said a voice at last.

  “Monsieur Beghin?”

  “Il est sorti.”

  “Monsieur le Commissaire?”

  “De la part de qui?”

  “Monsieur Vadassy.”

  “Ne quittez pas.”

  I waited. Then the Commissaire’s voice came on.

  “Hello! Vadassy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you anything to report?”

  “Yes.”

  “Telephone Toulon Ville eighty-three, fifty-five and ask for Monsieur Beghin.”

  “Very well.”

  He hung up. Evidently the Commissaires responsibility ended with seeing that I remained in St. Gatien. I asked for Toulon Ville 83–55. My request produced a curious effect. Within less than a minute I was connected. Another few seconds and I was speaking to Beghin. His voice squeaked irritably over the wire.

  “Who gave you this number?”

  “The Commissaire.”

  “Have you obtained the information about the cameras?”

  “Not yet.”