Authors: Eric Ambler
Tags: #Mystery, #Thriller
“Ambler may well be the best writer of suspense stories.… He is the master craftsman.”
“Ambler combines political sophistication, a gift for creating memorable characters and a remarkable talent for turning exciting stories into novels of wonderful entertainment.”
“The foremost thriller writer of our time.”
“Ambler is, quite simply, the best.”
The New Yorker
“Mr. Ambler is a phenomenon!”
“This is a tale well worth acquaintance.”
New York Herald Tribune
“Ambler is incapable of writing a dull paragraph.”
ALSO BY ERIC AMBLER
The Dark Frontier
Background to Danger
Cause for Alarm
A Coffin for Dimitrios
Journey Into Fear
Judgment on Deltchev
The Schirmer Inheritance
State of Siege
Passage of Arms
The Light of Day
The Ability to Kill and Other Pieces
A Kind of Anger
To Catch a Spy
The Intercom Conspiracy
Send No More Roses
The Care of Time
Here Lies Eric Ambler
The Story So Far
Eric Ambler was born in London in 1909. Before turning to writing full-time, he worked at an engineering firm, and wrote copy for an advertising agency. His first novel was published in 1936. During the course of his career, Ambler was awarded two Gold Daggers, a Silver Dagger, and a Diamond Dagger from the Crime Writers Association of Great Britain, named a Grand Master by the Mystery Writers Association of America, and made an Officer of the Order of the British Empire by Queen Elizabeth. In addition to his novels, Ambler wrote a number of screenplays, including
A Night to Remember
The Cruel Sea
, which won him an Oscar nomination. Eric Ambler died in 1998.
FIRST VINTAGE CRIME/BLACK LIZARD EDITION, MARCH
Copyright © 1952, copyright renewed 1980 by Eric Ambler
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Vintage Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto. Originally published in hardcover in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, in 1952.
Vintage is a registered trademark and Vintage Crime/Black Lizard and colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Ambler, Eric, 1909–
Epitaph for a spy / Eric Ambler.
1. Riviera (France)—Fiction. 2. Stateless persons—Fiction.
3. Language teachers—Fiction. 4. Photographers—Fiction. I. Title.
PR6001.M48 E65 2002
arrived in St. Gatien from Nice on Tuesday, the 14th of August. I was arrested at 11.45 a.m. on Thursday, the 16th, by an
agent de police
and an inspector in plain clothes and taken to the Commissariat.
For several kilometers on the way from Toulon to La Ciotat the railway runs very near to the coast. As the train rushes between the innumerable short tunnels through which this section of the line has been built, you catch quick glimpses of the sea below, dazzlingly blue, of red rocks, of white houses among pine woods. It is as if you were watching a magic-lantern show with highly colored slides and an impatient operator. The eye has no time to absorb details. Even if you know of St. Gatien and are looking for it, you can see nothing of it but the bright red roof and the pale yellow stucco walls of the Hotel de la Réserve.
The hotel stands on the highest point of the headland and the terrace runs along the south side of the building. Beyond the terrace there is a sheer drop of about fifteen meters. The
branches of pines growing below brush the pillars of the balustrade. But farther out towards the point the level rises again. There are gashes of red rock in the dry green scrub. A few windswept tamarisks wave their tortured branches in silhouette against the intense ultramarine blue of the sea. Occasionally a white cloud of spray starts up from the rocks below.
The village of St. Gatien sprawls in the lee of the small headland on which the hotel stands. The walls of the houses are, like those of most other Mediterranean fishing villages, coated with either white, egg-shell blue, or rose-pink washes. Rocky heights, whose pine-clad slopes meet the seashore on the opposite side of the bay, shelter the miniature harbor from the mistral that sometimes blows strongly from the northwest. The population is seven hundred and forty-three. The majority depend for their livelihoods on fishing. There are two cafés, three
, seven shops and, farther round the bay, a police station.
But, from the end of the terrace where I was sitting that morning the village and the police station were out of sight. The day was already warm and the cicadas were droning in the terraced gardens at the side of the hotel. By moving my head slightly I could see, through the balustrade, the small Réserve bathing beach. Two large colored sunshades were planted in the sand. From under one of them two pairs of legs protruded, a woman’s and a man’s. They looked young and very brown. A faint murmur of voices told me that there were other guests out of sight in the shady part of the beach. The gardener, his head and shoulders sheltered from the sun by a huge straw hat, was painting a blue band round the gunwale of an upturned dinghy resting on trestles. A motorboat was
Coming round the headland on the far side of the bay and making for the beach. As it came nearer, I could distinguish the thin, lanky figure of Köche, the manager of the Réserve, drooping over the tiller. The other man in the boat was one of the fishermen from the village. They would have been out since dawn. Maybe we should have red mullet for lunch. Out at sea a Nederland-Lloyd liner moved on its way from Marseilles to Villefranche. It was all very good and peaceful.
I was thinking that tomorrow night I would have to pack my suitcase and that early Saturday morning I would have to go by bus into Toulon and catch the train for Paris. The train would be near Arles in the heat of the day, my body would stick to the hard leather seats of the third-class compartment, and there would be a layer of dust and soot over everything. I would be tired and thirsty by the time we reached Dijon. I must remember to take a bottle of water with me, with, perhaps, a little wine in it. I would be glad to get to Paris. But not for long. There would be the walk from the platforms of the Gare de Lyon to the platforms of the Métro. My suitcase would be heavy by then.
Neuilly to Concorde. Change.
Mairie d’Issy to Gare Montparnasse. Change.
Porte d’Orléans to Alésia. Exit. Montrouge. Avenue de Châtillon. Hotel de Bordeaux. And on Monday morning there would be breakfast standing at the counter of the Café de l’Orient and another Métro journey, Denfert-Rochereau to Étoile, and a walk down the Avenue Marceau. Monsieur Mathis would be already there. “Good morning, Monsieur Vadassy! You are looking very well. This term you will take elementary English, advanced German, and elementary Italian. I myself will take the advanced English. We have twelve new
students. There are three businessmen and nine waiters. All are for English. There is none who wishes Hungarian.” Another year.
But meanwhile there were the pines and the sea, the red rocks and the sand. I stretched luxuriously and a lizard darted across the tiled floor of the terrace. It stopped suddenly to bask in the sun beyond the shadow of my chair. I could see the pulse beating in its throat. Its tail lay curved in a neat semicircle, making a tangent of the diagonal division between the tiles. Lizards have an uncanny sense of design.
It was this lizard which reminded me of my photographs.
I possess only two objects of value in this world. One of them is a camera, the other a letter dated February 10, 1867, from Deák to von Beust. If someone were to offer me money for the letter I should accept it thankfully; but I am very fond of the camera, and nothing but starvation would induce me to part with it. I am not a particularly good photographer; but I get a lot of pleasure pretending that I am.
I had been taking photographs at the Réserve and had, the previous day, taken an exposed spool into the village chemist’s shop to be developed. Now, in the ordinary way, I should not dream of letting anyone else develop my films. Half the pleasure of amateur photography lies in doing your own darkroom work. But I had been experimenting, and if I did not see the results of the experiments before I left St. Gatien, I should have no opportunity of making use of them. So I had left the film with the chemist. The negative was to be developed and dry by eleven o’clock.
The time was eleven thirty. If I went to the chemist’s now,
I should have time to get back, bathe, and have an apéritif before lunch.
I walked along the terrace, round through the gardens, and up the steps to the road. By now the sun was beating down so fiercely that the air above the asphalt was quivering. I had no hat and when I touched my hair it was burning hot. I draped a handkerchief over my head and walked up the hill, and then down the main street leading to the harbor.
The chemist’s shop was cool and smelt of perfume and disinfectant. The sound of the doorbell had barely died away before the chemist was facing me over the counter. His eyes met mine, but he seemed not to recognize me.
“I left a spool of film yesterday to be developed.”
“It is not ready yet.”
“It was promised for eleven o’clock.”
“It is not ready yet,” he repeated steadily.
I was silent for a moment. There was something curious about the chemist’s manner. His eyes, magnified by the thick pebble-glasses he wore, remained fixed on mine. There was an odd look in them. Then I realized what the look was. The man was frightened.
I remember that the realization gave me a shock. He was afraid of me—I who had spent my life being afraid of others had at last inspired fear! I wanted to laugh. I was also annoyed, for I thought I knew what had happened. He had spoiled the film.
“Is the negative all right?”
He nodded vehemently.
“Perfectly, Monsieur. It is a question only of the drying. If you will be good enough to give me your name and address, I will send my son with the negative as soon as it is ready.”
“That’s all right, I’ll call again.”