Epitaph for a Spy (26 page)

Roux was nearing the top of it. As the torch caught him he looked round quickly, and half-raised the revolver in his hand. His face was white, and he blinked in the light. Then Beghin’s gun crashed out. The bullet hit the escape with a clang, and whined off into space. Roux lowered his gun and raced for the top. Beghin fired again, and ran forward along the guttering between the walls to the foot of the escape. I hesitated for a second before following him. By the time I reached the fire-escape he was halfway up. I could see his bulk against the sky, a shadow moving slowly across the wall. I went up after him.

A moment later I was sorry that I had done so, for I saw a movement against the skyline.

Beghin stopped and called down to me to go back. At the
same moment Roux’s bullet hit the rail near my feet. Beghin fired back, but Roux was no longer visible. The fat man clattered up the last few stairs. When I caught up with him he was raising his head gingerly over the top of the ledge running round the roof. He swore softly.

“Has he got away?”

Without answering me, he stepped over the ledge to the roof.

It was long, narrow, and quite flat. Near us was a large water-tank. At the far end was a triangular structure containing the door leading below. Between was a forest of square steel ventilating-shafts. Beghin drew me into the shadow of the tank.

“We shall have to wait for reinforcements. We should never find him among those ventilators, and he could snipe us if we tried it.”

“But he may get away while we’re waiting.”

“No. We’ve got him here. There’re only two ways off this roof—the fire-escape and that door over there. He’ll probably try to shoot his way out. You’d better stay here when the men arrive.”

But there
was
another way off the roof, and Roux was to take it.

We did not have to wait long. Almost as soon as Beghin had finished speaking,
gardes mobiles
with rifles were pouring on the roof through the door. Beghin shouted to them to spread out, and advance towards us. They obeyed promptly. The line began to move. I waited with bated breath.

I don’t quite know what I expected to happen, but what did actually happen was unexpected.

The line of men had almost reached the last row of ventilators, and I was beginning to think that Roux must, after all, have given us the slip, when suddenly I saw a figure dart from behind the ventilators and make for the ledge opposite us. A
garde
shouted and raced in pursuit. Beghin ran forward. Roux leaped up on the ledge and steadied himself for an instant.

And then I understood. Between the roof on which we stood and that of the next warehouse was a space of about two meters. Roux was going to jump for it.

I saw him crouch for the take-off. The nearest
garde
was about twenty meters from him, working the bolt of his rifle as he ran. Beghin was still farther away. Then Beghin stopped and raised his revolver.

He fired just as Roux was straightening his body. The bullet hit him in the right arm, for I saw his left hand clutch at it. Then he lost his balance.

It was horrible. For one brief instant he struggled to save himself. Then, as he realized that he was falling, he cried out.

The cry rose to a scream as he disappeared, a scream that stopped abruptly with the dreadful sound of his body hitting the concrete below.

I watched Beghin walk over to the ledge and look down. Then, for the second time in twenty-four hours, I was violently ill.

When they reached Roux, he was dead.

“His real name,” said Beghin, “was Verrue. Arsène Marie Verrue. We’ve known about him for years. He is—was—a Frenchman, but his mother was an Italian. He was born at Briançon, near the Italian frontier. In 1924 he deserted from
the army. Soon after, we heard that he was working as an Italian agent in Zagreb. Then, for a time, he worked for the Rumanian army intelligence service. Afterwards he went to Germany for some other government, probably Italy again. He came here on forged papers. Anything else you want to know?”

We were back in the office of the Agence Metraux. Inspector Fournier had been taken away in an ambulance. Detectives were busy transferring all the papers, files, and books in the office to a van that had been summoned for the purpose. One man was engaged in ripping open the upholstery of the chairs. Another was prizing up the floorboards.

“What about Mademoiselle Martin?”

He shrugged casually. “Oh! She was just his woman. She knew what he was up to, of course. She’s down at the
poste
now in a faint. We’ll question her later. I expect we shall have to let her go. The one I
am
glad to get is Maletti, or Metraux, as he calls himself. He’s the brain behind all this. Roux was never important, just an employee. We shall get the rest soon. All the information is here.”

He went over to the man at work on the floor, and began to examine a bundle of papers that had been found below the boards. I was left to myself.

So it was Roux. Now I knew why his accent had seemed so familiar. It was the same accent as that of my colleague Rossi, the Italian at the Mathis School of Languages. Now I knew what Roux had been talking about when he had offered me five thousand francs for a piece of information. It had been the hiding-place of the photographs that he had wanted. Now I knew who had hit me on the head, who had searched my
room, who had slammed and locked the writing-room door. Now, I knew, and it did not seem to matter that I knew. In my ears was still that last agonized shriek. In my mind’s eye I saw Mademoiselle Martin and the dead spy standing in front of the Russian billiard table. I saw her pressing against him. But … Roux was never important … just an employee … she was just his woman. Yes, of course. That was the way to look at it.

An
agent
came into the room with a package in his hand. Beghin left his papers and opened the package. Inside it was a Zeiss Contax camera and a large telephoto lens. Beghin beckoned to me.

“They were found in his pockets,” he said. “Do you want to see the number?”

I looked at the camera in his hand. The lens and shutter mechanism were crushed sideways.

I shook my head. “I’ll take your word for it, Monsieur Beghin.”

He nodded. “There’s no point in your staying any longer. Henri is downstairs. He will take you back to St. Gatien in the car.” He turned once more to his papers.

I hesitated. “There’s just one more thing, Monsieur Beghin. Can you explain why he should have stayed on at the Réserve, trying to get his film back?”

He looked up a trifle irritably. He shrugged. “I don’t know. He was probably paid on results. I expect he needed the money. Good night, Vadassy.”

I walked downstairs to the street.

“He needed the money.”

It was like an epitaph.

I
t was nearly half past one when I arrived back at the Réserve.

As I tramped wearily down the drive, I noticed that there was a light in the office. My heart sank. According to Beghin, the St. Gatien police had explained the situation to Köche, and prepared him for my return; but the prospect of discussing the affair with anyone was one I could not face. I tried to slip past the office door to the stairs, and had my hand on the banisters when there was a movement from the office. I turned. Köche was standing at the door smiling at me sleepily.

“I have been waiting up for you, Monsieur. I had a visit from the Commissaire a short while ago. He told me, amongst other things, that you would be returning.”

“So I understand. I am very tired.”

“Yes, of course. Spy-hunting sounds a tiring sport.” He smiled again. “I thought you might be glad of a sandwich and a glass of wine. It is here, ready, in the office.”

I realized suddenly that a sandwich and some wine was precisely
what I should like. I thanked him. We went into the office.

“The Commissaire,” he said as he opened the wine, “was emphatic but evasive. I gathered that it is most important that no hint of Roux’s real activities should get about. At the same time, of course, it is necessary to explain why Monsieur Vadassy is arrested on a charge of espionage yesterday, and yet is back again today as if nothing has happened.”

I swallowed some sandwich. “That,” I said comfortably, “is the Commissaire’s worry.”

“Of course.” He poured out some wine for me, and took some himself. “All the same,” he added, “you yourself will have to answer some embarrassing questions in the morning.”

But I refused to be drawn. “No doubt. But that will be in the morning. All I can think of now is sleep.”

“Naturally. You must be very tired.” He grinned at me suddenly. “I hope you have decided to forget our interview of this afternoon.”

“I have already forgotten it. It was hardly your fault. The police gave me orders. I had to obey them. I didn’t like doing it, as you may imagine, but I had no alternative. They threatened to deport me.”

“Ah, so that’s what it was! The Commissaire didn’t explain that.”

“He wouldn’t.”

He took one of my sandwiches and chewed for a minute or so in silence. Then:

“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “these last few days have worried me.”

“Oh?”

“I once worked in a big Paris hotel as assistant manager. The manager was a man named Pilevski, a Russian. You may have heard of him. He is, in his way, a genius. It was a pleasure to work with him, and he taught me a lot. The successful restaurateur, he used to say, must know his guests. He must know what they are doing, what they are thinking, and what they are earning. And yet he must never appear inquisitive. I took that to heart. It has become instinctive to me to know these things. But during the past few days I realized that there was something going on here that I did not know about, and the fact worried me. It offended my professional sensibilities, if you see what I mean. Some one person, I felt, was at the bottom of it. At first I thought that it might be the Englishman. There was that trouble on the beach, to begin with, and then I found out this morning that he was trying to borrow money from the rest of you.”

“And he succeeded, I believe.”

“Oh, yes. That young American lent him two thousand francs.”

“Skelton?”

“Yes, Skelton. I hope he can afford it. I don’t think he will see it again.” He paused, then added: “Then there was Monsieur Duclos.”

I laughed. “I actually suspected Monsieur Duclos of being a spy, at one stage. You know, he’s a dangerous old man. He’s the most appalling liar, and an inveterate gossip. I suppose that’s why he’s such a successful businessman.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Businessman? Is that what he’s been telling you?”

“Yes. He seems to have a number of factories.”

“Monsieur Duclos,” said Köche deliberately, “is a clerk employed in the sanitary department of a small municipality near Nantes. He earns two thousand francs a month, and he comes here every year for two weeks’ holiday. I heard once that a few years ago he spent six months in a mental home. I have an idea that he will soon have to return to it. He is much worse this year than he was last. He’s developed into a new tendency. He invents the most fantastic stories about people. He’s been badgering me for days trying to get me to handcuff the English major. He says he’s a notorious criminal. It’s very trying.”

But I was getting used to surprises. I finished the last of the sandwiches and got up. “Well, Monsieur Köche, thank you for your sandwiches, thank you for your wine, thank you for your kindness, and—good night. If I stay here any longer I shall spend the night here.”

He grinned. “And then, of course, you would have no chance of evading their questions.”

“They?”

“The guests, Monsieur.” He leant forward earnestly. “Listen, Monsieur. You are tired now. I do not want to worry you. But have you considered what you are going to say to these people in the morning?”

I shook my head wearily. “I have not the slightest idea. Tell them the truth, I suppose.”

“The Commissaire …”

“Hang the Commissaire!” I said explosively. “The police created the situation. They must accept the consequences.”

He got up. “One moment, Monsieur. There is something that I think you should know.”

“Not another surprise, surely?”

“Monsieur, when the Commissaire arrived tonight, the English couple, the Americans and Duclos were still in the lounge discussing your arrest. After he had gone I took the liberty of inventing an explanation of your arrest that would clear you of all suspicion of any criminal activity and at the same time satisfy their curiosity. I told them in the strictest confidence that you were really Monsieur Vadassy, of the counter-espionage department of the Second Bureau, and that the arrest was merely a ruse, part of a special plan about which not even the police knew anything definite.”

I was startled. I gaped. “And do you expect them to swallow that nonsense?” I asked at last.

He smiled. “Why not? They believed your story about the theft of the cigarette-case and the diamond pin.”

“That was different.”

“Agreed. Nevertheless, they believed that, and they believed this. They
wanted
to believe it, you see. The Americans liked you and didn’t want to think of you as a criminal, a spy. Their immediate acceptance of the story convinced the rest.”

“What about Duclos?”

“He claimed that he had known it all along, that you had told him.”

“Yes, he
would
claim that. But”—I looked at him squarely—“what was your object in telling this story? I don’t understand what you’re getting at.”

“My idea,” he said blandly, “was simply to save you trouble and embarrassment. Monsieur,” he went on persuasively, “if you will sleep soundly tonight, if you will keep to your room in the morning, if you will leave the affair in my hands, I can
promise you that you will have to answer no questions or give any explanations. You will not even have to see any of these people.”

“Now, look here—”

“I know,” he put in quickly, “that it was most impertinent of me to tell them this without your permission, but under the circumstances—”