Epitaph for a Spy (7 page)

“I will try again tomorrow,” Köche 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 Köche 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 moved 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. Köche must keep trying. Schimler must know what had happened. Schimler
and Köche. 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 Köche 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 Köche 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. Köche and Schimler. Schimler and Köche. 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 Köche 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.

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 café 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.”

“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 café 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.”

“Then why are you bothering me?”

“I have discovered something.”

“Well?”

“The German, Emil Schimler, is calling himself Paul Heinberger. I overheard a conversation between him and Köche which sounded suspicious. There is no doubt that Schimler is
the spy and that Köche is his accomplice. Köche also visits a house in Toulon. He states that he has a woman there; but this may be untrue.”

Even as I said it I felt my self-confidence draining away like water from a sieve. How very stupid it all sounded. Over the wire came a sound that I could have sworn was a hastily suppressed laugh. But what followed showed me that I had been mistaken.

“Listen,” squeaked Beghin’s voice angrily, “you were given certain instructions. You were told to find out which of the guests had cameras. You were not asked to think or to play detectives. You had your instructions. They were clear and straightforward. Why have you not carried them out? Do you want to go back to your cell? I want no more of this nonsense. Return to the Réserve immediately, question the guests, and give me the information I require the moment you have it. In all other matters mind your own business. You understand?” He hung up abruptly.

The man behind the counter was looking at me curiously. In my anxiety to impress Beghin with the importance of discoveries I must have raised my voice. I scowled at him and left the shop.

Outside, red in the face with heat and annoyance, was my detective. As I stalked off furiously up the street he lumbered along at my elbow hissing in my ear that I owed him eighty-five centimes plus
pourboire
, one franc, twenty-five in all. I had commanded the
limonade gazeuse
, he kept repeating, it was my duty to pay for it. He himself would not have ordered a
limonade gazeuse
unless I had invited him to do so. He was not allowed expenses by the government. I must pay the one
franc, twenty-five. There was eighty-five centimes for the
limonade gazeuse
with a
pourboire
of eight sous only in addition. He was a poor man. He knew his duty. He would not be bribed.

I scarcely heard him. So I was to question the guests and find out which of them had cameras! It was madness. Obviously the spy would take fright and leave. Beghin was a fool and I was in his hands. My whole existence depended upon him. Mind my own business! But the capture of the spy
was
my business. I had everything to lose if he escaped. One had always heard that Intelligence Departments were noted for their stupidity. Here was evidence of that fact. If I had to trust myself to Beghin and the Department of Naval Intelligence in Toulon my chances of getting to Paris on Monday were remote. No, I would do my own thinking. It was safer. Schimler and Köche must be unmasked. And I must do the unmasking. I would carry out my plan as I had originally intended. Beghin would look very foolish when I presented him with the evidence he needed. As for finding out about the cameras, well, I was not going to do any direct questioning. I would get the information; there was no harm in that. But I would get it discreetly.

“Eighty-five centimes plus a
pourboire
of eight sous.…”