The blonde woman, I decided, was probably Odette Martin. Her companion would be either Duclos or Roux.
Mary Skelton and her brother came next. They nodded amicably and went to a table behind me on my right. There was only one more to come. He proved to be an elderly man with a white beard and wearing pince-nez attached to a broad, black ribbon.
When the waiter took my soup plate I stopped him.
“Who is the gentleman with the white beard?”
“That is Monsieur Duclos.”
“And the gentleman with the blonde?”
The waiter smiled discreetly.
“Monsieur Roux and Mademoiselle Martin.” He placed a faint emphasis on the “mademoiselle.”
“I see. Which, then, is Herr Schimler?”
He raised his eyebrows.
“Herr Schimler, Monsieur? There is no one of that name at the Réserve.”
“You are sure?”
“Perfectly, Monsieur.”
I glanced over my shoulder.
“Who is the gentleman at the end table?”
“That is Monsieur Paul Heinberger, a Swiss writer and a friend of Monsieur Köche. Will you take fish, Monsieur?”
I nodded and he hurried away.
For a second or two I sat still. Then, calmly but with a hand that trembled, I felt in my pocket for Beghin’s list, enveloped it in my napkin, looked down and read it through carefully.
But already I knew it off by heart. The name of Heinberger was not on it.
I
am afraid that I lost my head a little. As I ate my fish my imagination began to run riot. I gloated over the scene with Beghin that would follow my revelation.
I would be cool and patronizing.
“Now, Monsieur Beguin,” I would say. “When you gave me this list I naturally assumed that it contained the names of all the visitors to the Réserve apart from the staff. The first thing I find is this Paul Heinberger unaccounted for. What do you know of him? Why is he not registered? Those are questions that should be answered without delay. And, my friend, I advise you to look over his belongings. I shall be extremely surprised if you do not find among them a Zeiss Ikon Contax camera and a spool of film with some photographs of a carnival at Nice on it.”
The waiter took my plate away.
“Another thing, Beghin. Investigate Köche. The waiter says that Heinberger is a friend of Köche. That means that this manager is implicated. I am not surprised. I had already noticed
that he took a suspicious interest in my camera. He is well worth examination. You thought you knew all about him, eh? Well, I should investigate a little more carefully if I were you. Dangerous to jump to conclusions, my friend.”
The waiter brought me a large portion of the
coq au vin à la Réserve
.
“Always investigate a man with a name like Heinberger, my dear Beghin.”
No, too clumsy. Perhaps a mocking smile would be best. I experimented with a mocking smile and was in the middle of the fourth attempt when the waiter caught my eye. He hurried over anxiously.
“There is something wrong with the
coq au vin
, Monsieur?”
“No, no. It is excellent.”
“Pardon, Monsieur.”
“Not at all.”
Blushing, I got on with my food.
But the interruption had brought me to earth. Had I, after all, made such an important discovery? This Paul Heinberger might have arrived that very afternoon. If that was the case, the hotel could not yet have furnished the police with particulars of his passport. But where, then, was Emil Schimler? The waiter had been very positive that nobody of that name was staying at the hotel. Perhaps he had made a mistake. Perhaps the police had made a mistake. In any case, I could do nothing but report to Beghin in the morning. I must wait. And meanwhile time was going. I could not telephone until nine o’clock at the earliest. Over twelve hours wasted. Twelve out of about sixty. I had been crazy to think that I could get away by Sunday. If only I could write to Monsieur Mathis and explain,
or lie, say that I was ill. But it was hopeless. What could I do? This man who had my camera—he wouldn’t be a fool. Spies were clever, cunning men. What could I hope to find out? Sixty hours! It might just as well be sixty seconds.
The waiter took my plate away. As he did so he glanced disapprovingly at my hands. I looked down and found that my fingers, fumbling with a dessert spoon, had bent it double. I straightened it hurriedly, stood up, and left the terrace. I was no longer hungry.
I walked through the house into the gardens. In one of the lower terraces overlooking the beach there was a small alcove. It was usually deserted. I went to it.
The sun had gone and it was dark. Above the hills across the bay stars were already shining. The breeze had stiffened a little and carried a faint smell of seaweed with it. I rested my hot hands on the cold brickwork of the parapet and let the breeze blow on my face. Somewhere in the garden behind me a frog was croaking. The sea lapping gently at the sand made scarcely a sound.
Out at sea a light winked and disappeared. Ships exchanging signals, perhaps. One, maybe, a passenger liner, rustling swiftly through the oily sea on its way east, the other a cargo boat, travelling light with a half-submerged screw, thrashing its way towards Marseilles. On the liner they might be dancing now or leaning on the rails of the promenade deck watching the moon on the wake and listening to the water bubbling and hissing against the plates. Below their feet, deep down, would be half-naked lascars sweating amidst the roar of oil-fired boilers and the thudding of propellers. The headlights of a car swept the road round the bay, gleamed on the water
for an instant, and were lost among the trees as the car headed for Toulon. If only I …
A shoe grated on the gravel slope behind, and someone began to descend the steps leading to the terrace. The footsteps reached the bottom. I prayed that their owner would turn to the right, away from me. There was silence, a hesitation. Then I heard a rustle as a piece of creeper overhanging the path to the alcove was pushed aside and I saw a man’s head and shoulders faintly outlined against the blue-black of the sky. It was the Major.
I saw him peer at me uncertainly. Then he leaned on the parapet and looked out across the bay.
My first impulse was to leave. I did not feel in the least like talking to Major Herbert Clandon-Hartley of Buxton. Then I remembered young Skelton’s comment on the Major. The man was “high-hat.” It was unlikely that he would speak first. But I was wrong.
We must have stood there leaning on the parapet for ten minutes before he spoke. I had, indeed, almost forgotten his existence when suddenly he cleared his throat and remarked that it was a fine evening.
I agreed.
There was another long silence.
“Cool for August,” he said at last.
“I suppose so.” I wondered whether he had been thinking the point over and really did consider it cool or whether the comment was purely formal. If he really thought it cool I ought for politeness’ sake to draw attention to the breeze.
“Staying long?”
“A day or so.”
“May see something of you, then.”
“That would be pleasant.”
You would scarcely call this “high-hat.”
“Shouldn’t have thought you were a Britisher. But I heard you talking to that young American just before dinner. If you don’t mind my saying so, you don’t look British.”
“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? Köche?”
“That’s how you fellows pronounce it, is it? Yes, Köche.”
“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. Köche 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 Köche 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 café for an
apperitivo
. Well, we’d just ordered when along comes Köche, 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 Köche 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 Köche! 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 Köche’s office. The door of the office was open and from inside came the sound of voices—Köche’s voice and that of another man. They were speaking in German.