“Why, that is quite philosophical for someone so young, and an American at that,” smiled the old man.
“Canadian,” said Brown.
“A Canadian, how delightful,” said the old man still smiling.
“You’re going to miss your train,” said Brown.
“I still have a bit more time,” said the old man. “Now let me see. Where were we? Ah, yes. Now, as it happened, a modest, unassuming little Casino had been established on an out-of-the-way street to accommodate the younger, faster set which frequented our little principality at the height of its popularity. A mere accommodation—”
Suddenly the old man clapped a hand to his forehead. “I have just thought of something I should have thought of before,” he said. “Perhaps you can help me. The Canadian and the American dollar are worth the same, are they not?”
Brown stared at him for a moment. “No,” he said finally.
“Then the Canadian dollar is worth more?” said the old man.
“Less,” said Brown.
“Ah, I am sorry,” said the old man. “Forgive me for dwelling on it but would you happen to know the exact—”
“The Canadian dollar is worth between 92 and 93 cents,” said the young man.
“Let us say 93,” insisted the old man graciously. He pursed his lips and calculated. “Fine. Fine,” he said. “I have just had what you would call a false alarm. But let us get back to what we were talking about. Imagine the city fathers’ surprise when at the very time the attraction of our waters declined, the revenue from the Casino showed a healthy increase, due, in part, to our abundance of economical hotels and hungry waiters.
“It soon became obvious that San Sebastiano was at a crossroads. Should we wait, sober, compassionate, with tightened belts for the prodigal elderly and infirm to return? Or should we cut a new path through the history of San Sebastiano, expand the Casino, become gay, hurdy-gurdy, and carefree?
“It was decided to have a referendum. Feelings ran high. A man walking down the street laughs with pure delight at some enchanting thing his daughter, a child of five, had said. He is jumped upon and severely beaten by a group of mineral-water supporters who believed him to be demonstrating in favor of the Casino. A crowd of Casino supporters, returning in an ugly mood from a mass rally, come upon a funeral procession in the street and interpret it as a counter-demonstration by the mineral-water faction. The ensuing clash provoked three solid days of rioting. Et cetera. Et cetera. The outcome of the referendum you know, for it is as you see us now.”
“You know, you’ve missed your friend’s train,” said Brown.
“Why, then I’ll see him off on the next,” said the old man. “As I was about to say, San Sebastiano with its expanded gambling facilities entered what has been described as its ‘laughing years.’ In 1909 an entirely new Casino, constructed in the style of the Ottoman Turk, was opened amid fireworks, balloon ascents, and a magnificent sailboat regatta.
“On the opening day Casimir Vaugirard in his tri-wing Prentis-Jenkins Hedgehog flew from Perpignan to San Sebastiano in a matter of hours. He circled the dome and minaret of the Casino dropping projectiles trailing the colors of the Vaugirards and San Sebastiano, then dipped his wings in a majestic salute to the cheering crowd and crashed into the side of this very hill.
“What might have spelled disaster for us — since tragedy was hardly the mood we hoped to associate with our little principality — became instead a supreme gesture of love when, in the cockpit, his body was found locked in the embrace of his mistress, the celebrated beauty known as Lola.
“Well, missing one train is no excuse for missing the next,” said the old man, “and a few formalities still remain. I trust what I have said will enable you to appreciate what is about to happen.”
“Formalities?” said Brown.
“May I see your passport?” said the old man. Brown stared at the outstretched hand. Nodding toward it, the old man said, “I am the police, you see. Your passport, please.” Brown handed it over.
The old man skimmed down the vital statistics, shook his head sympathetically over the photograph, then thumbed through the pages, turning the passport this way and that to read the frontier stamps.
“But I haven’t done anything wrong,” said Brown.
The old man shrugged genially and without pausing in his examination of the passport, drew an envelope from his pocket and passed it to the young man.
“Mr. Brown, here you will find one second-class railway ticket, San Sebastiano to Paris, and banknotes to the sum of fifty new francs — ten of your dollars, more or less. I would appreciate your checking to see that this is exactly as I say, for I am required to ask you to sign a receipt.”
In the midst of counting the bills, Brown stopped. “But this is crazy. I haven’t done anything.”
The old man closed the passport and handed it back. “Mr. Brown, let me say directly what both you and I know: your coming here this afternoon was for the purpose of doing away with yourself.”
“A lie — an out-and-out lie,” said Brown indignantly.
“No, it is not,” said the old man calmly. “You are not being honest with me.”
“Honest?” shouted Brown. “You’re a fine one to talk about honesty. Didn’t I ask you if you were following me and didn’t you say” — he switched into a falsetto — “I am afraid you are mistaken, young man’?”
“You are not being quite fair, Mr. Brown. Granted I did walk behind you from the Casino. But I was not following you. Except for my superiors’ primitive attitude regarding expenses, I could have come by taxi and arrived here well ahead of you.”
The old man shrugged at Brown’s look of disbelief. “Mr. Brown,” he said, “have you ever considered the possibilities of suicide open to a tourist? He does not have a gun — his intention in coming abroad is rarely to shoot himself. Our pharmacies confuse him and he does not know the name in our language for the poison he might have used with every confidence at home. He distrusts our hotel furniture, and rightly so. Will a chair that looks as though Louis XIV sat in it hold his weight as he ties a rope to the chandelier? And in what store would he buy the rope?
“No, if you think about it, Mr. Brown, there is only one way — to throw oneself from a high place. Here in San Sebastiano there is really only one spot high enough to do the job without risking half measures. And here we are.”
“Look,” said Brown with a facsimile of laughter, “you’ve really made a mistake. I came here to try my luck at the Casino and now I’m off to Florence or some place. I’m making a kind of grand tour.” The old man smiled patiently. “Look,” said Brown, “the whole trip is a reward for my graduating in dentistry from McGill University — that’s in Montreal. When the trip’s over I go back home to Drumheller, Alberta, and go into practice with my father. A guy with his future all cut out for him would be the last person to commit suicide. What I mean is, you don’t have any motive.”
The old man sighed and took a notebook from his pocket. “ ‘On August 15 last,’ ” he read, “ ‘the Eighth Bureau of the Judiciary Police’ ” — he half rose and tipped his hat — “ ‘was alerted by the local American Express office that one Brown, Norman, had that day cashed in the return portion of a first-class airplane ticket, Paris-Montreal-Calgary. Subsequent routine investigation revealed that on the preceding day the subject had checked into the Hotel de l’Avenir and the same afternoon at the Casino had lost chips amounting to $520.
“ ‘The afternoon following the subject’s visit to American Express he lost chips amounting to $450. That evening he sent the following cablegram to a Miss Annabella Brown, Drumheller, Alberta: DEAR AUNT BELLA, MONEY AND RETURN TICKET LOST IN FIRE THAT DESTROYED MY HOTEL. BEST NOT TO WORRY NORMAN SENIOR. $1000 SHOULD COVER IT NICELY. NORMY.