I looked out of the window. The sea lay like a great sheet of rippled blue glass in the sun. It was infinitely peaceful. In its cool depths a man would have no more fears, no doubts, no uncertainties. I could go down to the beach and into the water and swim out beyond the bay into the sea. I could go on swimming until my arms were too tired to bring me back to the land. My strokes would get slower, more labored. Then I would stop and sink. The water would rush into my lungs. I would struggle, the desire for life would surge up-life at any price! — but I should have made my preparations so that there would be no returning. There would be a moment or two of torment, then I should slide gently into oblivion. And what then? A Yugoslav citizen named Joseph Vadassi (they would misspell the name) got into difficulties while bathing yesterday at St. Gatien. Attempts to rescue him failed. His body has not yet been recovered. Nothing else? No, nothing else. That was all. The body rotted.
My cigarette had gone out. I pitched it out of the window, went over to the mirror in the wardrobe, and looked at myself. “You’re going to pieces,” I murmured. “Better pull yourself together. Suicide one minute and now you’re talking to yourself. Come on now. And don’t be so damned hearty about it. It’s no good squaring your shoulders like that. You’re not going in for a weight-lifting contest. Muscle’s no use to you. What you need is a little intelligence. This business probably isn’t nearly as serious as you think. And for goodness’ sake get this. It’s about three o’clock. Between now and tonight you’ve got to find a person here with a Contax camera. That’s all. It isn’t difficult, is it? You’ve only got to look in their rooms. Now start with this man Schimler. He’s the most likely. He’s going under a false name. He says he’s a Swiss when he’s really a German. He’s worried and he’s got some understanding with Koche. You’ve got to bear in mind, too, that Koche may be in on the secret. Maybe that’s the real reason why he’s anxious to get rid of you without calling in the police. Yes, that’s an idea, isn’t it? You’re not beaten yet. But be careful. Use a little sense. You’ve been caught out once. Don’t let it happen again. If he’s the man, you’ve got to be clever to catch him. He’s dangerous. He’s the man who slugged you on the head last night and gave you this damnable headache. You know his room number. The girl gave you that. Number fourteen, and it’s on the other side of the house. But first find out where he is. You’ve got to be careful! Now, get busy.”
I turned away from the mirror. Yes, I must get busy. I must know where Schimler was. He usually sat by himself on the terrace. I would try there first.
I got to the lounge without meeting anyone, and tiptoed over to the window. Yes, there he was, reading as usual, his pipe in his mouth, his head bent forward over the book in an attitude of concentration. For a moment I watched him. It was a fine head. It didn’t seem possible that this man could be a spy.
But this time I hardened my heart. Get busy! It probably wouldn’t seem possible that anyone was a spy-until you knew for certain that he was. Anyway, it was my liberty or someone else’s. Schimler was undoubtedly a suspicious character. Very well, then!
I went upstairs again. Outside my own room I paused. Was there anything I wanted? A weapon? Nonsense! this wasn’t going to be that sort of affair; just a quiet examination of the room, that was all. My heart beating furiously, I went on past my own room, along the passage. Then a new fear took hold of me. Supposing I met someone! The Skeltons or the Vogels! How should I explain my presence here? What was I supposed to be doing? Then I passed a door labeled Salle de Bain. If necessary I could go in there and pretend to be having a bath. But I met nobody. A few moments later I was outside room number fourteen.
Bridging the gulf between thought and action is often a very arduous process. It is easy to contemplate searching someone’s room-standing before the mirror I had had no qualms-but when it comes to the mechanics of the business, the actual entry into the room, it is far from easy. It is not merely the fear of discovery that deters. It is the sense of privacy that is violated. There is a strange door, a strange door-handle and, beyond it, part of another person’s life. To open the door seems as inexcusable an intrusion as spying on a pair of lovers.
I stood there for a second or two fighting down this sense of guilt, rationalizing it into all sorts of minor objections. Perhaps Mary Skelton had been mistaken; perhaps this was the wrong room. It was too soon after lunch; I should have given Schimler longer to settle down. It was a waste of time; he would have hidden the camera. The door might be locked and someone might come along just as I was trying it. Someone might…
There was only one way to deal with this. I would make no attempt to go in stealthily. If the room were occupied or anyone saw me, then I had made a mistake. Monsieur Skelton had asked me to call in when I was ready to bathe. The wrong room? I was sorry. I would retire. That was unless it was one of the Skeltons who saw me. But if I stood outside here much longer I should be seen, anyhow. Drawing a deep breath, I rapped on the door, grasped the handle and turned it. The door was unlocked. Still standing on the threshold, I pushed it and let it swing open. The room was empty. I waited a second, then walked in and shut the door behind me. The deed was done.
I glanced round. The room was smaller than mine and looked out over the outhouse containing the kitchens. A clump of young cypresses near the window shut out a good deal of light. Keeping as far away from the window as possible, I looked for Schimler’s suitcase. It did not take me long to establish the fact that there wasn’t one. Perhaps he had transferred the contents to the chest of drawers and had the case taken to the storeroom. I tried the drawers. All, with the exception of the top one, were empty. The top drawer contained a white and very much laundered shirt, a gray tie, a small pocket-comb, a pair of socks with large holes in the heels, a set of clean but crumpled underclothes, a packet of soap flakes, and a tin of French tobacco. There was no camera. I looked at the label on the tie. It bore the name and address of a Berlin manufacturer. The underclothes were of Czechoslovakian origin. The shirt was French. I went over to the washbasin. The razor, shaving soap, toothbrush and paste were also French. I turned to the cupboard.
It was wide and deep, with a row of coat-hangers on a brass rail and a rack for shoes. There was one suit and a black raincoat in it. Nothing else. The suit was dark gray and threadbare at the elbows. The raincoat had a triangular tear near the bottom.
This, then, with the contents of the drawer, was “Herr Heinberger’s” wardrobe. Very odd! If the man had sufficient money to stop at the Reserve surely he would have more clothes than this?
That, however, was beside the point. I was looking for a camera. I felt under the mattress, but this yielded nothing but a scratch on the hand from a projecting spring end. The room had begun to get on my nerves. I had failed to find what I had come for. It was time I went. There was, however, just one more thing that I wanted to do.
I went back to the cupboard, took the suit down and looked in the pockets. The first two I felt were empty; but in the breast pocket my fingers encountered what felt like a thin paper-covered book. I pulled it out. It was not one book, but two, and both were passports-one German and one Czech.
I examined the German one first. It had been issued in 1931 to Emil Schimler, journalist, born in Essen in 1899. This was in itself surprising. I had assessed Schimler at well over forty. I turned to the visa pages. Most of them were blank. There were, however, two visas for France dated 1931 and a set of Soviet visas dated 1932. He had spent two months in Soviet Russia. There was also a Swiss visa for the previous December and a French one for May of that year. I turned to the Czech passport.