“What is the number of the room of Monsieur Roux and Mademoiselle Martin?”
“Nine, Monsieur.”
“Thank you; that is all.” The door closed behind her. I lit a cigarette and sat down to evolve my plan of action, to get everything quite clear before I started.
This plan, I told myself, was utterly foolproof. Here was a Gestapo agent bent on tracking down a man named Schimler. What was more, there was every likelihood that he had succeeded in doing so. That meant, then, that in all probability this agent had ferreted out information about the guests at the Reserve which would be of immense value to me. If I could get that information out of him, if I could get him to talk, perhaps I should find myself in possession of the very clue I needed. It was a real chance. But I should have to go carefully. Roux must not become suspicious. I must not appear curious. I must draw the information out of him, pump him very gently, make it look as though I were listening under protest. I should have to keep my wits about me. This time there must be no mistake.
I got up and walked along the corridor to room number nine. There was a murmur of voices coming from inside. I knocked. The voices ceased. There was a scuffle. A wardrobe door squeaked. Then the woman called: “Entrez!” I opened the door.
Mademoiselle Martin, swathed in a semitransparent pale blue peignoir, was sitting on the bed manicuring her nails. The peignoir, I guessed, had been hurriedly snatched from the wardrobe. Roux was standing in front of the washbasin, shaving. They both stared at me incredulously.
I had opened my mouth to excuse my intrusion, but Roux got in first.
“What do you want?” he snapped.
“I must ask you to excuse my intruding on you like this. Actually I came to offer you an apology.”
His eyes flickered over me suspiciously.
“What for?”
“I was afraid that you might think that I was in some way responsible for Duclos insulting you this afternoon.”
He turned away and began to wipe the soap off his face. “Why should you be responsible?”
“It was, after all, my mistake that led to the disagreement.”
He threw the towel on the bed and addressed the woman. “Have I said one word about this man since we left the beach?”
“Non, cheri.”
He turned to me. “You are answered.”
I stood my ground.
“Nevertheless, I feel a certain responsibility. If I had not been so foolish it would never have happened.”
“It is now finished,” he said irritably.
“Fortunately, yes.” I made a desperate effort to touch his vanity. “If you will allow me to say so, I thought you conducted yourself with dignity and restraint.”
“If they had not held my arms I should have throttled him.”
“You were undoubtedly provoked.”
“Of course.”
This did not seem to be leading anywhere. I tried again.
“Are you staying here long?”
He shot a suspicious glance at me.
“Why do you want to know?”
“Oh, no special reason. I just thought that we might play a game of Russian billiards together-to show that there is no ill feeling.”
“Are you a good player?”
“Not very good.”
“Then I shall probably beat you. I am very good. I beat the American. He does not play well. I do not like playing with inferior players. The American I found dull.”
“A pleasant young man, however.”
“Possibly.”
I persevered. “The girl is pretty.”
“I do not like her. She is too fat. I prefer thin women. Don’t I, cherie? ”
Mademoiselle Martin emitted a tinny laugh. He sat down on the bed, leaned across and pulled her to him. They kissed passionately. Then he pushed her away. She smiled triumphantly at me, smoothed down her hair, and resumed her manicuring.
“You see,” he said, “she is skinny. She pleases me.”
I perched myself tentatively on the arm of a chair. “Madame is charming.”
“Not bad.” He lit a thin black cheroot with an air of a man to whom such successes were commonplace and blew a jet of smoke in my direction. Suddenly: “Why did you come here, Monsieur?”
I jumped. “To apologize, naturally. I have explained… ”
He shook his head impatiently. “I asked you why you came here-here to this hotel.”
“For a holiday. I spent part of it in Nice, then I came here.”
“You have enjoyed your stay?”
“Of course. It is not ended yet.”
“When do you expect to leave?”
“I have not made up my mind.”
Fleshy lids dropped over his eyes.
“Tell me, what do you think of this English major?”
“Nothing in particular. A common type of Englishman.”
“Did you lend him any money?”
“Why, no. Did he ask you, too?”
He grinned sardonically. “Yes, he asked me.”
“And did you oblige him?”
“Do I look such a fool?”
“Then what made you ask about him?”
“He will be leaving the hotel early in the morning. And I heard him ask the manager to book a cabin on the Algiers steamer from Marseilles. He must have found a mug.”
“Who could it have been?”
“If I knew that I would not ask you. These little things interest me.” He twisted the cheroot between his lips to wet the end of it. “Another little thing interests me. Who is this Heinberger?”
It was said without the least hint of emphasis, the question of a man idly determined to find something of interest in an uncongenial conversation.
For no reason my spine tingled as if with fear.
“Heinberger?” I repeated.
“Yes, Heinberger. Why does he sit always by himself? Why does he never bathe? I saw you talking to him the other day.”
“I know nothing about him. He is a Swiss, isn’t he?”
“I don’t know. I am asking you.”
“Then I’m afraid I don’t know.”
“What were you talking about?”
“I can’t remember. The weather, probably.”
“What a waste of time! I like to find things out about people when I talk to them. I like to know the differences between what people are saying to you and what they are thinking.”
“Indeed! Do you find that there is always a difference?”
“Invariably. All men are liars. Women sometimes speak the truth. But men, never. That is right, is it not, ma petite? ”
“Oui, cheri.”
“Oui, cheri!” he echoed derisively. “She knows that if she lied to me I would break her neck. I tell you this, my friend; all men are cowards. They dislike a fact except when it is so wrapped up in lies and sentiments that the sharp edge of it cannot hurt them. When a man tells the truth he is, depend upon it, a dangerous man.”
“You must find that point of view very fatiguing.”
“I find it entertaining, my dear Monsieur. People are intensely interesting. You, for instance. I find you interesting. You call yourself a language teacher. You are a Hungarian with a Yugoslav passport.”
“I’m sure you didn’t find that out by talking to me,” I said playfully.
“I keep my ears open. The manager told Vogel. Vogel was curious.”
“I see. Quite simple.”
“Not at all simple. Very puzzling. I ask myself questions. Why, I ask, does a Hungarian with a Yugoslav passport live in France? What is this mysterious little trip that he makes every morning to the village?”
“You are very observant. I live in France because I work in France. I am afraid that there is nothing mysterious about my trips to the village either. I go to the post office to telephone my fiancee in Paris.”
“So? The telephone service has improved. It usually takes an hour to get through.” He shrugged. “It is nothing. There are more difficult questions.” He blew the ash off his cheroot. “Why, for example, were the locks of Monsieur Vadassy’s suitcase broken open in the morning and not broken in the afternoon?”
“Very simple again. Because Monsieur Duclos has a bad memory.”
His eyes flickered from the end of his cheroot to my face. “Exactly. A bad memory. He could not remember exactly what was said. Bad liars never can remember these things. Their minds are choked by their own lies. But I am curious. Were the locks of your suitcase broken open?”