I swallowed some sandwich. “That,” I said comfortably, “is the Commissaire’s worry.”
“Of course.” He poured out some wine for me, and took some himself. “All the same,” he added, “you yourself will have to answer some embarrassing questions in the morning.”
But I refused to be drawn. “No doubt. But that will be in the morning. All I can think of now is sleep.”
“Naturally. You must be very tired.” He grinned at me suddenly. “I hope you have decided to forget our interview of this afternoon.”
“I have already forgotten it. It was hardly your fault. The police gave me orders. I had to obey them. I didn’t like doing it, as you may imagine, but I had no alternative. They threatened to deport me.”
“Ah, so that’s what it was! The Commissaire didn’t explain that.”
“He wouldn’t.”
He took one of my sandwiches and chewed for a minute or so in silence. Then:
“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “these last few days have worried me.”
“Oh?”
“I once worked in a big Paris hotel as assistant manager. The manager was a man named Pilevski, a Russian. You may have heard of him. He is, in his way, a genius. It was a pleasure to work with him, and he taught me a lot. The successful restaurateur, he used to say, must know his guests. He must know what they are doing, what they are thinking, and what they are earning. And yet he must never appear inquisitive. I took that to heart. It has become instinctive to me to know these things. But during the past few days I realized that there was something going on here that I did not know about, and the fact worried me. It offended my professional sensibilities, if you see what I mean. Some one person, I felt, was at the bottom of it. At first I thought that it might be the Englishman. There was that trouble on the beach, to begin with, and then I found out this morning that he was trying to borrow money from the rest of you.”
“And he succeeded, I believe.”
“Oh, yes. That young American lent him two thousand francs.”
“Skelton?”
“Yes, Skelton. I hope he can afford it. I don’t think he will see it again.” He paused, then added: “Then there was Monsieur Duclos.”
I laughed. “I actually suspected Monsieur Duclos of being a spy, at one stage. You know, he’s a dangerous old man. He’s the most appalling liar, and an inveterate gossip. I suppose that’s why he’s such a successful businessman.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Businessman? Is that what he’s been telling you?”
“Yes. He seems to have a number of factories.”
“Monsieur Duclos,” said Koche deliberately, “is a clerk employed in the sanitary department of a small municipality near Nantes. He earns two thousand francs a month, and he comes here every year for two weeks’ holiday. I heard once that a few years ago he spent six months in a mental home. I have an idea that he will soon have to return to it. He is much worse this year than he was last. He’s developed into a new tendency. He invents the most fantastic stories about people. He’s been badgering me for days trying to get me to handcuff the English major. He says he’s a notorious criminal. It’s very trying.”
But I was getting used to surprises. I finished the last of the sandwiches and got up. “Well, Monsieur Koche, thank you for your sandwiches, thank you for your wine, thank you for your kindness, and-good night. If I stay here any longer I shall spend the night here.”
He grinned. “And then, of course, you would have no chance of evading their questions.”
“They?”
“The guests, Monsieur.” He leant forward earnestly. “Listen, Monsieur. You are tired now. I do not want to worry you. But have you considered what you are going to say to these people in the morning?”
I shook my head wearily. “I have not the slightest idea. Tell them the truth, I suppose.”
“The Commissaire…”
“Hang the Commissaire!” I said explosively. “The police created the situation. They must accept the consequences.”
He got up. “One moment, Monsieur. There is something that I think you should know.”
“Not another surprise, surely?”
“Monsieur, when the Commissaire arrived tonight, the English couple, the Americans and Duclos were still in the lounge discussing your arrest. After he had gone I took the liberty of inventing an explanation of your arrest that would clear you of all suspicion of any criminal activity and at the same time satisfy their curiosity. I told them in the strictest confidence that you were really Monsieur Vadassy, of the counter-espionage department of the Second Bureau, and that the arrest was merely a ruse, part of a special plan about which not even the police knew anything definite.”
I was startled. I gaped. “And do you expect them to swallow that nonsense?” I asked at last.
He smiled. “Why not? They believed your story about the theft of the cigarette-case and the diamond pin.”
“That was different.”
“Agreed. Nevertheless, they believed that, and they believed this. They wanted to believe it, you see. The Americans liked you and didn’t want to think of you as a criminal, a spy. Their immediate acceptance of the story convinced the rest.”
“What about Duclos?”
“He claimed that he had known it all along, that you had told him.”
“Yes, he would claim that. But”-I looked at him squarely-“what was your object in telling this story? I don’t understand what you’re getting at.”
“My idea,” he said blandly, “was simply to save you trouble and embarrassment. Monsieur,” he went on persuasively, “if you will sleep soundly tonight, if you will keep to your room in the morning, if you will leave the affair in my hands, I can promise you that you will have to answer no questions or give any explanations. You will not even have to see any of these people.”
“Now, look here-”
“I know,” he put in quickly, “that it was most impertinent of me to tell them this without your permission, but under the circumstances-”
“Under the circumstances,” I interrupted him acidly, “a theft, an arrest, and a violent death all in one day would have been bad for business, so you got in first with a cock-and-bull story about my being a counter-espionage agent. Roux is politely forgotten. The police are happy. I am caught between two fires. Either I have to go on lying like a trooper and explain what the famous counter-espionage agent is doing back at the Reserve or I have to crawl out without anyone seeing me. Nice work!”
He shrugged. “That is one way of looking at it. But I should like to ask you just one question. Would you prefer to make up your own explanation?”
“I should prefer to tell the truth.”
“But the police-”
“Damn the police!”
“Yes, of course.” He coughed a little self-consciously. “I shall have to tell you, I am afraid, that the Commissaire left a message for you.”
“Where is it?”
“It was verbal. He told me to remind you that a citizen of France must be ready to assist the police on all possible occasions. He added that he hoped soon to be in touch with the Bureau of Naturalization.”
I drew a deep breath. “I suppose,” I said slowly, “that you didn’t, by any chance, discuss your little story with the Commissaire?”
He reddened. “I did, I believe, mention it in passing. But-”
“I see. You both worked it put between you. You-” I stopped. A sudden feeling of helplessness swept over me. I was tired, tired, sick to death of the whole wretched business. My limbs were aching, my head felt as if it were falling in two. “I’m going to bed,” I said firmly.
“And what shall I tell the servants, Monsieur?”
“The servants?”
“About calling you, Monsieur. Their present instructions are that you are officially no longer here, that your breakfast will be served discreetly in your room, that when the car arrives to take you to Toulon in time to catch the Paris train, none of the other guests is to see you leave. Am I to alter those instructions?”