office was situated in the grocer’s shop at the bottom of the village. As I walked down the hill, I became conscious of a man sauntering along a few paces behind me. I stopped outside the first café and looked back. He had also stopped. It was the detective who had arrested me the day before. He nodded genially to me.
I sat down at one of the tables and he came over and sat two tables away. I beckoned to him. He moved up. His manner was friendly.
“Good morning,” I said. “I suppose you have been told to follow me?”
He nodded. “Unfortunately, yes. I find it very fatiguing.” He glanced down at his Sunday blacks. “This suit is very hot.”
“Then why do you wear it?”
His long, cunning, peasant’s face became suddenly solemn.
“I am in mourning for my mother. It is only four months since she died. She had a stone.”
The waiter approached.
“What will you have to drink?”
He thought for a moment, then asked for a
limonade gazeuse
. I told the waiter to get it, and stood up.
“Now then,” I said, “I am going to the post office down the street to telephone Monsieur Beghin. I shall be out of your sight for less than five minutes. You sit here and have your drink. I will join you on my return.”
He shook his head. “It is my duty to follow you.”
“I know, but everyone in the village will know that you are following me. I do not like that.”
A mulish look came into his face.
“My orders are to follow you. I am not to be bribed.”
“I am not attempting to bribe you. I am asking you to consider your own comfort and mine.”
He shook his head again.
“I know my duty.”
“Very well.” I walked out of the café and on down the street. As I went I heard him arguing with the waiter over the responsibility for the
limonade gazeuse
.
The telephone in the post office was public in every sense of the word. It was flanked on one side by a cascade of garlic sausages hanging from the ceiling; on the other side by a pile of empty meal sacks. There was no cabinet. As I cupped my hand round the transmitter and murmured “Police Station” into the mouthpiece, it seemed to me that the whole of St. Gatien stopped to listen.
“Poste Administratif,”
said a voice at last.
“Monsieur Beghin?”
“Il est sorti.”
“Monsieur le Commissaire?”
“De la part de qui?”
“Monsieur Vadassy.”
“Ne quittez pas.”
I waited. Then the Commissaire’s voice came on.
“Hello! Vadassy?”
“Yes.”
“Have you anything to report?”
“Yes.”
“Telephone Toulon Ville eighty-three, fifty-five and ask for Monsieur Beghin.”
“Very well.”
He hung up. Evidently the Commissaires responsibility ended with seeing that I remained in St. Gatien. I asked for Toulon Ville 83–55. My request produced a curious effect. Within less than a minute I was connected. Another few seconds and I was speaking to Beghin. His voice squeaked irritably over the wire.
“Who gave you this number?”
“The Commissaire.”
“Have you obtained the information about the cameras?”
“Not yet.”
“Then why are you bothering me?”
“I have discovered something.”
“Well?”
“The German, Emil Schimler, is calling himself Paul Heinberger. I overheard a conversation between him and Köche which sounded suspicious. There is no doubt that Schimler isthe spy and that Köche is his accomplice. Köche also visits a house in Toulon. He states that he has a woman there; but this may be untrue.”
Even as I said it I felt my self-confidence draining away like water from a sieve. How very stupid it all sounded. Over the wire came a sound that I could have sworn was a hastily suppressed laugh. But what followed showed me that I had been mistaken.
“Listen,” squeaked Beghin’s voice angrily, “you were given certain instructions. You were told to find out which of the guests had cameras. You were not asked to think or to play detectives. You had your instructions. They were clear and
I sat down at one of the tables and he came over and sat two tables away. I beckoned to him. He moved up. His manner was friendly.
“Good morning,” I said. “I suppose you have been told to follow me?”
He nodded. “Unfortunately, yes. I find it very fatiguing.” He glanced down at his Sunday blacks. “This suit is very hot.”
“Then why do you wear it?”
His long, cunning, peasant’s face became suddenly solemn.
“I am in mourning for my mother. It is only four months since she died. She had a stone.”
The waiter approached.
“What will you have to drink?”
He thought for a moment, then asked for a
limonade gazeuse
. I told the waiter to get it, and stood up.
“Now then,” I said, “I am going to the post office down the street to telephone Monsieur Beghin. I shall be out of your sight for less than five minutes. You sit here and have your drink. I will join you on my return.”
He shook his head. “It is my duty to follow you.”
“I know, but everyone in the village will know that you are following me. I do not like that.”
A mulish look came into his face.
“My orders are to follow you. I am not to be bribed.”
“I am not attempting to bribe you. I am asking you to consider your own comfort and mine.”
He shook his head again.
“I know my duty.”
“Very well.” I walked out of the café and on down the street. As I went I heard him arguing with the waiter over the responsibility for the
limonade gazeuse
.
The telephone in the post office was public in every sense of the word. It was flanked on one side by a cascade of garlic sausages hanging from the ceiling; on the other side by a pile of empty meal sacks. There was no cabinet. As I cupped my hand round the transmitter and murmured “Police Station” into the mouthpiece, it seemed to me that the whole of St. Gatien stopped to listen.
“Poste Administratif,”
said a voice at last.
“Monsieur Beghin?”
“Il est sorti.”
“Monsieur le Commissaire?”
“De la part de qui?”
“Monsieur Vadassy.”
“Ne quittez pas.”
I waited. Then the Commissaire’s voice came on.
“Hello! Vadassy?”
“Yes.”
“Have you anything to report?”
“Yes.”
“Telephone Toulon Ville eighty-three, fifty-five and ask for Monsieur Beghin.”
“Very well.”
He hung up. Evidently the Commissaires responsibility ended with seeing that I remained in St. Gatien. I asked for Toulon Ville 83–55. My request produced a curious effect. Within less than a minute I was connected. Another few seconds and I was speaking to Beghin. His voice squeaked irritably over the wire.
“Who gave you this number?”
“The Commissaire.”
“Have you obtained the information about the cameras?”
“Not yet.”
“Then why are you bothering me?”
“I have discovered something.”
“Well?”
“The German, Emil Schimler, is calling himself Paul Heinberger. I overheard a conversation between him and Köche which sounded suspicious. There is no doubt that Schimler isthe spy and that Köche is his accomplice. Köche also visits a house in Toulon. He states that he has a woman there; but this may be untrue.”
Even as I said it I felt my self-confidence draining away like water from a sieve. How very stupid it all sounded. Over the wire came a sound that I could have sworn was a hastily suppressed laugh. But what followed showed me that I had been mistaken.
“Listen,” squeaked Beghin’s voice angrily, “you were given certain instructions. You were told to find out which of the guests had cameras. You were not asked to think or to play detectives. You had your instructions. They were clear and
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