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Authors: Eric Ambler
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straightforward. Why have you not carried them out? Do you want to go back to your cell? I want no more of this nonsense. Return to the Réserve immediately, question the guests, and give me the information I require the moment you have it. In all other matters mind your own business. You understand?” He hung up abruptly.
The man behind the counter was looking at me curiously. In my anxiety to impress Beghin with the importance of discoveries I must have raised my voice. I scowled at him and left the shop.
Outside, red in the face with heat and annoyance, was my detective. As I stalked off furiously up the street he lumbered along at my elbow hissing in my ear that I owed him eighty-five centimes plus
pourboire
, one franc, twenty-five in all. I had commanded the
limonade gazeuse
, he kept repeating, it was my duty to pay for it. He himself would not have ordered a
limonade gazeuse
unless I had invited him to do so. He was not allowed expenses by the government. I must pay the onefranc, twenty-five. There was eighty-five centimes for the
limonade gazeuse
with a
pourboire
of eight sous only in addition. He was a poor man. He knew his duty. He would not be bribed.
I scarcely heard him. So I was to question the guests and find out which of them had cameras! It was madness. Obviously the spy would take fright and leave. Beghin was a fool and I was in his hands. My whole existence depended upon him. Mind my own business! But the capture of the spy
was
my business. I had everything to lose if he escaped. One had always heard that Intelligence Departments were noted for their stupidity. Here was evidence of that fact. If I had to trust myself to Beghin and the Department of Naval Intelligence in Toulon my chances of getting to Paris on Monday were remote. No, I would do my own thinking. It was safer. Schimler and Köche must be unmasked. And I must do the unmasking. I would carry out my plan as I had originally intended. Beghin would look very foolish when I presented him with the evidence he needed. As for finding out about the cameras, well, I was not going to do any direct questioning. I would get the information; there was no harm in that. But I would get it discreetly.
“Eighty-five centimes plus a
pourboire
of eight sous.…”
We had reached the gates of the Réserve. I gave the detective a two-franc piece and went in.
At the entrance I met the Skeltons coming out. They wore bathing suits and were carrying wraps, newspapers, and bottles of sun oil.
“Hallo there!” said he.
The girl smiled a greeting.
I said hallo.
“Are you coming down to the beach?”
“I’ll go and change and follow you down.”
“Don’t forget to bring your English with you,” he shouted after me, and I heard his sister telling him to “lay off the nice gentleman.”
A few minutes later I came down again and started across the gardens to the steps leading to the beach. Then I had my first piece of luck.
I had nearly reached the first terrace when excited voices were raised ahead. The next moment Monsieur Duclos appeared hurrying anxiously towards the hotel. A moment or two later Warren Skelton dashed up the steps and flew after him. As he passed by he flung a sentence over his shoulder. I caught the word “camera.”
I hurried down to the terrace. Then I understood the reason for the stampede.
Sweeping into the bay under full sail was a big white yacht. Men in white jeans and cotton sun-hats were running along her spotless deck. As I caught sight of her she came up into the wind. The sails fluttered and the mainsail crumpled as the gaff came down. The topsail, jib, and staysail followed and the bubbling water at her bow subsided into a long, deep ripple. An anchor chain clattered.
An admiring group clustered at the end of the terrace. There was Köche in bathing clothes, Mary Skelton, the Vogels, the two English, the French couple, Schimler, and a plump, squat woman in an overall whom I recognized as Madame Köche. Some of
The man behind the counter was looking at me curiously. In my anxiety to impress Beghin with the importance of discoveries I must have raised my voice. I scowled at him and left the shop.
Outside, red in the face with heat and annoyance, was my detective. As I stalked off furiously up the street he lumbered along at my elbow hissing in my ear that I owed him eighty-five centimes plus
pourboire
, one franc, twenty-five in all. I had commanded the
limonade gazeuse
, he kept repeating, it was my duty to pay for it. He himself would not have ordered a
limonade gazeuse
unless I had invited him to do so. He was not allowed expenses by the government. I must pay the onefranc, twenty-five. There was eighty-five centimes for the
limonade gazeuse
with a
pourboire
of eight sous only in addition. He was a poor man. He knew his duty. He would not be bribed.
I scarcely heard him. So I was to question the guests and find out which of them had cameras! It was madness. Obviously the spy would take fright and leave. Beghin was a fool and I was in his hands. My whole existence depended upon him. Mind my own business! But the capture of the spy
was
my business. I had everything to lose if he escaped. One had always heard that Intelligence Departments were noted for their stupidity. Here was evidence of that fact. If I had to trust myself to Beghin and the Department of Naval Intelligence in Toulon my chances of getting to Paris on Monday were remote. No, I would do my own thinking. It was safer. Schimler and Köche must be unmasked. And I must do the unmasking. I would carry out my plan as I had originally intended. Beghin would look very foolish when I presented him with the evidence he needed. As for finding out about the cameras, well, I was not going to do any direct questioning. I would get the information; there was no harm in that. But I would get it discreetly.
“Eighty-five centimes plus a
pourboire
of eight sous.…”
We had reached the gates of the Réserve. I gave the detective a two-franc piece and went in.
At the entrance I met the Skeltons coming out. They wore bathing suits and were carrying wraps, newspapers, and bottles of sun oil.
“Hallo there!” said he.
The girl smiled a greeting.
I said hallo.
“Are you coming down to the beach?”
“I’ll go and change and follow you down.”
“Don’t forget to bring your English with you,” he shouted after me, and I heard his sister telling him to “lay off the nice gentleman.”
A few minutes later I came down again and started across the gardens to the steps leading to the beach. Then I had my first piece of luck.
I had nearly reached the first terrace when excited voices were raised ahead. The next moment Monsieur Duclos appeared hurrying anxiously towards the hotel. A moment or two later Warren Skelton dashed up the steps and flew after him. As he passed by he flung a sentence over his shoulder. I caught the word “camera.”
I hurried down to the terrace. Then I understood the reason for the stampede.
Sweeping into the bay under full sail was a big white yacht. Men in white jeans and cotton sun-hats were running along her spotless deck. As I caught sight of her she came up into the wind. The sails fluttered and the mainsail crumpled as the gaff came down. The topsail, jib, and staysail followed and the bubbling water at her bow subsided into a long, deep ripple. An anchor chain clattered.
An admiring group clustered at the end of the terrace. There was Köche in bathing clothes, Mary Skelton, the Vogels, the two English, the French couple, Schimler, and a plump, squat woman in an overall whom I recognized as Madame Köche. Some of
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