Eric Ambler - Epitaph for a Spy

“You mean,” I said steadily, “that if I do not agree to co-operate, as you call it, this ridiculous charge will be pressed?”

He did not answer. He was lighting his fourth cigarette. When he had finished he let it hang lightly between his loose lips. He blew smoke past it and gazed contemplatively at the blank wall as though it were a painting and he was an art dealer wondering whether to bid.

“The cameras,” he said thoughtfully, “could have been changed for one of three reasons. Someone might have wished to do you an injury. Someone might have wished to get rid of the photographs in a hurry. Or it could have been done accidentally. The first hypothesis, I think, we can dismiss. It is too elaborate. There was no guarantee that (a) you would take the film to be developed and that (b) the chemist would go to the police. The second hypothesis is unreal. The photographs were valuable and the possibility of retrieving them remote. Besides, they were safe enough inside the camera. No, I think it was accidental. The cameras are of an identical pattern and in standard cases. But where and when were they changed? Not at Nice, for you told me that you took your camera back to the hotel and packed it. Not on your journey, because it was under lock and key in your suitcase during the entire time. It was at the Reserve that the change was made. If the change was accidental, then it could only have been made in one of the public rooms. At what time? You brought your camera down at breakfast-time yesterday, you tell me. Where did you have breakfast?”

“On the terrace.”

“Did you take the camera with you?”

“No. I left it in its case on one of the chairs in the hall to pick up as I went through into the garden afterwards.”

“At what time did you go to breakfast?”

“At about half past eight.”

“And to the gardens?”

“About an hour later.”

“And then you took photographs?”

“Yes.”

“At what time did you return?”

“It was nearly twelve.”

“What did you do?”

“I went straight to my room and removed the exposed spool.”

“Then you did not leave your camera before you started photographing your lizards except for an hour between eight thirty and nine thirty?”

“No.”

“And during that time it was on a chair by the door leading to the garden.”

“Yes.”

“Now think carefully. Was the camera in the same position when you picked it up as it was when you put it down?”

I thought carefully.

“No, it was not,” I said at last. “I left it hanging by the strap of the case on the back of one of the chairs. When I picked it up it was lying on the seat of another chair.”

“You did not look to see if it was still hanging where you had left it?”

“Why, no. I saw it on the seat of the chair and took it. Why should I look?”

“You might have noticed if there was still a camera hanging on the back of the chair.”

“It would be easy not to. The strap is long so that the actual camera case would hang below the seat level of the chair.”

“Good. So it amounts to this: you hang a camera on the back of a chair. When you return you see an identical camera on the seat of another chair. Thinking that this is your property, you take it, leaving your camera where you put it on the back of the original chair. Presumably, then, the owner of the second camera later arrives, finds his camera missing from the seat of the chair, looks round and discovers yours.”

“It seems likely.”

“Were all the guests down to breakfast?”

“I don’t know. There are only eighteen rooms at the Reserve and they are not all occupied, but I had only arrived the previous night. I would not know. But everyone going downstairs and through the hall would pass the chairs.”

“Then, my good Vadassy, we can say with reasonable confidence that one of those now staying at the Reserve is the person who owns this camera and who took those photographs. But which? I think we may leave out the waiters and servants, for they are all from this village or near-by villages. We shall, of course, make inquiries, but they will, I think, give us nothing. There are, besides, ten guests, the manager Koche and his wife. Now, Vadassy, the guilty one had your camera, a Zeiss Ikon Contax identical to this one here. It is you will realize, obviously quite impossible for us to arrest the entire pension and search everyone’s luggage. Apart from the fact that several are foreigners whose consuls would be troublesome, we might fail to find the camera. In that case the guilty one would be on his guard and we should be helpless. Inquiries,” he went on pointedly, “must be made by someone whose presence would arouse no suspicion, who could find out discreetly who has been seen with a Contax camera.”

“You mean me?”

“You might proceed very simply by finding out which of them have cameras. Those that have cameras but not Contax cameras may be less under suspicion than those who have no cameras. You see, Vadassy, the person who has your camera may know by now that the change has been made. In that case he would hide your camera lest he should be identified as the owner of the camera with the Toulon photographs in it. There is also the possibility,” he added dreamily, “that he might try to get his own camera back again. You must be on the watch for that.”

“You don’t put this suggestion forward seriously?”

He glanced at me coldly.

“Believe me, my friend, if I had any alternative I should be glad. You do not seem to me very intelligent.”

“But I am under arrest. Surely,” I said acidly, “you will not be able to persuade the Commissaire to release me?”

“You will remain under arrest, but you will be released on parole. Only Koche knows of your arrest. We visited your room. He did not like it, but it was explained that it was an affair of passports and that you had given permission. You will state that there was a misunderstanding and that you were detained by mistake. You will report to me by telephone here every morning. Telephone from the post office in the village. If you wish to find me at any other time you will telephone to the Commissaire.”

“But I have to leave on Saturday morning for Paris. I am expected to start the new term on Monday.”

“You will stay until you have permission to go. Also you will make no attempt to get into touch with anyone outside the Reserve except the police.”

A sickening sense of helplessness crept over me.

“I shall lose my job.”

Beghin got up and stood over me.

“Listen, Vadassy,” he said; and in his absurd voice there was an ugly note far more menacing than the Commissaire’s bluster. “You will stay at the Reserve until you are told to go. If you try to leave before then, you will be re-arrested and I shall make it my personal business to see that you are deported by steamer to Dubrovnik and that your dossier is handed to the Yugoslav police. And get this into your head. The quicker we find out who took those photographs the sooner you can go. But don’t try any tricks and don’t write any letters. Either you do what you are told or you will be deported. You will be very lucky if you avoid deportation, anyway. So be careful. You understand, eh?”

I did-clearly.

An hour later I walked back along the road from the Commissariat to the village. The Contax was slung over my shoulder. When I put my hand in my pocket I could feel a small piece of paper with a list of the guests at the Reserve typed on it.

Koche was in his office when I got there. As I passed by to go to my room he came out. He was in blue jeans, sandals, and a maillot, and, to judge from his wet hair, had just been swimming. With his tall, thin, stooping figure and his sleepy manner he looked very unmanagerial.