Epitaph for a Spy Read Free

man held up a repressive hand. It was small and puffy, with a roll of fat at the wrist like a baby’s.
    “What languages do you teach, Monsieur Vadassy?” he said gently.
    “German, English, and Italian, occasionally Hungarian also. But I am afraid that I cannot see what these questions have to do with my passport.”
    He ignored the last remark.
    “You have been to Italy?”
    “Yes.”
    “When?”
    “As a child. We used to spend our holidays there.”
    “You have not been there during the present regime?”
    “For obvious reasons, no.”
    “Do you know any Italians in France?”
    “There is one where I work. He is a teacher like myself.”
    “His name?”
    “Phillipino Rossi.”
    I saw the Commissaire write this down.
    “No others?”
    “No.”
    “You are a photographer, Monsieur Vadassy?”
    It was the Commissaire again.
    “An amateur—yes.”
    “How many cameras do you possess?”
    “One.” This was fantastic.
    “What make is it?”
    “A Zeiss Contax.”
    He opened a drawer in his desk.
    “Is this it?”
    I recognized my camera.
    “It is,” I said angrily; “and I should like to know what right you have to remove my belongings from my room. You will please give it back to me.” I stretched out my hand for it.
    The Commissaire put the camera back in the drawer.
    “You have no other camera but this?”
    “I have already told you. No!”
    A grin of triumph spread over the Commissaire’s face. He opened the drawer again.
    “Then how, my dear Monsieur Vadassy, do you explain the fact that the chemist in the village received from you this length of cinematograph film for development?”
    I stared at him. Between his outstretched hands was the developed negative of the film I had left with the chemist. From where I sat I could see against the light of the window my experimental shots; two dozen of them with but one single subject—lizards. Then I saw the Commissaire grin again. I laughed as irritatingly as I could.
    “I can see,” I said patronizingly, “that you are no photographer, Monsieur. That is not cinematograph film.”
    “No?”
    “No. I admit that it looks a little like it. But you will find that cinematograph film is a millimeter narrower. That is a standard spool of thirty-six twenty-four by thirty-six millimeter exposures for the Contax camera.”
    “Then those photographs were taken by this camera here, the camera that was in your room?”
    “Certainly.”
    There was a pregnant pause. I saw the two exchange looks. Then:
    “When did you arrive in St. Gatien?”
    It was the fat man once more.
    “On Tuesday.”
    “From?”
    “Nice.”
    “At what time did you leave Nice?”
    “I left by the nine twenty-nine train.”
    “At what time did you get to the Réserve?”
    “Just before dinner, at about seven o’clock.”
    “But the Nice train arrives at Toulon at three thirty. There is a bus for St. Gatien at four. You should have arrived at five. Why were you late?”
    “This is ridiculous.”
    He looked up quickly. The small eyes were coldly menacing.
    “Answer my question. Why were you late?”
    “Very well. I left my suitcase in Toulon station and went for a walk down to the waterfront. I had not seen Toulon before and there was another bus at six.”
    He wiped the inside of his collar thoughtfully.
    “What is your salary, Monsieur Vadassy?”
    “Sixteen hundred francs a month.”
    “That is not very much, is it?”
    “Unfortunately, no.”
    “The Contax is an expensive camera?”
    “It is a good one.”
    “No doubt; but I am asking you how much you paid for it.”
    “Four thousand, five hundred francs.”
    He whistled softly. “Nearly three months’ pay, eh?”
    “Photography is my hobby.”
    “A very expensive one! You seem to be very clever with your sixteen hundred francs. Holidays in Nice and at the Hotel de la Réserve, too! More than we poor policemen can afford, eh, Commissaire?”
    The Commissaire laughed sardonically. I could feel myself getting