Epitaph for a Spy by Eric Ambler Page B

graze that white, hit the cushion again, and send the red into maximum. The white should roll into a five.”
    “I beg your pardon.”
    “It is I who should beg yours. This absurd game interests me. It is an utterly antisocial device. It is like a drug. It deprives you of the necessity for thinking. As soon as you start to think, you play badly. Have I a camera? I have no camera. I cannot, indeed, remember the last time I held a camera in my hands. It should require no thought on my part to produce that answer. Yet the distraction is sufficient to break the spell. The shot would have failed.”
    He spoke solemnly. The fate of worlds might have depended on the success of the shot. Yet in his eyes, those very expressive eyes, there was a gleam of mockery. I thought I knew the reason for that gleam.
    “I can see,” I remarked, “that I shall never be able to play this game.”
    But he had bent over the table again. There was a pause, a soft click-click, and the sound of two balls rumbling down to the tray.
    “Magnificent!” said a voice.
    I turned round. It was Köche.
    “Magnificent,” murmured Schimler, “but it is not war. Herr Vadassy has been very patient with me. The game has no attraction for him.”
    I fancied that I saw the two exchange a significant glance, What did Schimler mean by that ridiculous allusion? I protested hastily that I had enjoyed the game. Perhaps we could play again tomorrow.
    Schimler assented without enthusiasm.
    “Herr Heinberger,” said Köche jovially, “is an expert at Russian billiards.”
    But the atmosphere had changed in some curious way. The two were obviously waiting impatiently for me to go. I took my leave as gracefully as possible.
    “I had already noticed that. You will excuse me? I have to go into the village.”
    “Of course.”
    They stood and watched me go. They would not, it was clear, utter a word until I was well out of earshot.
    As I passed through the hall the Clandon-Hartleys were going up the stairs. I murmured a greeting, but neither replied. Then, something about them, something in their stony silence, made me pause and glance after them. As they turned at the top of the stairs I saw that she had a handkerchief held to her face. Mrs. Clandon-Hartley crying? Impossible. That sort of Englishwoman didn’t know how. She probably had something in her eye. I walked on.
    The detective waiting for me at the gate had been changed. Now it was a short, stout man in a flat straw hat who wandered after me down to the post office.
    I got straight through to Beghin.
    “Well, Vadassy? You have the particulars of the cameras?”
    “Yes. But the question of Schimler …”
    “I have no time to waste. The cameras, please.”
    I started to give him the list slowly so that he could write it down. He snorted with impatience.
    “Hurry, please. We have not all day, and the call is expensive.”
    Nettled, I rattled off the list as fast as I could. After all, it was I who was paying for the call, not he. The man was impossible. I concluded the list, fully expecting to be asked to repeat it. But, no.
    “Good! And these three without cameras?”
    “I have questioned Schimler, that is, Heinberger. He says he has no camera. I have had no opportunity to check the English. They have, however, a pair of field-glasses.”
    “A pair of what?”
    “Field-glasses.”
    “That is unimportant. You will concern yourself only with cameras. Have you anything else to report?”
    I hesitated. Now was the time.…
    “Hello, Vadassy. Are you still there?”
    “Yes.”
    “Then don’t waste time. Have you anything else to report?”
    “No.”
    “Very well. Telephone the Commissaire as usual tomorrow morning.” He hung up.
    I walked back to the Réserve with a heart as heavy as lead. I was a fool; a weak, cowardly fool.
    *    *    *
    The heat had made my shirt cling uncomfortably to my body. I went to my room to change it.
    The key was in the lock where I had left it, but the door