I had frequently pictured to myself what Margot would look like. I had imagined him fatter, older, more prosaic. My imagination had been altogether too timid; I hadn’t dreamed of anything so authentic, so absolutely, immediately convincing. Nobody’s intuition could be at fault here. I was as certain of his identity as if I’d known him for years.
It was a thrilling moment. My only regret was that nobody could share its excitement with me. How Arthur would have enjoyed it! I could imagine his ill-concealed, gleeful agitation; his private signals which everybody would observe; his ludicrously forced attempts to cover up the mystery with bright chat. The very thought of them made me want to laugh out loud. I didn’t dare risk another glance at our neighbours, lest they should see from my face what I knew. Long ago, I had made up my mind that never, at any stage in the proceedings, would I betray my complicity by so much as the flicker of an eyelid. Margot had kept his part of the bargain; I would show him that I, also, could be trustworthy and discreet.
How would he deliver his attack? This was a really fascinating question. I tried to put myself in his position; began
144
to imagine the most extravagant subtleties. Perhaps he, or the girl, would pick Kuno’s pocket and introduce themselves later, pretending to have found his note-case on the floor. Perhaps, that night, there would be a sham alarm of fire. Margot would plant smoke-bombs in Kuno’s bedroom and then rush in to rescue him from the fumes. It seemed obvious to me that they would do something drastic. Margot didn’t look the man to be content with half measures. What were they up to now? I could no longer hear their voices. Dropping my napkin somewhat clumsily on the floor, I bent down to pick it up and get a peep, only to find to my disappointment that the two of them had left the dining-room. I was disappointed, but, on thinking it over, not particularly surprised. This had been merely a reconnoitre. Margot would probably do nothing before the evening.
After lunch, Kuno earnestly advised me to rest. As a beginner, he explained, it would be most unwise for me to exert myself too much on the first day. I agreed, not without amusement. A few moments later, I heard him arranging with Piet van Hoorn to go out to the toboggan runs. Mr. van Hoorn had already retired to his room.
At tea-time, there was dancing in the lounge. Piet and Kuno didn’t appear; neither, to my relief, did Mr. van Hoorn. I was quite happy by myself, watching the guests. Presently, Margot came in alone. He sat down on the opposite side of the big glass veranda, not more than a couple of yards from my table. Stealing a glance in his direction, I met his eyes. They were cold, prominent, rudely inquisitive as ever. My heart thumped uncomfortably. The situation was getting positively uncanny. Suppose I were to go over and speak to him now? I could save him, after all, a great deal of trouble. I had only to introduce him as an acquaintance of mine, met here by chance. There was no earthly reason why Kuno should suspect anything pre-arranged. Why should we go on performing this rather sinister charade? I hesitated, half rose to my feet, subsided again. For the second time my eyes met his. And now it seemed to me that I understood him per-145
fectly. “Don’t be a little fool,” he was saying. “Leave this to me. Don’t try to meddle in things you don’t understand.”
“All right,” I mentally told him, with a slight shrug of my shoulders. “Do as you like. It’s your funeral.”
And, feeling rather resentful, I got up and walked out of the lounge; I couldn’t stand this silent tęte-ŕ-tęte any longer.
At dinner that night both Kuno and Mr. van Hoorn, in their different ways, were in high spirits. Piet looked bored. Perhaps he found his evening clothes as stiff and uncomfortable as I did mine. If so, he had my hearty sympathy. His uncle rallied him from time to time on his silence, and I reflected how much I should dislike to travel with Mr. van Hoorn.
We were near the end of our meal when Margot and his companion came into the dining-room. I saw them at once, for I had been subconsciously keeping my eye on the door ever since we had sat down. Margot was wearing a tail-coat, with a flower in his button-hole. The girl was dressed magnificently, in some shimmering material which gleamed like silver armour. They passed down the long lane between the tables with many eyes following them.
“Look, Piet,” exclaimed Mr. van Hoorn, “there’s a pretty girl for you. Ask her for a dance this evening. Her father won’t bite you.”
To reach their table, Margot had to pass within a few inches of our chairs. As he did so, he briefly inclined his head. Kuno, ever gracious, returned the bow. For a moment, I thought Margot would follow up this opening, even if only with a conventional remark about the weather. He did not. The two of them took their places. Almost immediately, we rose to go and drink our coffee in the smoking-room.
Here, Mr. van Hoorn’s conversation took a surprising turn. It was as if he’d realized that the heartiness and the doubtful stories had been overdone. He began, quite suddenly, to talk about art. He had a house, he told us, in Paris, which was full of old furniture and etchings. Although he spoke modestly,
146
it soon became clear that he was an expert. Kuno was greatly interested. Piet remained indifferent. I saw him cast more than one furtive glance at his wrist-watch, presumably to see whether it wasn’t time for bed.
“Excuse me, gentlemen.”
The harsh voice startled all of us; nobody had seen Mar-got’s approach. He towered above us, an elegant, sardonic figure, holding a cigar in his mottled, yellow hand.
“It is necessary that I ask this young man a question.”
His bulging eyes fixed upon Piet with a concentration which suggested that he was observing some minute insect, scarcely visible without the aid of a magnifying glass. The poor boy literally began to sweat with embarrassment. As for myself, I was so amazed at this new turn in Margot’s tactics that I could only stare at him, my mouth hanging open. Margot himself evidently enjoyed the effect which his dramatic appearance had created. His lips curved in a smile which was positively diabolic.
“Have you the true Aryan descent?”
And before the astounded Piet could answer, he added:
“I am Marcel Janin.”
I don’t know whether the others had really heard of him, or whether their polite interest was merely pretended. As it happened, I knew his name quite well. M. Janin was one of Fritz Wendel’s favourite authors. Fritz had once lent me a book of hisThe Kiss Under the Midnight Sun. It was written in the fashionable French manner, half romance, half reportage, and gave a lurid, obviously imaginative account of the erotic life of Hammerfest. And there were half a dozen others, equally sensational and ranging in milieu from Santiago to Shanghai. M. Janin’s particular brand of pornography, if one was to judge from his clothes, appeared to have hit the public taste. He had just finished his eighth, he told us : it dealt with the amours peculiar to a winter sport hotel. Hence his presence here. After his brusque self-introduction, he proved most affable and treated us, without further request, to a discourse on his career, aims and methods of work.
147
“I write very quick,” he informed us. “For me, one glance is sufficient. I do not believe in the second impression.”
A couple of days ashore from a cruising liner had furnished M. Janin with the material for most of his works. And now Switzerland was disposed of, too. Looking for fresh worlds to conquer, he had fixed on the Nazi movement. He and his secretary were leaving next day for Munich. “Within a week,” he concluded ominously, “I shall know all.”