I wondered what part M. Janin’s secretary (he insisted, several times, on this title ) played in his lightning researches. Probably she acted as a kind of rough and ready chemical reagent; in certain combinations she produced certain known results. It was she, it seemed, who had discovered Piet. M. Janin, as excited as a hunter in unfamiliar territory, had rushed, over-precipitately, to the attack. He didn’t seem much disappointed, however, to discover that this wasn’t his legitimate prey. His generalizations, formulated, to save time, in advance, were not easily disturbed. Dutchman or German, it was all grist to the mill. Piet, I suspected, would nevertheless make his appearance in the new book, dressed up in a borrowed brown shirt. A writer with M. Janin’s technique can afford to waste nothing.
One mystery was solved, the other deepened. I puzzled over it for the rest of the evening. If Margot wasn’t Janin, who was he? And where? It seemed odd that he should fritter away twenty-four hours like this, after being in such a hurry to get Kuno to come. Tomorrow, I thought, he’ll turn up for certain. My meditations were interrupted by Kuno tapping at my door to ask if I had gone to bed. He wanted to talk about Piet van Hoorn, and, sleepy as I felt, I wasn’t unkind enough to deny him.
“Tell me, please … don’t you find him a little like Tony?”
“Tony?” I was stupid this evening. “Tony who?”
Kuno regarded me with gentle reproach.
“Why, excuse me … I mean Tony in the book, you see.”
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I smiled.
“You think Tony is more like Piet than like Heinz?”
“Oh yes,” Kuno was very definite on this point. “Much more like.”
So poor Heinz was banished from the island. Having reluctantly agreed to this, we said good-night.
Next morning I decided to make some investigations for myself. While Kuno was in the lounge talking to the van Hoorns, I got into conversation with the hall porter. Oh yes, he assured me, a great many business people were here from Paris just now; some of them very important.
“M. Bernstein, for instance, the factory-owner. He’s worth millions… . Look, sir, he’s over there now, by the desk.”
I had just time to catch sight of a fat, dark man with an expression on his face like that of a sulky baby. I had never noticed him anywhere in our neighbourhood. He passed through the doors into the smoking-room, a bundle of letters in his hand.
“Do you know if he owns a glass factory?” I asked.
“I’m sure I couldn’t say, sir. I wouldn’t be surprised. They say he’s got his finger in nearly everything.”
The day passed without further developments. In the afternoon, Mr. van Hoorn at length succeeded in forcing his bashful nephew into the company of some lively Polish girls. They all went off ski-ing together. Kuno was not best pleased, but he accepted the situation with his usual grace. He seemed to have developed quite a taste for Mr. van Hoorn’s society. The two of them spent the afternoon indoors.
After tea, as we were leaving the lounge, we came face to face with M. Bernstein. He passed us by without the faintest interest.
As I lay in bed that night I almost reached the conclusion that Margot must be a figment of Arthur’s imagination. For what purpose he had been created I couldn’t conceive. Nor did I much care. It was very nice here. I was enjoying myself; in a day or two I should have learnt to ski. I would make
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the most of my holiday, I decided; and, following Arthur’s advice, forget the reasons for which I had come. As for Kuno, my fears had been unfounded. He hadn’t been cheated out of a farthing. So what was there to worry about?
On the afternoon of the third day of our visit, Piet suggested, of his own accord, that we two should go skating on the lake, alone. The poor boy, as I had noticed at lunch, was near bursting-point. He had had more than enough of his uncle, of Kuno and of the Polish girls; it had become necessary for him to vent his feelings on somebody, and, of a bad bunch, I seemed the least unlikely to be sympathetic. No sooner were we on the ice than he started: I was astonished to find how much and with what vehemence he could talk.
What did I think of this place? he asked. Wasn’t all this luxury sickening? And the people? Weren’t they too idiotic and revolting for words? How could they behave as they did, with Europe in its present state? Had they no decency at all? Had they no national pride, to mix with a lot of Jews who were ruining their countries? How did I feel about it, myself?
“What does your uncle say to it all?” I counter-questioned, to avoid an answer.
Piet shrugged his shoulders angrily.
“Oh, my uncle … he doesn’t take the least interest in politics. He only cares for his old pictures. He’s more of a Frenchman than a Dutchman, my father says.”
Piet’s studies in Germany had turned him into an ardent Fascist. M. Janin’s instinct hadn’t been so incorrect, after all. The young man was browner than the Browns.
“What my country needs is a man like Hitler. A real leader. A people without ambition is unworthy to exist.” He turned his handsome, humourless face and regarded me sternly. “You, with your Empire, you must understand that.”
But I refused to be drawn.
“Do you often travel with your uncle?” I asked.
“No. As a matter of fact I was surprised when he asked me
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to come with him here. At such short notice, too; only a week ago. But I love ski-ing, and I thought it would all be quite primitive and simple, like the tour I made with some students last Christmas. We went to the Riesengebirge. We used to wash ourselves every morning with snow in a bucket. One must learn to harden the body. Self-discipline is most important in these times… .”
“Which day did you arrive here?” I interrupted.
“Let’s see. It must have been the day before you did.” A thought suddenly struck Piet. He became more human. He even smiled. “By the way, that’s a funny thing I’d quite forgotten … my uncle was awfully keen to get to know you.”
“To know me?”
“Yes… .” Piet laughed and blushed. “As a matter of fact, he told me to try and find out who you were.”
“He did?”
“You see, he thought you were the son of a friend of his: an Englishman. But he’d only met the son once, a long time ago, and he wasn’t sure. He was afraid that, if you saw him and he didn’t recognize you, you’d be offended.’”
“Well, 1 certainly helped you to make my acquaintance, didn’t I?”
We both laughed.
“Yes, you did.”
“Ha, ha! How very funny!”
“Yes, isn’t it? Very funny indeed.”
When we returned to the hotel for tea, we had some trouble in finding Kuno and Mr. van Hoorn. They were sitting together in a remote corner of the smoking-room, at a distance from the other guests. Mr. van Hoorn was no longer laughing; he spoke quietly and seriously, with his eyes on Kuno’s face. And Kuno himself was as grave as a judge. I had the impression that he was profoundly disturbed and perplexed by the subject of their conversation. But this was only an impression, and a momentary one. As soon as Mr. van Hoorn became aware of my approach, he laughed loudly
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and gave Kuno’s elbow a nudge, as if reaching the climax of a funny story. Kuno laughed too, but with less enthusiasm.
“Well, well!” exclaimed Mr. van Hoorn. “Here are the boys! As hungry as hunters, I’ll be bound! And we two old fogies have been wasting the whole afternoon yarning away indoors. My goodness, is it as late as that? I say, I want my tea!”
“A telegram for you, sir,” said the voice of a page-boy, just behind me. I stepped aside, supposing that he was addressing one of the others, but no; he held the silver tray towards me. There was no mistake. On the envelope, I read my name.