This Traitor Death

by Desmond Cory

  She stubbed out her cigarette and looked once more to her article which, somehow, seemed less important than ever. It was impossible to continue it; she tore out the paper with a sudden spurt of petulance and threw it viciously into the waste-paper basket. As she did so the doorbell shrilled, breaking the silence with a stridency that made a muscle jump in her forearm.

  She said: “All right. I’ll go,” and walked towards the door. Antoine watched her pass through the door, thought for a moment, then wriggled over on to one side, and pulled the pistol from his coat-pocket. He sat there quietly, with the pistol on his knee, until he heard Johnny’s voice in the hall; whereupon he glanced down at the pistol, and gently returned it to his pocket.

  “’Evening,” said Johnny, strolling into the room and stripping off his macintosh. “It’s been quite an amusing day, what with one thing and another. Sorry I’m a shade late:”

  Antoine said: “We’ve been expecting you for some time. I expect you’d like some coffee.”

  “Of course he would,” said Marie-Andrée, appearing behind Johnny’s shoulder. “I’ll go and make some. If you sit by the kitchen door, I can hear you talk while I’m making it.”

  Antoine nodded, got to his feet and brushed imaginary cigarette ash from his thighs, He said:

  “Okay. Let’s hear about it, Johnny,”

  Johnny allowed himself to be marshalled into a large and comfortable armchair, crossed his legs and smiled at the opposite wall.

  “The letter,” he began, “has some rather peculiar points about it which have led the boys to think that it may be a forgery. The signature’s undoubtedly genuine, but it appears that it wasn’t typed on one of the office typewriters at Siegen – which is peculiar. They’re retaining the letter for further examination. I take it that’s the point you’re most interested in.”

  Antoine said: “But that’s wonderful. There’s a chance –”

  “Yes, there’s a chance.” Johnny bent one finger and examined the nail with some care. “Not much more than that though. You’re not out of the wood yet.”

  “No, I quite realise that.”

  “What’s more to the point, there’s been some fun and games going on,” Johnny fumbled in his wallet. “Ever heard of the Jousset Detective Agency?”

  Antoine said: “I seem to have heard of the name somewhere.”

  “Yes. It seems they decided to take an interest in my movements. They’ve had a man tailing me all day, and unfortunately he got shot through the head in a dark street – in mistake for me, I imagine. I was rather wondering why this Agency was taking an interest in me.”

  “I don’t know,” said Antoine thoughtfully, “Maybe they –” He stopped and wiped his nose with his handkerchief.

  Marie-Andrée appeared in the doorway, carrying a tray of coffee, She said: “What happened after that?”

  “Things happened rather quickly. In a moment of mental aberration, I shot the fellow who had performed this operation on the detective, and carted his body off to a safe place. I didn’t learn anything about him at all, as a result. The whole thing is damned unsatisfactory.”

  Marie-Andrée placed the tray on the table beside the typewriter, and leaned on the edge of the table. She said: “It so happens that we hired that detective,” and stared angrily at Antoine.

  “I see. Rather risky step to take, wasn’t it?” He pushed his feet out across the carpet and enjoyed the silence.

  She said: “I think we’d better tell Johnny about it. It seems he’s on our side – whoever he is.”

  Johnny said: “I’m not on anybody’s side except my own. I don’t much mind if you tell me about it – whatever ‘it’ is – or not. I’ll find out sooner or later, anyway. Maybe you’d like to think it over until tomorrow.” He sat up in the chair as if preparatory to leaving, though in reality he had no intention of doing so.

  Antoine fingered the cover of his chair for a moment and said: “Well – the situation is this, Johnny – or whatever your name is. I found out last night that you’re not Fedora, and I naturally became rather curious as to what your game was and why you were playing it. I’m still puzzled.”

  “What do you mean – I’m not Fedora?” Johnny was genuinely indignant. “You don’t mean to say that somebody else is going round pretending to be me? That’ll make matters a bit too damned complicated.”

  “No.” Antoine took the envelope from his breast-pocket and flipped it across the table. “I found this in Pinot’s safe last night. It looks like an official photograph, and it’s supposed to be of Fedora. Well, it’s obviously not you,”

  Johnny examined the photograph, turning it over carefully in his long, slim fingers, and grinned.

  “But it is,” he said. “That’s me all right.”

  Marie-Andrée protested: “There’s no resemblance. Not the slightest.”

  “No, I suppose there isn’t, now. The trouble was that this gentleman you see depicted here had become a little too well known where the German Intelligence operated. So very recently he went to a plastic surgeon of unsurpassed brilliance, and now” – Johnny tapped himself on the chest – “he looks just like this. It’s as simple as that.”

  Antoine and Marie-Andrée looked at each other and then back at Johnny. They stared at him as though he were a visitant from Mars. Then Antoine said: “But how extraordinary. It’s almost unbelievable.”

  “It seems more like common sense to me,” said Johnny wearily. He was feeling slightly irritated at the turn events had taken. “There’s nothing unbelievable about it at all. Marie-Andrée probably knows enough about the science of face lifting to convince you of that. Not” – he smiled at her – “that I imagine she has needed to have recourse to that science herself.”

  She smiled back at him without quite knowing why and said: “Thank you.” She thought, even as she said it, that such a remark was completely pointless.

  Antoine was still staring at Johnny, occasionally looking down to the photograph on the table.

  “The change, though,” he said dully. “That is really remarkable. The whole face, it is altered. Have you any proof that what you say is true?”

  “Why the hell,” said Johnny nastily, “should I bother to prove it? What do you propose to do about it if I don’t? Really, I don’t see –”

  Marie-Andrée laid a hand on his arm: “Please,” she said. “Please don’t be angry. It is for Antoine’s peace of mind, you understand. When one is in his position, not knowing who are friends and who are enemies, one naturally is worried and a trifle touchy.”

  “Touchy, hell! I’m not touchy,” said Antoine. “At the same time, I like to know exactly what is going on. It is not that I am ungrateful; merely that I am used to working that way. Please forget what I said.”

  “It’s not what you said, Antoine. It’s what you did. That was a damned silly thing to do, to take that photograph… I should, of course, very much like to know what the photograph was doing there, in the first place; but perhaps that will be revealed to us in the future. The point is that by taking it you’ve established a connection between you and me. When Pinot discovers the only two things missing from his flat are your letter and a photograph of me, he’s bound to start putting two and two together. We can only hope he doesn’t make four too damned quickly.”

  “I’m sorry.” Antoine was apologetic. “One doesn’t think of these things at the time.”

  “No. Oh, well, the thing’s done now. There is a definite danger, however, that they may be able to trace you through me. Perhaps you’d better move to somewhere else when I’m gone. Is there anywhere else you can go to?”

  Marie-Andrée said: “Yes. I arranged another hideout for Antoine, in case things got a little too hot for him in this part of the world.”

  “Sensible girl. You’d better move there tonight, and take care to shake off anybody who may be shadowing you. Not that I imagine they’ll waste time that way.” Johnny moved across the room and picked up a coffee-cup, His eyes surveyed Mar
ie-Andrée thoughtfully but incuriously; she suppressed a shudder as she realised what he meant.

  “You think they may be… outside now?”

  “No, why should they be? If anybody has traced you, he’ll come straight up.” Johnny spoke quite calmly, “I think I’ll stay here for a bit after you’ve gone, and make sure everything’s all right. And – if you’ll drink your coffee – you may as well get moving right away.”

  Antoine picked up his coffee-cup and swished it moodily from side to side. He said: “I’m not going.”

  The two men eyed each other, warily, across the table for a few seconds; then Johnny looked down at his coffee and sipped at it carefully. He did not say anything. Marie-Andrée, suddenly conscious of an almost unbearable tension, sat down in the chair that Johnny had just vacated and looked from one to the other.

  Antoine said: “I’m not satisfied. I didn’t ask you to poke your nose into our business, Monsieur Whoever-you-are; and I don’t like being ordered about. I make my own decisions. I stay here.”

  “Don’t you think you’re being rather childish?” said Johnny slowly.

  Antoine made a sudden, completely Gallic gesticulation with his right arm. “That is possible. All I know is, I am accustomed to make my own plans and I intend to continue to do so. I object strongly to having my arrangements made for me by a young lady whom I hardly know and by a complete stranger who apparently changes identity every time I see him. It is too much… I will go – yes – but I go on my own. That way I know where I stand. Mademoiselle,” he said, giving Marie-Andrée a formal bow. “I am, you know, deeply grateful for all you have done. But I can no lonnger accept your hospitality. There are some things –”

  “Sit down,” said Johnny, irritated.

  “I tell you it is no use. I have considered –”

  “Sit down,” said Johnny again, quietly this time. And Antoine, after a furious glance round the room, balanced himself on the edge of the table with the air of a man making a special concession.

  “Let’s look at this in cold blood,” said Johnny. “It will be fatal if we allow ourselves to get worked up about this matter. You were a soldier, Monsieur Gervais, and you know that as well as I do. If we have to take chances, these chances must be weighed carefully… I, frankly, don’t think you have much chance of getting away by yourself; nor, for that matter, do you. The only reason why you want to try it is because living in this room for so long has begun to prey on your nerves. I can imagine that, delightful as Mademoiselle Duveyrier’s society must be, it can easily pall on a man in your predicament. Don’t think I don’t understand your feelings – I do, perfectly. On the other hand, I’m working for the British Intelligence and your co-operation is essential to me; you can rely on it that, if you co-operate with me, I won’t let you down. And, as the matter on which I am engaged directly concerns the French Government’s affairs, you will also be doing a great service to France – a consideration which, in view of your record, I should think would weigh fairly heavily with you. What I am asking – not ordering – you to do may sound easy but is really damned difficult; it takes the hell of a lot of nerve for a hunted man to stay put in one place when everyone else is doing something active. I think you have that amount of nerve, so I want you to do that. I can promise that you won’t have to do it for long; at the present rate, something is bound to crack – your ‘whipping’ that photograph is going to prod somebody into doing something, unless I’m very much mistaken. And, of course, the report from H.Q. will be through tomorrow. All things considered, it is nothing but madness for you to leave us now.”

  There was a short pause; then Antoine said thoughtfully: “It is true, of course, that I am behaving badly. I have the cafard, without doubt. What I am wondering is whether my removal of your photograph can have any connection with this assassination – this attempt on your life. If it has –”

  “If it has,” Johnny agreed, “it lessens your chances by a considerable degree. It means that they’ve got at me through you, instead of the other way about; which again means that they must know where you are. All in all” – he sighed heavily – “this seems to be a deucedly complicated situation – not unlike the plot of Savoy Opera.”

  Gervais spread out his fingers on the arms of his chair and smoothed the fabric gently with them. He said nothing for a long thirty seconds; then:

  “But this problem with which I am faced – it permits of a solution so simple that I am ashamed of myself for not having thought of it at once. I am bitterly ashamed. Everyone knows that Johnny Fedora is a pianist of the first order – a great artiste. In the corner of the room there is a piano. It is as easy as that.”

  Johnny looked over one shoulder at the upright piano standing by itself, opposite the window; then back at Gervais.

  “Okay.”

  “That is all right?”

  “If I play something for you, you’ll accept me as Fedora. I don’t mind doing that.”

  “If you play it well enough.”

  “I’ll play it well enough.” Johnny got to his feet and walked over to the piano stool. “We’ll let the lady select the test piece.”

  Marie-Andrée’s eyes moved slowly from the piano to Johnny’s hands, resting motionless by his thighs; and from there travelled upwards to his face.

  “Saint-Saëns. Allegro Appassionata.”

  Johnny raised an eyebrow and sat down on the music stool. “you don’t take any chances.”

  “You know it?”

  “In places,” said Johnny, and lifted the lid. His long, slender fingers casually estimated the keys for a few moments, brushing the surface of the notes; paused for perhaps another two seconds, then began to play…

  “Show-piece,” he said under his breath, with the first chord, “but – attractive.” The fingers of his right hand suddenly became a blur, and Gervais’s eyes – cold and methodically calculating – half-closed themselves.

  “All right, Johnny. I’m satisfied.”

  “But go on,” said Marie-Andrée quickly. “Go on. It’s beautiful.”

  Johnny went on. Gervais had caught the quick, half-cynical grin that Johnny had shot at him even as Marie-Andrée had spoken, and edged himself farther back in the chair. Well… what if she did like it? He looked sideways at her profile, with its single blue eye focused drearily on the keyboard and on those thin, fantastically agile fingers which jumped and struck and danced and slid and weaved – and all the time made the air vibrant with music… It was a gift, he decided mournfully. Some had it and others hadn’t. And anyway, he’d asked for it… Come to think of it, what was he getting jealous for? It wasn’t his woman.

  All the same – it would be nice, he felt, to be able to play the piano like that. Or, if not like that, at least reasonably well. He looked sadly down at his own fingers, wiggled them up and down once or twice; then slowly looked up into the mouth of a nasty-looking pistol. The hand holding it was also brown, muscular and well-shaped; but it was neither his nor Johnny’s. It was that of Captain Delacroix.

  “All right,” said the Captain. “Hands on top of the head, please; and absolutely no trouble. I need hardly say that I’m here on business.”

  Gervais promptly raised his hands and locked them behind his head in the accepted manner; his gaze still fixed on the barrel of the revolver that seemed to him as large as a railway-tunnel. Behind him, he heard a soft, muffled gasp from Marie-Andrée; Johnny ended an incredibly fast run in a perfectly casual manner, played a vaguely final-sounding chord and stopped. The last booming note tingled in the air and then vanished – pathetically – into absolute silence.

  Outside in the street the three men leaning against the wall looked inquiringly at one another. Then the smallest nodded, took a packet of cigarettes from his macintosh pocket, and shook one loose into the palm of his hand.

  “Not much doubt about that, is there?” he said.

  Then, when nobody said anything, he pushed the unlit cigarette into his mouth and nodded again.

/>   The three men pushed themselves off the wall and, walking with easy, unhurried strides, crossed the, street, moving steadily towards Marie-Andrée’s flat.

  CHAPTER TEN

  DELACROIX shepherded them into the corner of the room with the quiet efficiency of a highly-trained sheepdog, sat down on the piano stool and hooked his ankle nonchalantly round the stem. His elbow rested on the keyboard and the pistol continued to point negligently just to the left of Antoine’s navel. Something seemed to be amusing him; at any rate, his mouth occasionally twisted slightly, as if its muscles were suppressing a chuckle.

  “Well,” he said eventually. “So here we all are. You’ve given us a lot of trouble, Antoine. Won’t you introduce me to your friends?”

  “Mademoiselle Duveyrier,” said Gervais in a faintly bored voice. “Captain Delacroix of the Dupont Brigade. Captain Delacroix: Monsieur Fedora of the British Intelligence Service.”

  The barrel of the pistol gave the slightest of noticeable jerks, then moved slightly in Johnny’s direction. “The pleasure is entirely mine,” said Delacroix uneasily. “Monsieur Fedora, of course, I know by reputation. I am surprised to find him concerned in our little private matters; but with such influential friends, it is no wonder that you took a great deal of tracing.”

  “Just how did you trace me?”

  “A telephone call from an anonymous well-wisher.” Delacroix surveyed Antoine’s face thoughtfully, his own remaining completely devoid of expression. “A woman.” His eyes wandered slightly sideways to Marie-Andrée, took in Johnny on the way back, and fixed themselves once more on Antoine. “There can be no harm in your knowing – now.”

  Antoine’s shoulder-blades moved slightly, a shrug that was abandoned before it had really commenced. “Thanks to Monsieur Fedora, I consider it possible that my innocence may be established by tomorrow. To kill me now, it would be ill-advised.”