“Righto!” His eyes turned towards the attaché case.
“Oh”—answering the unspoken question—“don’t you worry. I’ll have to go before they do.”
“You can’t be too careful here.”
“What—this hotel is all right, isn’t it?”
“I meant in Paris. It always was a damned hot shop—and now it’s ten million times worse than ever.”
“Oh, don’t you worry.” Clinton held out his hand, and Mallory, after a moment’s hesitation, took it.
“Good-night, old fellow,” he said, walking through the door.
“Good-night.”
There was a hint of coolness in Clinton’s tone as he returned the salutation. Then, with the other gone, he bolted the door, walked across the room, took the attaché case from the chair and turned the key. Taking some papers out of the case, he assured himself that none were missing. Then, replacing them, he locked the case again just as a tap—which sounded very discreet—came to his ears. Crossing the room, he unlocked the door.
Outside was the sallow waiter.
“Mademoiselle Roget to see you, monsieur,” he said in a sly whisper.
Disregarding the furtive smile of the man, Clinton asked: “Where is she?”
“Below, in the lounge—waiting, monsieur.”
The man was about to turn away when Clinton stopped him.
“Have you got a key to this room, Pierre?”
“A key, monsieur?” The waiter seemed startled.
“You heard what I said, you fool—a key.”
“Monsieur wants a key to the room.” The words were repeated in the manner of a stupid child endeavouring to learn a difficult lesson.
“A key to this room—I want to lock it up. Now do you understand?”
“I will go, monsieur.”
With the waiter departed on his errand, Clinton picked up the dispatch-case and stood in a thoughtful attitude for several minutes. He appeared to be pondering over some problem.
So it was that when Pierre returned with the required key, he found the officer still brooding.
“Here is the key, monsieur.”
Clinton took it, drew the man outside, and locked the door.
“Now, tell Mademoiselle Roget that I shall be down in a minute—give her my apologies for having kept her waiting.”
“Oui, monsieur.” The fellow hesitated for a moment and then put the question which was evidently uppermost in his mind. “Will not monsieur leave his case in the room?”
Clinton turned on him angrily.
“Mind your own business, damn you! Get on downstairs.”
This time the waiter fairly scuttled away.
Although his heart was thumping like an excited schoolboy’s, Clinton waited until he had tried the door again and thus made sure no one could enter the room without the key which was in his pocket. The words he had heard only a few minutes before from Mallory had returned to warn him. That was why he had picked up the dispatch-case instead of leaving it in the room. His suitcase was still standing by the side of the easy chair. He had not yet troubled to have it taken to his bedroom.
He snapped his fingers irritably. What a fool he was! Mallory’s nerves were shattered by shell-fire; that was why he had panicked so. Boche spies! The shadow on his face disappeared as he thought of the girl waiting for him, below. Marie, bless her, would make him forget. Of course, from the ethical point of view, he was behaving like a cad—but this was war; and aren’t women sent into the world to provide entertainment for weary soldiers? That had been the rule since the beginning of Time. Besides—and here he shrugged his shoulders—with an invalid wife.…Oh, hell! He was getting soft. He wished Mallory had not spouted all that stuff, although in the beginning he had been glad enough to see him.
Turning, he walked quickly towards the lift.
Chapter III
The Trap
For the space of ten seconds after the British officer’s footsteps had been heard walking down the corridor, the sitting-room he had just left remained undisturbed. Then the portrait of Napoleon slid aside like a shutter, and a man could have been observed looking into the room from behind it. After a careful survey, he stepped down, showing himself to belong to that unmistakable wartime class—a Prussian officer in mufti.
The intruder had not long to wait; a couple of minutes only had passed before the lock of the door clicked and the waiter Pierre entered, key in hand. At the sight of the other man, Pierre’s manner underwent a startling transformation. He saluted and stood rigidly at attention. He had changed from a nondescript into something approaching a personality.
Lieutenant von Ritter snapped out a question.
“Is the fool gone?”
“Yes, Herr Lieutenant. We shall have at least five minutes.”
The officer made a gesture of caution.
“Speak lower,” he said. “You never know who may be out there in the corridor. Have you arranged everything?”
“Yes, Herr Lieutenant.”
“When Marie comes up, wait for your opportunity, and give her this. She’ll know what to do.”
The waiter took the phial that was extended to him.
“Yes, Herr Lieutenant. Has the Englishman brought anything important?”
The officer glared at him as though resenting such impertinence. Then, excitement rising in his voice, he replied: “Something colossal, I am told. We mustn’t miss it.”
“Himmel, no! It is not every day we get such a chance. Were you cramped up there, Herr Lieutenant?”
The other made a grimace.
“Horribly. Still, it’s worth some discomfort to do such work for the Fatherland.” With youthful enthusiasm—he did not look more than twenty-six—he continued: “This fool Englishman has brought the formula of a new gas—at least, that is what they wired us from London. It is something big, without a doubt.”
“We must hurry, Herr Lieutenant,” stated the waiter, looking anxiously at the door.
For reply, von Ritter pointed to the phial.
“That is what you are to give to Marie,” he said. “That will keep him quiet—while we deal with the contents of his case.”
“But he has taken the case with him. We must wait until he returns.”
“Never mind. See that Marie has that stuff.”
“Won’t he taste it, Herr Lieutenant?”
“No; it’s practically tasteless. He’ll be off like a log in a quarter of an hour.”
The waiter smiled evilly.
“You’d better go now,” observed the other; “he may be back any minute.”
“Very well, Herr Lieutenant.” Saluting, he turned and left the room.
Waiting only until he heard the key click in the lock again, von Ritter re-entered the spy trap, shut it, and the picture of Napoleon swung back into place.
***
When, five minutes later, Alan Clinton entered the room by the side of a remarkably pretty girl of nineteen he looked as though he had cast all his cares aside. But he did not give Marie Roget the passionate embrace she expected until he had locked the door behind them and deposited the dispatch-case in a chair by the farther side of the room.
“Have I to wait so long?” plaintively inquired his companion.
He turned quickly.
“Darling!” he cried.
After kissing her passionately he held her at arm’s length and looked long into her face.
“Do you know, you’re prettier than ever, Marie.”
The girl laughed.
“You say such nice things, Alan,” she replied, with only a trace of accent. “That is perhaps one of the reasons why I love you so.”
She yielded herself to his caressing hands.
“It is lovely to be with you again—it has seemed so long since you went away. Eng
lishmen are so frank and charming,” she added with a certain naïveté.
“Englishmen?”
She laughed at her mistake—“One Englishman, I should have said.”
Still he was not quite satisfied.
“There’s no one else?” he asked suspiciously. “My God, if I thought there was, Marie—”
She satisfied him with a kiss.
“Of course not. Don’t be so silly. I love you—and you alone. Oh, Alan, how I do love you!”
He was mollified.
“If you hadn’t told me that I think I should have gone mad.” The suspicion passing, he became himself again.
The girl took off her hat and flung it gaily into a chair.
“Now tell me,” she said, “why have I had to wait so long? Why have you not written to me before?”
“Darling child, you seem to forget that there’s a war on. I’ve been terribly busy in London.”
“Too busy to think of even love?” she provoked him.
“Once more, child, let me remind you that we’re at war.”
“But isn’t that the time for love? The warrior and the woman, n’est-ce-pas?” Again she looked at him in a manner that made his heart melt.
“My God, Marie!” he cried, straining her to him again. “You’re marvellous—just marvellous!”
“What do you do when I’m away?” asked Clinton after a moment.
“What do I do, Alan? Why, I spend all the time thinking of you—that is what I do. I am always thinking of you. Do you remember that garden at Amiens?”
“Shall I ever forget it?” he exclaimed. “The first time I saw you—” He stared at the wall above her head. “Looking back, it’s all like a dream.”
Her lips sought his mouth. “But this is real.”
“Yes,” he laughed, “there’s no dream about this. Come here, you witch.” He took a chair and pulled her down on to his knee.
With a slim finger she traced imaginary lines on his forehead and face.
“You look worried, Alan—troubled. Is there anything wrong with you?”
He sighed.
“Oh, life’s just a nightmare—has been for me lately, anyway.”
“A nightmare?” Her face expressed surprise. “But you are not in the trenches. You have been home to England—or is it that you have told me lies?”
“No, I haven’t told you any lies. I’ve been back home all right. But”—breaking off—“look here, we mustn’t talk about the war!—It’s taboo—verboten.”
She reproached him with a gesture.
“‘Verboten’? That’s a German word. I hate it.”
He laughed.
“Well, come to that, ‘Boche’ sounds German too—but everybody’s using it.” A knock. “And here comes our champagne.”
He unlocked the door.
“Those dreadful Boches!” She shuddered. “They are trying to blow my beautiful Paris to bits. But do not worry yourself; let us drink this wine”—turning away and busying herself with the champagne which the waiter Pierre had now brought.
“And don’t you worry about that: they won’t succeed, my dear.” He raised the glass she gave him.
The words appeared to console her, for she placed her head on his shoulder while her arms crept round his neck.
The departing waiter discreetly shut the door.
“How much longer is this terrible war going to last, Alan? When can we be together for always?”
At that moment Clinton would have been prepared to sacrifice what remained of his marital honour; he would have liked nothing better than to escape with this enchantress to some distant part of the world, where they could spend the rest of their lives in peace. But this could not be thought of; it belonged to the realm of fantasy. With a jerk, he came back once again to reality. Once more he locked the door.
“Until we can get the Boche on the run, my dear,” he said, answering her question.
“And when will that be?”
He shook his head.
“Ask me something easier.” A note of asperity crept into his voice.
But she was not satisfied.
“You English are so wonderful. Even here in Paris they are relying on you to beat the Boche.” She looked up at his face and her lips pressed themselves against his cheek. “Haven’t your Generals anything—what you say?—up their sleeve?”
“Well, as a matter of fact—” He stopped suddenly. Good God! What had he been about to say? He must be more careful.
“What were you going to tell me, Alan?” she pressed.
He disengaged the arms that were clinging to him and spoke seriously.
“Look here, darling,” he told her, “we’ve simply got to stop talking about the war.”
She made a little grimace.
“Is it that you don’t trust me?”
“Of course not.”
“Then tell me what this new work is you’re doing in London.”
“You mustn’t ask me that. It’s a secret.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“That’s all right, but don’t let’s talk about the war. Time is far too precious. Oh, Marie, if you only knew how I have looked forward to seeing you again! It was because I felt I would go mad if I didn’t hold you in my arms soon that I got them to send me across instead of another man.”
“Another man? Who was he?”
“Oh, he was in the regular Intelligence.”
“But how brave of you! You might have been murdered. This Paris, I am told, is full of enemy spies.”
He laughed. With her bewitching body so near him, the thought of death was impossible. With a fresh wave of intoxication passing through him, he drew her to him again. For a time the world seemed to stand still. Then Marie disengaged herself.
“You English are so splendid,” she said, lifting a beautifully moulded hand to stroke his face. “My eyes fill with tears when I think of your sacrifices for my beautiful France.”
If any one else had said the grandiloquent words Clinton would have smiled. As it was, there was a certain curtness in his reply.
“We gave our word and we had to keep it.”
She embraced him.
“Alan, you are so strong. How I love you when you speak like that!”
“Yes, yes, my dear. But now let’s be practical. Going to stay here with me to-night? But of course you will—you promised.”
She looked at him provocatively.
“Did I?”
“Of course you did. Oh, Marie, you’re not going to disappoint me?”
“No, darling, I will not disappoint. I have been saving myself up for you. Yes, I will stay here to-night and we will make wonderful love. But I must return first thing to-morrow morning.”
“Darling! I say,” he went on, prompted by a feeling of generosity, “wouldn’t you like to go out to a theatre or something? I hope you won’t”—laughing in an ashamed sort of way—“but I had to ask you.”
“You needn’t have. No, I want to make the most of every minute with you. I can go to the theatre when you are away.”
He looked at her.
“You speak wonderful English, Marie.”
She met the half-uttered suspicion unafraid.
“Have I not told you?” she retorted. “I was so much in London.”
“When was this?”
“When I was a child—just a little girl. Do you know Hampstead Heath?”
He laughed.
“Hampstead Heath? Yes, I know it very well. Good God! I can hardly imagine at this moment that such a place exists.” He put a hand up to his head. “Does it strike you that this room is getting very hot?”
“Hot?” she repeated. “No, I had not thought so.”
“Is the window open?”
“Yes—why?�
�
“Excuse me, darling.” He rose unsteadily to his feet and walked across the room. His manner was that of a man who was afraid that something was going to happen to him.
She followed him.
“Sit down, my dear. You are not going to be ill?”
“I hope not. I was perfectly all right until I drank that wine.”
“Oh,” she said, “it could not have been the wine. I had a glass myself, if you remember—and, you see, I am perfectly all right. No, something must have upset you during the journey. Soon you will be perfectly all right—and I am here to look after you.”
Thus urged, Clinton sat down and, fired by her beauty, patted his knee.
“Marie!”
The girl shook her head.
“No, no more love-making for the moment. You must recover yourself. Besides, the waiter may be coming back in a minute. Put your feet up and be comfortable.”
His speech became slurred.
“The waiter.…I—don’t—know—anything—about—the waiter—coming—back. But, of course—if—you—want anything?”
“I’d like some coffee.…”
“You—shall—have—some. And…chocolates, eh?” Getting to his feet again, he staggered across the room and pressed the electric bell.
“You are so kind to me, Alan.”
If his unsteady gait had been remarked by her—as it must have been—she made no further comment.
“Kind?” he returned like a drunken man. “It’s—dam’—good—of you—to come. What—about—your parents? Aren’t—they—very strict?”
“Oh, yes, they are very strict.” She emphasised the words by nodding her head. “But when your telegram came I just slipped out and left them a note.”
He laughed—stupidly.
“Little—devil! What—did—you—tell—them?”
“Why, I just said that a friend of mine—a girl, of course—was very, very ill in Paris and that I had to go and see her.”
“That’s good—that’s dam’ good. Very—very—ill. Well—I’m ill—ill with—love—of you.”
He lurched his way back to the chair, groping with his hands for support. As his head sank against the back of the chair, the girl came and stood over him.
“Happy?” she asked.
“Utterly.”
The Traitor: A British Library Spy Classic (British Library Spy Classics Book 2) Page 3
