“What about this fellow Clinton?”
“Clinton?” Bentley looked at his questioner in surprise. “He’s all right. A most decent fellow. Knew his father—was with him at Oxford. Eustace Clinton was one of the best blokes I ever knew—and his son takes after him.”
“Have you sent for him?”
“I have, as a matter of fact. Not that he’ll be able to tell us anything, I suppose. By the way,” putting his hand into his pocket, “I’ve got his report here. It gives exact details of how he spent his time from the moment he left the War Office until he handed the dispatches over to me. He never left them for a moment—according to his report,” taking a paper from his pocket.
“He stopped the night in Paris, didn’t he?”
“Yes. What’s that got to do with it?”
“It may have a great deal to do with it. I know these nights in Paris,” went on General Garside. “Where did he stay?”
Bentley looked at the paper.
“He gives the name somewhere. Oh, here it is—the Lion d’Or Hotel.”
“Never heard of it. I wonder if the dispatches were got at during the night? You can never tell, these days.”
Bentley lowered his head again.
“No,”—reading from the report,—“he distinctly states that he didn’t sleep at all that night.”
“Why not?”
“His reason is that it was too hot.”
“All the same—” started Garside, who gave no sign, yet, of being convinced.
“Hold your horses a minute, Garside. He’s got some corroboration of that. He says he spent the night talking to an old school friend—Captain Mallory of the Gunners.”
“Mallory? I know him. Thoroughly reliable chap. Is he coming here, too?”
“Yes; we had to recall him from leave. I’m expecting them both at any moment. Perhaps you’d like to stay?”
“Sorry, but I have to go along to see the Big Man.”
“I don’t wonder at it, after this ghastly business. Well, anyway, you can rely upon me to put these two fellows through it properly. I’m going to get at the truth somehow.”
“It certainly must be cleared up. We can’t have men’s lives thrown away in this reckless fashion.”
“You ought to talk to certain people higher up about that, Garside.”
The other, more cautious, let the words go by. He had turned away when there was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” called Bentley.
An orderly entered. He saluted both generals.
“Captain Clinton and Captain Mallory are waiting, sir,” he stated.
“Well, I’ll be off,” said Garside. “Good-bye. See you at lunch?”
“I hope so.”
As soon as Garside had left, Bentley gave the orderly his instructions.
“Tell the two officers to come in.”
“Yes, sir.”
Bentley was reading Clinton’s report when they entered.
“Good-morning, gentlemen,” started the General. “Please sit down. I’ve just been through your report, Captain Clinton.” Both men, he noticed, appeared very ill at ease. “So far as it goes it seems very straightforward. But all the same I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.”
Clinton moved nervously in his chair.
“Very good, General. I shall be pleased to answer anything I possibly can.”
“Now, according to this report,” said Bentley, “General Hutchinson handed you those dispatches on the afternoon of August the third. Is that correct?”
“Yes, sir.”
“At the War Office?”
“At the War Office, sir.”
“You put them in a dispatch-case, of course?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Was it locked?”
“Yes, sir. General Hutchinson gave me the key at the same time.”
“Quite so. Then,”—examining the report again,—“as I understand it, you had tea and caught the four-thirty train for Dover?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You crossed to Calais?”
“Yes, sir.”
“According to this,” pointing again to the report, “you put the dispatch-case into a bag?”
“Yes, sir, a locked suitcase.”
“This bag never left your hands, either on the boat or on the train to Paris?”
“No, sir. As a matter of fact, it was on the seat by my side. You see, General, I was afraid of anything happening, and I wasn’t going to take any chances.”
“Very wise of you. You had to hand over the dispatches next day to me, and spent the night, I notice,” once again examining the report, “at a hotel called the Lion d’Or. Is that correct?”
“Perfectly correct, sir.”
“You also were staying there, I believe, Captain Mallory?”
Mallory took some time before replying.
“Well, I’m waiting for your answer,” said General Bentley.
“I’m sorry, sir.” The R.F.A. officer pulled himself together. His hesitation was noticeable. “Yes, sir,” he finally said. “I stayed at the Lion d’Or as well.”
His inquisitor frowned.
“What sort of place is this hotel? Well conducted?”
“Oh, quite, General. I have never heard anything against it.”
“Do you know it well?”
“Not well, sir, but—”
“I know it very well, indeed, General,” put in Clinton. “I’ve stayed there several times before.”
“I see. Now, I understand, Captain Clinton, that you and Captain Mallory are old school friends?”
“Yes, sir; we were at Repington together.”
“Really? Good school, Repington.…But to return. You two spent the evening together, I understand?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Clinton.
“The whole evening?”
There was a momentary pause. Then:
“Yes, sir.”
“Now, this is most important. You state in this report, Clinton, that you did not go to bed at all that night—that it was too hot for you to sleep. You and Mallory sat up all night talking about old times. Is that correct?”
“Quite correct, sir,” but a flush had crept into the speaker’s face.
“Do you agree with that statement, Captain Mallory?”
“Yes—sir.” The words were almost inaudible.
“You give me your word that you spent the entire night in Captain Clinton’s company—is that so?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m sorry to put it this way—but I must ask you if that is the truth?”
“It is the truth, sir.”
“Good. The bag containing the dispatches was with you the whole time, of course?”
Clinton could stand this no longer. He hated to see his friend lying on his behalf.
“Yes, sir,” he replied for Mallory.
“The next day it was duly handed over to me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“One last question: During your journey from England the bag never left your charge? There was no reason to suspect that it could, at any other time, have been tampered with?”
“No, sir. As I have said, the bag never left my care.”
“Thank you, gentlemen,” summed up the General. “I wanted to be quite sure in my own mind. But, nevertheless, there has been a leakage, and that leakage has accounted for our defeat yesterday, and the loss of over five thousand British lives.” There was a knock on the door, but the speaker disregarded it. “But, of course,” he continued, “now that I’ve—”
The knock was repeated.
“Come in,” he said, raising his voice.
The orderly, entering, saluted.
“Major Wright is waiting, sir.
He says it’s rather urgent.”
“Oh, very well, I’ll come.”
After the orderly had closed the door, he concluded his remarks to the two officers.
“As I was saying, now that I have seen you and gone into the matter thoroughly, I find that no blame can be attached to either of you. That is, of course, if you are both speaking the truth—which I hope is the case. Wait here, please; I’ll be back soon.” Walking purposefully to the door, he left them together.
Mallory turned on Clinton with such fury that the latter imagined he intended to knock him down.
“You bloody swine!” he cried between clenched teeth.
“Not so loud, for God’s sake!” sent back the infantry officer.
“Not so loud! I don’t wonder that you are afraid. You slept with a woman all that night.”
Clinton, grey beneath his tan, endeavoured to excuse himself.
“Don’t you see I had to say that? What else could I do? But the dispatches were all right; no one could have touched them.”
“How do you know? That girl may have been a spy.”
“Stop that, Mallory! Stop it, I say, or—”
“Or—what?”
The challenge was ignored. Clinton made a despairing gesture.
“I know what you’re thinking—but it’s wrong. Wrong, I tell you. Marie was straight; she’s no more a spy than you are.”
“Some one you met was a spy—and why not she? You say she’s all right, but the Boche got the news, and she seems the most likely source.”
Clinton’s nerves were bringing him to the verge of hysteria.
“I tell you, the papers were untouched.” Yet, try as he might, he was not able to fight down that unnerving fear. Five thousand lives.…
Mallory persisted.
“How do you know they weren’t photographed?”
The other, still trying to fight his fear, cried in a cracked voice: “Impossible!”
The accusing voice went on:
“If it’s impossible, then why didn’t you tell the truth? Why invent a pack of lies, and call me in to corroborate them? Is that why I’ve been brought back from leave? Good God!”
“I thought you’d be glad to help me.”
“So I would, in any ordinary thing—but not in a case of this kind. I had to lie to save your blasted skin.”
“No harm’s been done, old man.”
“Don’t call me ‘old man.’ Don’t you realise that five thousand lives—the lives of better men than you and I—have been absolutely flung away? Don’t you realise that it may have been your fault—and all through sleeping with a woman?”
“You’re talking rubbish.”
“I’m talking what is probably the truth. I lied to save you; I lied because we were friends. But, damn you, I never want to see you again. I thought you were a man; I find you’re a skunk.”
In the same weak, unsteady voice—his nerves being all shot to pieces by this time—Clinton endeavoured to put up a further defence.
“You’re shooting off just so much hot air,” he said.
Mallory looked at him and read in his face what he believed to be the truth.
“When you can convince me that the Boche didn’t get this news through your mistress—a temporary one, I expect—I’ll talk to you again. Meantime, there’s only one name I have for you, and that’s ‘outsider.’ ’’ He turned fiercely away and, disregarding the instructions he had received from Major General Bentley, left the room.
BOOK II
Chapter I
Kuhnreich Commands
In the huge, barely furnished room which he used as an office, Kuhnreich, the supreme dictator of Ronstadt, that mighty empire of over sixty million souls, faced the Chief of his Secret Police. Emil Crosber, with his mean, shrivelled, sallow face, was almost as much feared as the Iron Man himself. His nickname amongst the masses was unprintable.
“You have found the woman?” snapped Kuhnreich.
The other bowed his head in slavish homage.
“I have found her, Excellency. She is waiting outside.”
The Dictator, never one to waste words, pressed a button on his desk. To the secretary who came in he gave the necessary order.
A couple of minutes later a woman, whose beauty of both face and figure was striking, walked through the door. Whatever her inmost feelings may have been as she caught the cold, implacable stare of the man seated at the desk, she gave no sign of either fear or confusion. Mentally Kuhnreich registered a grudging admiration of such courage. A person of steel nerves himself (although some said he was a hopeless neurotic), he esteemed bravery in others.
He came immediately to the point.
“Your name is Minna Braun?”
“Yes, your Excellency.”
“Seventeen years ago—that is to say, during the last year of the war—you were employed by the German Intelligence?”
This time she did not answer in words, but inclined her head.
Crosber pushed over a file and with an elaborately manicured finger indicated some entries on a certain page. Kuhnreich glanced at the typewritten lines and then resumed his examination.
“You then posed as a French girl by name Marie Roget?”
A smile played around the shapely mouth.
“With some success, your Excellency.”
“I agree, Fräulein,” came the harsh retort; “but, if you please, we will leave the compliments to a later time.…Your age was then nineteen?”
“That is correct, Excellency.”
He stared at her. To himself he said, “She does not look thirty-five.” But to the woman: “A chance has come for you to serve Ronstadt with the same courage and efficiency as years ago you served Germany.”
The manner in which the words were uttered left no doubt that the speaker expected an immediate affirmative response, but the woman kept silent. Working for the new State of Ronstadt was a very different thing from working for the Wilhelmstrasse. Her old taskmasters had exercised a cruel despotism, it was true, but at least they paid well. Kuhnreich, fired with a madman’s fanaticism, expected, on the other hand, a selfless sacrifice to what he grandiloquently styled “the call of the State.”
“You do not answer.”
The words cut the air like so many sweeps of a sword. Crosber’s yellow features twitched. Was the woman insane?
“Your Excellency,” came the reply after a pause, “much as I should like to do what you ask, I regret my hands are tied. I am no longer a free agent.”
The man who ruled arbitrarily over the destinies of sixty million human beings rose from his seat. His bull-like neck was out-thrust, his face swollen with the terrific inrush of blood to the veins.
“Is it because you are living as the mistress of the Jew Masalsky that you are no longer a free agent? Answer me!” he thundered, his clenched fists raised as though he were addressing a mass meeting of his intoxicated adherents.
The woman, afraid to meet his challenge, looked at Crosber. The Chief of Secret Police paid her no heed; he was directing all his attention to his freshly-manicured fingernails. Sophie certainly did her work very well.…
Minna Braun felt her bones turning to water. Fear struck her like a fell disease. When she had entered that room a few minutes before, she had been sustained by the realisation that, in spite of her age, she was an exceedingly attractive woman—so attractive, indeed, that a month back she had gained the appreciative notice of Ferdor Masalsky, so many times a millionaire that he was said to be the richest man in the capital.
But he was also a Jew.…And Kuhnreich, she knew, hated Jews with a virulence that bordered on the incredible.
“Masalsky, your protector, has been ordered to leave Ronstadt within forty-eight hours.”
“Why?” The word was forced out of her inner consciousness befo
re she realised what she was saying.
The Dictator looked as though he were about to have an epileptic paroxysm. He waved a hand at Crosber.
“It grieves me to say that Ferdor Masalsky has been found guilty of treasonable conduct against the State,” the latter said in his high, squeaky voice. “It is therefore necessary that he should be deported immediately and”—a momentary pause—“his money confiscated.”
Minna’s knees trembled. It was a plot—the vilest kind of plot—against the man who had given her every conceivable luxury; and it was this which caused her even more consternation of soul; the action had been taken because these two had meant to trap her. They—the wolf, Crosber, and the man without mercy, Kuhnreich—had set such a snare that it was impossible for her to do anything but fall into it.
“You will work for Ronstadt as you worked for Germany.…Crosber will now give you your instructions.”
With these words she was dismissed.
“You do not appear to appreciate the fact, but his Excellency has been very generous. He could have ordered you severe punishment for associating with that Jew. Aren’t you ashamed, as a good citizeness of Ronstadt, to have had any dealings with such a traitor?”
She did not reply—not because she could find no words to say, but because she was afraid that if she once opened her lips she would say too much.
“As it is, you are to be given a great opportunity to serve the State. Instead of scowling there, you should be proud.”
The atmosphere of this room—the most private of all the many private rooms occupied in that building by the Chief of the Pé Secret Police—seemed stifling. She remembered some of the many terrible things that people whispered this man Crosber had done—some almost too ghastly to be given human credence. What a fool she had been to come back! She had been happy enough in America; she should have stayed there. America was a country where one could be free: Ronstadt was nothing but one huge and horrible prison.
The voice of Crosber continued.
“Yes, proud,” he was saying. “We could have selected many women to undertake this task, but I induced his Excellency to choose you. I have always had a preference for von Jago’s former agents. The old fox certainly knew his work.”
The Traitor: A British Library Spy Classic (British Library Spy Classics Book 2) Page 5
