“Of course. It would mean that every enemy aeroplane could be driven out of the sky.”
The Prime Minister remained silent for a few moments. Then:
“By the way, how’s Mallory?”
Fordinghame smiled.
“There’s a queer cuss if you like.…Oh, he’s all right,” he added hastily.
“Why queer?” asked Devenish.
The visitor proceeded to tell him—in a low tone.
At the end the Prime Minister blew cigar-smoke reflectively.
“It was a pity about Jill Chester,” he remarked.
***
While this conversation was proceeding, some hundreds of miles away a man rolled out of a frowsy bed in a side-street off the Friedrichstrasse in Pé. Since the arrival in power of Kuhnreich, the perfervid propagandists of Ronstadt had blared incessantly that the former unsavoury night-life—which for some years after the end of the late war had made Pé the most notorious capital in Europe—had been completely cleaned up.
The man who now sat yawning on the side of his bed always smiled when he heard that. It is true he never allowed any one to see him smiling—but still he smiled.
Seventeen years had wrought a great change in Adolf von Ritter. To begin with, he had dropped the aristocratic von, and was now known simply as Ritter. Then, he had lost much, if not all, of his former offensive arrogance: the old Prussian jackbootery had gone out of fashion, even it if had been replaced by something even more ruthless and terrible.
After the war von Ritter, like thousands of his class, had found his occupation gone. A new world had come and it was a world in which he found he had no place. The different revolutions preceding the upheaval that had led to Kuhnreich’s being enthroned as the first Dictator Ronstadt had ever known had scattered his class and sent the majority penniless into the outside world. A great many had fled to other countries, especially America; those who remained found themselves performing strangely menial jobs in order to get the means to live. Only a few tried to put up a show against the amazing new conditions.
Adolf von Ritter was not included in their category. In spite of undoubted personal courage, he had a very strong sense of self-protection. As a former Intelligence officer, he knew that his services would have a certain value to the new régime.
And he was right: before long he was summoned to a certain room hidden discreetly away at the back of the Unter den Linden; there he was put through an exhausting examination by a huge man dressed in a brown shirt and military breeches, who kept a hand on his revolver holster throughout the talk. Von Ritter recognised his inquisitor; years before, this man had been running errands for the butcher who supplied the von Ritter family with meat.…
After two hours’ searching examination, he had been passed on to another Storm-trooper, and finally he had found himself in the presence of the man whose very name caused a shudder to pass through any community in which it was uttered.
Emil Crosber was a stoop-shouldered man of fifty-eight. Some said he was consumptive, and his hollow chest and sallow complexion certainly seemed to indicate within his spare frame some deadly disease waiting to pounce. But whether his body was tainted or healthy, there could be no question about his mind being malignant.
Crosber had been reared in the traditions of the Secret Police in the deposed Emperor’s time—and he knew how to hunt rats. It did not matter to him what type the rats belonged; as long as his superiors declared them to be rats, and that they had to be hunted, he was prepared to seek them out and apply a painful system of extermination.
Experience had taught him that renegades—and here was a very good specimen standing before him now, unless he was mistaken—often made the best hirelings. For one thing, they were so mortally afraid of their own skins, while for another they generally sought to win favour with superiors by being especially zealous.
In short, the former proud Prussian officer, Captain Adolf von Ritter, was placed in a minor capacity in Emil Crosber’s “National Guard”—as his hand-picked Secret Police were called. Like the rest, he was detailed to hunt rats—or, rather, those men and women who, according to Crosber’s reckoning, came under that heading.
He had proved successful. There had been no trick so foul that he had not played it. Posing as a degenerate, he had slunk through the underworld, listening and prying. Every now and then he would retire to a quiet corner and there, unobserved, make an entry in a small book…and that same night, or, at the latest, within a few hours, the man or woman who had been so rash as to criticise any ruling of the wise, beneficent, and all-powerful Kuhnreich, or those of any of his chief myrmidons, disappeared.
No one asked any questions—at least, not in public. By this time men’s minds were so blurred that the fantastic and the incredible were accepted as the ordinary and commonplace.
Of course, Ritter had escapes. He was suspected, and attempts were made to silence this agent provocateur; but after two men had died (horribly) as the result, he was allowed to go his filthy way more or less in peace.
***
Walking across the small room, Ritter scowled at himself in the spotty mirror hanging on the wall. He was sick of his present life. Blast Crosber! Although he had been a success, his pay wouldn’t have served him for tips in the old days. He could no longer afford to buy decent clothes, smokable cigarettes, or drinkable liquor. And now he had to go on duty again—prowling, listening, reporting.…
His discontented musings were interrupted by a knock on the door. It was a low, stealthy sound and, instinctively, he reached for the revolver placed on the small table by the side of the camp bed.
The man who entered after he had turned the key in the lock wasted no words. He merely said a name:
“Crosber!”
“What does he want?”
“He wants to see you.”
“Now?”
“At once—you are to come with me.”
Ritter speculated momentarily—would it not be better if he turned the revolver he still held on himself? He knew of other men who had been asked, with equal unexpectedness, to go to Crosber—and had never come back. Crosber had his whims; and he never required very much of an excuse if he thought that an underling had outlived his usefulness.
“Come on—what are you wasting time for?”
Ritter got a grip on himself. He became more or less reassured. He could think of nothing that he had left undone; he had been a zealous agent to Crosber ever since the Chief of Secret Police had engaged him for special duties.
He dressed himself quickly.
The wheel had turned in the most unexpected manner. Ritter listened almost incredulously.
“Here is sufficient money to turn you into a gentleman,” Crosber repeated; “you will buy what clothes are necessary. In this envelope you will find your full instructions. After you have committed them to memory, burn the paper. That is all—except”—as the other turned to leave—“don’t fail me. If you do, I shall listen to no excuses.”
Adolf Ritter became, for the space of exactly thirty seconds, Adolf von Ritter.
“Whatever it is—I shall succeed,” he said stiffly.
Emil Crosber smiled at him sardonically.
“None of your theatricals here,” he retorted.
Chapter V
Rosemary Is Provocative
“Rosemary!”
Her usually reliable heart commenced to do the most absurd things as she looked into Bobby’s face. There could be no possible doubt that he was unfeignedly glad to see her. The sweet, sweet fool!
“My dear, I never thought that you’d take the trouble,” he said, and flushed most delightfully.
She had to pretend, although she wanted nothing quite so much as to throw her arms around his neck.
“My dear, good ass, there’s no need for you to hang so many bouquets on me. I had t
o come down this way, and, remembering you were going by the nine o’clock plane, I thought I’d look in. That’s all,” she added, with a puzzling smile.
Bobby Wingate felt bewildered. What extraordinary creatures girls were! Only a couple of nights before, Rosemary had been sportsman enough to give her feelings completely away. And now here she was, resolutely cutting out every possible suggestion of sentiment, and treating him as though he were merely one of a crowd! It made him feel sick; but in the circumstances there was nothing else to do but fall in with her suggestion and follow her lead. It was he who had applied the closure so far as love was concerned, and therefore he had no possible cause for complaint.
“How soon before she goes?” asked the girl, pointing to the giant passenger plane.
“Five minutes, I think. I say, Rosemary,”—unable to control his voice, although he tried hard enough—“it was terribly decent of you to come—really.”
She lit a cigarette with a little defiant gesture.
“Stop swinging the incense, old man—and think of the good time you’re going to have on leave.” If there was a little bitterness in her voice was she to be blamed? Not used to feeling frustrated Rosemary now had an inclination to damn the whole world.
Bobby bit his lip. Watching that momentary twitch of pain pass over the face of the girl he was sorely tempted to say: “To hell with Paris—I’m going to spend my leave in town with you.” But, as this would have been a direct contradiction to all the plans he had made, he kept silent. There was an awkward pause. Both felt there was so much to say—and yet they did not know how to start. It was during this silence that Bobby turned at a touch on his shoulder.
“Why, Uncle Peter!” he exclaimed. For there, smiling at him, was Mallory.
“Thought I’d come to wish you bon voyage, my boy,” was the excuse the older man made. “As a matter of fact,” he went on, “I may be running across you somewhere or other later on. I’m going over to Pé next week to see about some insurance business in connection with the exhibition of agricultural machinery.”
Bobby for the moment was nonplussed. Then he quickly recovered himself.
“Why, that’ll be fine,” he declared. “Oh, by the way, let me introduce Miss Rosemary Allister—this is Mr. Peter Mallory, a great pal of my father’s.”
“And of yours, I hope, Bobby?”
“Well, yes, of course—awfully good of you to put it that way.”
Rosemary, taking the proffered hand, looked at the older man keenly. She had heard a great deal about Peter Mallory in one way or another—especially from Mrs. Clinton—and, keenly interested in human character, she was now giving him what she would have termed the “once-over.”
She saw a tall, rather gaunt man of latish middle-age, who appeared to have grown old before his time. She did not know exactly why this impression formed itself in her mind; it may have been the lined face, or the somewhat nervous mannerisms which the man appeared to have. But there was the conviction. Mallory addressed her in a pleasant voice slightly tinged with an Irish accent. “I feel I know you already,” he said.
“You do?”
“Yes. You see, Bobby has been talking.…”
“Oh! He has, has he?”
“And I don’t wonder at it.” The words were no doubt intended as a compliment, but somehow she found herself resenting them. A little storm of anger broke inside her.
“Well, he’ll have plenty of other things to talk about during the next ten days—won’t you, Bobby?”
He looked at her wonderingly. “I don’t know about that,” he muttered, feeling ill at ease.
It was Mallory who helped him out.
“But I’ll wager that when he comes back he’ll swear that the French girls aren’t to be compared with—”
“Oh, you needn’t trouble to say asinine things, Mr. Mallory,” was Rosemary’s crisp comment.
The tension grew instead of lessening. Bobby felt angry with himself and angry with the world. He recalled a remark made by his O.C. at Mess on the last night he was at Woolvington.
“Say what you like, you fellows,” the Colonel had declared, “but men have a natural antipathy towards women. Oh, I know that the sexes call to each other—who better?”—with a slight chuckle—“but, nevertheless, I maintain that what I’m saying is right. When men want to have a good time—a good time with no subsequent worries, that is—they go to their club or foregather as we are doing now. Being in love”—turning to Captain Holliday, who had brought the subject up—“is the very devil. It upsets and disturbs a man no end. I ought to know,”—with another chuckle—“I’ve had sufficient experience in my time.”
Bobby remembered that he had listened aghast to what at the time he considered was rank blasphemy. But now that he felt his nerves fretted, he was not so sure but what the Old Man was right. Yet, all the same when he looked at Rosemary’s face.…
A warning for the passengers to take their places broke up the little group. Rosemary, living up to the compact she had made with herself to cut out any sentiment, held out her hand to be shaken instead of proffering her lips to be kissed, while Mallory clapped the young man heartily on the shoulder as Robert stepped into the plane. The two watched the giant sky bird take off, and then Rosemary made a suggestion.
“Going back to town, Mr. Mallory?”
“Yes.”
“Then perhaps you’d like me to give you a lift?”
There was something about this man which interested her. She didn’t quite know yet what it was—but she meant to find out.
“It’s very good of you—thanks very much.”
Once the two-seater was humming its way through the streets, the girl decided to waste no further time.
“I suppose I shall be seeing something of you in the future, Mr. Mallory?”
He turned to look at her.
“Oh, you mustn’t think that I’m asking you to invite me out to dinner—”
“Much as I should like to,” he put in.
She disregarded the words.
“No, I didn’t mean that,” she went on to explain. “But aren’t you a friend of Sir Brian Fordinghame?”
“Yes—a great friend. We’ve known each other for years. Why?” His tone had sharpened and his manner became taut.
“Oh, nothing—only I’ve just got a job with Sir Brian.”
“A job? You?”
“Yes, as assistant personal secretary. You see, Daddy—you know he’s a banker, I suppose?—wanted me to ‘try to fulfil some useful purpose in life,’ as he put it, and so I actually learned typing and shorthand. The idea was, I believe, that I should go into the bank—but I found it terribly dull. Life with Sir Brian promises a good deal more.”
“Funny Fordinghame hasn’t mentioned anything to me about this.”
“Funny?” She seized on the word. “Why should it be funny? Are you as much in his confidence as all that?”
He turned the question aside.
“I’m afraid that was rather an absurd thing for me to say—forgive me,” he returned.
“Of course. Give a man time enough and he generally finds something absurd to say—at least, that’s my experience.”
“Surely you’re not a cynic at your age, Miss Allister?”
“I don’t know about being a cynic—but I know quite a lot about men,” was the succinct answer.
Conversation flagged after that. Rosemary, concentrating on driving, asked herself one question: was it possible that this man, who seemed so queerly introspective, was one of the secret agents attached to Sir Brian Fordinghame’s Y.1 staff? She would have to find out. Funny that he should have made that remark about going to Pé—especially when tension between the two countries was so acute. Ten minutes or so had passed when Mallory renewed the conversation. “I was quite serious about the dinner.”
“Dinne
r?” she repeated. “I don’t remember anything about a dinner.”
“Very well; I’ll put it in a different way: would you honour me, Miss Allister, by dining with me one night?”
She prevaricated, desiring time to make up her mind.
“Well,” she compromised, “you can always give me a ring. I’m in the book.”
“Thanks—I will.”
***
She dropped him in Knightsbridge, Mallory saying he had a call to make. During the remainder of the drive to Clarges Square, Rosemary was thoughtful. Did she like this man—or did she dislike him? There was no question of sex, of course: for one thing, he was old enough to be her father, and, for another, so long as she had anything to give, for just so long would only one man—Bobby Wingate—exercise sufficient attraction.…No, it certainly wasn’t sex. It was something which she could not yet define. No doubt, at a later date, some clearer perception would arise, but, in the meantime, she had to content herself with the knowledge that Peter Mallory was a man who was going to claim a good deal of her close attention during the next few weeks.
Her thoughts switched.
It was a wonderful stroke of luck, getting that job with Sir Brian Fordinghame. Of course, her father had helped, using a certain amount of influence, but all the same she knew herself to be jolly fortunate.
Fordinghame had been very honest with her.
“I don’t know that I could have taken you into the office at all, Miss Allister, but for this recent stringent economy campaign of the Government. But, as you have been so frank with me and said that you will not require anything in the way of a salary, I shall be delighted to oblige both you and your father.”
She was to start her duties the following morning, September seventeenth. She hoped it would prove an auspicious date.
Chapter VI
The Courteous Hungarian
Although he never once considered turning back—for that was not his habit—Bobby was thinking hard as he got into the Pé express, nine hours after leaving England. He knew that, having been granted leave to visit Paris only, he was guilty of a technical offence in going on to the Ronstadt capital. Under Section 40 of the Army Act—concerning “conduct to the prejudice of good order and military discipline”—he was transgressing. But he had made up his mind, and that was an end to it.
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