“Thanks.” The reply was curt. “But I can’t believe it—I simply can’t credit that Bobby could be such an almighty fool. If he has been seen with this woman, rest assured, Fordinghame, he has some purpose of his own in mind.”
“What purpose?”
“I don’t know,” conceded the other frankly. “But I’ll tell you this: he did say something to me about going on to Pé from Paris, and I strongly advised him not to do so. If I’d only known what was likely to happen, I should have seen that his leave was cancelled.”
“Why did he want to go to Pé?”
“There was an Agricultural Exhibition or something, and he was keen to have a look at the new tractors. He thought that they would be interesting.”
“They’re used in connection with tanks, aren’t they?”
“Yes; that was why he was so keen—he’s an enthusiastic soldier, you know.”
“But somewhat indiscreet, it would seem.”
“Perhaps. But, good God, Fordinghame, it’s no worse than that—thank God! Who is this Minna Braun?”
For reply, Fordinghame pulled out a drawer of his desk and took from it a file.
“I have had her looked up. Listen.” He started to read:
Minna Braun, or Marie Roget—the child of a German father and a Swiss mother—was born in the fortress city of Strassburg, in Alsace-Lorraine. At the outbreak of the Great War Minna Braun was employed as a typist in the office of the City Treasurer and while thus engaged she came into close personal contact with von Reinhardt, at that time the Chief of the German Secret Service in that sector. Being an accomplished linguist, her services were at times made use of for translations, and later she became more and more in touch with Secret Service work, so that she was in due course regarded as a member of that Service and duly sworn in as an accredited agent. Subsequently, when a French-speaking female agent was required for special work in Paris, Minna Braun was instructed to adopt the guise of a French-born Alsace-Lorrainian, and she took the name of Marie Roget. In Paris she worked under the direction of an agent named Adolf von Ritter.
He broke off to inquire:
“What’s the matter, Clinton?” For he noticed that his listener had become deathly pale.
“Nothing…never felt better,” was the evasive answer. “It’s this news about my boy. If you had a son, you’d understand, too.”
“I understand fully as it is, my dear fellow. I’ll keep you posted with whatever else comes in. Can’t you communicate with him direct?”
“I don’t know where he is. The only address I had was his hotel in Paris—the Meurice. I’ll telephone there directly I get back on the off-chance that they know.”
The two shook hands and Clinton left.
Back in his own room at the War Office, he tried to pull himself together. This was a crushing blow—so devastating, in fact, that he wondered he had not collapsed entirely at Y.1. Certain words kept ringing in his ears. “I’d do practically anything to lay my hands on some coin.” Was that what Bobby had said?
And his own predictions had come true. A man’s sins did return home to him, even after the lapse of seventeen years! But the cruel part was that his own boy had fallen into the same trap that had ensnared him in 1918! Bobby! In the grip of that woman!
He looked with lack-lustre eyes at a letter placed on his writing-pad. He had not noticed it before, but now he picked it up and read the typewritten address. The postmark bore the significant name of “Pé.”
Hoping against hope that it might be a communication from Robert, he slit the envelope.
The typewritten words danced before his eyes:
Dear Colonel Clinton,—After so long a time you have probably forgotten all about me. But don’t you ever recall those happy times we spent in Paris in 1918?
There is a little favour I want you to do me, but more about that anon.
In the meantime, I am sure you will be interested in the accompanying photograph.
Yours very sincerely,
Marie Roget.
There was a snapshot, as the woman had said, and when he looked at it Clinton felt the blood draining from his heart. It showed Robert, wearing pyjamas, with his arms round a woman dressed in a very seductive and scanty négligé.
He had no difficulty in recognising the seductress as the woman who had betrayed him seventeen years before.
Chapter X
The Poker Party
Bobby continued his walk to the Hotel Poste in a reflective mood. There had been no way out of the difficulty so far as he could see—but that did not alter the fact that he had plunged himself into what might prove very turbulent waters. If Minna Braun—he still thought of her by that name—had laid herself open to direct suspicion, as she had said, then he, too, as her constant companion for many hours, was quite likely to be trailed. Had any one seen him post that newspaper to Rosemary Allister, for instance?
Well, there was no sense in working himself up into a sweat; what had been done could not be undone, and there was an end of it. Only a rank outsider would have refused to help a woman who had been so up against it as this French agent, and, besides.…
This momentarily swept his thoughts away into a side channel. Now that Minna Braun was no longer near him, now that he could not see her face, be conscious of her beauty of figure, smell the perfume she used, her influence had lessened. Was it true what she had said—that last line in her letter, the bit about loving him? He didn’t suppose so for a minute. Wasn’t she French? And didn’t the French make a habit of saying charming, insincere things? They had had a thundering good time together, and had got on splendidly—perhaps this was merely the feminine way of saying “Thank you.” Although why she should trouble to thank him when all the obligation (apart from the package, of course) had been on his side, he couldn’t imagine. Women were queer.
Was all this fair to Rosemary? His conscience troubled him as the thought came. Then, quite quickly, he felt a certain relief; his affection for the girl he had left behind in London was the genuine article, whereas he had been merely infatuated with this Frenchwoman. True, it had been pretty thick while it lasted—but, compared with real love, it was just a passing fancy. It might have happened to any man at any time; it was only one of those things that happened every now and then.
Getting what satisfaction was possible out of this reflection, he now found himself outside the imposing entrance to the Hotel Poste. During breakfast he had made up his mind: he would leave Pé the next morning, going by air from the great aerodrome on the outskirts of the city to Le Bourget. Arrived in Paris, he would call at the address in the rue Danou which Minna Braun had mentioned in her note, tell her what he had done, and then return to England. Because he did not like the idea of its being imagined that he had bunked, and because Aschelmann had gone out of his way to make him so comfortable, he was now going into the hotel to say that he would be leaving the following morning.
But before he could reach the reception clerk, whose small office was on the other side of the huge hall, he noticed Aschelmann himself. The manager was talking to another man—and the faces of both, Bobby quickly noticed, were very serious.
While he continued to watch, wondering whether, now that Aschelmann was available, he should not speak to him personally, the second man turned. Bobby was able to understand now why, even from behind, this individual had seemed vaguely familiar: the manager’s companion was the very agreeable man he had met in the Pé express, Dr. Emeric Sandor.
Recognition was mutual. Whether Aschelmann nudged the other, Bobby could not decide, but after the two had exchanged a fleeting look of understanding, Sandor came forward quickly, his hand outstretched.
“Well, this is a great pleasure, Mr. Wingate—you don’t know how glad I am to see you again!”
Bobby took a little time to recover from his surprise.
“But I th
ought you were in Budapest?” he exclaimed. Even while his hand was still being held by the other, he was endeavouring to find the answer to two questions: What was this man doing in Pé, when he was supposed to be so many miles away? And could he be trusted?
Sandor might have been expecting the questions, so ready was his tongue.
“I had to change my plans. Yesterday I was telegraphed for to attend a consultation here in Pé—and I am very glad, because it has enabled me to run across you, my very good friend, again. I was just asking Aschelmann how you were getting on. Have you been comfortable?”
“Very.”
“He tells me that you did not go to Echlen.” The speaker lowered his voice as though afraid of being overheard. “But we can’t talk about that here—there are too many people about, and some of them would give a great deal, I have no doubt, to overhear what we two are discussing, hein? Come up to my room.”
Bobby hesitated. He had no great desire to stay jawing to the voluble-tongued doctor, and, besides, he did not know what they could talk about: certainly he wasn’t going to be drawn into any discussion of the reasons why he had chosen not to visit the Kluck works at Echlen, or why he had made up his mind to leave Pé within twenty-four hours. A grave doubt as to the truth of what the smiling-faced manager of the Poste had told him—namely, that both he and Sandor were accredited members of the Foreign Branch of British Intelligence—remained in his mind. Of course, it might be so; agents were recruited from all ranks and oftentimes the most unlikely persons were chosen; but, as he could not make sure, he must still pretend to be “dumb.”
Consequently he did not accept the invitation with the enthusiasm which Sandor evidently expected him to show.
“Well, as a matter of fact,” he said, “I’m rather pressed for time at the moment. I wanted to have a word with Aschelmann.”
The listener changed countenance.
“But this is important—vitally important,” he returned. “Aschelmann can wait. You weren’t thinking of leaving Pé?” he went on to inquire sharply.
“Why do you want to know?”
“I have plenty of reasons—when we get up to my room I shall be pleased to tell you them. In the meantime, let me just say that you mustn’t go to-day. Your father—” And then the speaker closed his mouth as though determined not to say another word until he had had his own way.
Puzzled and irritated, Bobby allowed himself to be led towards the lift. On the third floor Sandor stepped out, walked along a carpeted corridor until he came to the end room on the right, pushed the door open, beckoned his companion inside, and then promptly turned the key in the lock.
“That is to make sure we shall not be disturbed,” he explained. “Sit down,” pointing to a chair, “because I want to talk to you very seriously. It concerns your father, Colonel Clinton, I mean”—he paused—“and the woman who calls herself Fräulein Minna Braun.”
Because he had to play for time, and, while doing so, felt that it was necessary he should have adequate control over his features, Bobby took a cigarette from his case and lit it.
“How is it you know my governor?” he inquired. That was safe enough, at any rate. Any fellow in his position might very well have asked the same question.
“Because, as Aschelmann told you yesterday, both he and I work for Colonel Clinton. You did not appear to believe him, but we are both members of the Foreign Branch of M.I.5.”
Bobby controlled himself. There were a hundred questions he wanted to ask, but he kept on smoking without making any comment. He was still determined to play “dumb.”
“The reason I have come back to Pé was to get into touch with you and this woman Minna Braun, who, actually, is a French Secret Service agent.”
Bobby tried to look surprised.
“Is she really? Still, I don’t quite see—”
“You will in a minute,” he was patiently informed. “I should not be talking to you like this, of course,” he went on, “but for the fact that I have assured myself you are the adopted son of Colonel Clinton. If you know anything about Intelligence work at all—if your father has given you the slightest confidence—you will know that many Secret Service agents follow a genuine occupation, because it is necessary for them to have a cast-iron alibi in case of trouble. That is why I am a doctor.”
Bobby began to feel a little more reassured. He knew enough to be aware that this statement might be true. Many agents did their Secret Service work as a side line.
“I am a resident agent in Budapest, but I am often called to Pé,” continued his informant. “No doubt you are aware that there is tremendous activity in every European capital among Intelligence men at the present time. With war threatening to break out at any moment, so much is obvious, of course.” He waved a hand as though anxious to push on and not waste any further time in dealing with trivialities.
“It was while I was in Paris that I received at the local Headquarters a coded message from your father to the effect that I was to look you up on the way to Pé and do everything I possibly could to ensure your comfort—and safety”—adding the last two words significantly—“while you were in this city. According to this message, Colonel Clinton was rather worried about you—you had not, I believe, told him definitely that you were going on to Pé from Paris—and that was why, no doubt, he sent me my instructions. That was also why,” sinking his voice, “I was able to get you the opportunity to visit Kluck’s works at Echlen—a chance which apparently you were reluctant to accept.”
A note of asperity had crept into the speaker’s voice. Looking at him, Bobby felt some of his former doubts return. This chap, when viewed critically, was not quite satisfactory. He was rather shifty-eyed. Naturally, the British Intelligence people had to find helpers where they could; but he had always understood that only men of decent character were put on the payroll.
Suddenly the young officer realised that he was stepping on quicksands and that these might engulf him at any moment. If Sandor had not been so glib with his references to his father, he would have risen immediately and demanded to be let out of the room.
As it was:
“Colonel Clinton has not communicated with me in any way,” he returned.
The other was ready with a reply.
“For the very simple reason that he did not know your exact address. Have I not already said that he was not sure whether you were going on to Pé, and, if so, where you would be staying. He knows now,” were the added words.
“Then no doubt I shall be hearing from him.”
“No doubt. But meanwhile time presses, and I want to talk to you about Minna Braun. You made good friends with that very attractive lady yesterday, I believe?”
With difficulty Bobby kept his temper. He loathed this talk—every word of it—and he was in no mood to discuss the woman who had placed such confidence in him.
“I don’t know that I care to discuss Fräulein Braun even with you, Dr. Sandor,” he said stiffly.
“But I am afraid it is necessary. Let me explain,” the other continued. “As I have already told you, Minna Braun is actually a French secret agent stationed in Pé. She is a very clever and talented woman and has been highly successful at her work. Both the French people and the British think a great deal of her. It was because she knew that you could be trusted, and because Ronstadt agents were pressing her very close, that she handed you that package last night.”
Something prompted Bobby to remain “dumb.”
“Package?” he repeated, like a man who has heard an astonishing and puzzling fact for the first time.
“You heard what I said. Minna Braun handed you a package last night for safe custody. It is vitally important that I should know what you have done with it.”
Wingate rose. He had made up his mind. Whether this fellow was honest or a bluffing liar, he did not care; he was not going to give him his conf
idence.
“I’m sorry, Sandor,” he said, “but I haven’t the least idea what you’re talking about. And now, if you don’t mind, I’ll go downstairs again.”
For a moment it looked as though there would be an explosion. Then, surprisingly, Sandor shrugged his shoulders.
“I see you still don’t trust me. Well”—without waiting for the younger man to reply—“I do not know that I blame you entirely. After all, you have only my word. Of course, it would be simple enough for you to telephone through to London—but even then I doubt if your father would convince you. Very well, we will leave it at that. But when I tell you that the package which Minna Braun handed you last night contains information so valuable to the British authorities that your father’s Department has been working night and day for months, scouring Europe for these very same facts, you will perhaps understand why I have been so persistent. But I have done everything possible; the further responsibility must rest with you. And now,” with a change of tone, “perhaps you would be kind enough to let me know when you intend to return to London? I have a letter for your father which I should be pleased if you would undertake to deliver. There is a certain risk attached to your carrying it—but I do not suppose you will think twice about that?”
If the last few words had not constituted in his mind a direct challenge, Bobby might have acted differently. As it was, he came to a fresh resolve: already very suspicious in his mind about Sandor, and with the knowledge that the package was now safely on its way to London, he determined to stick to this fellow with one definite purpose: he was going to try to ascertain if Sandor was in the plot against his father. It seemed quite likely; to begin with, he had a lot of information about the governor, and, for another thing, he was much too glib.
It was because of this that, forcing himself to do a little prospective double-dealing in return, he now adopted a change of front.
The Traitor: A British Library Spy Classic (British Library Spy Classics Book 2) Page 12
