Traitors' Gate gs-7

by Dennis Wheatley

  Having digested this, Gregory looked up and remarked, 'Not exactly a world-shaking career; but that is all to the good for my purpose. It is going to take quite a lot of thinking, though, to provide a plausible reason for a chap like that taking a holiday in Budapest in the middle of a war. If he was a sufferer from arthritis he might seek relief in a course of the famous mud baths; but it wouldn't be easy to bluff the doctors that I was afflicted in that way. Of course, the Hungarians are a romantic lot, so I might put it across discreetly that I had formed an attachment there before the war and had come back in the hope of being able to find the girl again.'

  The goddess behind the desk shook her head. 'I don't like it. Middleclass Frenchmen are the most unromantic people in the world. But I have been thinking quite a lot about a story for you to tell. How about using foie gras?'

  'Foie gras?' Gregory echoed in a puzzled voice.

  'Yes; it's a national industry in Hungary. My mother and stepfather were there in 1938 and they brought back tins and tins of it.'

  He nodded. 'You're quite right. One can't look out of the train anywhere in Hungary without seeing a flock of geese. But what is your idea?'

  'Well, this foie gras was awfully good. The biggest tins had whole livers in them and they were that lovely shade of rich pink. There was only one thing lacking; there were no truffles to bring out the flavour.'

  Gregory sat forward and thumped the desk. 'By jove! And I am supposed to own a place in Perigord, where the truffles come from. Of course, my object in going to Budapest is to get in touch with the foie gras makers and see if I can't fix up to supply them with truffles after the war.'

  With the unselfconsciousness which is so often a by-product of beauty, the girl scratched her head with the blunt end of her pencil as she said, 'That's it. And my parents tell me that Budapest is an enchanting city. I do hope you'll have a pleasant stay there and a safe return.'

  Ten minutes later Gregory left her office. He had never subscribed to the theory that blondes were necessarily dumb, and he knew from experience that beauty or the lack of it had no relation whatever to women's brains; but he did marvel somewhat that beings so young and glamorous as those in that secret headquarters should now be conducting affairs as efficiently as well travelled men. He decided that he would bring Diana back the biggest foie gras he could find in Hungary as a reward for her excellent idea.

  He could not know that before the month ended he would be counting himself lucky if he could get out of Budapest without bag or baggage, but alive to tell the tale.

  The Scene is Set

  Chapter 5

  Gregory arrived in Budapest on Thursday, August 13th. On the previous Friday, after flying at a great height over France, the weekly diplomatic plane had landed him safely at Berne. Next morning he had presented his special letter of introduction at the bank and been shown into a private, office. There he had made his arrangements about money and handed over both his British and French passports the former for safe keeping until he reclaimed it, the latter so that the bank could get him a visa for Hungary, which they promised to have done for him by Monday, or Tuesday morning at the latest. He had then bought his tickets for the journey, a second-hand suitcase with several French labels on it, and some clothes of decidedly French cut.

  On the Tuesday he had left Berne as Mr. Sallust and arrived in Lausanne as Commandant Tavenier. From there he had caught the Simplon-Orient Express down to Zagreb, where he changed trains and did the last lap north to the Hungarian capital.

  He could have gone by air, but dismissed the idea because he knew that passengers who arrived in planes from foreign countries during wartime were much more closely scrutinized than the far greater numbers who crossed frontiers in trains and he naturally wished to keep himself as inconspicuous as possible. Again he could have taken the quicker, direct route via Innsbruck and Vienna, but those cities now lay within Hitler's Greater Germany. The odds against his coming face to face during the short space of half a day's train journey with a Gestapo man who might recognize him were extremely long, but they were infinitely longer against his doing so on the stretch of railway which ran through Italy and Yugoslavia; and it was because he never took the smallest unnecessary risk that he had survived so many dangerous missions.

  The same caution had decided his choice of an hotel. The Donau Palota was the most frequented by rich and influential Hungarians; so to stay at it would have given him his best chance of scraping acquaintance with the sort of people whose views on the future of Hungary he wished to find out. But it was there that in 1936 he had occupied a suite while having his affaire with the beautiful Sabine, and hotel servants have long memories. In consequence, on his arrival in Berne he had sent a telegram to the Vadaszkürt, hoping that with five days' notice they would have a room for him. In that he was lucky, as when he was booking in the clerk told him that, like those in most other capitals during wartime, the hotels in Budapest were now packed to capacity in season and out.

  Having surrendered his passport for registration by the police he was shown up to a room on the third floor. Instead of opening into a passageway it was entered from a broad balcony that overlooked a huge oblong courtyard formed by the interior walls of the four sides of the hotel. Large trees were growing in the courtyard and beneath their leafy branches were several score of tables, as during the summer months it was used as the hotel's restaurant.

  That night Gregory dined down there, and one glance at the menu showed him that Budapest was very far from being reduced to the scant choice of indifferent food which was all that could be offered by restaurants in London. Hungary, as he knew, had few industries, and from her vast farmlands had for centuries fed a great part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire; but he had expected to find at least fairly strict rationing owing to the voracious demands of a Germany that had now been at war for nearly three years. This first evidence that the Hungarians were by no means altogether under the thumb of their mighty ally was encouraging. He cheerfully ordered trout with melted butter, roast goose and green peas; then lingered over a fresh peach and a bottle of Tokay while listening to one of those gypsy orchestras for which Hungary is famous.

  Next morning he did not go at once to seek out Leon Levianski or any of Sir Pellinore's old friends. He wanted first to get the feel of the capital; so he set off on what, for him, was a long walk.

  Budapest is only one eighth the size of London and its centre is proportionately smaller; so during a stroll of two hours or so a sightseer may pass along most of its principal streets. It is, however, divided into two sharply contrasting parts. Buda, which is the older of the twin cities, is almost entirely residential, and consists of tier upon tier of ancient buildings, churches and palaces rising steeply to crown a ridge of hills on the west bank of the Danube. Pest, much larger and the centre of all commercial activities, is entirely flat. From just east of the river, where the smart shopping district is situated, it stretches away divided by the magnificent two-mile long Andrassy Avenue, until its new factories and suburbs merge into the distant plain.

  The Vadaszkürt and other principal hotels are all in Pest, and only a stone's throw from the Vorasmarty Ter, out of which runs Vaczi Utcza, the equivalent of Bond Street; so Gregory turned in that direction. When he reached the square he saw that the windows of Gerbaud's, the famous patisserie, were, as of old, filled with rich cream cakes, crystallized fruits and sweets; and, on entering the Utcza, found that most of the other shops showed equally little sign of depleted stocks.

  Strolling southwards he reached the great Market and spent a quarter of an hour there. Its stalls held an abundance of meat, game, fish and groceries, and the people in it were mainly well clad. He found that less surprising when he suddenly recalled that Hungary had not become seriously involved in the war until Hitler had attacked Russia in the preceding summer; so, apart from a shortage of some manufactured goods, she would hardly have yet been reduced to such stringencies as clothes rationing.

  There we
re quite a few soldiers about in drab wartime uniform, and a number of much smarter girls dressed as nurses and army drivers. In half an hour he had seen only two German officers, and confirmed his earlier impression that after those of Vienna, the girls of Budapest were the prettiest of any city he had ever visited.

  On emerging from the Market he had his first view of the Danube. It was a broad, turgid, fast flowing stream, and far from blue; but it sparkled prettily in the August sunshine. To his right lay a broad mile long embankment which was termed the "Corso" for, in front of its many cafes, lay Budapest's most fashionable promenade. Turning along it he now had a fine view of Buda. Across the river it rose upon its hills, a miracle of beauty, its turrets and spires seeming to pierce the almost cloudless blue sky.

  By Erzsebet Bridge he crossed the river. Slowly he made his way up past the Royal Palace, which was now the residence of the Regent, Admiral Horthy, and so into Buda's twisting cobbled streets where for a thousand years there had lived men and women who had played a part in Europe's history. Six years before, from a first floor window in one of the ancient houses there, he had witnessed the annual celebration which embodied Hungary's great traditions and it was a sight that he had never forgotten.

  At some time in the Dark Ages the tomb of Stephen, the first King of Hungary who had accepted Christianity, had been opened, and it had been found that, although his body had fallen into dust, his right hand lay there unwithered. It had henceforth become the custom for this miraculous hand to be exposed to the veneration of the multitude by being carried through the streets of the city on the fifteenth of each September.

  Gregory had seen many processions, but nothing to equal this in medieval pageantry. There had been the Palace Guards wearing silver pointed Saxon helmets, eighteen inches high, and carrying flashing halberds serrated like the prow of a Venetian gondola. The gold and crystal casket containing the sacred relic was surrounded by chanting priests. Behind it walked the Prince Archbishop, the Metropolitan of the Greek Church and the Papal Legate, resplendent in robes of purple, white and crimson, their trains held up by small boys in lace bordered surplices. Then had come the Corps Diplomatique, brave in its orders and gold embroidered uniforms. The black clad Deputies of the Hungarian Parliament had next struck an incongruous note, but after them had come the handsome

  Regent Horthy in Admiral's uniform and, following him, the body of men who made the ceremony unique.

  They were some three score of the Magnates of Hungary; all nobles who could trace their ancestry back to the times when their forebears had held Hungary as the bastion of Christian Europe against the Infidel. Their costumes were those worn in Napoleonic times, or earlier, and marvellously varied; gold tasselled Hessian boots, silver braided doublets of green, blue, black and cerise, half cloaks trimmed with sable, astrakhan, ermine or sea otter, flat busbies surmounted by plumes and aigrets, dolmans, sabretaches, and great jewel hilted scimitars all jostled together forming a sea of colour, so that the eye was quite incapable of taking in the details of so splendid a spectacle.

  As Gregory thought of it again, he thought too of Sabine, who had stood beside him in the window that they had hired, holding his hand and telling him with low voiced but passionate enthusiasm, as the procession moved below them, of the past glories of her country.

  From the small square dominated by the Coronation Church, in which reposed the Sacred Hand of St. Stephen, he walked through to the open space behind the church where a great equestrian statue of the Royal Saint looked out over the river and the city.

  This lofty emplacement was called the Fisher bastion and from it there was a truly marvellous view. To either side the red roofed houses of Buda seemed to be tumbling away down the steep slope on which the ramparts stood as though at any moment they might fall into the Danube. Seen from here the river looked even broader, and much more tranquil, as it wound its way between the twin cities. To the north it divided into two arms which embraced the mile long Margareten Insel.

  This lovely wooded island had been made into a private park by the Archduke Joseph; now it had on it Budapest's latest luxury hotel the Palatinosan enormous open air bathing pool, and several cafe restaurants which after dark become nightclubs offering glamorous floor shows. In the opposite direction the river disappeared behind the lofty Citadel on its way towards distant Belgrade and Rumania. Far below, the famous Suspension Bridge linked Buda's hill with central Pest, along the shore of which stood the Parliament House with its many graceful spires, the Donau Palota and numerous other fine modern buildings. Beyond them rose the three hundred feet high dome of the Leopold Church from a sea of office and apartment blocks stretching away into the blue distance.

  As Gregory sat there for a while he recalled that it was on one of these slopes that St. Gellert had met his fate. He was the Bishop who had converted King Stephen to Christianity; but certain full-blooded types had not approved the change, so they had put Gellert in a barrel and sent him rolling down the hill. As the barrel had spikes in it the unfortunate missionary could have been little more than a lacerated corpse by the time it bounced into the Danube.

  Not a very pleasant death, Gregory reflected; but, after all, perhaps not so bad, as it must have been quite quick, and easily a hundred times less prolonged and painful than that which he might himself expect should he ever have the ill luck to fall alive into the hands of Herr Gruppenführer Grauber.

  Descending through the steep narrow streets, he recrossed the river, walked along to the Corso and, sitting down at a table outside one of the cafés ordered himself a baratsch. This golden liquor is distilled from apricots and is the Hungarian national drink. It is made in every farmhouse in the country, and varies with quality and age from a fiery breathtaking spirit to a smooth and delectable liqueur. As it is unsweetened it is equally suitable for an aperitif or a digestive, and is drunk by all classes at all hours. While renewing his acquaintance with this invigorating tipple, Gregory considered the results of his morning's ramble.

  Except perhaps for coffee, and other such items which came from distant lands, Hungarian larders were clearly not yet subject to the stress of war and, although prices had evidently risen considerably, there seemed no reason to suppose that for meat, bread, butter and other basic foods they were beyond the means of the workers.

  Petrol was evidently short, as there were many fewer cars on the streets than he had seen there in peace time. On the other hand, there were many more horse drawn vehicles, including quite a number of private carriages which must have been dug out by rich people from old coach houses. Hungary had been slower to adopt the motor than most nations as her roads were bad and horses cheap and plentiful. Horse breeding was one of her national industries and the great herds reared on the plain of the Hortobagy made it certain that however long the war lasted the supply would never fail; so the Hungarians had no need to worry about local transport. In the matter of fuel, too, they could have no great anxieties, as most of the houses and offices were still heated in winter by old-fashioned wood burning stoves which could be kept going from their own forests.

  By the time Gregory finished his drink he had reached the conclusion that the chances of his mission being successful were far from good. Had he found a state of shortages and aggravating restrictions approaching those in Britain and Germany, there would have been reason to assume that a good part of the Hungarian people were war weary and, not being so deeply committed as those of the two great powers to fight on to the end, might give ready backing to a movement for a separate peace. But that was not the case. So far, too, Budapest had not suffered a single air raid'; so, apart from the comparatively few walking wounded to be seen in the streets, there had been little really to bring the war home to the people of the capital. In short, the horrors and privations of Hitler's war were still unknown to it, and in its continued plenty and gaiety, its state was very similar to that which had prevailed in London for the greater part of the First World War.

  Having lunched off
a gulyds of venison, washed down with a carafe of the rich Hungarian red wine known as Bullsblood of Badascony, he took an aged open carriage along to the nearest end of Kertesz Utcza, where he paid it off, then strolled along to No. 158.

  It proved to be a double fronted shop in a rather dreary block, and the furs in the windows looked distinctly shoddy. Pushing open the door Gregory walked in. The shop ran back some way and was a much larger place than might have been supposed from the street; but it was three parts empty. Less than a quarter of the rows of hangers held coats, there were a few bundles of skins thrown carelessly on the floor, and the only person in it was a stout redheaded Jewess who was checking over raw pelts behind a long narrow counter.

  Going up to the counter Gregory told her in French that he wished to buy a fur that could be made up as a collar for his winter travelling coat.

  She replied first in Magyar, then in bad German, that she did not understand French.

  Ignoring the fact that she did understand German, he repeated his statement in deliberately poor English.

  As he had hoped, she again shook her head but, making a sign that he should wait, went to the back of the shop and through a glass door. A moment later she emerged again with a man of about forty. He was short, had a round face, curly black hair and a bluish chin, but he did not look particularly like a Jew.