The Traitor

by Sydney Horler

  By this time Clinton was getting sick of the fellow. Self-pity was all right in its way—but Paris was suffering from a surfeit of it. He looked at the fellow keenly.

  “How have you managed to escape military service?”

  The man put a hand to his breast.

  “It is my heart, monsieur. Ah, but it is great sorrow for me. How gladly would I serve la patrie! How freely would I give it my life!” He threatened to become maudlin. The listener had the traditional English dislike of sentimentality. Besides, by now he was tired of the fellow’s face.

  “Well,” he said, “if you take my tip you’ll hang on here—and think yourself damned lucky to have got such a good billet.”

  The waiter’s face changed. Hatred convulsed its ugliness. Absurd as it was, Clinton thought for a moment that the man was actually going to attack him.

  “You joke, monsieur,” cried the other angrily. “Every Frenchman loves his country—and would gladly die for it.”

  “A good many Englishmen have done that—poor devils! And let me tell you—by the way, what’s your name?”

  “Pierre, monsieur.”

  “Let me tell you, Pierre, that the trenches aren’t exactly drawing-rooms.”

  “That I can well understand, monsieur; I have heard so many stories.…Yes, this war is terrible. And how will it end?”

  “Oh, Jerry’ll get whacked all right; don’t you worry about that. He’ll want some wearing down—but we shall do it.”

  “What a happy day that will be for France, monsieur!” (The speaker struck an attitude which, if Clinton had yielded to the impulse, would have made him double up with laughter.) “The tragedy of Sedan! The humiliation of Alsace-Lorraine! Ah, but they will all be wiped out upon the day that France enters Berlin in victory.”

  “Yeh. But I’m afraid there’s a long way to go yet.”

  The waiter thrust his sallow face forward.

  “Are you from the Somme front, monsieur?”

  “No.” A sudden suspicion came. “Why do you ask that?”

  The fellow was ready with his reply.

  “My brother is there—on the Somme front. He is with the artillery.”

  “I see. Well, I don’t envy him; the Somme isn’t any too pleasant a place nowadays.”

  “Don’t I know?”

  “How do you know?”

  “I hear from my brother whenever he can write,” was the quick retort. “The Boche, does he not make the—what you say?—offensive there, n’est-ce-pas?”

  “I don’t know. He’s usually doing something of the sort.” Clinton’s patience was exhausted. “Look here, what about that wine?”

  The waiter crouched humbly.

  “Pardon, monsieur. I think too much of the war, but it is because of my brother.” He turned and put a hand on the door. “But I go now.”

  Yet he could not leave the room without turning round once more.

  “Monsieur, a thousand pardons, I forget. There is another British officer in the hotel to-night; he has asked for you.”

  Clinton took some time before replying. Marie was due in a few minutes—and he didn’t want her seen by any one.

  “A British officer?” he returned.

  “Yes, monsieur.”

  The next words were as though he were speaking to himself: “I don’t know any one in Paris who is likely to ask for me. Do you know his name?”

  “Capitaine Mallory.”

  Relief came in an overwhelming flood. Clinton laughed. (“Peter Mallory,” he told himself. “Well I’m damned!”) And then, to the waiter: “Ask him to come up at once.”

  “Oui, monsieur.” The fellow was smiling as he turned away.

  Chapter II

  The Warning

  Left alone, Clinton removed his Sam Browne belt and, after turning out the electric light, drew the curtains. A searchlight could be seen cutting a wide swathe across the night sky. He switched on the electric light again just as the door opened to admit a good-looking man of roughly his own age, wearing the uniform of a Captain in the Royal Field Artillery. The infantry officer darted across the room and the two friends cordially shook hands. Captain Peter Mallory sat himself down, and lit a cigarette with great relish.

  “I say, Alan,” he exclaimed, “this is simply great! Fancy meeting you here! I just dropped in on the off-chance—you remember telling me about this place after your last leave?”

  “Yes—of course.” (If there was one man he knew he could trust, it was Mallory. All his former hesitancy disappeared at the consoling remembrance.) “Marvellous, isn’t it? But where the devil have you sprung from?”

  “I’m direct from the line on five days’ leave—slipping across to Dover to-morrow.”

  “Good man. I expect you’re glad to get out of the shambles for a bit?”

  Mallory’s face hardened.

  “It’s been hell with the lid off, this last week. The Boche has had a battery of those bloody flying pigs directly opposite us. I tell you, I’m eternally dodging the blasted things, even in my sleep.” He shook himself. “Nerves all shot to hell.”

  “Never mind, old boy,” returned his friend consolingly. “You’re out of it for five days; make the best of them.”

  “You bet I will!” But even the thought of his prospective good time in England could not shake the other’s fear from off his shoulders. As though excusing himself, he continued: “You see, I’ve been in an advanced bit of trench, with just a handful of other blokes. It was pretty awful. Jerry bunged them over as though he was working some devilish piece of clockwork. One—two—three—four! One—two—three—four! A couple of seconds in between each, with all of us haring up and down, dodging them all the time. If they’d altered the sequence once, they’d have had the lot of us. And it went on all day. One—two—three—four!!!—until there wasn’t a bit of that blasted trench left to hold.” He shuddered.

  Clinton did his best to impart some much-needed cheerfulness.

  “Well, you’ll be in London in a few hours.” Then, as though anxious to change the subject: “Let’s see, Peter,—the last time I heard of your crush, they were near La Bassée.”

  “Yes; we moved to the Somme six weeks ago. By the way, I haven’t asked you yet, Alan—what are you doing here?”

  “Oh, I’m just over from London with some secret dispatches for Major-General Bentley—the wallah in charge of R.E.”

  Mallory grinned—for the first time.

  “Good for you! Seconded for special duty, eh?”

  “Something like that. I don’t suppose I’d tell any one else in the wide world, Peter; but I don’t know myself out of those bloody trenches.”

  The other nodded.

  “Don’t I understand? Have you got the dispatches here?”

  “Yes, and in the safest place.” The speaker looked at the attaché case on the chair by his side. “There they are—and there they stay. I’m never going to take my eyes off them.”

  His visitor rose, went to the door, opened it, looked out, and shut it again. Then he returned.

  “Look here, Alan, old boy,” he said seriously, “let me drop you a hint. If you’ve got secret stuff about, look after it very, very carefully. Paris is alive with German spies. You may not believe it; but I know it’s true. I’ve heard stories—perfectly appalling stories, too. You can’t trust anybody. Why, even behind our lines it’s been simply awful. Some peasants—supposed peasants, that is—were shot the very day I came away.”

  “What were they doing?”

  “Directing Boche guns.”

  “I thought the spy mania was being overdone?”

  Mallory was decisive.

  “Not a bit of it. Paris is thick with the vermin. The whole war area, come to that, is infested with the enemy ‘agents.’ Watch your step while you’re here, Alan, especially
”—pointing to the attaché case—“with that dynamite stuff hanging about.”

  The other, although impressed, felt obliged to laugh.

  “Oh, I’ll be all right; don’t you worry,” he said with every confidence.

  Mallory looked at him fixedly.

  “I still think you believe I’m pulling your leg,” he remarked.

  “Not a bit of it,” returned his friend. “I was only going to say that the Boche seems to be spending a hell of a lot of money on spies—and the better part of it must go to waste.”

  “All the same, their General Staff has got some damned fine tips now and again. One good coup is worth spending a few thousands to get.”

  “Oh, I agree.” Clinton’s tone was apparently indifferent. “You’re fresh from the line, Peter; what’s the feeling up there?”

  “Well, according to what I’ve heard, Germany’s beginning to flag. She’s getting pretty desperate. The Army are becoming disheartened; that’s why they are so anxious to catch us on the hop again and ram home a good old uppercut. It’s the moral effect they’re after; they want to bolster up their men.”

  Clinton turned away. Good pal as Peter was, he didn’t want him hanging about much longer.

  “Well, thanks, old boy, for the tip,” he remarked. “I’ll watch my step, as you say.”

  He hoped that Mallory would take the hint; but the Artillery captain still remained in his chair.

  “By the way,” said the visitor, “I haven’t asked you yet—how’s Cynthia and the kid?”

  His friend became evasive.

  “Oh, they’re all right. You’d better look ’em up when you’re in town. They’ll both be glad to see you.”

  “I will if I have time. Let’s see, how old is the boy now?”

  “Getting on for eight.”

  “Big chap?”

  “Yes, he’s growing.”

  “Good Lord!” said Mallory. “The last time I saw him he was just a babe in arms. How time flies! But then, we lose touch with everything out here—damn it!”

  “Why aren’t you crossing to-night?” Clinton now asked.

  “Oh, I’ve got an appointment.”

  The other laughed.

  “Well, live while you can, old man—that’s my motto.”

  Mallory stared at him.

  “But you’re married—with a terribly nice girl as your wife.”

  “Oh, I know all about that—but still, live while you can. You may be dead to-morrow.”

  Mallory shrugged his shoulders as though he admitted the truth of the statement without subscribing to it.

  “Heard from Jill Chester lately?” asked Clinton.

  “Jill Chester?” repeated Mallory. “That’s all off. I meant to write and tell you.”

  “All off? Really? But I saw the engagement in the Times—when was it, now?”

  “Over seven months ago.”

  “As long as that? You’re right, Peter—one does lose all touch with things out here. Nice kid, Jill. I’m sorry.”

  Mallory looked uncomfortable.

  “Yes, she was a nice kid all right, but we didn’t seem to go together as a team. Anyway, marriage is too serious if you aren’t absolutely sure. She’s married now, you know.”

  “Married—to another bloke?”

  “Of course! Some Belgian chap—Baron de la Proube. Met him, from what I can make out, when she was doing hospital work in town.”

  “Rather quick, wasn’t it?”

  A short, hard laugh greeted the statement.

  “Well, everything’s quick nowadays. Life, death, marriage—every damned thing. She was infatuated, I suppose. He was quite good-looking—for a Belgian. Besides, he was a Baron; that counts—even in war.”

  “I suppose it does. Must have been rather a shock to you, old boy.”

  “I don’t think about it any more. But it’s had this effect: it’s made me a fatalist; if I’m to stop one, I shall stop one—there’s an end to it. And—”

  Clinton broke in.

  “Don’t talk like that, old boy. This bloody war is bound to end sooner or later—”

  Mallory sprang up, evidencing signs of shell-shock. “Later rather than sooner,” he declared. “I’m beginning to think that life is hell—sheer, unmitigated hell. Oh, God!” He broke down, repeating the refrain: “One—two—three—four!” The next moment he had flung his face forward and had covered it with his hands.

  “Mallory!” cried Clinton, in alarm.

  The other looked up.

  “Oh, I’m all right. Don’t you worry. The fact is, we’re all in a bad way in my part of the line. The Boche has plastered us until our nerves are raw—raw, I tell you!”

  His listener was glad to hear a knock on the door.

  “Come in,” he called.

  The waiter entered, carrying a tray on which was a bottle of wine and two glasses. Clinton greeted him with enthusiasm.

  “Is that the new wine?”

  “Yes, monsieur; it is something very special, and I have two glasses. I thought your friend—”

  “Good for you.” He flung a coin, which was dexterously caught.

  “Merci, monsieur.”

  When the two friends were alone again, Clinton, after filling the glasses, gave a toast. It was the motto of the school they had both attended. The words made Mallory laugh.

  “Good God!” he said. “What memories that brings back!” He fell into reminiscence. “Do you remember how we made Foshy Thomas walk the plank into the swimming bath?”

  “Good Lord, yes!” returned the other. “Bobby Corbett went through it for that.” He refilled Mallory’s glass. “Good old Repington! Not a bad show; wish I were back there now. Well, here we are—no heeltaps.”

  “Cheerio, Alan!” cried Mallory, and then drank.

  “Happy days!”

  The R.F.A. captain, after putting down the empty glass, again fell into reminiscence.

  “Do you remember that dormitory feast we had in Number Seven, when Chunk Johnson upset the tin of sardines in bed?”

  They both smiled at the memory.

  “And how Mitchamore tried to clean up the muck with a sock?” supplied Clinton.

  They laughed again.

  “Poor little devil!” exclaimed Mallory. “I’ll never forget Mitchamore. God, Alan! To think how happy we were as kids—and then to be in this!” He shuddered again, and Clinton, afraid that another attack of shell-shock was coming, went across and placed his arm about the shaking man’s shoulders.

  “It’ll end one day—and now you’re going on leave—isn’t that something worth having?”

  “Yes—but the subs are in the bloody Channel. They’ll get me; I feel sure of it. I’ll never see—my mother again.”

  “Nonsense! Of course you will. You’ll be kissing her good-night in twenty-four hours.” Searching about in his mind for a change of subject, he asked: “Did you finish up in Galloway’s house? I forget.”

  To his joy, Mallory responded in a normal tone.

  “No, in Eggie Beard’s. I went there the term after you left. By the way, I met Eggie’s son last week. He’s a major now in the Army Service Corps—brought some stuff up the line. We were talking over old times, and he mentioned you.”

  “Nice of him.”

  “Funny, but a fellow can get quite sentimental out here. Have you noticed it? Tommy Beard said the same thing. We were talking about the old school motto.”

  “‘Stand by’? Well, most old Repingtonians have lived up to that out here, I should say.”

  “Yes. I saw Jenkins about three months ago.”

  “Jenkins—the white mouse expert?”

  “You know what a nasty, smelly little beast he used to be—always getting caned by Burnell for not washing his ears?”

  “Oh,
hell!” laughed Clinton. “Don’t I? He was the one fellow who didn’t mind fagging for that swine Chalker.” He poured out some more wine. “Here, drink this down; didn’t I say no heeltaps?”

  Mallory drank.

  “I’m better for that,” he said when he put down the glass. “And it’s great to see you and to talk over old times, Alan.”

  Clinton responded courteously, although he was desperately anxious, now, that the other should be off. Marie was late already—if she should come.…

  “Well, I think I’ll be turning in,” he announced.

  Before Mallory could reply, there was the sound of a terrific whirring of engines. They both stiffened to listen.

  “Zeppelins?” queried Clinton.

  “I expect so,” was the slow reply. “They get a raid here practically every night now when the moon isn’t out. I must be shoving off,” he added a second later. “My man hasn’t turned up, or they would have let me know.”

  Again he paused.

  “I dare say it’s asking a lot, but you wouldn’t like me to stay a little longer, old man, would you?” His tone was almost pathetic.

  Clinton felt terribly embarrassed, and something of this unease showed itself in his voice.

  “At any other time I should have asked you, Peter, but—”

  “A woman?” put in the other.

  The other responded to the challenge immediately.

  “Suppose it is?”

  “Oh, nothing”—showing plainly that he was disappointed. “Well, I’ll be pushing along.”

  “Look in and see me to-morrow before you leave, if it’s only to say chin-chin.”

  “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.”