The Traitor

by Sydney Horler

“Don’t you worry; I’ll see to everything.…Come in. Oh, waiter”—as Pierre showed himself—“I should like some coffee, please; and is it possible for you to get me some chocolates?”

  “I will try, mademoiselle.”

  She turned back to Clinton; but she did not return his key.

  “There! You see, there is no need for you to do anything. Didn’t I arrange it nicely?”

  “Fine…this damned heat.…” The speaker commenced to unbutton his tunic.

  “Close your eyes, darling; soon you will be quite all right.”

  The drugged man had become stupid.

  “You mustn’t—use—lipstick—in front—of—Napoleon’s— picture—with the—eyes—of France—upon—you.”

  “Ah, Napoleon!” She saluted the picture and laughed. “Napoleon wouldn’t have minded. He loved pretty things.”

  “Yes—he’d have—been—after you—if—you’d—lived—in—his—time.”

  She stroked his hair.

  “You look so tired.”

  “It’s—this ghastly—heat.”

  “Why not take off your tunic?”

  Clinton tried to stand up, but his legs proved incapable. It was the girl who helped him off with his uniform. Suddenly he cried out:

  “I’m—feeling—damned—ill.”

  “You must try to sleep a little. I will sit here by your side and watch.” She looked at him with apparent anxiety, lulling his suspicions. “Just have a little sleep for, say, an hour—and then I’ll wake you. It’s quite early—and we have the whole night.”

  “But I—don’t want—”

  “You must, darling; it will refresh you.” She showed determination. “I shall go if you don’t.”

  “Oh, very well.”

  She stroked his hair. He felt consciousness leaving him.

  “Marie—your—hands,” he murmured; “they are—so—cool.…”

  Chapter IV

  The Betrayal

  The time was a quarter of an hour later. Any one looking into that room could have observed von Ritter, the girl Marie, and the waiter Pierre standing over Alan Clinton, whose heavy breathing told that he was still unconscious.

  “The idiot never suspected a thing—he just went to sleep like an English pig,” observed von Ritter with contempt. “Minna,”—smiling at the girl,—“you did well.”

  The compliment did not receive the response that might have been expected. Speaking with a crispness that she had not used before, the young German Secret Service agent said, with a certain authority:

  “Hadn’t you better get on with the job?”

  “Himmel!” declared the Prussian officer. “Where’s the hurry? This hotel is safe and the English swine-dog will be unconscious until the morning. I can guarantee that.” He turned up Clinton’s eyelids and motioned the others closer. “Look, he’s practically dead.”

  “Herr Lieutenant—” observed Pierre.

  “What is it?”

  “May this drug not act variously on different subjects?”

  “Yes, but there is no chance of this one recovering. There was too much put in his wine. You did it very cleverly, Marie. But we will hurry, all the same. Get his other keys.”

  “You heard what he told me?” remarked the girl.

  “I heard every word,” said von Ritter sharply. “He has brought over something colossal—something of the first importance. When we send von Jago what is in that dispatch-case he will laugh for a week.”

  “I hope it is good,” said the girl. “To have to listen to his maudlin love-making.…” She made a gesture of contempt before facing von Ritter resolutely. “I shall want something to compensate for being pawed about by this English swine”—grimacing again.

  Her superior took the words seriously.

  “You make the sacrifice in the sacred cause of the Fatherland,” he returned, with heavy gravity. “If this coup turns out as I think, news of it will reach the ears of His Imperial Majesty.” Like a clockwork figure, he automatically stiffened and saluted. “And you know how generously the All Highest can reward merit.”

  In the meantime, the man Pierre had been going through Clinton’s pockets.

  “Here are the keys,” he announced, handing them to the officer.

  At the third attempt the dispatch-case clicked open. The man in the chair moved as though unexpectedly recovering consciousness.

  “He’s waking,” snapped the girl.

  “Waking?” Von Ritter crossed and looked down at the unconscious Englishman. “No, he’s not waking—it’s just a dream—perhaps of Hampstead!”—accompanying the words with a sarcastic laugh. “But all the same,”—turning away,—“we had better not lose any more time.”

  Examining closely the papers which he had taken from the case, he heard a voice over his right shoulder exclaim in annoyance:

  “But they’re in code!”

  “What did you expect?” he retorted angrily. “Even the English are not quite such fools as to have important secrets written in block capitals!”

  “Then—?”

  For answer, von Ritter took a small red-covered book from his pocket.

  “Here, I think, I shall find the key,” he observed with a satisfied smile.

  There was a long pause while he studied the book.

  “Can you read it?” asked the girl impatiently.

  “I hope so.…No, not that one,” he muttered to himself, and then turned the pages hurriedly.

  Pierre started to become agitated. Although his behaviour remained unnoticed by von Ritter, his irritability got on the girl’s nerves.

  “Control yourself,” she said sharply; and then, to the officer: “Haven’t you got it yet?”

  “Wait,” he told her, turning another page. “No—not yet.” More pages were turned. “It’s not that, either.…The code must have been altered.”

  “Altered?” The girl’s hands were clenched, while the blood mounted to her cheeks.

  Von Ritter disregarded her.

  “Have you searched him as I ordered?” he said to Pierre.

  “Yes, Herr Lieutenant.”

  Abstractedly, von Ritter turned still more pages. At last he made an exclamation.

  “I’ve got it!” he cried.

  “Is it the one that Lessing sent us from London?” inquired the girl.

  “I think so. Be quiet, please, both of you, while I try to decode this.”

  Sitting at the table, he got to work. The others watched him with nervous impatience as he worked out a few words. After he had written a dozen or so, the girl, who had been looking over his shoulder, gave a cry.

  “Colossal, as you say!”

  Over the other shoulder Pierre leaned forward, muttering to himself disjointedly. Von Ritter turned to both of them. His face was avid with excitement.

  “A triumph for the Fatherland!” he declared. “This will mean an Iron Cross of the First Class.” Turning back to his task, he wrote eagerly.

  “Yes, yes,” remarked the girl; “but we do not gather all the spoils. The British Intelligence has been busy lately.”

  Von Ritter made an angry rejoinder.

  “You talk like a fool, Minna.” He sprang up at the words. “Donnerwetter! Do you see that? Do you understand what that means?” he demanded.

  “Not exactly.”

  “It means that these,” tapping the dispatches, “have averted a most terrible disaster. The British know that von Kramer’s sector is the weak point of our line on the Somme. They have somehow found out that an Army Corps has been withdrawn for the offensive in the extreme west.”

  “But how?” asked Pierre.

  “Treachery of some sort, or one of their cursed spies—that you”—glowering at the girl—“were praising just now. Von Kramer’s sector is to be left practically un
protected for several days. The British must have found this out. Their chemists have been at work. This,” pointing to one of the papers on the table, “proves that a new gas is to be used on that day by the Allies. If we hadn’t found this, our line might have been irretrievably broken, and perhaps the enemy would have pushed their way through. There it is, you can see for yourself”—pointing to certain words. “‘Attack to be made on August 7 at 6.30 a.m.’”

  “But now we are safe!” declared Pierre fervently.

  “Yes, the Fatherland will be safe,” returned von Ritter with fanatical zeal. “But that fool must never know his precious dispatches have been tampered with. He will deliver them according to plan, and on the morning of the seventh the British attack will take place. There will be machine guns in the front line all ready for them, the artillery will be reinforced, and instead of finding a weak defence they’ll run into a hell. They’ll all be blown to pieces!”

  “And this new gas?” queried Marie.

  “Here is the formula”—taking up one of the papers. “This will be passed to our chemists, who will be certain to be able to find a neutralising agent. They always have, up to now”—with a laugh. “Our triumph will be complete.”

  But his enthusiasm was not completely shared by the girl.

  “It will not do for us to crow too loudly. I know the British,” she declared. “Let us get the news through before we indulge in any more ecstasy.”

  It seemed as though von Ritter might strike her. Indeed, his right hand was already raised.

  Then: “Perhaps you’re right, Minna,” he returned, with a drawing-in of his breath. “But you must allow me some little exultation.”

  “We are wasting valuable time,” was her curt rejoinder.

  Again von Ritter conquered himself.

  “I accept your reproof,” he said. He picked up the papers. “These are all in the same code, I find.”

  “You will photograph them?”

  “Of course.”

  “Be careful you don’t get caught with the copy.”

  He stared at her coldly.

  “That’s your job. I mustn’t leave Paris—didn’t von Jago tell you that?”

  “He merely said I must co-operate with you.”

  “As soon as I have taken the photographs, you must go straight to Schlasser—oh, I’m sorry, I forgot. Not Hans Schlasser, but the very respectable Monsieur Delaine. He’ll make it easy for you to get back to Berlin.”

  She shrugged her beautiful shoulders.

  “But I don’t require his help.”

  “Fräulein, you must not be presumptuous. Already to-night you have shown far too many signs of it.”

  This time his manner—and words—cowed her.

  “Haven’t I done enough?” she inquired.

  He almost spat the rejoinder at her.

  “The cause of the Fatherland must be always the first consideration of any secret agent.” He turned away as though his choler would master him if he carried on any further talk. “Have you got the camera?” he demanded of Pierre.

  “It is here, Herr Lieutenant.” The speaker took a tiny camera from a secret drawer which he had unlocked in the table.

  “Good. Now, fix these papers against the wall, but don’t mark them.”

  Pierre laughed.

  “You can trust me, Herr Lieutenant. It is not the first time.”

  “I know; but in matters of this importance you can’t be too careful.”

  The girl interposed: “Aren’t you taking a big risk with photography? Supposing the pictures turned out no good?”

  Von Ritter licked his lips.

  “You need not worry; I have never failed to get a good picture yet.”

  While the two were talking, Pierre had fixed the first paper against the wall.

  “Now the flash-powder.”

  Pierre filled a small flash apparatus.

  “It will be an instantaneous exposure,” continued von Ritter, “and then back go the papers into our friend’s dispatch-case, where they are locked up all safe and sound exactly as they were when he left London. When he comes to he will consequently never know what has happened. Are you ready?”

  “Ready, Herr Lieutenant,” said Pierre.

  Von Ritter pointed the camera at the paper.

  “Go!” he called.

  A flash of magnesium from the flash machine filled the room with glaring light. The girl put her hands over her eyes.

  “Excellent,” announced the Prussian. “That is the first one. Now for the others.”

  When the various papers had been photographed von Ritter superintended the disposal of them back into the dispatch-case.

  “We must be careful to replace them exactly as they were,” he said. “We don’t want our friend the Englishman to suspect that they have been tampered with. There—they are exactly as in the beginning.” Locking the dispatch-case, he placed it on the chair from which he had originally taken it. “Now put these keys back into his pocket and then we will go into my room and I’ll write my report for Headquarters.” Disregarding Pierre, he turned to the girl. “And after that you must get away quickly, Minna.”

  “But first I must write a note.” Taking a fountain pen from her bag, she scribbled on a piece of paper, reading the words aloud as she wrote:

  “Darling, I hadn’t the heart to waken you, you slept so peacefully. I have now gone to see my sick friend. I will ring you up in the morning.”

  The two men laughed.

  “Is that all you wish to tell him?” observed von Ritter cynically.

  “No. I will add a little more.”

  “You need sleep so badly that I have broken my promise to wake you in an hour. With all my undying love,

  “Marie.”

  “There!” She placed the paper by the side of the empty wine bottle on the table. “He’ll find this when he wakes up; it will help to console him, perhaps.”

  “Although he is such a fool, he is bound to be suspicious.”

  “What does it matter?” returned the girl. “I may never see him again. My work with him is done.”

  Chapter V

  The Penalty

  Whichever way the eye turned, it encountered nothing but desolation. From the shattered windows of the farmhouse which was being utilised as the temporary G.H.Q. of the Ninety-fifth Brigade, B.E.F., the visual prospect was unlovely in the extreme. Hutments, ammunition and R.E. dumps—with a pock-marked terrain which looked as though an army of devastating maniacs had passed over it, venting their awful rage against the once-fair surface of the earth; a terrible sight—but the two British generals, striding agitatedly up and down the big room which served as an office, had other things to think about besides the desolated landscape.

  Major-General Bentley, a short, stocky man with a high colour, was speaking his mind in very forcible fashion.

  “I tell you, Garside,” he said, “it was awful—perfectly horrible. The casualties were shocking. I hate these cursed stunts—always have done. I’ll tell you what the trouble is. —” (mentioning a very august name) “takes his idea of war from the time of Wellington. He’s got about as much conception of modern tactics as one of those.…”

  Garside—tall, thin, hatchet-faced, whose only sign of emotion was the restless tapping of his fingers on the desk before him—shook his head.

  “The stunt was all right,” he declared. “It would have been a good idea if it had only come off.”

  Bentley, stopping in his walk, barked a remonstrance.

  “That’s just my argument: it didn’t come off! The enemy were prepared, and when we went over the top, expecting that the barrage with those new gas shells had cleared the ground, we simply got blown to hell and back.”

  “From what you tell me, they must have had guns hidden flat in the front line.”


  “Yes, it was absolute point-blank range. Cost us over five thousand men, and God only knows how many officers. I tell you, Garside, I hate these unnecessary stunts; they’re nothing but blood baths.”

  Again the other shook his head.

  “I can see your point of view, but I must still stick to my idea: if this business had only come off, it would have been well worth it.”

  Bentley forgot himself.

  “You don’t want me to call you a bloody fool to your face, do you, Garside? The whole idea was wrong, I tell you! It was ill-considered and ill-timed.”

  “Keep your shirt on, Harry,” replied the other. “I’ll tell you what it was—information must have leaked out.”

  “How the devil could it have leaked out?”

  “You’ve been here long enough to know that spies are everywhere.”

  Bentley considered the point. And, in the consideration, something of his former terrible rage vanished.

  “Yes,” he conceded. “It may have been that their aircraft spotted our troops moving up to the front line in mass.”

  “But that doesn’t account for their preparation against our new gas. The barrage, as you have said, was an utter washout.”

  “Utter. Over five thousand casualties.”

  “Then it must have been the work of some spy.”

  “Well, how are we to prevent spies?”

  “That’s up to our Intelligence.”

  “Intelligence!” Bentley snorted. “A thing like that should have been most carefully guarded.”

  “Who knew about it?”

  “The War Office, of course; the chap who brought the dispatches over—Clinton; myself, and my staff. Not another soul, as far as I am aware.”

  “Well,” observed Garside, “the War Office and yourself can be counted out of it. That leaves just Clinton and your staff.”

  “Three of those poor devils went under yesterday. There’s only Morton, Greensmith, Mocksley and Pugh left. I need scarcely tell you, I suppose, that they’re all above suspicion—every man jack of them.”

  “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.”