The Traitor

by Sydney Horler

  It has been mentioned that Lieutenant Robert Wingate was a very keen soldier. Very well; it was this same keenness which was, possibly, leading him into extremely hot water (not to mention grave personal danger) now. He realised that, but there it was.…

  While at Woolvington, he had heard considerable discussion of the new track-ways of the latest model of the tank which, according to gossip, would be used by Ronstadt in the next war. Of course, much of this, as he knew full well, was just the merest surmise, for, as might be supposed, the great military nation over which Kuhnreich, the Dictator, now held such undisputed sway was likely to guard her secrets very effectively. Still, when he read in a technical journal that these same new track-ways were likely to be on view at the great Agricultural Machinery Exhibition to be held at Pé, he decided that at least one officer in his Majesty’s forces was going to be on hand to take a look-see. As an alibi, he had the excuse that being a keen lover of music—which did not happen to be the case—he was tempted to slip over the frontier from France and attend the great Pé Musical Festival, which was held annually, attracting from every part of the world devotees of the dead-and-gone masters.

  He would have told his governor the complete truth had he not felt certain that Colonel Clinton of M.I.5 would have strongly disapproved of the whole scheme.

  Looking up from the novel he had been pretending to read, Bobby frowned. It would be awkward if he met Mallory in Pé. But the next moment he consoled himself with the reflection that he did not think he would have much difficulty in inducing “Uncle Peter” to keep his mouth shut. In spite of his sometimes forbidding expression, Mallory was a thoroughly good sportsman; no doubt it was the Irishman in him which prompted him to treat life far more as a lark than his own father did. But, then, the governor had a very responsible and worrying job.

  How queer Rosemary had been! The thought of her provocatively challenging face at Croydon that morning when he had stepped into the plane came back, while the conductor rushed past in the corridor outside, shouting “Premier service!”

  Dinner! Well, he was jolly hungry. Food—as long as it was decently cooked—generally struck him as being a sound idea.

  Walking down the fast-travelling train, which swayed alarmingly as it took a curve on the line, he collided with a man, who apologised instantly.

  “It is rather like a Rugby scrum,” he heard the other say; “you must please forgive me.”

  Although the speaker used excellent English, Bobby placed him as a foreigner of some sort. A Czech, perhaps.

  “Have you ever played Rugby?” he asked.

  “Yes. Perhaps that surprises you? But, you see, I am a doctor—and I studied for a time at your London Guy’s Hospital.”

  “Really?” Bobby smiled. He had the true insularity of his race, and the statement put this stranger well inside the fold.

  “Are you alone?” he found himself saying; why, Heaven only knew.

  “Quite alone.”

  “Well—” and then, after a slight hesitation, for he hated to appear too effusive: “What about bagging a table together?”

  “Nothing would give me quite so much pleasure. Of all the cities I have known I love none like your London.”

  In spite of the doctor’s tendency to become mushy in his speech, especially when referring to England, Bobby took rather a fancy to the fellow. He looked hard-bitten, but that could be accounted for by the fact that people in mid-Europe (Dr. Emeric Sandor announced himself to be a Hungarian, journeying to Budapest via Pé) had been going through a pretty fierce time in recent years, and a man—any man, even a doctor of medicine—had to be able to look after himself.

  After dinner they sat drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes.

  “Do you in England realise that Europe is standing on the very brink of another war?” the Hungarian doctor suddenly asked.

  “We realise that things look pretty bad between Ronstadt and France,” cautiously returned the young officer.

  “Listen, and I will give you a confidence,” returned the other. “I have many friends in Ronstadt—my wife is a native of Echlen—”

  “Echlen!” repeated Wingate. Mention of that town in mid-Ronstadt, given over entirely to Kluck’s great munition factories, had made him prick up his ears.

  “Echlen,” repeated Sandor. If he had noticed the other’s interest, he did not openly comment on it.

  “Kluck’s are now engaged in the manufacture of agricultural implements. At least, that is the story which is being spread in the outside world; but I could tell any one sufficiently interested” (here the Hungarian medical man stopped to contort his face) “some very funny stories about the new kinds of tractors that have recently been developed. They will be used for tanks in the next war,” the speaker added.

  Although he was tempted, Wingate kept his curiosity in check.

  “Really?” he contented himself with replying, following the words with a slight yawn.

  But this Hungarian would not be daunted.

  “My brother-in-law is one of the managers at Kluck’s,” he continued. “It would be an easy matter for me to give any one a look around. My friend, you do not deceive me: you are a British officer, in—what do you say?—muffins?”

  “Don’t be a fool,” exclaimed Wingate.

  His companion laughed.

  “You say ‘Don’t be a fool,’ but I have lived long enough in England to know your class. But I beg pardon,” he went on quickly, in an apologetic tone. “I talk too much. Forgive me.”

  The man appeared so sincere, and so anxious to remove any awkwardness that might have arisen through his recent disclosure, that Bobby was appeased. With the sensitiveness of the young, he hated to think that he had hurt the other’s feelings in any way, and consequently, when, after hearing that his companion intended to stay at the Hotel Poste upon reaching Pé, the Hungarian offered his card, on which he had scribbled a few words, Bobby accepted the kindness in the same spirit in which he believed it was offered.

  “The manager of the Poste is a personal friend of mine. I once operated on him for acute appendicitis—and if you make yourself known he will himself see to your comfort. Have you telegraphed for accommodation?”

  “No—I did not think it was necessary.”

  The listener flung up his hands.

  “Not necessary—with a great Musical Festival being held!.…But never mind: Franz Aschelmann will see that you are put right, or I will never speak to him again. Tell him that from me—Emeric Sandor.” The speaker laughed as though he were already chastising the man whose life he had saved. “And now I must leave you.…I have some medical papers to read before I turn in. If ever you come my way, be sure to look me up; you will see the address on my card.”

  “Thanks, doctor.”

  His companion of the dining car bowed and turned away. Wingate watched him go with some regret. The other had beguiled him for a couple of hours, and, moreover, had done his best to be of service.

  An hour later he was asleep.

  Chapter VII

  Through the Wall

  The manager was profoundly apologetic—but there was the situation.

  “I regret it is entirely impossible,” he stated again. “The complete accommodation of the hotel was booked up weeks ago. You should have telegraphed, Herr Wingate. It is the influx of visitors for the Musical Festival, you know.”

  Bobby stood, frowning. He had heard so much about the Poste—easily the best hotel in Pé—that he felt reluctant to try elsewhere; and it was while he was standing irresolute that the manager made a suggestion.

  “We have a guest-house that belongs to the hotel—it is not more than three hundred yards away—where we accommodate overflow visitors at such times as this. If you will pardon me a moment, I will telephone.”

  When the manager returned a couple of minutes later, his face was s
miling.

  “There is one room vacant. It is an excellent room, and you will be very comfortable. The head porter will take you across himself.”

  “Thanks very much.”

  The house—which was of the large villa type and evidently a private residence that had been taken over by the hotel management—was spotlessly clean and extremely well furnished; it looked eminently comfortable. Bobby congratulated himself on his good luck, as a valet offered to unpack his bags.

  “You needn’t trouble.”

  The man bowed.

  “I am entirely at your service,” he stated.

  ***

  Within the three-quarters of an hour that was left to him after spending the day sight-seeing, Bobby had bathed, shaved, and got into his evening kit. He went down in the lift to find a group of twenty or so men and women drinking cocktails in the large room that served as a lounge. Somewhat to his surprise, the manager of the Poste was there in person, effecting introductions.

  Among those to whom Bobby was presented was an extremely personable woman who was introduced as Fräulein Minna Braun. She smiled at Bobby after the manager had left them together.

  “As you are on your own, I feel I must take you under my wing, Mr. Wingate. Oh, no,” she went on with a merry laugh, “that isn’t nearly such a sacrifice on my part as you might imagine—I was feeling very lonely and was looking for some one with whom I might talk. Shall we go in?” A gong had sounded.

  The young British officer found his companion a brilliant conversationalist. This woman was evidently widely travelled and had seen a good deal of life. She left him far behind in her knowledge of men and countries.

  “Tell me something about London,” she pleaded, after Bobby had confessed that he had never visited any of the American cities. “I have always loved London—but have not been there for many years. I read the English newspapers, and try to keep track of your most interesting books and plays—but it is not like being on the spot.”

  This extremely attractive woman, who looked only a few years older than himself, placed Bobby under something of a spell during the rest of the evening. She seemed so understandable. She had the gift of making him feel, not merely at his ease, but as though he were something of a personage! With an artistry that was very deft, she brought him out of his shell to such an extent that he felt himself shining in unaccustomed repartee.

  There was some talk, of course, of the Musical Festival, scheduled to begin on the following day; and Bobby, in a burst of confidence, confessed that he scarcely knew one note of music from another. The admission was greeted by a sympathetic smile on the part of his companion.

  “If you have nothing better to do, we might play truant together,” she whispered. “You see, I am just as naughty as yourself! I had arranged to take a party of cousins from Echlen to the different performances; but at the last moment they sent me a telegram to say that two of them were ill and so their visit had to be postponed. Not that I am overcome with grief,” she went on, her eyes shining; “they are both heavy in the mind as well as in the body, and I was not looking forward at all to spending a week in their company. Perhaps that sounds very ungracious—but”—sighing—“I have devoted a good deal of time during my life to looking after relations, and I am now glorying in my freedom.”

  Bobby was quite frank with himself. If it had not been for Rosemary, back in London, he would have been considerably attracted by this woman. She was soignée, she had a sophistication which appealed to him enormously, and the evening sped quickly in her company.

  Altogether, the people gathered at this guest-house seemed a very agreeable crowd. They were, in the main, well dressed, and, while one or two struck Bobby as being possible outsiders, the average level was pretty high. Some of them, he gathered from scraps of conversation that he heard around him, occupied quite decent social positions in various provincial towns of Ronstadt. There were two visitors from Holland, three from France, and quite a number from the countries forming the Little Entente.

  ***

  As eleven o’clock struck, Minna Braun pressed the stub of her cigarette into the ash tray and picked up her gold mesh vanity bag.

  “Bedtime,” she announced. “No doubt I shall see you in the morning.”

  “Of course. And—”

  “Yes?” she prompted.

  “I was going to thank you for a very jolly evening.”

  She made him a mock curtsey.

  “But you are too kind,” she replied, smiling into his eyes. “It is I who should be expressing the gratitude. For haven’t you kept a tiresome old woman from being bored all night?”

  She turned away before he could think of a worthy retort.

  Bobby himself went up shortly afterwards. The long train journey, followed by sight-seeing, had been very tiring, and, now that he was left alone, he felt he might fall to sleep at any moment.

  The weather had turned cold, although it was only mid-September, and the sight of a fire burning in the old-fashioned hearth was very comforting. He undressed by its cheerful warmth and got into bed.

  ***

  He awoke with something like a start. Some one was making an awful racket—pounding on the door, it sounded like. Had a fire broken out?

  He sat up and groped with his right hand for the electric light switch; but the noise, whatever it might have been, ceased directly he recovered consciousness. Had he merely dreamed it?

  But, because the shock had been so considerable, he continued to train his ears to listen. And, after twenty seconds or so, he heard something which was unmistakably real: it was the sound of two men talking. Their voices could be distinctly heard, coming from the wall at the back of his bed. Evidently there was a very thin partition between the two rooms.

  The first voice was angry.

  “What did you want to make such a devil of a row for?—Just as likely as not you woke him up.”

  “Not a chance,” returned a second voice, also speaking in English. “If you hadn’t kept your door locked, I shouldn’t have needed to make any noise at all.”

  The other seemed appeased.

  “Well,” Bobby heard him declare, “it may be all right, of course. Now, what is it you want to tell me?”

  “Just this: that boy in the next room is the adopted son of Colonel Clinton, who’s got a big job in M.I.5.”

  “British Military Intelligence?” gasped the other.

  “Yes.” The affirmation was followed by a short, harsh laugh. “I wonder what the British authorities would say if they knew the truth about Colonel Clinton.”

  “What do you mean by that?” asked the first voice, after a pause.

  The reply was very confident.

  “You can take it from me that I’m telling the truth. It happened seventeen years ago—during the last year of the war, that was—in August, 1918, as a matter of fact. Clinton—he was then just a Captain—was sent over from London with some very special dispatches. The British were going to try out a new gas, among other things. But something went wrong”—again a short, harsh, unpleasant laugh racked the listening boy’s ears. “Clinton spent the night with a supposed French girl, named Marie Roget. She was a German decoy. She doped his wine, and a Prussian Secret Service officer named von Ritter was able to get at the dispatches and take photographic copies. As a result, the British got it in the neck and lost five thousand men when they attacked.”

  “What happened to Clinton? Wasn’t he court-martialled?”

  “Nothing happened to him. He swore that no one had got at the dispatches, and he had the support of another English officer named Mallory, an intimate friend, who lied like fury to save him.”

  “How do you know all this, Johann?”

  “I got it from a waiter named Pierre, who was in the German Secret Service. All this happened at a little hotel called the Lion d’Or, just off the Rue Ca
umartin.”

  “I know it. Well, what does it all amount to? Why wake me up in the middle of the night to tell me something which happened seventeen years ago?”

  “Because we are both hard up; and I thought perhaps, if we told the young man in the next room, he might be inclined to fork out a little money. These British officers are very sensitive about their honour, don’t forget.”

  There was the sound of a yawn.

  “Well, I’ll think about it. As you say, it might be worth something. But what proof have you got? If we told this story to young Wingate, he’d just laugh in our faces.”

  The reply was sinister.

  “I can get plenty of proof.”

  After that there was the sound of a whispered good-night and then—silence.

  Bobby felt as if he had been turned into stone. It simply could not be true. His own governor! And yet, what was it Mallory had said the night he had arrived home from leave? Hadn’t Uncle Peter made a jesting reference to some Paris sex exploit of Alan Clinton’s when the latter was a young man? Had he had this very incident in mind?

  Bobby’s thoughts continued to race.

  But if Mallory had been referring to this particular affair, he surely wouldn’t have joked about it? On the contrary, he wouldn’t have mentioned it at all. He couldn’t have mentioned it, for the thing was far too horrible—too utterly horrible ever to be raised between two friends.

  And Colonel Clinton had served in the trenches for two-and-a-half years on end.

  Five thousand lives lost. The words kept repeating themselves in his brain, hammering out a devil’s refrain. And he had been given special dispatches.…

  When he got back he’d ask Mallory. He’d put him on his honour. But would he tell the truth? Could he be expected to tell the truth—that was, if the truth was damning? As he had lied seventeen years before, so would he lie now. It wasn’t likely that he was going to give his old friend away—more especially to the man’s own boy.

  Bobby’s thoughts took another twist. Who were these men; and why had they had that talk that night? On the surface the answer appeared simple enough: they were a couple of crooks come to Pé to see whom they could pluck among the great crowds gathered for the Musical Festival. And their object, so far as he was concerned, was blackmail.