“Is it not equally also correct that this woman, afraid that she was on the point of being discovered, handed to you a package—”
Bobby’s brain, working quickly, made him interrupt. He knew what line of defence he must take: he must continue with the denial on this point that he had already given to Sandor.
“I am afraid I must give you the same answer as I gave a gentleman calling himself Dr. Emeric Sandor earlier in the day,” he said with a smile. “I know nothing whatever about this very mysterious package. And I know nothing whatever about the lady calling herself Fräulein Minna Braun declaring herself to be a French Secret Service agent. She came to my room last night, it is true, and told me that she had been badly frightened by some men endeavouring to break down her door. I tried to reassure her, and after a short while she went back to her room. I do not see that that constitutes any crime, even in Ronstadt, Herr Major.”
The cold blue eyes tried to outstare him. The man looked as though he knew Wingate was lying. He had put far too many poor devils through their paces in that same room to be deceived. And yet, hating himself as he did for the falsehoods, Bobby could not see any other line of conduct. It was impossible to go back on his word to the Frenchwoman—equally impossible, once he had started the denials, to tell what he had done with the package. If Minna Braun were to be believed, that package vitally concerned the future safety of both France and Great Britain. It was a dirty business in which he had become involved, but, once in, he had to make the best of it and fight with what weapons he could find.
The man in the middle chair lit a cigarette.
“So that is your story?” he inquired with a sneer.
“That is my story. The only other thing I have to say is to complain of the crude manners of the members of your Secret Police who brought me here. They appeared to think it very funny when I told them I was a British subject.”
The other acted as though he had not heard; he was bending towards the older man on his left, listening intently to what the latter was saying. Presently he turned again to Wingate, and now there was a suspicion of a smile on his flintlike face.
“We do not appear to be getting anywhere, Lieutenant. Perhaps we shall understand each other a little better if I tell you something that occurred seventeen years ago. A certain British officer, a few years older than yourself, was sent to Paris with secret dispatches. What those dispatches concerned does not matter greatly after this length of time. What does matter is that, owing to his association with a certain attractive young woman, then working for the German Secret Service, he proved false to his trust—with the result that the British were badly beaten back at a certain part of the line and lost over five thousand casualties in men and officers. That officer, Lieutenant Wingate, was your stepfather. He occupies now, I understand, quite a prominent position in the Military Intelligence Department of your War Office.”
The listener laid down his cigarette.
“You don’t expect me to believe that, of course?” he said.
For reply, the Major opened a drawer in his desk and placed a large envelope on the table before him.
“The story can best be substantiated by a number of photographs. You will no doubt be able to recognise your father here?” handing the first one over.
Bobby stared at the speaker before glancing towards the photograph. Strange that an enemy should be the means of providing the very evidence that Bobby himself had wanted to find!
He picked up the photograph. With a growing sense of dismay, he was able to recognise the man in British uniform: without any possible doubt, this man was the governor.
“Here is another,” said the Major, passing over another photograph.
The blood flooded into Bobby’s face. The scene now was a room in what was either a private house, or, more likely, a hotel.
“I can give you the name of the hotel—Lion d’Or, in Paris,” supplied the Major.
An officer in British uniform—his father again—was embracing a girl whose face was so hidden that she could not be recognised.
“And, finally, here are photographs of your father’s letters to this girl, Marie Roget, together with facsimiles of the secret dispatches he was supposed to deliver safely to Major-General Bentley of the Royal Engineers.”
Bobby, after scanning the incriminating evidence quickly, thrust the documents aside.
“Why are you showing me these?” he demanded.
Another fleeting smile played over the grim lips.
“Because I wish you to understand that it would be politic of you to inform me what you did with the package handed to you by Minna Braun.”
So that was it! Blackmail! If he didn’t come through with the truth, they would put the screw on the poor old governor! But even that fear did not sway him. He could not allow it to do so.
“You can go to hell,” he said very distinctly.
The Major’s face stiffened into yet more formidable lines.
“I am not likely to forget that remark, Lieutenant Wingate,” he said—and then the telephone by his side rang. Taking off the receiver, he listened carefully. Then, with a murmured “Very well,” he hung up.
“You are at liberty to return to your hotel,” he said surprisingly.
Chapter XII
Bobby Draws a Blank
During the taxi ride back to the guest-house, Bobby wondered at his escape. That this was entirely due to the mysterious telephone message he had no doubt; otherwise, the Secret Service authorities would have detained him until he came through with the truth.
But what did anything matter now that he was free? The only thing of consequence was his determination to get out of Pé as quickly as possible. Things generally were in a hell of a mess—not only was he suspected of being a British spy, but there was that horrible cloud hanging over his father’s name.
Arrived at the guest-house, he was informed that his luggage had been transferred to the Hotel Poste.
“For what reason?”
The clerk shrugged his shoulders.
“We had orders,” he said—and would not be drawn to any further extent.
Well, it didn’t matter whether he stayed at the guest-house or the Poste for that one night. He would be off first thing in the morning, in any case.
The mental strain under which he had been labouring for the past two hours had given him an appetite, and he went into the dining-room determined to fortify his nerves with a good meal. Before he could sit down, however, he was accosted by a familiar voice.
“Hullo, Bobby! I’ve been waiting for you to show up.”
Peter Mallory!
“Don’t look so startled, my boy; I can easily explain everything. If you don’t mind, I’ll sit with you. I haven’t dined myself yet.”
Here was a bit of luck! But, nevertheless, after the first pleasant shock of surprise had passed, Bobby told himself that he must not give his confidence even to his old friend. The governor must not be exposed—and, for his own part, he did not wish to discuss his own foolhardy behaviour (for that was how any outside person would sum it up, he had no doubt).
Mallory was very tactful. It was not until the meal was well under way that he explained the reason for his unexpected appearance.
“I came over here at your father’s request, Bobby,” he said. “He didn’t know you were going on to Pé, and has been very worried. You appear to have been rather playing the fool. Fordinghame, of Y.1, began to get reports about you—the things you were doing here—and so your father asked me to look you up and advise you to return home at once. Good God, my boy,” he went on, speaking more seriously, “you really ought to have been more careful—especially at a time like this.”
It was a direct invitation for confidence, but Bobby ignored him. It hurt him to do so, but he felt compelled to keep his tongue under control. All he permitted himself
to say was this:
“I am leaving to-morrow morning for Paris.”
***
It was not until the great air liner had actually left the ground that Bobby felt safe. Till then he had been expecting to feel a hand fall on his shoulder at any moment.
Mallory, who had come to see him off, had rallied him on being so preoccupied.
“I am beginning to think that you must have fallen in love over here, my boy,” he had said. “That won’t do at all, you know, with a certain very charming girl waiting for you in London. By the way, she drove me back from Croydon; I hope you aren’t jealous?”
“Jealous?” Bobby had laughed. “No, I’m not jealous.” Why should he be jealous of a man old enough to be his father, even if there were any likelihood of Rosemary’s being attracted? Uncle Peter was a damned good sort, of course, but with his gaunt face and general unprepossessing appearance he could not conceive of any woman, let alone a modern girl of twenty-two like Rosemary.…Oh, it was ridiculous. He had been having his leg pulled.
“When are you coming back?” he had asked.
“Directly I have finished up the insurance business which brought me over. To-morrow, I hope. I must say I don’t think the atmosphere in Pé just at the moment is particularly healthful to any Englishman. I shall be glad to get clear—and only wish I were going with you.”
“Well, look after yourself. Don’t forget the governor would be terribly upset if—”
“Oh, I shall be all right; they wouldn’t dare to touch me; I’m a bona fide professional man—over here on perfectly straightforward business. It was rather different with you, young man; they knew you were an officer in the British Army, and, with the tension as it is between the two countries, they probably thought that you had come on from Paris with the deliberate intention of doing a little amateur spying. And they were right, I take it?”
“I wanted to try to do the governor a bit of good,” Bobby had replied.
“Dashed risky way of attempting it, if I may say so.…Well, a safe trip; my regards to Miss Allister.”
Mallory then turned away. Just as Wingate had refused to give him his full confidence, so had he withheld a certain amount of the truth from the younger man. Within a half-hour of making his farewell remark to Bobby, he himself was on board an air liner—bound for London.
***
Bobby looked at the paper again. Yes, there was no doubt about this being the rue Danou—but although he had traversed the short street from end to end, there was no number corresponding to the one Minna Braun had written in that good-bye message to him.
She must have made some mistake—and yet, in an affair of such importance, how could she have made a mistake, even assuming that she was terribly agitated at the time she wrote the note?
Was the thing a blind—a trap? He had dismissed the idea immediately, annoyed with himself at the suggestion. That the woman who called herself “Minna Braun” was really working for the French Intelligence Service had been amply proved by the statements of that swine of a Major who had interrogated him.
Noticing a man on the other side of the street watching him with what appeared to be more than ordinary interest, Bobby tore the note into tiny fragments behind his back and scattered these to the winds. He had been rather clever about secreting that address, he considered; screwing up the paper, he had placed it at the bottom of his pipe and covered it with tobacco. At the time his luggage and person were being searched, the pipe, all ready for lighting, had been resting on the mantelpiece. That was why he had asked permission to smoke—a permission which had been so curtly refused. Perhaps that bullying leader of the Secret Police had thought that he had intended to commit suicide through the medium of a drugged cigarette!
Ronstadt had numerous agents in Paris, no doubt, and, with the thoughts that the sight of the possible watcher on the other side of the street had aroused filling his mind, he decided that it would be better to get a move on. He dared not run any further risks. When he reached London he would send a few words on a plain sheet of paper to the woman at the address she had given him—something like “Everything all right”—and chance its getting to her. That was all he could do, of course.
Chapter XIII
Rosemary Is Perplexed
Rosemary had been obliged to alter her decision. She felt, on reflection, that she could not abuse an office confidence, not even when Bobby Wingate was concerned. So she had not lived up to her original intention of going to his father and telling him all that she knew. A subsidiary reason was that she felt certain Sir Brian Fordinghame would communicate the information himself. The one person to whom she would have liked to talk was Bobby’s mother, but here again the same condition ruled. Besides, it would be the height of cruelty to bring added pain to that sweet soul. No, all she could do, she decided, was to watch events in the office and be thankful that she was on the “inside” of what was happening. Of course, this was a mixed blessing, but she had to put up with that.
Events moved swiftly. Reports from the British Secret Service agents in Pé continued to come through every few hours. Word was received that Bobby had been taken to the Headquarters of the Ronstadt Secret Service and there interrogated.
She could not help questioning her chief on this point. The excuse she gave for her personal interest was that she knew Bobby Wingate intimately.
“Of course,” returned Fordinghame; “I had forgotten that for the moment. No, Miss Allister, I confess,” he went on, “that I cannot understand this new move—unless it is meant as a blind to throw our own people off the scent. Such things do happen.”
She risked a great deal.
“It’s impossible to imagine that Bobby Wingate is a traitor, Sir Brian.”
“On the surface, yes. But these are very damning facts”—pointing to the papers on his desk.
***
It had been a very heavy day, with Brander away, and when she reached home she felt extremely tired.
At dinner that night her father had turned to the minor politician who had come to consult him on a point of banking rule which formed an important platform in a speech he was scheduled to make the following afternoon in the House of Commons.
“You mustn’t mind Rosemary,” he said, in part apology for the girl’s preoccupation. “She’s living a life of tremendous excitement just now. No, I cannot possibly tell you what it is—but the ordinary film star has nothing on her at the moment.”
It pleased Matthew Allister, who actually was a pedant to the bottom of his soul, to pretend to be ultramodern on occasions. This was one of the occasions.
Knowing that her father was merely trying to make a mild joke, she forced herself to smile at the words. If only he knew the tumult that was in her heart.…
It was when she was trying in vain to sleep that the dreadful thought came. Sir Brian Fordinghame, acting on the information he had received, strongly suspected Bobby of being a traitor. She didn’t believe if for a moment—how could any one who knew the boy intimately give it one single moment’s thought?—but…
It was then that she put a hand to her heart to try to stop its furious beats. Suppose—just suppose—that, in a fit of mad desperation, Bobby had attempted to sell some military secret. For what purpose? Why, in the frenzied craving to get some money so that he might be able to marry her.
As quickly as it came, she dismissed the suggestion. Even although she had moved for the last few days in an atmosphere of sheer melodrama, such an event was inconceivable. Besides, it would have to be something of tremendous and vital importance to bring him in any such sum. And how could he, a mere lieutenant in the Tanks, get hold of such information?
Yet, there was this certainty: he had run and was still running, probably, terrible risks. Why?
Out of the jumble of her thoughts she endeavoured to sort something that was clear and coherent. And this is what
came: (1) she knew she loved Bobby Wingate more than ever, and (2) she was going to help him. It seemed preposterous, such a resolve, especially as at the moment she did not possess the slightest inkling of how she was going to set to work. But, strong in her faith and affection, she felt sure a means would be shown her.
***
The next morning she found on the breakfast table a newspaper addressed to her in Bobby’s handwriting—with the words “Keep this safe for me” on the outside page. It was not until she had cut the string and had smoothed out the pages that she realised the journal was a covering for another package. This crinkled as she touched it, and, tearing it open, she found—just two blank sheets of paper.
What was Bobby’s idea? Was he playing some stupid prank? It certainly seemed like it. Why should he have scribbled on the outside page of the newspaper “Keep this safe for me”?
After a couple of minutes she calmed herself. Bobby was not the type to play the fool. He must have had some definite purpose in mind when he sent this to her. She would keep both the newspaper and the sheets of paper safely locked away until he returned.
Until he returned! Would he ever return? Would he join that grisly throng who, put into prison on a real or false charge of espionage, become lost in the shadows of a never-never land to which the ordinary person was not allowed to penetrate?
She was early at the office, and when Sir Brian entered to give her a courteous good-morning, she was tempted to confide what she knew to this man of knowledge and affairs. But she beat the temptation down; this was her own affair. Bobby had singled her out for his confidence—very well, she would respect it. If he had wanted to, he could have sent that package to his father. Why he had not done so, she was unable to understand—but the fact remained: he had given her his confidence. She would be a nice sort of rotter if she let him down. She was not going to let him down!
Late that afternoon there was an unexpected visitor—unexpected, at least, so far as Rosemary was concerned. Peter Mallory walked in; he smiled at Fordinghame, and gave her a slight bow. Never very slow on the uptake, Rosemary left, after a word or so of greeting to Mallory, for her small inner room.
The Traitor Page 14
