The Traitor

by Sydney Horler

  “However, the presence of these witnesses was absolutely necessary; so there was no way out. The charge against Wingate was so serious that a conviction was absolutely necessary.

  “I knew very well,” Clergyman went on to declare, “that Fordinghame would be nervous about the Press—and so it turned out. He decided, after a good deal of thought, that the five agents whose presence was wanted in London must, prior to their leaving Pé, each provide a good alibi and then get out of the country by separate and devious routes, reaching London alone.”

  “How did you know that?”

  The reporter withered his interrogator with a look.

  “Fordinghame himself told me so,” he replied, amidst a gale of laughter. “Once they were here, he had them accommodated in separate hang-outs. I don’t know whether you fellows,” getting well into his stride now after another hearty pull at the pint pot, “are aware that Secret Service agents are never allowed to know each other, even although they are from the same town or district.

  “All right. I got as far as telling you that the five agents had reached London separately. Now, although the evidence of these witnesses was given in camera and every possible precaution taken against their being identified, Fordinghame must have realised that every newspaper in the country would risk a good deal if it could get a story about these witnesses. For instance, look at the fit Blackie threw when I told him that such stuff was dynamite. And in order to prevent any clue concerning any of these agents from leaking out, Fordinghame resorted to pure melodrama. He hit upon the idea of putting them all in robes that the Ku Klux Klan boys of a few years back would have been proud to own. That was all right so long as they were in the court—but how were they to get there without being seen? The sight of a bloke going round dressed as a K.K.K. chieftain, even in a taxicab, was likely to cause something of a riot. Righto! The only thing for it, then, was to exercise a little more strategy. Fordinghame is a wily old bird (he ought to be, after his experience) and he bethought him of an old Sinn Fein trick back in the days of the ‘Trouble’ in Ireland. He arranged for a laundry van, with a large-sized skip, to be waiting outside the back entrance to each house in which one of the witnesses was staying. Getting into the skip, the witness was duly collected, and deposited at the rear door of the library at the Chelbridge Headquarters.”

  The reporter broke off to chuckle.

  “I got on the trail of one of those damned vans on the second day,” he said, “but just as it was entering the barrack gates, out from a side street came a fellow pushing a little hand-truck on which rested the longest ladder—it looked the longest—in the world. My taxi was held up for a couple of minutes—and by that time, naturally enough, the witness had been smuggled in.”

  One of the listeners interjected a question.

  “Did the Sinn Feiners, you say, use that ladder trick?”

  “They did, my boy, whenever they were out to ambush a car in the streets of Dublin. I was there and I know.…Well, it’s me for bed—and I think I’ve earned it.”

  “It’s your turn for the next round,” said a complaining voice.

  “That’s why I’m going.”

  Chapter XXVI

  In Which a Good Deal Is Explained

  Sir Brian Fordinghame looked round the room, crowded with high Government officials—the Prime Minister himself had slipped away from Downing Street for a few minutes—and made a weary gesture.

  “I want you all to realise,” he said, “that what I am going to tell you is not an agreeable task. I had known Peter Mallory for over twenty years. He had been not only my personal friend but also one of my chief operatives for at least half of that time. Even now that the evidence of his guilt as a traitor is so conclusive as to leave no doubt, I find it difficult to credit the truth.

  “The double-spy is not unknown in espionage, of course; but rarely does one encounter one in such a social position as Mallory’s. There was a famous instance, of course—that of Colonel Redl, Chief of the Austrian Intelligence, who was bought by the Russians, and who shot himself with a revolver left by his brother officers so that he might be saved from a firing squad. He met a better end than Peter Mallory.

  “It was Rosemary Allister who started my suspicions of Mallory. Poor child, I shall never forget the indignant way I answered her on the day that she first brought up the subject. It wanted courage, that action of hers.”

  Colonel Clinton was heard suppressing an exclamation.

  “Mallory was a queer man. His diary reveals that his mentality was quite abnormal, bordering even on madness,” went on Fordinghame. “It was not until his effects were searched and the strongbox he kept at a safe deposit opened that this came to light. I confess the knowledge was a terrible surprise to me. And yet, looking back, Mallory from time to time had given, unconsciously perhaps, hints of insanity in his conversation that ought to have set me thinking.…But the man was such a friend that the thought of his being abnormal in any way never once occurred to me.”

  Bobby Wingate groaned.

  “And you say it was Rosemary who first told you?”

  “Yes. Miss Allister, who was acting, as you know, as my secretary, told me that Peter Mallory had taken her to the Savoy Grill for supper and she…well, noticed certain things. She was suspicious of him, not quite sure that he was ‘straight.’ And told me so. ‘I’m going to keep my eye on him for I’m certain he’s a darned sight more guilty than Bobby Wingate.’ Those were her exact words.

  “After that she apologised for ‘wasting the office time,’ as she put it, and went into her own room to work. I suppose I should have dismissed the whole occurrence as being preposterous—Mallory, a man I had known and trusted, a man, moreover, who had brought off several very valuable coups; why, it was fantastic. And yet—well, Clinton,” looking at the M.I.5 Colonel, “you know how it is, in our job: we have only to hear a word and—didn’t I move heaven and earth to get this boy”—walking across to Bobby and placing a hand on his shoulder—“who might have been my own son, convicted? I tell you, this is a hellish trade we’re in,” frowning heavily.

  “I began to ponder, to look into things. I had a talk with a Harley Street surgeon—McAllister; you probably know him, most of you—and he gave me positive proof that if Mallory did belong to the abnormal type he might be suffering from a psychological kink. I had my duty to do: if Rosemary Allister’s amazing suggestion (based partly, I agree, on feminine intuition) were true, then one had the utterly astounding situation of the man who was defending an alleged traitor being himself guilty.

  “I felt I couldn’t take any chances, and I had Mallory watched. I realised I had to go very carefully. Moreover, he was acting as young Wingate’s defending counsel—and appeared to be doing his job very well.”

  “He was—I will say that for him,” put in Bobby; “even when he persisted in asking me about the package I sent Rosemary from Pé, I only thought he was anxious to get me off.”

  “Whereas we know now,” said the Chief of Y.1 grimly, “that all he was thinking of was how he could get hold of it and return it to his paymasters in Ronstadt. Incidentally, of course, he was afraid of being discovered.

  “It was a clever idea to make ordinary fountain-pen ink a re-agent,” the speaker went on musingly; “no one would be likely to try ink, of course, for fear of spoiling the paper altogether, and as regards the second sheet in the package—the one showing the actual specifications of the anti-tank gun—once the ink was used it became a perfectly good blueprint.”

  “Very ingenious; but where I am beaten,” confessed Colonel Clinton, “is why a man like Mallory should turn traitor. What was the inducement? It couldn’t have been money; he was successful at his business; he was a bachelor, with comparatively inexpensive tastes; and even if, as you have said, he was abnormal, that, surely, in spite of whatever McAllister may have told you, was not instrumental in turning him into
a traitor. Why, if that rule held good, hundreds of supposedly patriotic men in London alone would be rushing over to Ronstadt, offering to act as spies!”

  “Quite so,” agreed Fordinghame, “but there were helping factors in Mallory’s case. To begin with, he was wounded in the head during the last war (you will remember he frequently made a joke about ‘that bit of shrapnel wandering about in his brain’), and then—and this will surprise you, Clinton—he had a step-brother shot during the Irish trouble in 1916. Oh, I admit he kept it a dead secret—I didn’t know it myself until I began to make every possible kind of inquiry about him—but the fact is on record, nevertheless. My own belief is that his wound completely changed his character. McAllister told me of an ex-officer who, through a similar disability, murdered the wife he adored.”

  “Mallory went to Pé frequently, didn’t he?” asked Major Bingham.

  “Yes, I used him as my ‘post-office,’ or connecting link with the resident agents of Y.1. That gave him a unique opportunity to pass on information, although exactly by what means he obtained possession of the design for the new anti-tank shoulder-weapon we haven’t yet been able to discover.”

  “But we will,” said Colonel Clinton grimly.

  “Yes; between us we undoubtedly will, and then it will be rather bad luck for another traitor.

  “Whether this kink in his moral character was the determining factor in making Peter Mallory, who used to be one of the best fellows alive, turn traitor, we shall now never know; but my own belief is that it played a big part. However,” touching a bell, “it is time we stopped talking and did something more practical. Bring some whisky and a siphon, Brooks,” Fordinghame added to the servant who now entered the room.

  When the various glasses were charged, the host—this talk had taken place in Sir Brian Fordinghame’s office—gave a toast.

  “To your future happiness, Wingate!”

  “It’s very good of you, sir.” Bobby’s hand trembled slightly as he watched the others drink.

  ***

  The two men faced each other.

  “Now for the truth, Bobby,” said Colonel Clinton. “I’ve waited a long time.…Just a minute,” he broke off, as the boy seemed about to reply: “I’ve a confession to make to you. Seventeen years ago—”

  “Please, governor!” came the interruption. “I know all about it.”

  Clinton stared at him.

  “And was it because of that—”

  Again he was interrupted.

  “When I was in that guest-house at Pé, I heard some one talking in the next room one night. Of course, it was part of a plot to get hold of me, but I didn’t realise it at the time. I thought you were going to be blackmailed.”

  “That was the original intention, no doubt—the woman you knew as ‘Minna Braun’ sent me a letter.”

  “They must have got the wind up once I was arrested. Well, governor, I don’t blame you; she’s attractive enough now; I bet she was a stunner seventeen years ago.”

  Colonel Clinton fidgeted with his cigarette.

  “I’ve never stopped feeling the worst kind of cad—I should like you to know that.”

  “As if I didn’t know.…But it’s time to forget it now.”

  Clinton had his arm round the boy’s shoulder when Hannah entered.

  “Miss Allister is on the telephone, Master Bobby—and she seems terribly impatient.”

  It was only then that the haggard expression on the Colonel’s face changed into a smile.

  ***

  Rosemary stopped the two-seater by—of all places in the world—the side of the Serpentine. The October night was gracious.

  “We can talk here, Bobby,” she said; “we might be millions of miles away from London. If any one sees us (not that I should mind that!) they’ll think we’re just a shopgirl and her boy.…Well?” for the young man at her side was silent.

  “Really, we should have been at the Berkeley—with the whole world looking on,” she continued.

  “I couldn’t have let you face it.”

  “What fools men are!” she told him. “They don’t realise that when a girl is proud of any one she wants to show him off. And I’m damned proud of you, Bobby, let me tell you! Well?”

  He slipped an arm round her.

  “I can’t talk,” he said.

  “No—it would be a waste of time,” she agreed, offering her lips with a frank, glad surrender.

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