The Traitor (9 page)

He turned the key quickly and the next moment the woman was clinging to him with all the desperation that fear can give. She was wearing such a thin négligé that she might have been naked. Her firm, full breasts pressed against his body.

“Bobby!” she moaned. “
Bobby
…!”

“Wait a minute,” he told her. There was the door to be shut, and not merely shut, but locked, before he could hope to restore her to any state of normal behaviour. That she had recently been badly frightened—she, this sophisticated woman of the world!—was evident. What had happened to scare her so that her eyes were glassy, her voice faltering and her lips dry and trembling?

It was not until he had set her down in the easy-chair by the fire that she recovered sufficiently to smile. And even then her face was white and her whole body shook as though she had a fever.

“You're cold,” he said, uttering the fatuity that a man does when his wits are scattered and he has not yet had time to gather them together again.

“I'm afraid,” she replied faintly.

“Of what?”

“I will tell you in a minute.…You don't mind my coming to you? You're not cross—or ashamed of me?”

“Of course not. We're friends, aren't we?”

She took his right hand and pressed it to her lips.

“I knew I could trust you,” she said; “that was why I came—and, besides, there was no one else.”

She started trembling again and, cursing himself for his neglect, Bobby fetched first his dressing-gown and then a travelling brandy-flask. Pouring out some of the spirit, he held it to her mouth. She swallowed—and shuddered.

“Oh…how it burns!” Then, with his Jaeger dressing-gown round her shoulders, she looked up and smiled her thanks.

“You will look after me, Bobby?” she asked.

He nodded—mainly because he did not know what else to do.

“Of course—but what's it all about?”

“Have you a cigarette?” she asked. “My nerves are still shaky,” and, indeed, her hand as she raised it was still trembling. “Put something round you, my dear—you will catch cold,” she said, branching off with what struck the listener as amazing inconsequence.

“I shall be all right; I want to hear your story. What frightened you?”

She blew cigarette smoke slowly.

“Some men tried to get into my room,” she said at length.

“Who were they?”

“I don't know. At least, I couldn't give them any names, but I believe I know who they were all the same.”

“Then?”

“They belonged to the Ronstadt Secret Service.” As she whispered the words, she cast a frightened look round the room as though expecting enemies to spring out from every side.

“The Ronstadt Secret Service?” he repeated, amazed.

She nodded, and reached for his hand again.

“Listen, Bobby,” she said in a low, soft tone that thrilled him. “I am a Frenchwoman, not a native of Ronstadt. Does that surprise you?”

“Not altogether.” Now that he came to remember, there were several things about the speaker that reconciled him to her statement.

“My name I must not tell you—it would be too dangerous for you to know—but for the last five years I have been in the French Intelligence Service. I know languages, I have travelled, I—well, according to the authorities, I possess many of the qualities which would make a good agent.”

“Including the ability to make men fall in love with you.” He had to say it.

“My dear,” she returned quickly, “you should not have said that, because it is not true—not in your case, at any rate. Won't you believe me when I tell you this?”

“I believe you,” he said—and wondered the next moment whether he was being a fool. But it seemed impossible to doubt this woman: she was either sincere or the most marvellous actress in the world.

“Tell me the rest,” he said.

“I must be quick.” Again she cast that hurried glance round. “I was sent to Pé on a special mission. I was forced to do—no, I must not tell you; it might make you lose any respect you have for me. Yes, although I did it for my country,” she added proudly. “Let it suffice that I was successful in this mission, that I gained what I had been sent to get. Here it is.” She thrust a hand into her breast and withdrew a small package, the outer covering of which was oiled silk.

“I want you to keep that for me, Bobby. They would never suspect you; but they have begun to suspect me. You are my only hope. I may be arrested at any moment. I would not ask you to do this if you were not an Englishman—but our countries are united in a common cause. The information contained in these papers,” tapping the package, “will be found to be of the utmost value to our two nations.”

“What is the information?”

She shook her head.

“I cannot tell you—it would be too dangerous for you to know. Besides, it is all written in code. Will you do this for me?”

He looked at her and she met his gaze fearlessly.

“Yes,” he said, “I will.”

“You will keep the package until a messenger calls for it?”

“How shall I know the messenger?”

“In the first place, he will show you this.” She took a ring off her finger and let him examine it. It was a plain signet ring with the initials “R.F.” engraved on it. “R.F.,” she said—“Republic of France. Will you remember that?”

“Of course.”

“The messenger will also give you a password—it will be the English word ‘Reliance.' Now repeat that, Bobby.”

“‘Reliance,''' he said, like a child learning a lesson.

“The ring first,”—showing it to him again—“and then the word, ‘Reliance.' And now I must go.”

“Let me see you back to your room.”

She shook her head.

“No, that might involve you in some risk. Besides, the package.…Where will you put it?”

He pointed to his suitcase.

“In my luggage.”

“These men might search it.”

“I shall keep it locked.”

She seemed on the point of demurring, and then turned to the door.

“I am relying on you, Bobby,” she said; “remember, we work for the same cause. And, my dear, I shall never forget to-night.” Taking off the dressing-gown, she flung her arms round his neck and kissed him with passion on the lips.

He was reluctant to let her go. The sex-urge which she had awakened earlier in the day returned with such force as almost to overwhelm him. But some power which he could not analyse made him release himself after a while and open the door.

“You are sure you will be all right?”

She smiled at him.

“Yes, I shall be all right,” and with that she went.

***

For the rest of the night Bobby remained on guard. The package was locked in his suitcase, as he had promised, but there could be no question of sleep. He felt too perturbed. He had pledged himself to help the woman—but he could not disguise the fact that, in helping her, he was running a very grave risk. With his identity known, if the package was found in his possession he would be in just as much danger as the supposed Minna Braun—probably more. Yet he had to remain true to the trust she had put in him.

When he went down to breakfast the package was in the breast pocket of his coat.

On his plate was an envelope with “Herr R. Wingate” written on it in pencil. Guessing that it was a message from the woman, he put it into his pocket without reading it.

The other people staying at the guest-house dribbled into the dining-room. He began to speculate on the identity of each man who entered. Were the members of the Ronstadt Secret Service who had tried to get into Minna Braun's room the night before included in that gathering? Were the men he had heard talking about Colonel Clinton's indiscretion, the night before last, also present? He ate his breakfast quickly and then walked out into the garden at the back of the house. Making sure that no one could be watching him, he opened the envelope, drew out the single sheet of paper within and read:

M
y dearest
B
obby
,—This is just a line to tell you that I have left Pé. It was too dangerous for me to remain. If ever you want to communicate with me, write to this address: 12
bis, rue Danou, Paris
. Even if I am not there, the letter will be forwarded.

I can tell you now what perhaps you have already guessed: I love you.

Below was a signature: “Adrienne Grandin.”

During the time that it took him to smoke a cigarette, Bobby gave very earnest thought to the problem that now confronted him. How long was he to wait for the woman's messenger? She had said nothing about this in her note. And, even if the messenger came, he might be working for Ronstadt instead of for France. Why had she left so secretly? Obviously, because she was afraid of being placed under arrest.

The more he thought about it, the more he disliked the situation. Then, out of the murk, there flashed a thought which seemed to supply some sort of solution. Not altogether a satisfactory one—but the best that offered itself in the circumstances.

He remembered what the governor had so often told him—namely, that the censorship of the newspaper post was not nearly so rigidly carried out as it might have been. What was there to prevent him from sending this package to some one else, by newspaper post, and writing to Adrienne Grandin telling her what he had done? He could explain that he had decided that this was the best thing he could do. And then he must leave the guest-house himself. Oh, he knew that he had intended to remain until he was able to get some sort of clue about the plot against the man whom he had always regarded as his father—but this unexpected happening had put a very different complexion on the position. With the Frenchwoman suspected by the Ronstadt Secret Service people, it could not have escaped their notice that he had been very friendly with her. They would put two and two together.…

On the way from the guest-house to the Hotel Poste, where he intended to give notice that he would be leaving Pé the next day—that was the idea, he suddenly decided: he would return to Paris, call at the address in the rue Danou, and leave a message for the woman— He turned off and bought a copy of that day's
Tageblatt
. Going into a stationer's, he placed the package carefully inside the newspaper, tied it securely with string; and then, walking into a post office, he addressed the newspaper to Rosemary Allister. Hearing the packet drop into the wide letter-box gave him a sense of relief greater than he would have thought possible.

Then he turned again in the direction of the Hotel Poste.

Chapter IX

Startling News

Rosemary had been working at the office of Y.1 for only a couple of days when she knew that she would like this post. It gave her a sense of satisfaction—not to mention a thrill—to realise that she was actually behind the scenes during big events.

The only blot on the landscape was Horatio Brander. The latter, who was acting as principal private secretary to Sir Brian Fordinghame, had viewed her with suspicion from the start—and not only with suspicion, but with positive dislike. So much was plain. But, then, she deduced that Brander—a raw-boned individual, prematurely bald, gaunt-featured, and possessing no sense of humour whatever—disliked all women on principle, especially any of the sex who by some unfortunate mischance has been allowed to stray into the work of Intelligence. She wondered why Fordinghame had selected such a man to have always at his elbow, and then quickly decided that it must have been because such an individual would remain impervious to any possible scheme of seduction by a female.

Seduction! She would like to see Brander's face while the process was going on.…

At this particular moment she was listening, with what patience she could summon to her aid, to a lecture by the man himself.

“You must realise, Miss Allister,” the secretary was saying, “that in work of this description the utmost secrecy is necessary.”

She yawned prettily, touching her lips with immaculately kept fingertips.

“Really? I rather gathered something of the sort from Sir Brian when he engaged me. You needn't bother, Mr. Brander; I'm not exactly a fool, and you can take it from me that I can be trusted. I know you don't like my being here—”

“Miss Allister!”

“Well, that's the truth, so why trouble to deny it?”

A tongue was passed over dry lips. She rather fancied, from the contortions of Brander's face, that the man was possibly attracted to her physically, but hated himself for being so weak.…

***

The next day she arrived at the office to hear that Brander had been stricken down with influenza and would not be turning up in the building in the cul-de-sac off Whitehall for at least another week.

“I'm afraid, Miss Allister,” said Sir Brian, when she went into his room in answer to the bell, “that this will mean putting a good deal of extra work on your shoulders.”

“I shall like it, Sir Brian,” she told him promptly.

He looked at the attractive face, brimming over with enthusiasm, and motioned her to a chair.

“Very well. Now, will you take some dictation? You mustn't be offended at what I am going to say—but this matter, like everything else transacted in this office, is in the highest degree confidential.”

“You can rely upon me, Sir Brian.”

“I know I can. But many years at this game have forced me to be doubly cautious. Are you ready?”

For the next ten minutes the Chief of Y.1 dictated rapidly but clearly in his pleasant voice. This contained a more than usually serious note, and when Rosemary began to get a glimmering of what the thing was about, she did not wonder at it.

Retiring to her own private room, she pieced the puzzle together while typing Fordinghame's voluminous notes, and this was the result:

Y. 1, which was really the civilian branch of Military Intelligence, had been asked through the War Office by the Military Attaché at the British Legation in Pé for particulars as to the identity of a young man whose initials were “R.W.,” who lived in London, and who was the bearer of passport Number 235467X. Further inquiry, which had been made to the Passport Control Office twenty-four hours before, had resulted in notice to Y.1 that morning that the passport in question had been issued to R—W—of 71, Chesham Place, S.W.3, occupation shown as “gentleman,” together with the further information that the owner of this passport had been shown, on the return of the Paris Control Bureau, to have visited that city. Subsequent inquiries established that R—W—was identical with Lieutenant R—W—, of the Royal Tank Corps, now on annual leave from his unit. The Director of Personal Services, War Office, was asked for a report, and sent information to the effect that the said Lieutenant R—W—was granted ten days' privilege leave commencing September 15, 1935, with permission to visit Paris. No application for a visa to visit Pé had been made—also, in view of the tension existing between the two countries, permission would not have been granted at this juncture in any case.

This was the kernel of the situation—and when Rosemary realised the truth, she had such an overwhelming sense of dismay that she was forced to stop typing to try to readjust her thoughts.

Why she had not identified Robert Wingate with the Lieutenant R—W—mentioned in the secret report, she could not decide; it must have been that her wits had been temporarily scattered. But, now that she went on to read her later shorthand notes, and discovered that Y. 1 had the further information that Bobby had obtained a visa to visit Pé at the British Embassy in Paris, without making any mention of being a serving soldier, she realised something of the serious situation that the information represented.

For some reason which he had kept to himself, Bobby had run a grave risk. Although there was no definite charge made against him, he must have given the Secret Service agents in Paris and Pé sufficient excuse to have him watched. Why?

Later in the day she was to learn the answer. Called again into Fordinghame's room, she found the Chief of Y.1 sitting, grave-faced, at his desk.

“This business is turning out to be far more serious than I could have believed,” he told her. “This young officer, Wingate, is playing the fool—why, I can't tell, and I don't even like to guess. What makes it all the worse is the fact that he is the son of an important official at the War Office. Good God! A boy of Colonel Clinton's a traitor!” the speaker added, as though addressing himself.

She would have protested had not she felt that all the breath in her body had been driven out by the revelation. But—Bobby a traitor! It was utterly and completely preposterous.

And yet, as Fordinghame commenced to dictate further matter to her—this being an epitome of subsequent reports received from the agents of Y.1 in Pé—she felt even her own confidence wavering. According to these statements, Bobby had been seen consorting with well-known agents of the Ronstadt Secret Service at Pé. These agents included a notorious woman spy who had worked for the Germans in the Great War under the name of Marie Roget.

One report ended:

I can only conclude that Lieutenant R—W—is mixing with these people for some definite purpose of his own. He is being kept under constant observation.

She looked up from her notebook when Fordinghame stopped talking.

“What does this actually mean, Sir Brian?”

“I scarcely like to think. But you have intelligence, Miss Allister; you know the facts now. This young officer goes to Pé under what amounts to false pretences, and while he is there he meets a woman who is, or has been, a notorious agent for an enemy Power. Nothing so serious as this has come under my observation during the whole twenty-five years I have been in the Intelligence Service.”

Dismissed, she was glad to have the privacy of her own room. What should she do? On the one hand, she was bound to secrecy—but, on the other, she felt that Bobby's father should be told. In the ordinary way, the information might not come through to him for some time, as it was a matter which was to be dealt with exclusively by Y.1.

Why, oh, why, had Bobby been such a fool? But it was too late to mourn over the fact that he had played the infernal ass. She must try to do what she could to help him, and the first step in that direction, according to her present reckoning, was to see Colonel Clinton and acquaint him with the terrible facts.

***

As it happened, she was forestalled. Distasteful as he found the task, Fordinghame decided it was his plain duty to let Clinton in on this as quickly as possible. Perhaps—although it seemed a forlorn hope—the boy's stepfather might be able to give some explanation of the lad's apparently inexplicable conduct.

He picked up the telephone and made a call.

Within five minutes the visitor was announced. The two men shook hands with the informality of people who are attracted to each other. In the course of their daily work Fordinghame and Clinton often came into contact.

“Good of you to come over, Colonel,” started the Chief of Y.1. “As a matter of fact, I'm very worried about something.”

“If I can help, of course—”

“I don't know whether you can. Cigarette? Perhaps I ought to start by saying that this chat is in the nature of a little private talk between our two selves. Is that quite clear?”

“Perfectly.”

“Then I can go on. Heard from your boy lately?”

Clinton finished lighting his cigarette before replying.

“Do you mean Robert?”

“Yes.”

“I had a line from Paris. He's over there on leave.” Fordinghame swung round in his chair.

“Did he say anything to you before leaving England about going on to Pé?”

The Colonel stared. His face hardened.

“Before we go any further, Fordinghame, suppose you tell me exactly what is in your mind?”

“I will. We've had reports through from our agents at Pé to the effect that your boy has been associating with a notorious Ronstadt woman agent called Minna Braun.”

“What nonsense! I don't believe a word of it.”

“I'm afraid the evidence is pretty circumstantial. Read that.” He pushed over the typewritten notes which Rosemary Allister had placed on his desk a half-hour before, and watched the M.I.5 man read with incredulity growing on his face. “I thought I ought to let you know as quickly as possible,” he wound up.

“Thanks.” The reply was curt. “But I can't believe it—I simply can't credit that Bobby could be such an almighty fool. If he has been seen with this woman, rest assured, Fordinghame, he has some purpose of his own in mind.”

“What purpose?”

“I don't know,” conceded the other frankly. “But I'll tell you this: he did say something to me about going on to Pé from Paris, and I strongly advised him not to do so. If I'd only known what was likely to happen, I should have seen that his leave was cancelled.”

“Why did he want to go to Pé?”

“There was an Agricultural Exhibition or something, and he was keen to have a look at the new tractors. He thought that they would be interesting.”

“They're used in connection with tanks, aren't they?”

“Yes; that was why he was so keen—he's an enthusiastic soldier, you know.”

“But somewhat indiscreet, it would seem.”

“Perhaps. But, good God, Fordinghame, it's no worse than that—thank God! Who is this Minna Braun?”

For reply, Fordinghame pulled out a drawer of his desk and took from it a file.

“I have had her looked up. Listen.” He started to read:

Minna Braun, or Marie Roget—the child of a German father and a Swiss mother—was born in the fortress city of Strassburg, in Alsace-Lorraine. At the outbreak of the Great War Minna Braun was employed as a typist in the office of the City Treasurer and while thus engaged she came into close personal contact with von Reinhardt, at that time the Chief of the German Secret Service in that sector. Being an accomplished linguist, her services were at times made use of for translations, and later she became more and more in touch with Secret Service work, so that she was in due course regarded as a member of that Service and duly sworn in as an accredited agent. Subsequently, when a French-speaking female agent was required for special work in Paris, Minna Braun was instructed to adopt the guise of a French-born Alsace-Lorrainian, and she took the name of Marie Roget. In Paris she worked under the direction of an agent named Adolf von Ritter.

He broke off to inquire:

“What's the matter, Clinton?” For he noticed that his listener had become deathly pale.

“Nothing…never felt better,” was the evasive answer. “It's this news about my boy. If you had a son, you'd understand, too.”

“I understand fully as it is, my dear fellow. I'll keep you posted with whatever else comes in. Can't you communicate with him direct?”

“I don't know where he is. The only address I had was his hotel in Paris—the Meurice. I'll telephone there directly I get back on the off-chance that they know.”

The two shook hands and Clinton left.

Back in his own room at the War Office, he tried to pull himself together. This was a crushing blow—so devastating, in fact, that he wondered he had not collapsed entirely at Y.1. Certain words kept ringing in his ears. “
I'd do practically anything to lay my hands on some coin
.” Was that what Bobby had said?

And his own predictions had come true. A man's sins
did
return home to him, even after the lapse of seventeen years! But the cruel part was that his own boy had fallen into the same trap that had ensnared him in 1918! Bobby! In the grip of that woman!

He looked with lack-lustre eyes at a letter placed on his writing-pad. He had not noticed it before, but now he picked it up and read the typewritten address. The postmark bore the significant name of “Pé.”

Hoping against hope that it might be a communication from Robert, he slit the envelope.

The typewritten words danced before his eyes:

D
ear
C
olonel
C
linton
,—After so long a time you have probably forgotten all about me. But don't you ever recall those happy times we spent in Paris in 1918?

There is a little favour I want you to do me, but more about that anon.

In the meantime, I am sure you will be interested in the accompanying photograph.

Yours very sincerely,

M
arie
R
oget
.