Traitors' Gate (15 page)

‘When we met before I neglected to introduce myself fully. I am Captain Jules Cochefert of the Vichy
Deuxième Bureau
. My companion, here, is Lieutenant Puttony, of the Hungarian Security Service. He does not speak French, and I understand that you talk quite fluent German with the staff in this hotel; so we will use that language.’

Gregory could feel his heart beating slightly faster, as it always did when he was in a dangerous situation; but his brain swiftly registered the implications of the disclosure. Cochefert was not just a minor Civil Servant but an officer of the French ‘Quisling’ police, who were hand in glove with the
Nazis. Evidently something had aroused his suspicions that Commandant Etienne Tavenier might be working against his paymasters. Next moment, with a sardonic grin which displayed two rows of yellowish teeth, he led Gregory to suppose that he was putting the grounds for those suspicions into words by asking:

‘How are you progressing with your arrangements for selling truffles to the foie-gras factories?’

The sigh of relief that Gregory heaved was internal, but none the less heart-felt. So that was it! The Vadászkürt had forwarded on to him at Nagykáta a list of foie-gras firms from the French Commercial Attache’s office. As he knew nothing of the technicalities of truffle growing and foie-gras tinning, he would probably have decided that it was wiser not to expose his ignorance of the subject by calling on any of these people even if he had had the opportunity; but his having been at Nagykáta for the past five days had put the matter outside his jurisdiction. Evidently this Paul Pry had learned of his commercial remissness and had assumed that to be evidence that he was engaged in some nefarious activity.

Since entering the room he had kept his hand on his gun; so that at any moment he could have shot through the cloth of his coat before either of his visitors could level a weapon at him. Now, feeling that he had little to fear, he took his hand out of his pocket and said affably:

‘Oh, I decided that before I got down to work here I’d take …’

He got no further. His hand had hardly left his pocket when Cochefert raised his pistol and snapped:

‘Thank you! Shooting through a pocket is rarely accurate but can be dangerous to others. I have been waiting only to relieve you of the temptation to experiment. Put your hands up! The
Herr Leutnant
will oblige by securing your weapon.’

Mentally cursing at having allowed himself to be tricked, Gregory obliged. The stolid looking Hungarian police officer stepped forward, fished the little automatic out of Gregory’s pocket, frisked him quickly to make sure that he was not carrying another, then plumped himself back on the edge of the bed.

‘Now!’ said the Frenchman, ‘I have introduced myself to you. Be good enough to reciprocate.’

Pretending a lack of concern about his situation that he was
far from feeling, Gregory replied, ‘M.
le Capitaine
, I fail to understand the reason for all this drama. I come into my room, upon which you jump up grasping a pistol. As I carry one myself I naturally put my hand on it. There is nothing strange in that. Regarding the truffle business, I was about to tell you that I decided to take a few days holiday before calling on any of the foie-gras merchants. As for introducing myself, you know already that I am Commandant Etienne Tavenier.’

That is a lie!’ snapped Cochefert with sudden venom.

‘What causes you to think so? You have seen my passport.’

‘It is a stolen one.’

‘Nonsense! The photograph in it could be of no one but myself.’

‘Of course. I meant stolen, then tampered with; or perhaps a complete fake made by the British.’

This was really dangerous ground. Gregory could only pray that they had no proof that he had come from London. He launched a violent protest:

‘Your suspicions are absurd! There is nothing whatever wrong with the passport. Besides, I can prove my identity in other ways. I have letters, bills …’

Cochefert made an impatient gesture. ‘They too will be fakes. It is useless to go on like this. I know beyond all doubt that you are not Commandant Tavenier.’

‘What makes you so certain?’

‘The fact that for the last two months the Commandant has been living at his own home, at Razac in Périgord.’

These words, spoken with conviction, struck Gregory like a bolt from the blue. It was the very last thing he had expected, and at one stroke destroyed the whole foundation upon which his false identity had been built. Yet, after a moment, he managed to think up a forlorn hope which might save him until further enquiries had been made. With an angry shake of the head, he exclaimed:

‘This man must be an impostor! Someone who resembles me, perhaps. But no! I have it! He is a rascally cousin of mine who was also christened Etienne. I have no wife or children to protect my property. The swine would know that I have been missing since May 1940, and after two years he must have decided to go and live at Razac’

Lowering the hooded lids of his dark eyes a little, Cochefert appeared to consider this. Gregory continued to look indignant;
and he had ample cause as he thought of how he had been let down by someone in London. He might have to pay with his life for their blunder in stating that Tavenier was dead when he was not only very much alive but living at his old home, and so could be traced without the least difficulty by the Vichy police. After a moment the Frenchman said:

‘But you have not been missing since May 1940. At least, the story you told me was that you got back to France by coming with the British on the St. Nazaire raid; that was towards the end of March this year.’

‘True. And that is how I got back.’

‘You said, too, that you arrived at Razac early in April. If so your cousin must have known that you were alive and free. How then do you account for his having illegally occupied your property only a few weeks later?’

Gregory saw now that his ‘cousin’ theory was not going to provide even a temporary loophole. Swiftly changing his ground, he said:

‘All right. Since that does not seem to make sense there must be some other explanation. Perhaps you have been misinformed. Yes; that must be it. Police forces are not infallible. I suggest that we postpone this discussion for twenty-four hours while you have fresh enquiries made. I’ll bet you a hundred
pengos
the result will be that there is no one calling himself Etienne Tavenier living at Razac after all.’

‘Then you would lose your bet.’ Cochefert’s vulture head nodded and his yellowish teeth showed in a cynical smile. ‘I will tell you now how we know the truth. My first enquiry was only our normal check up with Vichy on all Frenchmen arriving in this country. Vichy reported back that the name Etienne Tavenier was not on the list of those to whom passports had been issued this year, but that there was a retired Commandant of that name. The real Commandant Tavenier was sought out and interviewed. It is true that he returned to France last March with the British when they made their raid on St. Nazaire. He was not only shot and severely wounded but afterwards thrown into the dock by a German corporal; so it is not at all surprising that anyone who witnessed the incident should have reported him as among the killed. But he was hauled out while still alive and put into hospital where he remained for two months. When discharged he was crippled for life; so, although a de Gaullist, instead of
being interned he was allowed, on compassionate grounds, to go to his home.’

After pausing for a moment, Cochefert went on. ‘So, you see, I was only amusing myself when I let you produce that poor hare about a cousin of the same name. It is useless for you to flounder like a fish in a net any more. Whatever game you have been playing it is finished now; and, no doubt, after a little persuasion you will tell us all about it.’

The game of bluff was so clearly up that Gregory only shrugged and asked, ‘What do you intend to do with me?’

‘To enter any country on a false passport is an offence. Under Hungarian law you are liable to a term of imprisonment, then to deportation. But for the duration of the war we have somewhat different arrangements. The Hungarian State Police have the right to detain you indefinitely but should they have no particular grounds for doing so they will, on an application for your extradition, hand you over to me. I shall then send you under escort to France, and my colleagues there will extract from you any information you may possess which would help us to defeat those who, by continuing to oppose Herr Hitler, are preventing the restoration of World Peace.’

Gregory knew that there was little to choose between the uniformed thugs whose reign of terror kept the Pétain government in power and the Gestapo. They had no more scruples than the Nazis about torturing the leaders of resistance groups, or agents of the Allies parachuted into France—including women—who had the ill-luck to fall into their hands. He was terribly tempted to tell Cochefert just what he thought of the senile old Marshal and the gang of unscrupulous politicians with which he surrounded himself.

But this was no time to air his true feelings. Russia was being hammered to pieces. If she broke it might take twenty years of war before Europe could be liberated—just as it had in Napoleon’s day. And he, Gregory, held the threads of a move that would hamstring the German advance into the Caucasus, put Hitler in the devil’s own mess, and bring his defeat very much nearer. The fact that the real Commandant Tavenier had had the good luck to survive the St. Nazaire raid now threatened to render any chance of that move abortive. For Gregory to pretend any longer that he was the Commandant was obviously futile; yet an issue of enormous consequence
hung upon his keeping his freedom.

Even had he still had his gun and succeeded in shooting his way out that, as he realised more fully now, would have been no real solution; for, as a fugitive, it would be next to impossible for him to complete his mission.

There was only one chance left to him. He still had a last card up his sleeve, and he must play it. It could prove an ace, but might well be regarded as just as phony as his passport was now known to be. If so, there could be no escape from being marched off to prison and turned over as a de Gaullist agent to the tender mercies of the Vichy secret police. In any case, he was most reluctant to produce this fraudulent trump because it would tie him up with the Gestapo and, even should Cochefert accept it at its face value, unless he could get out of Hungary quickly it might have most disastrous repercussions. But there it was. It was that or the absolute certainty of being marched off to prison there and then.

He took the plunge artistically. No one hearing him could have suspected for one moment that he regarded the men of Vichy as a bunch of treacherous self-seeking swine. Drawing himself erect he clicked his heels together, bowed sharply from the waist and said to Cochefert with a genial smile:

‘My congratulations,
Kerr Hauptmann
. I have done my utmost to preserve my incognito; but you have got me in a corner from which I see no escape. Since you supposed me to be an enemy agent, such work is most commendable, and I shall not fail to see that you get a good mark for it in the right quarter.’

Staring at him with a puzzled frown, Cochefert muttered, ‘What the devil are you talking about?’

Gregory had been fingering the left lapel of his jacket. With the one word, ‘This,’ he drew from a secret pocket he had had made under it a small square of cardboard, and laid it on the dressing-table. On a dark night in the previous December he had taken it from a man whom he had first shot twice in the stomach. He had then, for his own good reasons, hacked off with a chopper the man’s right hand and thrown his body into Lake Geneva. It was the card issued by the
Geheime Staatspolizei
to
Obersturmbannführer
Fritz Einholtz, and signed Reinhard Heydrich.

For a minute that seemed an age Gregory’s eyes were riveted on Cochefert’s carrion-crow features, striving to
assess the movement of every tiny muscle and judge whether he would accept it or declare it, too, to be a fake.

As the Frenchman read the card his eyes widened. When he spoke his voice had lost its cocksure sneering tone. It was lower and held an unmistakably servile note:

‘I had no idea…. The last thing I would wish is to interfere with the operations of the Gestapo.’

Taking the tide of fortune at the flood, Gregory instantly reacted. As though set in motion by the sudden pressing of an electric switch, he stamped hard with his right foot on the wooden floor, jerked his body erect, threw back his head, shot out his right arm at a steep angle and cried:

‘
Heil Hitler
!’

Taken by surprise, his two visitors hesitated only a second. The Hungarian got swiftly to his feet, then both in chorus responded with the Nazi salute.

‘Now,’ said Gregory, ‘you,
Herr Hauptmann
, are clearly a man to be trusted; so I propose to take you into my confidence.’ His whole manner had undergone a complete change. He spoke in a sharp official voice, and as a superior who was about to do an inferior a favour. Giving a quick glance towards the Lieutenant, he added in French, ‘But what of our friend here. Can he be relied upon to keep his mouth shut?’

‘Yes, Colonel,’ Cochefert replied in the same language. ‘He is an Arrow-Cross Party member.’

‘Good!’ Gregory reverted to German, and turned to Puttony. ‘
Herr Leutnant
, I shall also confide in you. All that I say must be regarded as of the highest secrecy. You will report to your superiors that you are fully satisfied about the bona fides of Commandant Tavenier, and not even hint at the work I have been sent to Budapest to do. Is that understood?’

The plump, lethargic looking Lieutenant, who had so far been a silent spectator of the scene, was now standing stiffly to attention and regarding Gregory with the veneration of an athletic-minded schoolboy for a Rugby Blue. Tensing his muscles, he snapped out, ‘
Ja, Herr Oberst?

‘Very well, then.’ Gregory took out his cigarette case and, without offering it to either of the others, lit a cigarette. He then perched himself on the arm of the easy chair that Cochefert had been occupying and went on: