The Traitor: A British Library Spy Classic (British Library Spy Classics Book 2)

by Sydney Horler

  It was due to this that he gave the impression of being more than normally distraught on this particular morning. Sleep-starved nights had fretted his nerves and brought him to the pitch of hysteria.

  Before him, undergoing a fierce cross-examination, was Crosber, the Chief of the Secret Police.

  “Tell me the exact position,” he cried. “Have I to do everything myself? Can I trust no one around me? Must you all be blunderers?”

  The sallow-faced one tried to be conciliatory.

  “It was most unfortunate, Excellency,” he replied, softly. “Our most trusted agent in England certainly did secure designs of the new anti-tank gun of the British. He brought them himself to Pé and handed them to Aschelmann, the manager of the Hotel Poste, to be passed on to Ritter. At the same time, a package was prepared for the woman, Minna Braun, to hand to this young British officer, Wingate, on whom we had hoped to secure a hold. Unfortunately, the two packages became mixed, so that the one containing the plans for the anti-tank gun was handed to Wingate—”

  “Why did you want to go to all that trouble?”

  “Excellency, it was because we wished the young man to fall in love with Minna, and hoped by this means to arouse his chivalry. She pretended to be a French agent—”

  “Enough! Get on with your story.”

  “Yes, Excellency. It seems that Wingate, according to the evidence at his trial, must have posted the package back to England enfolded in a copy of the Tageblatt.”

  Kuhnreich exploded.

  “We must have those plans again—it is vitally important. Tanks will play a very prominent part in the next war, and.…But enough: don’t worry me any more.”

  “Yes, Excellency.”

  “Wait a minute! Aschelmann, for his blunder, must be punished. You will see that he is sent to prison for three months.”

  “Yes, Excellency.”

  “And instruct your agent in England—what is his name?”

  Crosber whispered it.

  “Well, if you are sure he can be thoroughly trusted, send him definite instructions that he must obtain that package—or duplicate plans—without delay. That is all.”

  Crosber withdrew.

  ***

  This man, slinking down the East End street, would have been taken by any one for a derelict of the night—one of that myriad company who had better never have been born. Even the men and women who passed him on the wet pavement looked askance—they had no wish to rub shoulders with such as he.

  Not that he minded. Pulling the collar of his shabby overcoat farther up round his neck—although the night was warm—he slipped down an alleyway, slithered up a court, and thus came to a paint-blistered door flush with the street. From fifty yards or so away there came the unceasing murmur of the great city; but here, as he put a hand into his pocket and withdrew a key, it was as quiet as a churchyard.

  The door opened, showing a flight of uncarpeted stairs leading upwards. Closing the door behind him and fastening its patent lock, the man waited momentarily for any possible sound. None came. He was safe.

  Then, picking up a letter which had fallen through a slit to the floor, he moved swiftly up those bare stairs, arriving, when he reached the top, at a door which opened into an unexpected room—unexpected in the sense that it afforded a striking contrast to the rest of that derelict slum dwelling. It was comfortably furnished: there was a turkey carpet on the floor; a good-sized gas fire was flanked by a couple of leather easy-chairs. Altogether, this room gave the impression of being lived in—which happened to be the case, although its occupant arrived only by night.

  Closing this second door behind him, the man emitted his breath in a sigh of relief. This room might have been a sanctuary for either a hunted criminal or a fugitive from life itself. In any case, its owner now changed. Throwing off the shabby overcoat, he relaxed and, after mixing himself a drink and lighting a cigarette, lowered himself into a chair.

  It was not until the cigarette was smoked to a mere stub that he opened the letter, which he had placed on the table behind him.

  He read with a frown the few words on the single sheet of paper. The message was in code, of course—and the new one, which had only been in force for a few days, had been used. This would mean some digging out.

  But there was no evading the task, so, rising, he went to the small bookcase to the right of the fireplace, picked out a volume of Masefield’s poems, worked the combination of the small secret safe, hidden so unexpectedly behind the books, and, when the door swung open, took from this hiding-place a small, black-bound book.

  Twenty minutes later he had deciphered the message:—

  Imperative you obtain plans new anti-tank gun.

  There was no need to decide the identity of the sender; he already knew that.

  He knew also that the origin of this command was Pé, the capital of Ronstadt, the country for which he worked.

  The man, who for years past had acted as the chief spy of Ronstadt in London, leaned back in his chair. This demand represented a problem and it required serious thought.

  Like many other people in London intimately connected with espionage, he had been following the trial of that young officer, Lieutenant Robert Wingate of the Tank Corps, with very keen interest. As a matter of fact, he had been in the court throughout the proceedings.

  And, as a result of much concentrated mental effort, he had come to one definite conclusion: that, through bad blundering on the part of his employers, he would have to do the same job all over again! It was he who had obtained the designs of the new British anti-tank gun in the first place, and he himself had taken them to Pé. What crass fools they had been to mix up the packages!

  Where was the original package of plans now?

  Lighting another cigarette, he went over the evidence he had heard in court that day. There was no possible doubt that Wingate had handed over a package to the man sent to meet him at the Hotel Continental in The Hague. But, if that had been the original package (the one Minna Braun had handed him at Pé) then the trouble would have been at an end and he would not have received this present imperative summons. Then, what was the conclusion? That the original package was still in England? Most probably.

  That meant, then, that Wingate had lied. What had he done with the package? Had he really sent it to England enfolded in that copy of the Tageblatt? If so, to whom had he sent it? To himself? To his father? Or—to that girl with whom he was said to be in love?

  There was another possibility. During the brief talk this Chief Spy had had with Minna Braun at Pé he had come to the conclusion that this still very beautiful woman had been dragooned against her will into working for the Ronstadt Intelligence. Was it possible that she had double-crossed them? Had she discovered beforehand that the supposed dummy package she had been ordered to give to the young British officer was extremely valuable, and had she found a purchaser for this information in another country? In any case, it was very obvious that the right package had not yet been received by Crosber in Pé.

  Minna Braun? Was she a traitor? No; further thought persuaded him that the package with the duplicate plans had probably been received in England. With the original plans now so carefully guarded, it would be hopeless for him to endeavour to get another duplicate set. No, his job was to lay his hand on that package.

  But where was he to find it?

  For the next hour he scarcely moved in his chair; and when he left his hideaway in the East End he had to throw at least a dozen cigarette stubs out of the window before locking the door.

  ***

  At the Senior Services Club that night discussion raged concerning the verdict at the conclusion of the court-martial.

  “I can’t imagine what the boy’s father was up to,” blared one critic. “Why didn’t he engage a pukka counsel instead of that fellow Mallory? His cross-examination of those witn
esses from Pé was all wrong, in my opinion—certainly he had no right to ask whether the fellow who spoke about seeing the woman—what was her name—”

  “Minna Braun,” supplied a listener.

  “Ah, yes, Minna Braun—Well, as an ex-officer, Mallory ought to have known better than to try to make that witness say in what capacity he was in the house—whether he was there as a guest, or as a servant.”

  “I quite agree, Colonel,” supported one of the group gathered round the fire. “Damn it, if the identity of those witnesses leaked out, our Secret Service organisation in Ronstadt would be at an end. I can’t imagine what Mallory was thinking about.”

  “Trying to get his pal’s son off, of course—don’t you know that he and Clinton have been friends ever since the war?”

  “Well, any way, friendship is one thing, but behaving like an absolute ass another,” came back the first speaker. “I was glad to see how the President jumped on him on that point. He pointed out that the witness had just stated on oath that he saw Minna Braun enter the room of young Wingate—”

  “The prisoner never denied that she came to his room.”

  “It seems to me,” drawled another voice, “that Mallory must have had some idea at the back of his head—of trying to discredit these witnesses altogether. Well, I think it’s ten to one now on the young fool being convicted.”

  That, with many ornamentations, appeared to be the view of every one present.

  Chapter XXI

  The Intruder

  Would the night never pass? She had heard the clock strike one…two…Switching on the bedside lamp, Rosemary saw that the time was now twenty-two minutes to three. Another four hours and a half, at least, before she could get up.

  It was the incessant strain of the last month that had brought this insomnia. How could she possibly sleep when her mind was racked with so much anxiety? Sometime the next day, the decision would be given in the court-martial; she, with the rest of the world, would know whether Bobby Wingate was to go to prison or be allowed to walk the earth a free man.

  She had done something that night which she had never done before—but the drug which was to induce sleep had not worked; she was as wide awake as though it were broad daylight.

  In the endeavour to keep her mind occupied, her father had given a dinner-party that night. But the company had been dull—and, inventing some excuse on the spur of the moment, she had slipped away while the men were at their port, put on hat and coat, and driven in a taxi to the Rosy Dawn Night Club. (Anything to forget! Anything to force her brain to become sufficiently blurred so that this awful period of waiting might be bridged.)

  But when she arrived at that fashionable Bond Street rendezvous, every eye had seemed to be fixed inquisitorially upon her; all the world must know by this time, she supposed, that she was in love with Bobby Wingate.

  Several of the more irrepressible girls present came up and demanded to know the latest news. Did she really think Bobby was guilty?—and a dozen other hateful questions. Had these people no mercy?

  But then, the consciousness had been forced home to her that she herself was to blame; she should not have come to this place, where scandalous tongues wagged and a devouring curiosity about other people’s affairs existed. She should have realised that Bobby Wingate was the most discussed person, not only in London but throughout the country, at that very moment.

  Ashamed, she had rushed away as quickly as she had come, feeling like a hunted creature.

  ***

  Bobby continued to dominate her thoughts completely. Every phase of the trial returned in vivid and poignant detail. The woman, Minna Braun? Oh, she didn’t mind her. This was 1935, and she prided herself on being broad-minded. Although it had hurt her at the time to hear Bobby declare that he was attracted by the woman, yet she would not have had him any different—the disclosure showed that he had courage and was not afraid to speak the truth. After they were married…Well, that would be different.

  Married! That consummation seemed a long way off. It was only if the unexpected happened—and she had to admit that it would be the unexpected—that she could expect any sort of happiness herself. If he were declared innocent, then she would walk by his side and show the whole world how proud she was and how her courage had never faltered. But that would only be possible if the stigma was lifted—and what was that she had heard as she left the court that day? The crowd were betting ten to one against him? Oh, dear God!…

  Why had Bobby lied to her? That was the wound that hurt and would not heal. He had lied in court, too. About the package. Why? She had had no opportunity to ask him, but he must have had some purpose. Although he had sworn that the package he had taken to The Hague and given to the man at the Hotel Continental was the original package, she knew differently. For was not the original package locked away in that bureau drawer on the opposite side of her bedroom? Why she had kept it, she did not know, since, on tearing aside the oilskin covering and opening the envelope, she had found it contained nothing but two perfectly blank sheets of paper. Yet, because of those words which Bobby had scribbled on the outside, “Keep this safe for me,” she had refused to throw those sheets of paper away. After the trial there would be some explanation, no doubt—meanwhile she was safeguarding them. Yet she wished—oh, how she wished!—that he had not lied to her.

  Her thoughts switched to the man who was defending Bobby. Peter Mallory, for some reason which she could not understand, had been pressing his attentions on her during the last few days—ever since, in fact, the trial had started. There had been nothing objectionable in his behaviour, and, considering the circumstances, perhaps it was only natural that he should go out of his way to try to keep her spirits bright; but, no doubt because she still could not overcome her original antipathy to this man, his frequent talks with her had been difficult to tolerate.

  How sick she was of everything! How she longed to get away from the staring crowds, the whispering tongues, the gossiping scandalmongers—with Bobby.

  Gradually her further thoughts became confused; there followed a blur and a wiping-out of the chaos that was in her mind.

  ***

  She must have slept, for she could remember nothing more until a noise near at hand made her spring up.

  She saw—dear God, what was it? Glaring into her eyes, making them blink, was a fixed, relentless light. It was fixed to something which a dark shape—was it that of a man?—held at the end of what looked like an arm.

  “Who are you? What do you want?” In the short interval which had elapsed between her awakening and now she had been able to get a grip on her senses.

  There came a swift outrush of something from the object the burglar carried in his hand, and the next instant she was fighting vainly against a fast-failing consciousness. The gas pistol had done its work.

  Waiting only long enough to ascertain that the girl was unconscious, the intruder resumed his task. He had come to search for a certain package, and he could not go until it had been found. The chances of its being in that bedroom were problematical; but, if the scanty information he had been able to collect on the subject was reliable, Rosemary Allister had kept the thing under her own eye instead of handing it over to her father to put in his library safe.

  Those papers on the table by the side of the bed?…No, the two sheets he wanted weren’t there. Then, where? That bureau? Possibly. But when he tried the top drawer, he found it locked. Curse it!

  What was that? Had some one heard him moving about? He strained his ears to catch the significance of the faint sound that was drifting up from below. Every now and then he looked at the open window leading out to the balcony where he had crouched for so long before making an entry.

  His desperate need drove out every other sense after a couple of minutes. He must open that top drawer; already in fancy he could see the two sheets of pale blue paper, perfectly blank to th
e ordinary person, on which so much depended.

  His right hand went out again. He seized the handle of the drawer furiously, dropping his gas pistol, on the upper barrel of which still gleamed the small electric light by which he worked.

  Still the thing was immovable. He would have to use a jemmy.

  But before he could pull this from his pocket the unmistakable sound of stealthy but heavy footsteps climbing the stairs came to him.

  Picking up his pistol and switching off the electric light on the upper barrel, he stepped out through the window and on to the balcony.

  It would be useless to stay; he would be able to knock out the fool of a butler, no doubt, but Matthew Allister kept a couple of stalwart footmen as well.

  No, he would have to get away while there was still time.

  ***

  Rosemary stared at the familiar face of McColl, the family doctor. That worthy Scotsman was looking very perturbed, she noticed.

  “Why, what the—?” And then she remembered. “Where is he?” she gasped, and, as no one answered: “The burglar, I mean! The man who squirted something at me out of what looked like a pistol. He was here a moment ago.…”

  “Young lady,” she heard the unmistakable Edinburgh tones of Anthony McColl explain, “please try to calm yourself. The man has been gone these four hours, according to what Thomas, your butler, tells me—and it’s taken the better part of that time to bring you back to consciousness. If I had the power I’d put that dirty scoundrel away for a term of years, whoever he might be.”

  “Can you remember anything about him, pet?” It was her father speaking now. “Do you think you could give any sort of description to the police?”

  “No, father—he was just a dark shape. Besides, he had a mask on his face.”

  “A burglar, of course. But what could he be wanting in your bedroom?”

  Rosemary laughed.

  “Is that a very tactful thing to say?” she asked. “He must have heard of my devastating beauty—the shape that set a thousand ships a-sailing—”