Traitors' Gate

by Dennis Wheatley

  Eventually it was agreed that as a long-term policy it would be in Hungary’s best interests to go over to the Allies; but soon several voices were raised with fearsome warnings of the brutal treatment that the country might receive at Hitler’s hands before help from the Allies could reach her. Gregory spoke of the landings at Dieppe on the previous day and asserted with confidence that others in greater strength would hold the German armour; but again controversy raged on whether such measures would prove successful.

  He was bombarded with scores of questions on these various aspects of the problem and could only say that he was in no position to answer for the British Government, but that if the meeting could give him an idea of the terms likely to be acceptable he would return to London and come back in a few weeks’ time better qualified to enter into negotiations.

  The upshot was the appointment of a Committee to discuss matters further with him and determine the Heads of Agreement under which a secret pact might be formulated. Count Zapolya was asked to serve but declined on the grounds that he had done his part by bringing them together, and that he now wished younger men to formulate the policy upon which the future of their country might depend. However, as the retired General—Baron Alacy—the Bishop and the hunchback Count Lászlo Zapolya had all participated in the early conversations with Gregory at Nagykáta, they were elected. To them were added a youngish Colonel named János Orczy, who had lost his left arm early in the war and was now serving in the War Office, and a Count Zsigmond Szegényház who held a post in the Foreign Office.

  It was six o’clock before the meeting broke up, and after several drinks in the big salle downstairs Gregory took leave of Count Zapolya and his other new friends with very mixed feelings.

  On the one hand he was extraordinarily elated by the thought that, whereas only five days earlier he had been prepared to write off his mission as a total failure, there was now a body of the most influential men in Hungary actually preparing to negotiate on his proposals.

  On the other he was horrified and alarmed by their complete disregard for security. It had been bad enough at Nagykáta, as he had found that within twenty-four hours the whole house party had become aware of the reason for his presence there; but at least they were an isolated group with only the Austrian tutor—whom he hoped was still in the dark—as a possible immediate danger. Here, in Budapest, matters were infinitely worse.

  When opening the meeting, Count Zapolya had not asked his friends for any pledge of secrecy, or even warned them to refrain from mentioning the matter under discussion to anyone who had not been invited. Then, after the meeting broke up, several groups had dispersed about the Club still debating the subject in tones loud enough for members who had not been present to hear what they were talking about. No doubt the Count took it for granted that the high sense of honour traditional among the Hungarian nobility was guarantee enough of secrecy. But Gregory was well aware that many men, however discreet in other respects, confided everything to their wives, and that quite a number of women had the deplorable habit of treating their hairdressers as father confessors; so, one way or another, there seemed a quite frightening possibility that, before many days had passed, the news that a conspiracy to break with Hitler was brewing would reach the ears of some fanatical pro-Nazi.

  At the Vadászkürt a clerk behind the reception desk told him that his old room had been kept for him and that his luggage had been sent up. As he took the key he got the idea the man had given him a rather queer look; but he thought no more of it until he stepped out of the lift on the third floor. The chambermaid who had done his room during his first visit was there sorting out some dirty linen. Stopping her work she bobbed him the usual curtsy and murmured, ‘Kuss die hand’; but no smile accompanied the greeting and she stared at him with an unhappy expression in her round blue eyes.

  Gregory was liked by servants because he not only always had a pleasant word for them and never showed ill temper, but was tidy by nature and took some pains to save them as much work as possible. Now, it did not occur to him that this plain strong-limbed peasant girl might be concerned on his account, but thinking something had upset her he smiled and asked:

  ‘What’s the trouble, Tina?’

  In her halting German she stuttered out, ‘Perhaps, sir, I should not tell. But there are men in your room. The Manager, he bring them up an hour ago. They wait for you. I think they are the police.’

  The smile froze on Gregory’s lips. His spine stiffened slightly and he had the sensation that his feet had suddenly turned to lead. But his brain raced from thought to thought with the swiftness of a prairie fire.

  Could someone who had been at the meeting have inadvertently betrayed him already? No; that was hardly possible—quite impossible, in fact, if the police had been waiting in his room for him for the past hour. Could one of the women at Nagykáta have blabbed about his talks with Zapolya and the others? That was unlikely as they were still all in the country and would hardly have been so wantonly indiscreet as to give particulars about him and his mission to anyone in a letter or during a telephone conversation. But what of the Austrian tutor? Surely no one in the house party would have been so imbecile as to confide in him? He might have overheard something to rouse his suspicions, though, then deliberately played the part of a snooper and sent the results of his spying to the police.

  As Gregory released the breath he had unconsciously been holding, the thought flashed across his mind that the police might wish to see him only on a routine matter. But he instantly dismissed it. If they were concerned with some regulation to do with foreign visitors, which he had failed to observe, they would simply have left a message for him to call at the police station, or sent a man round to catch him in the entrance of the hotel as he came in. There would not be two of them—and Tina had made it quite clear that there was more than one. And they would not be waiting to confront him without warning in the privacy of his room.

  The question now was what course to take. Should he face the music or cut and run for it?

  It was certain that the police would be armed and, although he was carrying a small automatic that he had smuggled through the customs, a shooting match at close quarters was not a thing to enter upon lightly. Anyhow, they would be two to one and, even if he succeeded in rendering them both hors de combat, once the sound of shooting had raised a general alarm he would not be able to get out of the hotel without encountering further trouble. Yet if they did know about his secret mission and he entered his room but did not shoot it out with them, in another few minutes he would be walking back along the corridor with his wrists locked into a pair of handcuffs.

  Fate, in the form of Tina’s warning, had given him an alternative. He need not go on. Instead, he could step back into the lift and make a bolt for it. But what then? How much grace could he expect? The men in his room might wait there for another hour or more without suspecting that he had slipped out of their clutches. But no! The desk clerk would probably have telephoned up to let them know that he had just come in. Anyway, the clerk would telephone when he saw the man they were after going out again. Possibly, even, the clerk would call on the porters to hold him till the police could be fetched down. That would mean a fight in the hall. He could put a couple of shots over their heads to scare them into letting him pass; but they would all shout ‘Stop thief!’ and start a hue and cry in the street. Even if he got clear away, within a few hours he would have the whole police force of Budapest on the look-out for him. Fortunately in another hour or so it would be dark. But he would have to leave the city that night, or go into hiding with Levianski. The risk of recognition and capture would be much too great for him to go about openly any more. Such a handicap could make it almost impossible to continue with his mission. The Hungarian nobility were not the sort of people who would take kindly to furtive meetings in obscure cafés—and for him to be able to make contact with them again at all depended on whether he could keep his freedom for the next half-hour.
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  While Tina stood there staring at him, and nervously clasping and unclasping her hands, he strove to weigh the chances. If he turned tail immediately he would become a hunted man. If he went into his room and, should the police attempt to arrest him, fought his way free, he would likewise become a hunted man. And, as a hunted man, there could be little hope of his completing the talks that had developed in such a promising way that afternoon. Only one possibility remained of his being able to do that. It was to face the police and do his damnedest to bluff his way out of any charge they might have against him.

  Next moment his mind was made up. Since there was just a chance that he might be able to carry through his mission he must take it. With a smile he said to Tina:

  ‘Thank you very much for the warning, but I think I know what it is that the police want to see me about in private.’

  Then he walked past her on his way to his room.

  8

  Thin Ice

  As soon as Gregory was round the corner of the landing, out of Tina’s sight, he transferred his small but deadly automatic from his hip pocket to the right-hand pocket of his jacket. Walking on down the long balcony-corridor he did not look ahead but over its open side down towards the restaurant, scrutinising with new intentness the tall trees that grew among the tables in the courtyard.

  It had occurred to him that should he have to make a bolt it he would stand a better chance of getting out of the hotel quickly if, instead of dashing for the lift or stairs, he jumped into the branches of the nearest tree and shinned down it to the ground. At the moment there were only a few groups of people drinking aperitifs at widely separated tables, and there was an hour or more to go before the courtyard would become crowded with diners and waiters; so the odds were good against his being tripped or caught by grabbing hands as he ran across it.

  Having decided on the branch at which he would take a flying leap, he took out the key to his room and inserted it in the lock with his left hand. His right closed about the butt of the automatic in his jacket pocket, he turned the key and pushed the door open.

  Monsieur Cochefert of the French Consulate was sitting in the armchair near the window and a plump red-faced young man in the uniform of the Hungarian State Police was perched on the end of the bed. At a glance Gregory also took in the fact that the lids of both his suitcases were a little raised, evidently owing to their contents having been taken out and thrust back into them without the least care. The two men were smoking and looked bored, but a pistol lay ready to Cochefert’s hand on the broad arm of the chair in which he was sitting.

  The sight of the weapon and the contemptuous lack of any attempt to conceal the fact that his suitcases had been searched confirmed Gregory beyond all doubt in his belief that this was not a routine visit. Having already decided that his best hope lay in attempting to bluff his way through any trouble he raised his eyebrows in feigned astonishment at finding people in his room, then demanded sharply of Cochefert:

  ‘Monsieur! Kindly inform me what you are doing here!’

  The Frenchman picked up his gun and came slowly to his feet. His nearly bald head, thin beak of a nose and long scraggy neck protruding from the stiff white collar made Gregory again think of a vulture. With an ironical bow he replied:

  ‘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 Et
ienne. 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: