The Traitor

by Sydney Horler

  Thinking it might be from Rosemary, he tore open the envelope eagerly. But what he read caused his eyes to open wide with astonishment:

  vitally important you should come immediately hotel continental schuylerstrasse the hague stop bring package stop don’t fail stop life or death for me

  It was signed “Adrienne.”

  Conscious that he was probably behaving in a manner which was bound to attract attention, Bobby folded up the wire and walked away in the direction of the small smoking-room.

  What was he to do? But, first of all, how had Adrienne Grandin known the name of his club? That was puzzling. During the time they had spent together in Pé he had never once informed her that he was an army officer or that he was a member of the Junior Army and Navy. Still, being in the French Secret Service, she would have means of getting information denied to the ordinary person. That might account for it.

  Should he ignore the message? No, he could not very well do that. He couldn’t let the woman down.

  He pulled out the telegram and read it again. And, as he did so, a thought came—a disturbing, stealthy, menacing thought.

  Was this telegram a carefully planned plot? Had Adrienne Grandin been the sender or had her name been forged?

  He must be calm, he told himself. Big issues were at stake. As he saw it, there were three things he could do: (1) ignore the wire altogether, or (2) get the package from Rosemary and post it with a covering note to the Frenchwoman, explaining that it was impossible for him to leave England again, or (3) go himself but take a dummy package.

  The more he thought about it, the more he became convinced that the message was a snare of some kind. Was the woman herself in the plot? Suppose—just suppose that she was the same person who had seduced his father? It was possible: the woman who had called herself Minna Braun in Pé was cultured, refined, and possessed extreme physical attractions. Seventeen years before she would have been quite a girl, but.…

  He ought to go straight to the governor and lay all his cards on the table, he supposed. But, if he did, he would be the means of giving his father the cruellest blow of his life.

  Out of the welter of conflicting emotions which surged through his mind, he finally came to a decision. It was his duty, as he saw it, to probe this mystery to the uttermost: he owed that to his father, if not to himself. He simply had to know what was behind that blackmail plot of which, perhaps quite soon, his father was destined to be the victim. The Hague was in Holland; he would be on Dutch, not Ronstadt, soil. If he kept his wits about him, nothing very much could happen. He would go armed to that rendezvous, and if there was any tricky business.…

  The package? Should he take it? No. He would keep to the plan which he had been considering a few minutes before. If the woman really turned up and everything seemed straightforward, he would explain; if some one else was at the Hotel Continental, then he would know it was a “plant.” What might happen after that he must leave to chance.

  After making a few inquiries, the club head porter was able to inform him that the boat train for Harwich and the Hook left Liverpool Street at 8 p.m.

  Bobby’s next anxiety was about money, but this quickly passed. He had paid in the two fifty-pound notes at the Woolvington branch of his bank that morning, and was now able to cash a cheque for fifteen pounds at the club, which he considered would carry him over on this Holland trip.

  ***

  The night journey was uneventful, and, arriving at the Hook of Holland the following morning shortly after six o’clock, he breakfasted on the boat leisurely and caught a train which was due to arrive at The Hague shortly after 10 a.m. There were very few other people in the saloon, although he noticed a couple of men sitting at a table on his right.

  Getting out of the station at The Hague, he called a taxi and gave the address mentioned in the telegram. The Hotel Continental reminded him somewhat of the Berners Hotel in Berners Street, off Oxford Street; it looked up-to-date, comfortable and well run. After a much-needed wash and brush up, he descended in the lift and took a seat in the hotel lounge. Now that the moment for actual confrontation was drawing near, he began to feel slightly nervous.

  Lighting a cigarette, he waited. Was he to discover within the next few minutes that the fascinating woman he had met at Pé was really a decoy?

  In any case, whether she was a straight dealer or a professional seductress for spy purposes, he would have to use all his guile to get her to accompany him back to London. He had thought this out on the boat coming over. That affair in which his father had played the most prominent part seventeen years before simply had to be cleared up. No doubt the governor had been exploited—and, in view of the present tension between Ronstadt and England, he simply had to know where he stood.

  Bobby had not long to wait. The cigarette he had lit was only half-smoked when a page approached. The boy was carrying a salver, on which rested a sealed envelope. This, Bobby was able to see when he picked it up, was addressed to “Mr. R. Wingate.”

  “For me?” he asked the page.

  The boy nodded.

  Breaking the seal and opening the envelope, he read the following typewritten message:

  please come to room no. 127 at the earliest possible moment.

  Now for it! He must steel himself against the woman until she had convinced him that she was actually what she had claimed to be at Pé.

  Preceded by the page, he went to the lift and was carried to the second floor. Here, in a large, comfortably furnished bedroom, he was greeted—not by Adrienne Grandin, but by a stranger. The latter looked like a Frenchman and spoke English with a Parisian accent.

  “I am delighted to meet you, Monsieur Wingate,” he started. “It is very good of you to come. No doubt you have been expecting to meet a certain very charming lady—walls have ears, you know,” he added, looking round, “so I will not mention any names.”

  “Oh, that’s all right,” returned the Englishman, as though recognising the good sense of what the other was saying; “but this is a very important business, and I must be convinced that you are the right person.”

  The other smiled.

  “Your caution does you credit, monsieur. This,” taking a letter from his coat pocket, “will remove all doubts in your mind. As you will be able to see, it is in a certain person’s handwriting.”

  Sure enough, the handwriting closely resembled that contained in the note he had received from Adrienne Grandin at Pé. But, still, he had to pretend to require more confirmation.

  “There was to be some other form of identification,” he said, handing the letter back.

  The man looked confounded.

  “Some other form of identification?” he repeated.

  “Yes.”

  “But the person we both know said nothing of that.”

  “Oh, well—perhaps she forgot,” conceded the Englishman, after a brief pause. “That letter’s good enough. If you’ll kindly wait here, I’ll go to my room.”

  Once out in the corridor, Bobby felt he knew exactly where he stood: that message to The Hague had been a trap of some kind. What the Ronstadt people hoped to gain by it, he did not know—but the very fact that this messenger did not show him the real form of identification—the signet ring with R.F. engraved on it, which Adrienne Grandin had assured him was carried by every genuine French Secret Service agent—was ample proof in his own mind of treachery of some kind.

  All right! He had come prepared for that. In his room, to which he was now rushing, was a dud package—an exact replica, so far as he could remember, of the envelope which the woman had handed to him with so much melodramatic detail in his bedroom at the guest-house at Pé. He smiled to himself when he thought of the expression on this messenger’s face when he opened the envelope and found nothing in it but two blank sheets of paper.…

  ***

  Within five minutes he had
handed over the package and had received the emissary’s fervent thanks.

  Then he allowed the man to go; it would be foolish to attempt to probe him about the blackmail plot against Colonel Clinton—the fellow would first pretend to know nothing and then tell a string of lies.

  He would have to wait.

  Chapter XV

  Under Arrest

  Rosemary’s face was clouded.

  “What is the meaning of all this?” she asked.

  “Meaning of all what?” he replied.

  She became impatient.

  “Don’t think me the worst possible kind of fool, please, Bobby! Why did you go to Pé? Why did you cause yourself to be watched by our people?”

  He looked at her sharply.

  “How do you know I was being watched?”

  “Mr. Mallory told me, the night we went to the Savoy Grill. It was he who said how indiscreet you had been.…Oh, my dear, why were you such an awful ass?”

  He felt hurt, and showed it.

  “I don’t know that I was such an awful ass,” he retorted with some heat.

  The answer angered her. Was he going to brazen it out, even to the girl who loved him?

  “Don’t you?” she retorted. “Then I’m afraid you haven’t very much sense of proportion.” Should she tell him all she knew? She decided it was only fair to do so. “Bobby,” she went on, and her face was now very serious, “you’ll get to know this soon in any case, and I would much rather you heard it from me than from any one else: since you’ve been away I’ve been acting as assistant personal secretary to Sir Brian Fordinghame.”

  “The Intelligence man?”

  She nodded.

  “Yes. He’s Chief of Y.1, the department which looks after counter-espionage among other things.”

  Looking at her, Bobby realised that she was in deadly earnest. But what on earth could she be getting at?

  “You’re suspected of being a traitor,” she told him, straight out.

  He laughed.

  “Don’t be a fool, my dear,” he said. “You’re trying to pull my leg.”

  “I only wish to God I was, Bobby! But I’m perfectly serious. Let me tell you this: from the moment you got to Pé—and even before, when you were on the Paris express—you were under the constant scrutiny of British Secret Service agents.”

  “But why?”

  “Because you played the fool. Didn’t you know that the man who called himself ‘Dr. Emeric Sandor’ was a Ronstadt agent?”

  “No, of course I didn’t.”

  Rosemary lit a cigarette but flung it into the grate almost immediately.

  “I don’t know that I can possibly help you—I want to, of course,” she said. “But I can’t help you unless you tell me the absolute truth. Why did you go to Pé?”

  He wetted his lips with the tip of his tongue, which had become suddenly dry.

  “Because I wanted to see the new tractors which I heard they were going to use for the latest model of tank.”

  “Is that the truth, Bobby?” Her eyes were very accusing.

  “Of course it’s the truth. Damn it, Rosemary, I’m getting tired of being called a liar.”

  “All right,” she returned. “Then, if you’re telling me the truth, where does the woman you spent so much time with in Pé come in?”

  “She was a French Secret Service agent.”

  “She was what?”

  “A French Secret Service agent.”

  “Oh, Bobby, what a fool you’ve been! She was nothing of the sort. She was a Ronstadt spy. She set out deliberately to trap you.”

  “That’s nonsense.”

  “It’s the truth—you can read it in the reports we received at Y.1. During the last war she worked for the Germans, posing as a French girl named Marie Roget.”

  “Marie Roget.” He repeated the name quietly, but not so quietly that the girl was not able to hear it.

  “Didn’t you know that?”

  “No, of course not. I never heard of the name before. We were staying at the same guest-house. One night she came to my room in an awful state—said that she was being trailed by Ronstadt agents and that she was terrified for her life. It was she who gave me the package I sent to you. She said that it contained something which was of vital importance to both France and Great Britain.”

  Rosemary laughed—and it was not pleasant to hear. “How do you know she wasn’t fooling you, and that this precious package contained only blank papers?”

  “I couldn’t imagine anything so silly, and in any case she relied on me.”

  He sat down, his hands to his head. He was feeling dazed. He didn’t want to talk about this thing any more—not even to Rosemary Allister. He wanted to get away quietly by himself.

  “Haven’t you anything else to tell me, Bobby?”

  “Nothing,” he said. But, because he kept his face averted, she believed that he was lying, and the knowledge was like a sword in her breast.

  ***

  “I am sorry—but I am afraid you must consider yourself under close arrest, Lieutenant Wingate.”

  The young officer, his face drawn but under stern control, looked his Commanding Officer straight in the eyes.

  “I think I am entitled to ask on what grounds, sir.”

  Colonel Harrison twisted the end of his closely clipped moustache.

  “On the grounds of betraying military secrets—charges will be preferred against you,” he said curtly. “That is all.”

  Bobby felt a hand touch his arm and he turned smartly. The whole thing was incredible—a living nightmare; he felt too stunned to be able to think clearly; a wave of physical nausea was rising up within him.

  The officer by his side was—final ironical touch!—his own company commander. The latter’s face was not good to look upon.…

  This ghastliness had started over two hours before. After the talk with Rosemary, he had rejoined his unit at Woolvington, and, directly after breakfast, had received a message to the effect that his company commander wished to see him.

  Major Birtles, with whom he had always been on good terms, had looked at him in what he thought was a very peculiar manner, but said nothing, after an abrupt “Good-morning,” until he had carefully knocked the ashes from his pipe.

  Then:

  “I have to take you along to the O.C., Wingate—word has just come through from the Orderly Room.”

  It was the tone the speaker used that had made Wingate ask, “Is there anything wrong?”

  “Something damnably wrong, from what I can hear,” had come the answer, explosively.

  More than that, Birtles would not say; and the younger officer, after one other question, which remained unanswered, kept silent. But it was very puzzling.…

  Now, ten minutes later, the two were standing before the Commanding Officer.

  The interview was short.

  Looking as if Wingate were a complete stranger to him, and an unpleasant stranger at that, Colonel Harrison said:

  “I have received instructions, Lieutenant Wingate, from the Southern Command Headquarters, to investigate a report that you, during the period of your recent leave, visited a foreign country other than that to which you were granted special permission to travel. Have you got anything to say to that?”

  “Yes, sir; I certainly went to Ronstadt and stayed at Pé,” he replied immediately.

  The C.O. seemed surprised at the frankness shown. A glance passed between him and the company commander.

  ***

  The horror of the next twenty-four hours, he felt, would never pass from his mind; no matter how long he lived, the memory would be an unfailing torment to him.

  After leaving the C.O.’s office, he was told that he was to be transferred and attached to the London District Command. The escorting officer�
��another supreme piece of irony!—turned out to be his own particular friend in the unit, Hollister.

  “What on earth is all this?” the latter demanded when he could get a word with Wingate alone. “What in the name of hell have you been up to? They say you’re going to be charged with selling secrets to Ronstadt. Tell me, Bobby—it simply isn’t true!”

  “Of course it isn’t true.”

  “Thank God! Did you go to Ronstadt when you were on leave?”

  “Yes, I went, but—”

  “You needn’t tell me any more. As long as you can clear yourself that’s all I—any of us here—are troubling about at the moment. We all feel there’s some ghastly mistake. It’s going to create a terrible stink throughout the Corps, of course,” the speaker added.

  “You needn’t have reminded me of that.”

  “Sorry.”

  Throughout the journey to London there was an almost unbroken silence between the two. Bobby was occupied with his own thoughts of the filthy trick that fate had played him, while his escort, having asked the one essential question and got what he considered a satisfactory answer, was hesitant to break in on his friend’s reflections.

  At the Headquarters of the London District Command, Hollister was instructed to take his prisoner to the Tower.

  Here, the prisoner found that he was indeed under close arrest—a Lieutenant of the Guards was to sleep in the same room, and he was to be allowed liberty only when he took his daily exercise, and even then he would be accompanied by his escort officer.

  The horror mounted. At ten o’clock on the morning after his arrival at the Tower, a visitor was announced. This proved to be a major who declared himself to be a member of the Judge-Advocate General’s staff.

  “I have come,” he told the prisoner, when they were alone, “to ask you certain questions relative to your recent visit to Pé. Are you prepared to answer those questions?”

  “Certainly. I have nothing to hide.”

  “That is excellent. Now—”

  Throughout the searching interrogatory that followed—and which lasted for the better part of three hours—Wingate answered every question promptly and frankly. The only facts he did not disclose were those relating to Colonel Clinton’s affair with Marie Roget seventeen years before.