The Traitor

by Sydney Horler

  She had stopped reading again. Her brain was becoming bewildered; the references to preliminary baths in solutions of hyposulphite and ammonia, solutions of metallic or organic salts, organic silver compounds, and proteinates confused her. Ronstadt had taken over many of Germany’s former secrets and, no doubt, had raised them to a much higher degree of proficiency. Would the British chemists, to whom those two sheets of paper would be submitted, be able to find out their secret? The possibility of their failing almost prostrated her.

  It was only when the print had begun to swim before her eyes and her head ached intolerably that she had risen from the chair. She had realised then, that it would be impossible for her to do anything by herself. She must wait until she saw Sir Brian Fordinghame.…

  The Chief of Y.1 had listened to her intently.

  “It’s a very remarkable story,” he had commented, “and I should not be the least bit surprised if you were right, Rosemary.” (He had dropped into the habit recently of addressing her by her Christian name.)

  “Then you will get the papers tested for any secret writing, Sir Brian?”

  “Immediately.”

  “Oh, thank you.”

  Fordinghame had given her one of his honest-to-God stares.

  “You still believe Wingate innocent?”

  “Of course—I’ve never allowed myself to think anything else.”

  The Chief of Y.1 then had picked up the two sheets of lightish blue paper and risen from his chair.

  “It may sound a strange thing to you, Rosemary—but so do I,” he had remarked.…

  Ten minutes later, the time had arrived for them both to go to the Court. Fordinghame had assured her that, while they were at the court-martial, every known test would be applied to the papers and that, if they did contain invisible writing, it would certainly be exposed.

  With what hope she had waited!

  And now all that hope had been dashed to the ground. According to what the Chief of Y.1 had just told her, every re-agent known to modern science had been tried out on both the sheets of paper and no result whatever had been obtained.

  The whole scheme was a complete washout.

  And she had been so confident of success! She was not going to allow Bobby to sacrifice himself through his loyalty to a woman whom he had known for only a couple of days and who had made no effort at all to come forward and testify on his behalf at the court-martial. Neither had Minna Braun, or Adrienne Grandin, or whatever her name was supposed to be, sent a single word, so far as she knew, of regret at having ruined a promising boy’s career before it could really be said to have started. As for what Bobby might say afterwards about her action, she completely disregarded this factor; there was only one thing to be considered and that was how to clear him of the odious charge of which, unless a miracle happened, it seemed certain, after the Judge-Advocate’s summing-up speech, he would be declared guilty.

  She lowered her face, unable to meet Bobby’s eyes. What torture was reflected in his face! What he must have suffered! And now she could do nothing to help him. If only these sheets had revealed their secret, she would have insisted on giving evidence—Sir Brian Fordinghame had promised to give his support in this—and then she would have told the whole story of the package so far as she was concerned. Fordinghame had told her that the President would allow her to be sworn: any evidence for the defence would be taken right up to the finding of the Court being announced. The accused was always given the utmost latitude in this respect: that was the invariable law at all General Courts-Martial.

  It had been merely a mirage…a vain hope…a mocking illusion.…

  ***

  The members of the Court were filing back. The verdict that they had decided to bring in could be seen written on all their faces. Rosemary had no need to take a second look: Bobby, she knew, would be declared guilty!

  In her distress she swung an arm out convulsively. A touch on the shoulder by Sir Brian Fordinghame made her realise what she had done: a small bottle of fountain-pen ink, from which she had been accustomed to fill her Waterman, had tipped over, and the contents were flowing all over the desk.

  “Your sleeve, my dear!” said the Chief of Y.1 commiseratingly.

  Rosemary paid him no heed: her attention was fully occupied. She continued to stare at the ink-stained sheet of paper—one of the two contained in the package.

  A miracle was happening—the miracle of which she had dreamed, but of whose fulfilment she had utterly despaired: through the deep ink-stain which had formed, writing was coming.

  Chapter XXIV

  The Traitor

  Rosemary sprang up.

  “Sir Brian! Look!” she cried—and caught hold of his arm as though she had suddenly been driven mad.

  Fordinghame was quick to act. He took one look at the sheet which the girl extended to him so excitedly and then his voice rose high above the excited buzzing in the Court.

  “I wish to apologise to you, sir, as President of the Court,” he said to the frowning chief official, “for this interruption, but something entirely unexpected has occurred.”

  “May I inquire what it is?” The Accused’s Friend, Peter Mallory, had crossed to the speaker’s side. “What is that paper?” he asked.

  Those sitting or standing near wondered why Sir Brian Fordinghame’s voice had grown so stern.

  “It is a very important document which has just come to light,” he said.

  “Has it anything to do with the defence?” inquired Mallory, his face white.

  “Yes.”

  “Then I demand to see it.”

  The answer was so strange that it infuriated the listener.

  “I must refuse to allow it out of my hand, Mr. Mallory.”

  Pandemonium suddenly broke out. If some one had not seized him from behind, Mallory would have struck the speaker. As it was, struggling in the grip of two court officials, he glared at Fordinghame as though the latter had turned from a friend into an enemy.

  “I demand the fullest explanation of this extraordinary scene!” called the President. He was forced to shout to make his voice heard above the hubbub.

  “I will make myself responsible for supplying it, sir.”

  “You, Sir Brian?”

  “Yes, General.”

  While every one stared, the speaker proceeded:

  “A piece of evidence, bearing strongly on this case, has suddenly turned up. May I have your permission, sir, to call a new witness?”

  “Certainly—but I don’t understand. Have you undertaken the defence of the prisoner, Sir Brian?”

  “So far as the furnishing of this new evidence is concerned—yes, sir.”

  Sensation.

  “Call your witness.”

  Fordinghame touched Rosemary Allister on the arm, and the girl walked towards the witness-box. In doing so she was forced to pass the prisoner. Everyone in the Court noticed that she gave Wingate an encouraging smile.

  The Chief of Y.1 addressed the President again.

  “Before I put any questions to this witness, sir, may I ask that the doors of the Court be closely guarded?”

  “Are you afraid of some one trying to escape, Sir Brian?”

  “Yes.”

  After a nod from the President, Major Bingham, the prosecuting counsel, himself gave the necessary order. He looked completely bewildered as he returned to his seat.

  “Now, Sir Brian,” said the President.

  Fordinghame faced the witness.

  “Your name is Rosemary Allister?”

  “Yes.”

  “You are the daughter of Mr. Matthew Allister, the well-known banker?”

  “Yes.”

  “For the past month you have been employed as assistant personal secretary to myself as Chief of the Y.1 branch of British Intelligence?”

>   “Yes.”

  “Am I correct in saying that you have been for some time a close personal friend of the prisoner?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you receive on the twentieth of September a package addressed in Lieutenant Wingate’s handwriting?”

  “I did.”

  “Of what did that package consist?”

  “It consisted of two sheets of paper enclosed in an oiled-silk covering and placed inside a copy of the Ronstadt newspaper, Tageblatt.”

  “From where did Lieutenant Wingate send you that package?”

  “From Pé.”

  “Do you know for what purpose?”

  “He wrote on the outside—that is, on the outside page of the newspaper—‘Keep this safe for me.’ ’’

  Waiting for the Court to digest this piece of information, the man who had so unexpectedly superseded the Accused’s Friend in conducting the defence (thereby transferring himself from a powerful member of the prosecution into an ally) proceeded.

  “Now I want you, Miss Allister, to tell the Court in your own words exactly what followed your receiving this package.”

  The witness looked straight at the prosecuting counsel as she replied.

  “I realised that Lieutenant Wingate must have had a very good reason for sending it to me, and when he came back to London I questioned him about it. He told me that the package had been given him for safe-keeping by a woman in Pé who had said that it was vitally important to both their countries—that was, England and France—that it should be kept safe. Mr. Wingate went on to tell me that this woman had said she was a French Secret Service agent, and that he believed her.”

  The President interposed a question.

  “You have been in Court throughout this court-martial?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have therefore heard all the evidence?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why have you not brought the contents of this package to the notice of the Court before?”

  “I will explain,” promptly replied the witness. “Curious to know what was inside the package, I took the liberty of opening it, but was disappointed to find that all it contained were two perfectly blank sheets of paper. This made me come to the conclusion—later, of course, when I heard the full circumstances—that Lieutenant Wingate had been fooled by this woman.”

  “But you still kept the sheets of paper?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, in the first place, the prisoner”—she hesitated a little over the word—“had entrusted the package to me, and then, secondly, because I had a vague feeling always that I ought not to throw them away. I cannot give a better explanation than that. That was why I kept them locked in a bureau drawer in my bedroom. Last night”—she spoke more slowly now—“I had my intuition confirmed.”

  “Please tell the Court what happened last night, Miss Allister,” said Sir Brian Fordinghame.

  “A man broke into the house and entered my bedroom. He was masked, so that I could not see his face, but I knew why he had come: his purpose was to secure the two sheets of paper which had been in the package. It made me realise that there must be some secret attached to them—and now we know what it is.”

  “They contained secret writing?” interjected the prosecuting counsel.

  “Yes. Sir Brian Fordinghame will show you.”

  It did not seem in any way unusual that this remarkably attractive girl of twenty-two should have become the strongest character in the Court and that she should be dominating the proceedings. Even Sir Brian Fordinghame seemed to recognise that their previous relations had been changed; in any case, he obeyed the request of the girl and walked towards the seats occupied by the President and the Judge-Advocate, placing before them the piece of paper on which the ink had formed such a large blob.

  Both officials were seen to lean forward to study the document intently.

  Then they looked at each other, amazed. The President beckoned Major Bingham; and the prosecuting counsel, who had been frowning during the short time that it had taken Rosemary to give her evidence, walked quickly forward.

  The paper was passed to him; he read it and whispered something in the ear of the President. The latter, after conferring briefly with the Judge-Advocate, nodded.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, addressing the other members of the court-martial, “it is my duty to inform you that very important evidence—evidence which you must hear before I ask you for your findings in this case—has just come to light. I call upon Sir Brian Fordinghame.”

  The Chief of Y.1 went to the witness stand and took the oath. Meanwhile, the reporters turned curiously to each other; this case, which had already been crammed with drama, looked as if it would provide an extraordinary dénouement.

  Strangely enough, it was the prosecuting counsel who started to question this new witness. Standing at some distance away from every one else, the man who should have undertaken the task—Peter Mallory—surveyed the proceedings with what looked like a sardonic smile on his gaunt face. He had one hand in his coat pocket.

  “You are the Chief of the Y.1 branch of British Intelligence?” Major Bingham asked the new witness.

  “Yes.”

  “In that capacity it has been your duty to prepare the facts for the present charge against the prisoner?”

  “Yes.”

  “You corroborate all that Miss Rosemary Allister has already told the Court?”

  “I do. May I go on?”

  “Yes, please, Sir Brian.”

  “Directly I arrived at the office this morning I found Miss Allister in a great state of excitement. She told me of the attempted burglary the night before, and said that she had spent several hours reading up all the available facts about secret inks. She implored me to put the two sheets of paper in question to every possible test—which I did.”

  “With any result?”

  “None. All the usual re-agents failed.”

  “And yet ordinary fountain-pen ink brought out the writing?”

  “That is so.”

  Major Bingham took some time before asking the next question. When he did so his voice sounded like the voice of doom.

  “Sir Brian Fordinghame, I have now to put to you a very important question: do you recognise the handwriting on this paper?” holding it up.

  “I do.”

  “You must tell the Court what person, in your opinion, supplied this secret information—namely, the very facts on which the first charge in this prosecution against Lieutenant Robert Wingate has been based—to the Ronstadt agents.”

  The answer seemed dragged from the witness. He evidently spoke with the utmost reluctance.

  “I am sorry to say,” he returned slowly, “that these details concerning the new anti-tank shoulder weapon, which Lieutenant Robert Wingate was supposed to have supplied to Ronstadt, are in the handwriting of—”

  He was obliged to stop. A heavy crash—like that which might have been made by the sound of a body falling—had diverted not only his attention but the attention of every one in the crowded court.

  A man was seen twitching in agony on the floor.

  “My God!” shrieked a reporter, forgetting all professional decorum in the excitement of the moment. “Mallory was the traitor!”

  Chapter XXV

  Press Club Gossip

  It was Cuthbert Clergyman who made that dramatic announcement. For a reporter with his experience to commit such an offence against newspaper etiquette and elementary good manners was unpardonable, of course, but this was the story of the century, and he was half-way across the room (en route to the nearest telephone) before the President could voice his displeasure.

  “Stop that man!” he called.

  “But I’m a reporter!” protested the indignant pressman.
Then, as he watched Sir Brian Fordinghame, who had rushed to Mallory’s side, straighten himself and announce, “He is dead!” he calmed himself. He might not have had all his facts—the most heinous crime a reporter can commit—if he had been able to get away before.

  Now it was the Judge-Advocate speaking.

  “He poisoned himself?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is his writing, you say?” inquired the President, tapping the sheet of paper he held.

  “Yes—that was why he wanted to get possession of it.”

  “But it’s incredible—simply unbelievable!”

  “There is the proof, sir,” returned the realist, pointing to the corpse.

  Major Bingham spoke his last words for the prosecution.

  “I ask the Court to declare the prisoner Not Guilty,” he said.

  The President tried vainly to stop the storm of applause. He was forced to wait until this had subsided before making his announcement.

  “Lieutenant Robert Wingate, it is the verdict of this Court that you be discharged.”

  ***

  Cuthbert Clergyman was a man of deeds rather than words (unless seated at his typewriter, punching out a good news story), but to-night, as he sat in his favourite corner of the Press Club, a pint pot of beer by his elbow, he allowed himself to expand.

  “Yes,” he said; “it was a whale of a good story. Somehow, I’d suspected that fellow Mallory from the beginning.”

  “Liar!” chorused his listeners.

  “All right; have it your own way.”

  “What about the hooded witnesses?” asked a man sitting on the fringe of the crowd.

  Clergyman smiled.

  “As I told Blackie,” he returned, “we couldn’t possibly use the stuff because of the Official Secrets Act, but now that it’s all over I can pass the story on to one of the American papers and get a good fat cheque for it. Of course, what troubled Fordinghame, of the Y.1 Department, was that he would be required to produce the actual agents who had furnished him with the reports on young Wingate’s activities in Pé. That must have made him do some pretty serious thinking, for of course he realised that unless great care was taken he stood a good chance of losing some of his best men—the Pé undertakers would be called in. The absence of the Ronstadt nationals from Pé would render them liable to be suspected by the Ronstadt Secret Police, and if this did not definitely put them on any kind of death list, it still would mean that (as Bingham said at the court-martial) they would not be able to render any further service to the British Government. In short, they would be scuppered.