The Traitor (13 page)

“Well, frankly, I do.”

“Then forget all about it,” he said easily. “I was only anxious to help allay any suspicion you yourself might have had about Bobby.”

“I have never had any suspicion of Bobby. When he gets back to town, I haven't the slightest doubt that he will be able to explain everything.”

“I'm sure he will—and now suppose we talk of something else.”

For the next half-hour Mallory proved such an agreeable companion that, in spite of the perhaps unfair prejudice she had against the man, she found herself almost liking him. After that his talk lost its sparkle and the speaker became
distrait
. She wondered if some remark she had made could have caused this change, and then noticed that Mallory was staring with great concentration at a table on the opposite side of the room. Two men were occupying it. One was young, the other middle-aged.

The expression on Mallory's face was puzzling. His eyes were alight and his face was flushed. The rest of the world (herself included) might not have existed: all his attention and interest were focused on the other table. When she suggested they should have their coffee while watching the cabaret in the restaurant, he did not answer at first.

Then, like a person coming out of a trance, he said disjointedly: “I'm terribly sorry.…What was it you said?”

Her reply was slightly tart.

“I merely suggested that I should like to drink my coffee while watching the cabaret—but, of course, it doesn't matter.”

“My dear, I am tremendously sorry—but I am afraid my mind was wandering.”

“Exactly,” she said dryly.

“But I will endeavour to make amends.” Yet, still, for some as yet unexplained reason, his attention was not on her, but on the couple at the distant table.

She was forced to follow his gaze. What was it about these two men that Mallory found so absorbing? What attraction could they have for him?

At that moment the older man, who had been sitting with his back to her, rose—and Rosemary imagined that what before had been dark was now clear. Of course, she might possibly be wrong—she hoped she was. At any rate, she was completely satisfied on one point: her companion's interest had been drawn not to the older of the two men, but to the almost unnaturally good-looking youth who shared the table with him.

But as soon as she believed she had solved one puzzle, another one presented itself. The older man had risen with the direct purpose of speaking to Mallory. The latter's face had gone white when he recognised the other; he was labouring under some sense of apprehension—that was evident.

The stroller must have made some imperceptible sign, for Mallory whispered to her, “Will you excuse me for a moment?” and, without waiting for her permission, rose and walked towards the entrance. He had gone to join the other man, without a doubt.

***

Rosemary found her father in the library when she got back.

“Hullo, pet!” he said, looking up from the book he was reading. “Have a good time?”

“I had rather an
interesting
time,” was her reply.

The banker blinked behind his reading glasses.

“Well, isn't that the same thing?” he demanded.

“Not always.…What have you got there?” She looked over his shoulder. “Another of those horrible detective stories again?”

“This one isn't dreadful—it's written by A. E. W. Mason.”

“Oh, well, that's different—then it's a work of art,” agreed his daughter. “I want something to read, myself.”

She drifted over to the well-stocked shelves. Like many a sedentary worker, Matthew Allister's tastes in literature ran strongly to tales of adventure and bloodshed, but he also fancied himself as a serious student of criminology, and dined solemnly on the third day of each month with a number of men of similar inclinations who had formed a club the title of which none of them ever seemed very clear about.

Absorbed in
The Prisoner in the Opal
, Allister did not pay any more attention to his daughter until she stooped to kiss him “good-night.” Then, with perfunctory interest, he looked at the book she was carrying.

“I shouldn't have thought that would appeal to you, pet,” he said. “Whatever makes you want to read it?”

Rosemary's face was inscrutable.

“I have a reason,” she said.

Chapter XIV

At Woolvington

The joy of returning to London! It was this sense of delight that made Bobby Wingate smile instead of frown when, a short while after the air liner took off, homeward bound for Croydon, he was addressed by the man sitting in the seat behind.

“Excuse me, but aren't you Wingate?” said the voice.

Bobby looked at the speaker for a few moments before recognition came.

“Why, it's you—Stinker!”

The man who had laboured under this insalubrious nickname at Repington grinned as though he had received the choicest of compliments. Aubrey Dexter had never been one to put on side, and even now that he was an Under-Secretary at the British Legation at Sofia, he conformed to his school tradition.

“What are you doing so far away from your base?” asked Wingate.

Dexter's freckled face slipped into a fresh grin.

“Oh, I'm trotting back to attend the Annual Reunion dinner of the Old Boys' Association. Haven't you had a card?”

“It may be at home. I've been on leave in Paris,” explained Bobby.

“Well, you ought to come, you know,” said the other. “What will happen to the old school tie if you slack like this?”

“All right, don't rub it in. Where is the show?”

“Trocadero to-morrow night, seven-thirty. That gives you plenty of time to make up your mind. By the way, you're still in the Service, I suppose?”

“Yes—Tanks.”

“Then you must wear uniform. The President (old ‘Smiler' Bunty is the big noise this year) put it expressly in the notice that all members now with the Services should wear uniform, and that others who held decorations should flaunt them to the world.”

“Damn!”

“Why, what's the matter?”

“Well, it will mean my going down to my unit at Woolvington and collecting my mess kit, which is in my quarters.”

“That's not much of a hardship, surely?”

Bobby grimaced. He was thinking of Rosemary Allister and how delighted she would be when he turned up so unexpectedly. There were still three days of his leave to run, and he determined to spend as much of that time as possible with her. He'd been a bit of a fool, now that he came to look back—spouting all that stuff about her money being such a fatal obstacle. It had only needed a few days' absence from London to convince him of how deeply he was in love with this girl. Minna Braun? Well, that was entirely different; and, besides, she was—well, not the type to get married. An affair, yes: he couldn't imagine any one more attractive for a thing of that sort; but marriage—definitely, no.

The last words that Stinker said to him as they left the bus which had conveyed them from Croydon airport to Victoria Station were:

“Now, I'm relying on you, Bobby—you will come?”

“Yes, I'll come. But curse you, all the same—it will mean my spending a night in Mess instead of in town.”

Parking his luggage in the left-luggage office at Victoria Station, he was fortunate to find that a train for Woolvington was leaving in twenty minutes' time. That would just allow him to ring up Rosemary and explain the position. But when he got through to the house in Clarges Square the butler told him that Miss Allister was out.

Oh, well, it didn't matter—she'd be back the next day. His greeting kiss could wait, and he hoped would taste all the sweeter for the delay.

***

He arrived at the Mess about ten o'clock, to be greeted joyously by his fellow-officers when he entered the anteroom.

“Why, you old rotter,” shouted Hollister, “I imagined you were up to no end of games in gay Paree. Why this thusness?”

Bobby explained as quickly as possible.

“What on earth made you cut short your leave, man? Weren't the girls the right shape, or did the money run out?”

“Both,” he said succinctly, hoping that this would close the argument more quickly. But all the time he was conscious of those two fifty-pound notes nestling in his pocket-book. He would pay them into his bank the first thing in the morning, draw out a tenner and give Rosemary the best lunch the Berkeley could provide. Dear kid! she loved the Berkeley. Well, she should go there and have that favourite table of hers in the corner.

From the O.C. downwards every one appeared glad to see him, and very quickly he had plunged into “shop” talk, just as though he had never been away. Hollister, who was his particular pal, told him that the prize item in the latest news was the arrival from the experimental section of a new amphibious type of tank which was to undergo trials early the following morning.

“By the way, Wingate,” went on Hollister, “did you hear much prospective war talk in Paris?”

“No. Everything seemed much the same as usual.” Billy Hollister's eyes would have opened wide enough, he imagined, if he told him all that had happened since he had left the Mess.

Keenness was the dominating characteristic of his brother officers, and they all sat up late that night discussing the possibilities of this new type of amphibious tank. Bobby was on hand the next morning to witness the trials, but prior to this he had visited the bank and had taken the keenest interest in the construction of the new land fortress. It was not until the early afternoon that he was able to get away.

Arriving at Victoria about tea-time, he took a taxi to his club. Prompted more by habit than anything else, he asked for his letters and was handed a telegram.

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.