The Traitor (17 page)

Chapter XX

Kuhnreich Decrees

Kuhnreich's scowl deepened. This was not a good morning with the Dictator of Ronstadt. What in the early days had seemed a mission from on high (not that Kuhnreich bothered much about religion) was now becoming a daily treadmill of vexation. Like others before him—and men gifted with much more brain power—Kuhnreich was beginning to realise that ruling over some sixty millions of people was not an enviable task.

When he took over power, Kuhnreich had stated that he was out to create a new nation—a nation infinitely stronger than the one from whose ashes it had sprung. All the demoralising forces which had caused so much misery, distress and national humiliation were to be rooted up; once he was in the saddle, with his loyal helpers around him, Ronstadt would be the strongest force in the world: the rest of Europe should act as its footstool.

The work was done—while the horror-stricken world shuddered as it read of the kind of methods used in the cleansing process. But the poison that, according to Kuhnreich and his counsellors, had lurked in the veins of the country for so long, devitalising the body politic, was eradicated.

All, then, should have been well. But it did not work out that way. With unemployment increasing and the nation generally having to tighten its belt, the promised millennium took on the aspect of a mirage—and the murmurings of those who had become disillusioned increased. These mutterings might be put down with a stern hand, but the economists whom Kuhnreich called in could not offer him much consolation.

“A population that is faced with starvation next winter cannot be expected to cry ‘Hosanna!' '' declared one bluntly.

The Iron Man, as the carefully censored Pé newspapers united in calling him, was torn; he became the prey of two conflicting schools of thought. Those who had marched to power with him—a curious collection—were all for putting down the discontented elements with the sword; on the other hand, the Dictator (who was said to be sleeping badly) knew that the shedding of blood, even on a big scale, never had been a cure for empty stomachs.

But, gradually, the fire-eaters (“The Murder Gang,” as their enemies called them) gained the upper hand. Steiber, Minister for Propaganda, as the result of many private conversations with the Dictator, had planted a fertile seed in that megalomaniac's head.

“What we want, your Excellency,” he had said in his shrill, disturbing voice, “is another war! For war will distract the mind of the masses. It will create a yet newer wave of nationalism. Once we are at war, they will forget their real or imaginary troubles—besides, we shall be victorious this time, and the indemnities we shall demand from France and England will make us the greatest Power in the history of the world.”

Kuhnreich had wanted to believe it—how badly he had wanted to believe it! But it meant that in order to relieve one desperate situation he would have to plunge into another vortex. Yet out of this fresh maelstrom he might—yes,
might
—emerge a still stronger power. After all, he told himself, war was the natural destiny of the Ronstadt people. It had always believed in war, and would always believe in it. For, from time immemorial, its rulers had preached the gospel of the sword and fire.

“Yes—yes.…” he had murmured.

Steiber's views had been supported by the Minister for Propaganda's deadliest enemy—Muntz, the Chancellor. Between these two had existed, from the moment Kuhnreich had elevated them to power, a gnawing rivalry. They had paraded side by side; they had stood on the same platform; they had issued proclamations signed jointly—but the man in the street was not deceived: he knew the truth; and the truth was that either would have sacrificed the other without the slightest scruple—given the right opportunity.

Carl Muntz had his own private and separate dreams. A soldier by profession, he naturally believed in war. Once hostilities broke out, he confidently assumed he would be made commander-in-chief of all the Ronstadt forces. What a position! And what a vision—to see himself riding through the Arc de Triomphe in Paris at the head of a triumphant army!

So, secretly, instructions had been given that preparations were to be made on a giant scale for the war which might break out at any moment. The information which the agents of France and England sent back to their respective countries proved that Ronstadt believed her only possible future lay in a victorious army.

***

Once he had set his hand to the war plough, Kuhnreich concentrated all his energies in that one direction. The approaching war became his gospel and his creed. Fired by the intoxicating pictures which his brain provided, he thought of nothing else.

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 witnesses 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.”