The Traitor (6 page)

Chapter III

Shadows

The pain had beaten even Cynthia Clinton's courage, and her husband and the boy he regarded as his own son had consequently dined alone that night.

Conversation had dealt with more or less commonplace matters until the port had circulated twice.

Then:

“What's this about your spending your leave on the Continent, Bobby?” asked Clinton.

“Well, governor,” was the somewhat hesitant reply, “I thought I'd like to see Paris before it's too late.”

“Too late?”

“According to the talk in Mess down at Woolvington, war between France and Ronstadt may break out at any moment—and then Paris will be very much off the map, so far as spending any leave there is concerned, at any rate.”

He felt rather a cur. Certainly something of a coward. It wasn't playing the game to deceive the old boy like this. But, then, he knew very well what would happen if he told the truth: the governor would order him not to be such a damned fool.

The prophecy was fulfilled, for this was exactly what the Colonel did the next moment.

“I think it's damned foolhardy for a British officer to go running round the Continent at a time like this. Look here, Bobby, I'm being serious now; I know far more than any one down at your Mess can hope to know—and I shouldn't be surprised if Ronstadt declared war both on France and England at any minute. And if it does come it will come quickly. Now, if you were on the Continent.…Well, I leave it to your own imagination. The only consolation is that it will be quickly over; but while it lasts the popular conception of hell will be a fleabite compared with it.”

The listener realised that the speaker knew what he was talking about. Colonel Clinton occupied a very prominent position in Military Intelligence, and consequently knew far more of what was going on behind the scenes than he could be allowed to pass on even to his adopted son.

“We are living on a volcano that may blow up at any moment,” continued the Intelligence officer, “and I don't want you to be included in the débris before your time, my boy.” The face of the man with the prematurely grey hair was grave.

“Oh, but Paris would be all right—why, it's only a couple of hours' hop away.”

“I've told you I don't like the idea of your going on the Continent at all just now, Bobby.”

The young officer shrugged his shoulders.

“Don't let's talk about it any more, then, sir.” He changed the subject abruptly. “Isn't that fool of a doctor doing Mums any good?” he asked sharply.

Clinton sighed. A memory—a memory that went back seventeen years—returned to him as he looked across the table; and it was a memory that seared.

“He tells me he's doing everything he possibly can.”

“Well, it doesn't appear to be worth much.”

Clinton sighed. Again his memory went back over the years. He saw himself in that sitting-room in the Lion d'Or Hotel—was it because of this recollection that he did not wish the boy, whom he had adopted when a comrade was killed at Ypres, to go to Paris for leave?

Five thousand men killed!
That was the memory that had haunted him all through the years. Never had he been able to forget it. The memory stabbed him at the oddest moments: he would wake up in the middle of the night, wet with perspiration; in the midst of a meal at a crowded restaurant, the spectre would stalk. Always he had to carry that intolerable load.

It had been useless for him to tell himself that the average man would have acted in much the same way. He had carried in his breast a cancer that had never ceased to gnaw. Never to be able to forget.…

He had done what he could to make reparation: that was why, when, after the war, he was offered a permanent post in Military Intelligence, he had taken it without hesitation. And how he had worked! Day and night, slaving at languages and endeavouring to equip himself in every possible way for the life work that stretched in front of him. There was that much to be said for his credit: he had never spared himself.

Marie Roget! What had happened to her? He had never heard a word, and so had supposed that this girl, who, he was convinced, had trapped him, had become lost among the countless millions swallowed up by the Peace. Perhaps she was dead—or married. An ironical thought, to reflect that she had become an honest married woman!

Many times during the past seventeen years he had found himself praying that she might be dead. For, as long as she lived, she represented a danger. That seems fantastic after so long a period, but there was always the risk. One consoling feature was that she alone represented this stalking terror. Major-General Bentley had died a fortnight after that harrowing interview at his Brigade Headquarters. A sniper's bullet had put an end to an illustrious military career as Bentley went on a tour of inspection in the front-line trenches.

Yes, there was only this woman left. Of course, he did not include Mallory. The man who had become “Uncle Peter” to his boy had long since held out the hand of friendship again, and, although no words had been said on the subject since, he knew that he could trust his old comrade as he could trust no other living soul. It had taken some time for Mallory to come round, but eventually he had wiped the slate clean. There was no longer any misunderstanding between them—and there had not been for over fourteen years.

Mallory had left the service after the Armistice and had gone into the insurance business. He was now quite a “big pot” in the City. He had never married, being, presumably, one of those men who never try their luck a second time. When Jill Chester had turned him down for the more spectacular prospect of becoming a Baroness, he had apparently forsworn all women.

As the years went by Mallory, always rather reserved, had developed a kind of queer introspective habit which enabled him to shut himself off from the rest of the world. Perhaps that piece of shrapnel, which had caused him to spend six months in a war hospital after the guns had roared for the last time, had had something to do with it. But he never mentioned the subject, and those few of his friends who stood nearest to him had taken him for what he had become—and had left it at that. He was still the best of good fellows.

Clinton's reflections were interrupted by a remark from the young officer.

“Well, governor, let's go into the fug hole,” Robert suggested. This combined den, library, and smoking-room had always been a favourite of his.

Comfortably seated in two leather chairs, father and son fell again to talking. But this time all controversial subjects were barred. They concentrated on Bobby's work in the Tank Corps and his daily routine of duties. In every other sentence, young Bobby Wingate evidenced his unmistakable keenness as a soldier.

“You're glad you went into the Army, then, Bobby?” asked the Colonel, sipping his whisky and soda.

“Glad!” The rejoinder left no possible doubt in the listener's mind. “The only snag about it, though, is that one can never hope to make any money—any real money, I mean.”

“What do you want money for?”

A shadow passed over the buoyant face.

“I turned down the best girl in the world to-night, sir, through that very same reason.”

Colonel Clinton leaned forward.

“Do you mean—?”

“Yes, Rosemary Allister. We're desperately in love with each other—but I simply couldn't go on with it. Damn it, sir, a man can't live on his wife's money. So.…” The hand which lifted the glass shook a little.

The older man felt genuinely sorry for him.

“I think that was a very silly thing to do, my boy. Both your mother and I like Rosemary, and we were hoping that—”

He was interrupted.

“Don't let's talk about it, governor—please.”

The Colonel smiled.

“If I know anything of Rosemary, she won't let you off as easily as all that.”

The boy flushed.

“But hang it, sir, I've got no money—and never shall have. All I've got is my job—and I shall concentrate on that. But,” running his hands through his crisp, wavy hair, “just at this particular moment I feel that I'd do almost anything to put my hand on some coin.”

“As you know, Bobby, I've only got my pay—but if a hundred or so would help.…”

“No.” The boy shook his head. “That wouldn't be any use.…Well, what about a game of pills?”

“Good idea.” The Colonel was anxious to divert his thoughts into another channel. It was a pity about Rosemary, but perhaps the lad—modern youth was exceptionally keen-sighted—had the right angle after all. When all the money was on one side, difficulties were apt to crop up at the most unexpected times.

At the other end of the long room there was a three-quarter-size billiard table—somewhat rickety, one of its legs having had to be wedged underneath, and with the cloth worn and stained. But too many close-fought battles had been waged on its ancient surface for it not to occupy a proud position in the hearts of both.

“Owe you twenty-five, as usual?” suggested the Colonel.

“Oh, not to-night, sir—I've improved a bit. Let's play level.”

“All right. What is it?” spinning a coin.

“Heads.”

“It's a woman. I'll break.”

***

The scores were standing at 75–69 in Bobby's favour when a visitor was announced.

The young officer gave a shout as the man walked into the room.

“Uncle Pete!” he exclaimed, holding out a hand.

There was genuine warmth in Mallory's voice as he replied to this spirited greeting.

“I thought I'd look in to wish you a good leave, Bobby,” he said.

“Awfully good of you, sir.”

“Don't let me interrupt the game. We can talk afterwards.”

As though urged on to greater efforts by the words, Bobby ran out with a couple of useful twenty breaks. Putting up his cue, he turned with a smile to the visitor.

“You'll have a drink?”

“Well…a small one.”

Within a few minutes the three were grouped round the fire.

“And now, what do you intend to do with yourself for the next ten days?”

It was Colonel Clinton who answered.

“Bobby wants to go to Paris,” he started in a deprecatory tone.

“Well, why not?” was the comment. “There's a lot to be learned in Paris if one goes the right way about it.”

The words evidently did not please Clinton.

“I was telling him that, with this threat of war, he'd better stay at home.”

“War?” scoffed Mallory. “Why, you're talking nonsense, Alan. You've been paying too much attention to the spy-mania stories in the sensational newspapers.”

“Very well.” The Intelligence officer clipped his words.

Mallory paid no attention to the rebuke.

“Yes, go to Paris by all means, Bobby,” he said. “Why, when we were your age.…” He shut up quickly and there was an awkward silence. Turning, Bobby Wingate noticed that the Colonel was staring at Mallory as though regarding an enemy. What the deuce had happened?

He smoothed out the uneasiness of the atmosphere with a laugh.

“Oh, well, I don't suppose the governor was any worse than the average fellow when he was my age. You know the old saying—you're never young twice. And, talking about Paris, have you heard that yarn about the bishop and his nephew?” Without waiting for permission, he plunged into a story that the night before had sent his Mess into paroxysms of ribald laughter.

“Damned good,” commented Mallory, wiping the tears from his eyes. He accompanied the words by an affectionate pat on his old friend's shoulder.

Bobby stood up.

“Sorry to leave you chaps, but I must go up and see how Mums is—you won't be going yet, Uncle Peter?”

“No, not yet.”

Directly they were alone, Mallory made his apologies.

“Sorry for that slip, Alan—you know I didn't mean anything by it.”

Clinton slowly lit a cigarette.

“That's all right, old man,” he answered, “but you flicked me on the raw all the same. I can't get that beastly business out of my mind,” he went on to confide. “And seeing the boy there…”—pointing to the chair which Bobby had recently vacated—“made it all the worse.”

Mallory became a friend in need.

“That's all rubbish,” he countered energetically. “That business of seventeen years ago has long since been finished and done with. What's the use of brooding? You were no worse than the average man, although I must confess I did go off the deep end at the time. Seventeen years!” he repeated. “Why, it's a lifetime. And if you're thinking of those poor devils—” He stopped to find some suitable words. “Look what the papers are now printing about the hundreds of thousands of lives lost by so-called generals. It was just the luck of the game. It's dead and forgotten, and my advice to you is to wipe it clean out of your mind.”

“I wish I could, Peter.”

“You
must
! I'm the only living person who knows anything about it—and you can trust me, surely?”

“Of course I can trust you.”

***

But late that night, as he sat alone, Alan Clinton wondered if his sin, like so many other men's, were destined to live after him. It seemed ridiculous, after so long a lapse of time, to speculate in this way.…But still, he wondered.

Chapter IV

The New Von Ritter

The Prime Minister had had only one guest at dinner that night. The person honoured in this fashion was a very old friend.

Now that the two were seated one on each side of the fire in the library, Sir Brian Fordinghame, Chief of that important branch of the British Secret Service known as Y.1, looked across at his host and smiled.

“You go from triumph to triumph, Tommy,” he said. “Your speech in the House this afternoon will make history.”

The Right Honourable Thomas Devenish grinned like a mischievous schoolboy. For that was his way when receiving compliments.

“You're talking like a
Times
leading article. Come off your perch,” he adjured.

Fordinghame puffed slowly at his excellent cigar. The speaker had interested him for the last thirty years—but he found him more of an absorbing human study now than ever before.

The mental stature of any man cannot be judged wholly in his lifetime. But shrewd political appraisers had already said of Thomas Devenish that he was the greatest British Premier of the last fifty years. Certainly he provided a very vivid contrast to his immediate predecessor, the Scotsman McTaggart, who—to the combined relief of friends and foes alike—had six months before departed to the House of Lords.

Devenish's had been known as a remarkable brain for the previous twenty-five years, but in the past his very brilliance had been a handicap. Impatient of delay, he had often acted precipitately, and, as the result of a bad error of judgment due to this trait, he had once left politics altogether for the space of five years. During that time he had won distinction in various other fields—as a big game shot, as a war correspondent, even as a soldier of fortune. Returning to the House of Commons at the age of forty, he had shown a mellowness of judgment that had been lacking before. This, combined with extraordinary energy and corresponding ability, had carried him, at the early age of fifty-two, to the highest honour that the British Constitution could bestow. His active adventuring days were over, but the courage which had been such a marked characteristic all through his life remained. Under his shrewd and brilliant leadership, England was once again taking her place among the leading nations of the world.

“Like that cigar?” Devenish now asked in his sharp, staccato manner.

“It's quite up to your standard, Tommy,” was the reply.

The Premier lit a fresh cigar from the stub of his old one and flung the latter into the grate.

“I asked you here to-night, Brian, because I want to know exactly how things stand from a counter-espionage point of view. Personally, I don't like the look of things at all. That speech of Kuhnreich's yesterday afternoon—well, you know what it means, yourself. It means open defiance to the rest of Europe. It means—
war!
Have you seen what Radford has written in the
Sunday Messenger
to-day?”

“Yes,” slowly replied the Intelligence chief.

“Well, it's true down to the last syllable. He was the man, remember, who warned us that Germany intended to make war, twenty-odd years ago. But who listened? No one. Who's going to listen now?” He broke off, in his characteristically quick manner, to ask another question. “Well, are you keeping tabs on the Ronstadt agents over here?”

Fordinghame nodded.

“That's the least that can be done,” he said. “We know all the chief men and women and they are being watched. They could be rounded up at a moment's notice.”

“You're also keeping an eye, I hope, on that inventor fellow—what's his name?”

“Milligan.”

“Milligan,” repeated Devenish. “It seems a curious name to belong to a man who possibly will revolutionise all future warfare. You know what progress he's making?”

“I saw him myself only yesterday, and he told me that he was certain he would be able to perfect his idea within the next few weeks.”

“That may be too late; war may break out at any moment. See him again, Brian, and urge him to put more steam into it. You realise, of course, what an extraordinary thing would happen if he is successful?”

“Of course. It would mean that every enemy aeroplane could be driven out of the sky.”

The Prime Minister remained silent for a few moments. Then:

“By the way, how's Mallory?”

Fordinghame smiled.

“There's a queer cuss if you like.…Oh, he's all right,” he added hastily.

“Why queer?” asked Devenish.

The visitor proceeded to tell him—in a low tone.

At the end the Prime Minister blew cigar-smoke reflectively.

“It was a pity about Jill Chester,” he remarked.

***

While this conversation was proceeding, some hundreds of miles away a man rolled out of a frowsy bed in a side-street off the Friedrichstrasse in Pé. Since the arrival in power of Kuhnreich, the perfervid propagandists of Ronstadt had blared incessantly that the former unsavoury night-life—which for some years after the end of the late war had made Pé the most notorious capital in Europe—had been completely cleaned up.

The man who now sat yawning on the side of his bed always smiled when he heard that. It is true he never allowed any one to see him smiling—but still he smiled.

Seventeen years had wrought a great change in Adolf von Ritter. To begin with, he had dropped the aristocratic
von
, and was now known simply as Ritter. Then, he had lost much, if not all, of his former offensive arrogance: the old Prussian jackbootery had gone out of fashion, even it if had been replaced by something even more ruthless and terrible.

After the war von Ritter, like thousands of his class, had found his occupation gone. A new world had come and it was a world in which he found he had no place. The different revolutions preceding the upheaval that had led to Kuhnreich's being enthroned as the first Dictator Ronstadt had ever known had scattered his class and sent the majority penniless into the outside world. A great many had fled to other countries, especially America; those who remained found themselves performing strangely menial jobs in order to get the means to live. Only a few tried to put up a show against the amazing new conditions.

Adolf von Ritter was not included in their category. In spite of undoubted personal courage, he had a very strong sense of self-protection. As a former Intelligence officer, he knew that his services would have a certain value to the new régime.

And he was right: before long he was summoned to a certain room hidden discreetly away at the back of the Unter den Linden; there he was put through an exhausting examination by a huge man dressed in a brown shirt and military breeches, who kept a hand on his revolver holster throughout the talk. Von Ritter recognised his inquisitor; years before, this man had been running errands for the butcher who supplied the von Ritter family with meat.…

After two hours' searching examination, he had been passed on to another Storm-trooper, and finally he had found himself in the presence of the man whose very name caused a shudder to pass through any community in which it was uttered.

Emil Crosber was a stoop-shouldered man of fifty-eight. Some said he was consumptive, and his hollow chest and sallow complexion certainly seemed to indicate within his spare frame some deadly disease waiting to pounce. But whether his body was tainted or healthy, there could be no question about his mind being malignant.

Crosber had been reared in the traditions of the Secret Police in the deposed Emperor's time—and he knew how to hunt rats. It did not matter to him what type the rats belonged; as long as his superiors declared them to be rats, and that they had to be hunted, he was prepared to seek them out and apply a painful system of extermination.

Experience had taught him that renegades—and here was a very good specimen standing before him now, unless he was mistaken—often made the best hirelings. For one thing, they were so mortally afraid of their own skins, while for another they generally sought to win favour with superiors by being especially zealous.

In short, the former proud Prussian officer, Captain Adolf von Ritter, was placed in a minor capacity in Emil Crosber's “National Guard”—as his hand-picked Secret Police were called. Like the rest, he was detailed to hunt rats—or, rather, those men and women who, according to Crosber's reckoning, came under that heading.

He had proved successful. There had been no trick so foul that he had not played it. Posing as a degenerate, he had slunk through the underworld, listening and prying. Every now and then he would retire to a quiet corner and there, unobserved, make an entry in a small book…and that same night, or, at the latest, within a few hours, the man or woman who had been so rash as to criticise any ruling of the wise, beneficent, and all-powerful Kuhnreich, or those of any of his chief myrmidons, disappeared.

No one asked any questions—at least, not in public. By this time men's minds were so blurred that the fantastic and the incredible were accepted as the ordinary and commonplace.

Of course, Ritter had escapes. He was suspected, and attempts were made to silence this
agent provocateur
; but after two men had died (horribly) as the result, he was allowed to go his filthy way more or less in peace.

***

Walking across the small room, Ritter scowled at himself in the spotty mirror hanging on the wall. He was sick of his present life. Blast Crosber! Although he had been a success, his pay wouldn't have served him for tips in the old days. He could no longer afford to buy decent clothes, smokable cigarettes, or drinkable liquor. And now he had to go on duty again—prowling, listening, reporting.…

His discontented musings were interrupted by a knock on the door. It was a low, stealthy sound and, instinctively, he reached for the revolver placed on the small table by the side of the camp bed.

The man who entered after he had turned the key in the lock wasted no words. He merely said a name:

“
Crosber!
”

“What does he want?”

“He wants to see you.”

“Now?”

“At once—you are to come with me.”

Ritter speculated momentarily—would it not be better if he turned the revolver he still held on himself? He knew of other men who had been asked, with equal unexpectedness, to go to Crosber—and had never come back. Crosber had his whims; and he never required very much of an excuse if he thought that an underling had outlived his usefulness.

“Come on—what are you wasting time for?”

Ritter got a grip on himself. He became more or less reassured. He could think of nothing that he had left undone; he had been a zealous agent to Crosber ever since the Chief of Secret Police had engaged him for special duties.

He dressed himself quickly.

The wheel had turned in the most unexpected manner. Ritter listened almost incredulously.

“Here is sufficient money to turn you into a gentleman,” Crosber repeated; “you will buy what clothes are necessary. In this envelope you will find your full instructions. After you have committed them to memory, burn the paper. That is all—except”—as the other turned to leave—“don't fail me. If you do, I shall listen to no excuses.”

Adolf Ritter became, for the space of exactly thirty seconds, Adolf
von
Ritter.

“Whatever it is—I shall succeed,” he said stiffly.

Emil Crosber smiled at him sardonically.

“None of your theatricals here,” he retorted.