The Traitor (7 page)

Chapter V

Rosemary Is Provocative

“Rosemary!
”

Her usually reliable heart commenced to do the most absurd things as she looked into Bobby's face. There could be no possible doubt that he was unfeignedly glad to see her. The sweet, sweet fool!

“My dear, I never thought that you'd take the trouble,” he said, and flushed most delightfully.

She had to pretend, although she wanted nothing quite so much as to throw her arms around his neck.

“My dear, good ass, there's no need for you to hang so many bouquets on me. I had to come down this way, and, remembering you were going by the nine o'clock plane, I thought I'd look in. That's all,” she added, with a puzzling smile.

Bobby Wingate felt bewildered. What extraordinary creatures girls were! Only a couple of nights before, Rosemary had been sportsman enough to give her feelings completely away. And now here she was, resolutely cutting out every possible suggestion of sentiment, and treating him as though he were merely one of a crowd! It made him feel sick; but in the circumstances there was nothing else to do but fall in with her suggestion and follow her lead. It was he who had applied the closure so far as love was concerned, and therefore he had no possible cause for complaint.

“How soon before she goes?” asked the girl, pointing to the giant passenger plane.

“Five minutes, I think. I say, Rosemary,”—unable to control his voice, although he tried hard enough—“it was terribly decent of you to come—really.”

She lit a cigarette with a little defiant gesture.

“Stop swinging the incense, old man—and think of the good time you're going to have on leave.” If there was a little bitterness in her voice was she to be blamed? Not used to feeling frustrated Rosemary now had an inclination to damn the whole world.

Bobby bit his lip. Watching that momentary twitch of pain pass over the face of the girl he was sorely tempted to say: “To hell with Paris—I'm going to spend my leave in town with you.” But, as this would have been a direct contradiction to all the plans he had made, he kept silent. There was an awkward pause. Both felt there was so much to say—and yet they did not know how to start. It was during this silence that Bobby turned at a touch on his shoulder.

“Why, Uncle Peter!” he exclaimed. For there, smiling at him, was Mallory.

“Thought I'd come to wish you
bon voyage
, my boy,” was the excuse the older man made. “As a matter of fact,” he went on, “I may be running across you somewhere or other later on. I'm going over to Pé next week to see about some insurance business in connection with the exhibition of agricultural machinery.”

Bobby for the moment was nonplussed. Then he quickly recovered himself.

“Why, that'll be fine,” he declared. “Oh, by the way, let me introduce Miss Rosemary Allister—this is Mr. Peter Mallory, a great pal of my father's.”

“And of yours, I hope, Bobby?”

“Well, yes, of course—awfully good of you to put it that way.”

Rosemary, taking the proffered hand, looked at the older man keenly. She had heard a great deal about Peter Mallory in one way or another—especially from Mrs. Clinton—and, keenly interested in human character, she was now giving him what she would have termed the “once-over.”

She saw a tall, rather gaunt man of latish middle-age, who appeared to have grown old before his time. She did not know exactly why this impression formed itself in her mind; it may have been the lined face, or the somewhat nervous mannerisms which the man appeared to have. But there was the conviction. Mallory addressed her in a pleasant voice slightly tinged with an Irish accent. “I feel I know you already,” he said.

“You do?”

“Yes. You see, Bobby has been talking.…”

“Oh! He has, has he?”

“And I don't wonder at it.” The words were no doubt intended as a compliment, but somehow she found herself resenting them. A little storm of anger broke inside her.

“Well, he'll have plenty of other things to talk about during the next ten days—won't you, Bobby?”

He looked at her wonderingly. “I don't know about that,” he muttered, feeling ill at ease.

It was Mallory who helped him out.

“But I'll wager that when he comes back he'll swear that the French girls aren't to be compared with—”

“Oh, you needn't trouble to say asinine things, Mr. Mallory,” was Rosemary's crisp comment.

The tension grew instead of lessening. Bobby felt angry with himself and angry with the world. He recalled a remark made by his O.C. at Mess on the last night he was at Woolvington.

“Say what you like, you fellows,” the Colonel had declared, “but men have a natural antipathy towards women. Oh, I know that the sexes call to each other—who better?”—with a slight chuckle—“but, nevertheless, I maintain that what I'm saying is right. When men want to have a good time—a good time with no subsequent worries, that is—they go to their club or foregather as we are doing now. Being in love”—turning to Captain Holliday, who had brought the subject up—“is the very devil. It upsets and disturbs a man no end. I ought to know,”—with another chuckle—“I've had sufficient experience in my time.”

Bobby remembered that he had listened aghast to what at the time he considered was rank blasphemy. But now that he felt his nerves fretted, he was not so sure but what the Old Man was right. Yet, all the same when he looked at Rosemary's face.…

A warning for the passengers to take their places broke up the little group. Rosemary, living up to the compact she had made with herself to cut out any sentiment, held out her hand to be shaken instead of proffering her lips to be kissed, while Mallory clapped the young man heartily on the shoulder as Robert stepped into the plane. The two watched the giant sky bird take off, and then Rosemary made a suggestion.

“Going back to town, Mr. Mallory?”

“Yes.”

“Then perhaps you'd like me to give you a lift?”

There was something about this man which interested her. She didn't quite know yet what it was—but she meant to find out.

“It's very good of you—thanks very much.”

Once the two-seater was humming its way through the streets, the girl decided to waste no further time.

“I suppose I shall be seeing something of you in the future, Mr. Mallory?”

He turned to look at her.

“Oh, you mustn't think that I'm asking you to invite me out to dinner—”

“Much as I should like to,” he put in.

She disregarded the words.

“No, I didn't mean that,” she went on to explain. “But aren't you a friend of Sir Brian Fordinghame?”

“Yes—a great friend. We've known each other for years. Why?” His tone had sharpened and his manner became taut.

“Oh, nothing—only I've just got a job with Sir Brian.”

“A job? You?”

“Yes, as assistant personal secretary. You see, Daddy—you know he's a banker, I suppose?—wanted me to ‘try to fulfil some useful purpose in life,' as he put it, and so I actually learned typing and shorthand. The idea was, I believe, that I should go into the bank—but I found it terribly dull. Life with Sir Brian promises a good deal more.”

“Funny Fordinghame hasn't mentioned anything to me about this.”

“Funny?” She seized on the word. “Why should it be funny? Are you as much in his confidence as all that?”

He turned the question aside.

“I'm afraid that was rather an absurd thing for me to say—forgive me,” he returned.

“Of course. Give a man time enough and he generally finds something absurd to say—at least, that's my experience.”

“Surely you're not a cynic at your age, Miss Allister?”

“I don't know about being a cynic—but I know quite a lot about men,” was the succinct answer.

Conversation flagged after that. Rosemary, concentrating on driving, asked herself one question: was it possible that this man, who seemed so queerly introspective, was one of the secret agents attached to Sir Brian Fordinghame's Y.1 staff? She would have to find out. Funny that he should have made that remark about going to Pé—especially when tension between the two countries was so acute. Ten minutes or so had passed when Mallory renewed the conversation. “I was quite serious about the dinner.”

“Dinner?” she repeated. “I don't remember anything about a dinner.”

“Very well; I'll put it in a different way: would you honour me, Miss Allister, by dining with me one night?”

She prevaricated, desiring time to make up her mind.

“Well,” she compromised, “you can always give me a ring. I'm in the book.”

“Thanks—I will.”

***

She dropped him in Knightsbridge, Mallory saying he had a call to make. During the remainder of the drive to Clarges Square, Rosemary was thoughtful. Did she like this man—or did she dislike him? There was no question of sex, of course: for one thing, he was old enough to be her father, and, for another, so long as she had anything to give, for just so long would only one man—Bobby Wingate—exercise sufficient attraction.…No, it certainly wasn't sex. It was something which she could not yet define. No doubt, at a later date, some clearer perception would arise, but, in the meantime, she had to content herself with the knowledge that Peter Mallory was a man who was going to claim a good deal of her close attention during the next few weeks.

Her thoughts switched.

It was a wonderful stroke of luck, getting that job with Sir Brian Fordinghame. Of course, her father had helped, using a certain amount of influence, but all the same she knew herself to be jolly fortunate.

Fordinghame had been very honest with her.

“I don't know that I could have taken you into the office at all, Miss Allister, but for this recent stringent economy campaign of the Government. But, as you have been so frank with me and said that you will not require anything in the way of a salary, I shall be delighted to oblige both you and your father.”

She was to start her duties the following morning, September seventeenth. She hoped it would prove an auspicious date.

Chapter VI

The Courteous Hungarian

Although he never once considered turning back—for that was not his habit—Bobby was thinking hard as he got into the Pé express, nine hours after leaving England. He knew that, having been granted leave to visit Paris only, he was guilty of a technical offence in going on to the Ronstadt capital. Under Section 40 of the Army Act—concerning “conduct to the prejudice of good order and military discipline”—he was transgressing. But he had made up his mind, and that was an end to it.

It has been mentioned that Lieutenant Robert Wingate was a very keen soldier. Very well; it was this same keenness which was, possibly, leading him into extremely hot water (not to mention grave personal danger) now. He realised that, but there it was.…

While at Woolvington, he had heard considerable discussion of the new track-ways of the latest model of the tank which, according to gossip, would be used by Ronstadt in the next war. Of course, much of this, as he knew full well, was just the merest surmise, for, as might be supposed, the great military nation over which Kuhnreich, the Dictator, now held such undisputed sway was likely to guard her secrets very effectively. Still, when he read in a technical journal that these same new track-ways were likely to be on view at the great Agricultural Machinery Exhibition to be held at Pé, he decided that at least one officer in his Majesty's forces was going to be on hand to take a look-see. As an alibi, he had the excuse that being a keen lover of music—which did not happen to be the case—he was tempted to slip over the frontier from France and attend the great Pé Musical Festival, which was held annually, attracting from every part of the world devotees of the dead-and-gone masters.

He would have told his governor the complete truth had he not felt certain that Colonel Clinton of M.I.5 would have strongly disapproved of the whole scheme.

Looking up from the novel he had been pretending to read, Bobby frowned. It would be awkward if he met Mallory in Pé. But the next moment he consoled himself with the reflection that he did not think he would have much difficulty in inducing “Uncle Peter” to keep his mouth shut. In spite of his sometimes forbidding expression, Mallory was a thoroughly good sportsman; no doubt it was the Irishman in him which prompted him to treat life far more as a lark than his own father did. But, then, the governor had a very responsible and worrying job.

How queer Rosemary had been! The thought of her provocatively challenging face at Croydon that morning when he had stepped into the plane came back, while the conductor rushed past in the corridor outside, shouting “
Premier service!
”

Dinner! Well, he was jolly hungry. Food—as long as it was decently cooked—generally struck him as being a sound idea.

Walking down the fast-travelling train, which swayed alarmingly as it took a curve on the line, he collided with a man, who apologised instantly.

“It is rather like a Rugby scrum,” he heard the other say; “you must please forgive me.”

Although the speaker used excellent English, Bobby placed him as a foreigner of some sort. A Czech, perhaps.

“Have you ever played Rugby?” he asked.

“Yes. Perhaps that surprises you? But, you see, I am a doctor—and I studied for a time at your London Guy's Hospital.”

“Really?” Bobby smiled. He had the true insularity of his race, and the statement put this stranger well inside the fold.

“Are you alone?” he found himself saying; why, Heaven only knew.

“Quite alone.”

“Well—” and then, after a slight hesitation, for he hated to appear too effusive: “What about bagging a table together?”

“Nothing would give me quite so much pleasure. Of all the cities I have known I love none like your London.”

In spite of the doctor's tendency to become mushy in his speech, especially when referring to England, Bobby took rather a fancy to the fellow. He looked hard-bitten, but that could be accounted for by the fact that people in mid-Europe (Dr. Emeric Sandor announced himself to be a Hungarian, journeying to Budapest
via
Pé) had been going through a pretty fierce time in recent years, and a man—any man, even a doctor of medicine—had to be able to look after himself.

After dinner they sat drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes.

“Do you in England realise that Europe is standing on the very brink of another war?” the Hungarian doctor suddenly asked.

“We realise that things look pretty bad between Ronstadt and France,” cautiously returned the young officer.

“Listen, and I will give you a confidence,” returned the other. “I have many friends in Ronstadt—my wife is a native of Echlen—”

“Echlen!” repeated Wingate. Mention of that town in mid-Ronstadt, given over entirely to Kluck's great munition factories, had made him prick up his ears.

“Echlen,” repeated Sandor. If he had noticed the other's interest, he did not openly comment on it.

“Kluck's are now engaged in the manufacture of agricultural implements. At least, that is the story which is being spread in the outside world; but I could tell any one sufficiently interested” (here the Hungarian medical man stopped to contort his face) “some very funny stories about the new kinds of tractors that have recently been developed. They will be used for tanks in the next war,” the speaker added.

Although he was tempted, Wingate kept his curiosity in check.

“Really?” he contented himself with replying, following the words with a slight yawn.

But this Hungarian would not be daunted.

“My brother-in-law is one of the managers at Kluck's,” he continued. “It would be an easy matter for me to give any one a look around. My friend, you do not deceive me: you are a British officer, in—what do you say?—muffins?”

“Don't be a fool,” exclaimed Wingate.

His companion laughed.

“You say ‘Don't be a fool,' but I have lived long enough in England to know your class. But I beg pardon,” he went on quickly, in an apologetic tone. “I talk too much. Forgive me.”

The man appeared so sincere, and so anxious to remove any awkwardness that might have arisen through his recent disclosure, that Bobby was appeased. With the sensitiveness of the young, he hated to think that he had hurt the other's feelings in any way, and consequently, when, after hearing that his companion intended to stay at the Hotel Poste upon reaching Pé, the Hungarian offered his card, on which he had scribbled a few words, Bobby accepted the kindness in the same spirit in which he believed it was offered.

“The manager of the Poste is a personal friend of mine. I once operated on him for acute appendicitis—and if you make yourself known he will himself see to your comfort. Have you telegraphed for accommodation?”

“No—I did not think it was necessary.”

The listener flung up his hands.

“Not necessary—with a great Musical Festival being held!.…But never mind: Franz Aschelmann will see that you are put right, or I will never speak to him again. Tell him that from me—Emeric Sandor.” The speaker laughed as though he were already chastising the man whose life he had saved. “And now I must leave you.…I have some medical papers to read before I turn in. If ever you come my way, be sure to look me up; you will see the address on my card.”

“Thanks, doctor.”

His companion of the dining car bowed and turned away. Wingate watched him go with some regret. The other had beguiled him for a couple of hours, and, moreover, had done his best to be of service.

An hour later he was asleep.