The Traitor: A British Library Spy Classic (British Library Spy Classics Book 2) by Horler Sydney

Author:Horler, Sydney [Horler, Sydney]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Poisoned Pen Press
Published: 2015-11-03T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter XI

The Inquisition

Meanwhile, the man known to Emil Crosber as Adolf Ritter was undergoing a stern cross-examination in the Headquarters of the Secret Police in the Wilhelmstrasse. With him, looking ashen-faced and trembling, was Aschelmann, the manager of the Hotel Poste.

Crosber’s tone was venomous.

“Because I want you both to get the right angle on this, I propose to narrate the facts,” he said, showing his teeth in a snarl. “Britain, with whom we shall shortly be at war, is known by us to possess the plans, and to be secretly manufacturing a new shoulder weapon, capable of being carried by any infantry soldier, which fires a small high-explosive, armour-piercing steel. Tests at Aldershot have proved this can put out of action any modern tank. These plans are being very jealously guarded, but, working through his old paramour, Marie Roget, this Department had hoped that sufficient pressure could be brought to bear on Colonel Clinton, to ensure that he, in his prominent position in M.I.5, would be able to place his hands on them.

“Before the woman I had commissioned to do this work left Pé, however, two rather surprising things happened. The first was that, by a queer stroke of luck, a certain friend of this country, long resident in England, was able to secure excellent prints of the plans of the anti-tank gun, and the second was that, out of the blue, as it were, Clinton’s adopted son came to Pé—I have not the slightest doubt in the hope that he could do a little honest spying himself. At least, that is your belief,” looking up at Ritter.

The latter person, whom Bobby Wingate would have had no difficulty in recognising as that very obliging medico, Dr. Emeric Sandor, nodded.

“That is the information which was given to me by—”

He was sharply interrupted.

“Don’t mention that name, you fool—even here!” cried Crosber. “Don’t you realise that when war breaks out that same person will be worth several army corps to us? Let it be sufficient that you were given this information.”

“Yes,” humbly agreed the other.

“With the son available, what more natural than that we should endeavour to improve on the position by compromising him so that we could exert a further hold on his father—even to two such crass idiots as you both have proved, that much is clear, I suppose?”

The listeners, looking like badly whipped dogs, gave murmurs of acquiescence.

“That was why I stopped Marie Roget, or, as we know her, Minna Braun, from going to London to interview the father, and instructed her to concentrate on the son.

“The plan—she is a clever woman—appears to have worked very well—up to a point.” It was now that Crosber’s face grew as black as a thundercloud. “In order that the hold Minna Braun had already obtained on the young man should be strengthened, she appealed to his sense of chivalry—always a good card to play with the British. She posed as a French agent who was being trailed by Ronstadt agents. Would the young

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