Dennis Wheatley - Traitors' Gate

'Monsieur! Kindly inform me what you are doing here!'

The Frenchman picked up his gun and came slowly to his feet. His nearly bald head, thin beak of a nose and long scraggy neck protruding from the stiff white collar made Gregory again think of a vulture. With an ironical bow he replied:

'When we met before I neglected to introduce myself fully. I am Captain Jules Cochefert of the Vichy Deuxieme Bureau. My companion, here, is Lieutenant Puttony of the Hungarian Security Service. He does not speak French, and I understand that you talk quite fluent German with the staff in this hotel; so we will use that language.'

Gregory could feel his heart beating slightly faster, as it always did when he was in a dangerous situation; but his brain swiftly registered the implications of the disclosure. Cochefert was not just a minor Civil Servant but an officer of the French 'Quisling' police, who were hand in glove with the Nazis. Evidently something had aroused his suspicions that Commandant Etienne Tavenier might be working against his paymasters. Next moment, with a sardonic grin which displayed two rows of yellowish teeth, he led Gregory to suppose that he was putting the grounds for those suspicions into words by asking:

'How are you progressing with your arrangements for selling truffles to the foie gras factories?'

The sigh of relief that Gregory heaved was internal, but none the less heartfelt. So that was it! The Vadaszkürt had forwarded on to him at Nagykata a list of foie gras firms from the French Commercial Attaché’s office. As he knew nothing of the technicalities of truffle growing and foie gras tinning, he would probably have decided that it was wiser not to expose his ignorance of the subject by calling on any of these people even if he had had the opportunity; but his having been at Nagykata for the past five days had put the matter outside his jurisdiction. Evidently this Paul Pry had learned of his commercial remissness and had assumed that to be evidence that he was engaged in some nefarious activity.

Since entering the room he had kept his hand on his gun; so that at any moment he could have shot through the cloth of his coat before either of his visitors could level a weapon at him. Now, feeling that he had little to fear, he took his hand out of his pocket and said affably:

Oh, I decided that before I got down to work here I'd take…'

He got no further. His hand had hardly left his pocket when Cochefert raised his pistol and snapped:

'Thank you! Shooting through a pocket is rarely accurate but can be dangerous to others. I have been waiting only to relieve you of the temptation to experiment. Put your hands up! The Herr Leutnant will oblige by securing your weapon.'

Mentally cursing at having allowed himself to be tricked, Gregory obliged. The stolid looking Hungarian police officer stepped forward, fished the little automatic out of Gregory's pocket, frisked him quickly to make sure that he was not carrying another, then plumped himself back on the edge of the bed.

'Now!' said the Frenchman, 'I have introduced myself to you. Be good enough to reciprocate.'

Pretending a lack of concern about his situation that he was far from feeling, Gregory replied, 'M. le Capitaine, I fail to understand the reason for all this drama. I come into my room, upon which you jump up grasping a pistol. As I carry one myself I naturally put my hand on it. There is nothing strange in that. Regarding the truffle business, I was about to tell you that I decided to take a few days holiday before calling on any of the foie gras merchants. As for introducing myself, you know already that I am Commandant Etienne Tavenier.'

'That is a lie!' snapped Cochefert with sudden venom.

'What causes you to think so? You have seen my passport.'

'It is a stolen one.'

'Nonsense! The photograph in it could be of no one but myself.'

'Of course. I meant stolen, then tampered with; or perhaps a complete fake made by the British.'

This was really dangerous ground. Gregory could only pray that they had no proof that he had come from London. He launched a violent protest:

'Your suspicions are absurd! There is nothing whatever wrong with the passport. Besides, I can prove my identity in other ways. I have letters, bills…'

Cochefert made an impatient gesture. 'They too will be fakes. It is useless to go on like this. I know beyond all doubt that you are not Commandant Tavenier.'

'What makes you so certain?'

'The fact that for the last two months the Commandant has been living at his own home, at Razac in Perigord.'

These words, spoken with conviction, struck Gregory like a bolt from the blue. It was the very last thing he had expected, and at one stroke destroyed the whole foundation upon which his false identity had been built. Yet, after a moment, he managed to think up a forlorn hope which might save him until further enquiries had been made. With an angry shake of the head, he exclaimed:

'This man must be an impostor! Someone who resembles me, perhaps. But no! I have it! He is a rascally cousin of mine who was also christened Etienne. I have no wife or children to protect my property. The swine would know that I have been missing since May, 1940, and after two years he must have decided to go and live at Razac.'

Lowering the hooded lids of his dark eyes a little Cochefert appeared to consider this. Gregory continued to look indignant; and he had ample cause as he thought of how he had been let down by someone in London. He might have to pay with his life for their blunder in stating that Tavenier was dead when he was not only very much alive but living at his home, and so could be traced without the least difficulty by the Vichy police. After a moment the Frenchman said:

'But you have not been missing since May, 1940. At least, the story you told me was that you got back to France by coming with the British on the St. Nazaire raid; that was towards the end of March this year.'

'True. And that is how I got back.'

'You said, too, that you arrived at Razac early in April. If so your cousin must have known that you were alive and free. How then do you account for his having illegally occupied your property only a few weeks later?'

Gregory saw now that his 'cousin' theory was not going to provide even a temporary loophole. Swiftly changing his ground, he said:

'All right. Since that does not seem to make sense there must be some other explanation. Perhaps you have been misinformed. Yes ; that must be it. Police forces are not infallible. I suggest that we postpone this discussion for twenty-four hours while you have fresh enquiries made. I'll bet you a hundred pengos the result will be that there is no one calling himself Etienne Tavenier living at Razac after all.'

'Then you would lose your bet.' Cochefert's vulture head nodded and his yellowish teeth showed in a cynical smile. 'I will tell you now how we know the truth. My first enquiry was only our normal check up with Vichy on all Frenchmen arriving in this country. Vichy reported back that the name Etienne Tavenier was not on the list of those to whom passports had been issued this year, but that there was a retired Commandant of that name. The real Commandant Tavenier was sought out and interviewed. It is true that he returned to France last March with the British when they made their raid on St. Nazaire. He was not only shot and severely wounded but afterwards thrown into the dock by a German corporal; so it is not at all surprising that anyone who witnessed the incident should have reported him as among the killed. But he was hauled out while still alive and put into hospital where he remained for two months. When discharged he was crippled for life; so, although a de Gaullist, instead of being interned he was allowed, on compassionate grounds, to go to his home.'