Free Traitors' Gate by Dennis Wheatley

the cousin in New York thought they might interest the State Department; so now he sends them on regularly to Washington. Their writer might be able to help a bit. Anyhow, I think you would be quite safe in approaching him.’
    Gregory repeated the name and address again, and nodded. ‘I’m very grateful to you.’ Then he read through the particulars of Etienne Tavenier. They were distinctly scanty. The Frenchman had entered the 14th Regiment of Tirailleurs in 1912, and served as a subaltern in the First World War. Afterwards he had spent several years in North Africa, then in 1926 married Mademoiselle Phoebe Constant (father’s occupation unknown), and transferred to the 110th Infantry. It was believed that there were no children of the marriage, and that the wife’s death (about the time of Munich) had been due to ptomaine poisoning. A year or so earlier Tavenier had come into his inheritance, a small château at Razac, not far from Périgueux. In 1939 he had been recalled to the colours, and in May, 1940, his battalion had been a part of General Blanchard’s army, which had made a gallant stand beside the British. After being taken off from Dunkirk he had opted to remain in Britain as a member of the Free French Forces.
    Having digested this, Gregory looked up and remarked, ‘Not exactly a world-shaking career; but that is all to the good for my purpose. It is going to take quite a lot of thinking, though, to provide a plausible reason for a chap like that taking a holiday in Budapest in the middle of a war. If he was a sufferer from arthritis he might seek relief in a course of the famous mud baths; but it wouldn’t be easy to bluff the doctors that I was afflicted in that way. Of course, the Hungarians are a romantic lot, so I might put it across discreetly that I had formed an attachment there before the war and had come back in the hope of being able to find the girl again.’
    The goddess behind the desk shook her head. ‘I don’t like it. Middle-class Frenchmen are the most unromantic people in the world. But I have been thinking quite a lot about a storyfor you to tell. How about using foie gras?’
    ‘Foie gras?’ Gregory echoed in a puzzled voice.
    ‘Yes; it’s a national industry in Hungary. My mother and stepfather were there in 1938 and they brought back tins and tins of it.’
    He nodded. ‘You’re quite right. One can’t look out of the train anywhere in Hungary without seeing a flock of geese. But what is your idea?’
    ‘Well, this foie gras was awfully good. The biggest tins had whole livers in them and they were that lovely shade of rich pink. There was only one thing lacking; there were no truffles to bring out the flavour.’
    Gregory sat forward and thumped the desk. ‘By jove! And I am supposed to own a place in Périgord, where the truffles come from. Of course, my object in going to Budapest is to get in touch with the foie gras makers and see if I can’t fix up to supply them with truffles after the war.’
    With the unselfconsciousness which is so often a by-product of beauty, the girl scratched her head with the blunt end of her pencil as she said, ‘That’s it. And my parents tell me that Budapest is an enchanting city. I do hope you’ll have a pleasant stay there and a safe return.’
    Ten minutes later Gregory left her office. He had never subscribed to the theory that blondes were necessarily dumb, and he knew from experience that beauty or the lack of it had no relation whatever to women’s brains; but he did marvel somewhat that beings so young and glamorous as those in that secret headquarters should now be conducting affairs as efficiently as well-travelled men. He decided that he would bring Diana back the biggest foie gras he could find in Hungary as a reward for her excellent idea.
    He could not know that before the month ended he would be counting himself lucky if he could get out of Budapest without bag or baggage, but alive to tell the tale.

5
The Scene is