Free Traitors' Gate by Dennis Wheatley Page B

Pellinore’s old friends. He wanted first to get the feel of the capital; so he set off on what, for him, was a long walk.
    Budapest is only one eighth the size of London and its centre is proportionately smaller; so during a stroll of two hours or so a sightseer may pass along most of its principal streets. It is, however, divided into two sharply contrasting parts. Buda, which is the older of the twin cities, is almost entirely residential, and consists of tier upon tier of ancient buildings, churches and palaces rising steeply to crown a ridge of hillson the west bank of the Danube. Pest, much larger and the centre of all commercial activities, is entirely flat. From just east of the river, where the smart shopping district is situated, it stretches away divided by the magnificent two-mile-long Andràssy Avenue, until its new factories and suburbs merge into the distant plain.
    The Vadászkürt and other principal hotels are all in Pest, and only a stone’s throw from the Vorasmarty Tér, out of which runs Vaczi Utcza, the equivalent of Bond Street; so Gregory turned in that direction. When he reached the square he saw that the windows of Gerbaud’s, the famous patisserie, were, as of old, filled with rich cream cakes, crystallised fruits and sweets; and, on entering the Utcza, found that most of the other shops showed equally little sign of depleted stocks.
    Strolling southwards he reached the great Market and spent a quarter of an hour there. Its stalls held an abundance of meat, game, fish and groceries, and the people in it were mainly well-clad. He found that less surprising when he suddenly recalled that Hungary had not become seriously involved in the war until Hitler had attacked Russia in the preceding summer; so, apart from a shortage of some manufactured goods, she would hardly have yet been reduced to such stringencies as clothes rationing.
    There were quite a few soldiers about in drab wartime uniform, and a number of much smarter girls dressed as nurses and army drivers. In half an hour he had seen only two German officers, and confirmed his earlier impression that, after those of Vienna, the girls of Budapest were the prettiest of any city he had ever visited.
    On emerging from the Market he had his first view of the Danube. It was a broad, turgid, fast-flowing stream, and far from blue; but it sparkled prettily in the August sunshine. To his right lay a broad mile-long embankment which was termed the ‘Corso’ for, in front of its many cafés, lay Budapest’s most fashionable promenade. Turning along it he now had a fine view of Buda. Across the river it rose upon its hills, a miracle of beauty, its turrets and spires seeming to pierce the almost cloudless blue sky.
    By Erzsébet Bridge he crossed the river. Slowly he made his way up past the Royal Palace, which was now the residence of the Regent, Admiral Horthy, and so into Buda’s twisting cobbled streets where for a thousand years there had lived menand women who had played a part in Europe’s history. Six years before, from a first-floor window in one of the ancient houses there, he had witnessed the annual celebration which embodied Hungary’s great traditions, and it was a sight that he had never forgotten.
    At some time in the Dark Ages the tomb of Stephen, the first King of Hungary who had accepted Christianity, had been opened, and it had been found that, although his body had fallen into dust, his right hand lay there unwithered. It had henceforth become the custom for this miraculous hand to be exposed to the veneration of the multitude by being carried through the streets of the city on the fifteenth of each September.
    Gregory had seen many processions, but nothing to equal this in medieval pageantry. There had been the Palace Guards wearing silver pointed Saxon helmets, eighteen inches high, and carrying flashing halberds serrated like the prow of a Venetian gondola. The gold and crystal casket containing the sacred relic was