Dynasty of Death

by Taylor Caldwell

  He regarded her curiously. “I haven’t been a ‘good’ husband, May.”

  “I know that.” She smiled a little. “I know that. But it didn’t matter, I’ve always loved you.”

  He sighed, and turned his head away from her. He stared at the door, and his old sunken face became darker, grayer. May glanced at the door too, and knew, with a sinking of her heart, what he was looking for. He said: “I’d like to see Frey’s and Renee’s boy. I’m glad they named him Ernest. And I’d like to see Reginald’s girls. Young women, now.”

  May thought, with a pressure like iron behind her eyes: Poor Ernest. How terribly he has failed!

  Later on, toward evening, he told her to call Paul and Jules. May was distressed. Whatever did he wish to discuss business for, his first day home, and he so tired! Well, Paul, then, but why on earth, Jules? Jules!

  “Jules,” said Ernest quietly, “is the most dangerous enemy a man ever had. I don’t know exactly if he is mine, but I can look at him, and see. He’s no friend, even though I’ve done everything for him. I’ve got to see.” He grinned faintly. “That damned Jesuit!” He told May that when she telephoned his nephews she was not to tell one that the other was coming. Waiting for them, after his light supper in bed, his face took on something of its old expectancy, its old vitality. His breathing became easier, and when the doctor called, he told his patient cheerfully that he’d soon be up and about, as well as ever.

  Paul, affectionately indignant that he had not been told in advance of his uncle’s homecoming, arrived first. Ernest listened ironically, allowed his hand to be shaken, replied casually to Paul’s demands as to the state of his health. May, knitting near the fire, glanced repeatedly at Paul. “Where is little Alice?” she asked.

  Paul sat down, but answered her question facing Ernest, as though his uncle had asked it. “I’m sending Alice to New York tomorrow night. I’d like her to marry Tom Van Eyck. Money there, and practically everything else, as you know, Uncle Ernest.”

  Ernest raised his white eyebrows. “Lucy’s boy, eh? A lump. But a harmless young fellow. How does the child like the idea of marrying him?”

  Paul hesitated, and seeing this, May exclaimed in alarm, dropping her knitting: “Paul, you aren’t going to force her, are you? She’s such a little creature, and—and—a little weak. She couldn’t stand pressure. Paul, you aren’t—”

  Paul glanced at her with acute irritation and dislike, and for some reason his big face flushed. “Alice is a child, and doesn’t know what she wants. I don’t think you need worry that I’d make her do anything against her happiness, Aunt May. You don’t think that, do you?”

  May looked at him for a long moment. “I don’t know,” she said slowly, “I don’t know.” And turned her face toward Ernest, who was gazing at his own hands fixedly.

  “Well, I know!” said Paul, more and more irritated.

  There was a silence. The air of the room was heavy with the memory of Gertrude. Each one of the three was thinking of her.

  “Is there some one else she—fancies?” asked Ernest at last in a casual voice.

  Paul hesitated again. Then he waved his hand in an offhand manner. “No, of course not. But she’s been hanging around Aunt Florabelle’s house, reading and writing poetry with that ass of a François, and it’s making her morbid, and giving her ideas that she’s a genius, or something.” He laughed shortly.

  Ernest frowned. His manner became alert, almost menacing. “But François is at least seventeen years older than Alice. She surely can’t fancy him?”

  “Certainly not,” replied Paul hurriedly.

  May, disturbed and apprehensive, looked first at her husband and then at Paul. At that moment Jules was announced.

  He came in, walking in his light buoyant manner, and greeted his uncle with the smoothest and most gracious respect. He inquired solicitously about his health. Ernest smiled. He always seemed to enjoy Jules, through whom he saw completely, and who always amused him. “You know you don’t care a damn how I feel, Jules,” he said. “Well, I don’t hold it against you. Sit down and join us.”

  Paul’s face was darkly colored. He did not know what to make of this. Evidently Ernest had been expecting Jules. Paul’s heart began to thud painfully against the walls of his chest. What did all this mean? He nodded curtly to his cousin, and turned his back on him.

  Ernest lost his casual manner now, and his amiable expression. He asked his wife to bring a sheaf of papers from his desk. He put his hands over them, and regarded his nephews piercingly. When he finally concentrated on Paul, his expression became more and more forbidding, and the old baleful light shot out from under his eyebrows.

  “There are some things I want explained,” he said harshly. “I hope you can explain them, Paul.”

  “Well, what are they?” Paul’s voice was confident, even bellicose, but his face tightened a little. Jules, lighting a cigar, watched everyone intently. His eye glittered.

  “You’ve been my sales manager in my absence,” said Ernest quietly. “When I was in Europe, two months ago, I happened to meet and talk to Torsten Vilhelm Nordenfeldt. He wasn’t much to be considered in the armaments business until he hired Sazaroff. You’ve heard of Sazaroff, I presume?” he added ironically.

  Paul bit his lip, but said nothing. Jules smiled.

  “Without Sazaroff, Nordenfeldt would have failed years ago. But Sazaroff is the best damned contact man any one could have. We haven’t got any one like him. I wish to God we had! Wycherley, Hearns, Von Goebell, Pushkin: they are bloody idiots compared with him. Well, Nordenfeldt has offered, through Sazaroff, in the Mediterranean, some new inventions of his, base fuse, time fuse, light artillery guns, and something that’ll revolutionize sea battles. And do you know what’s happened? Sazaroff has sold practically every government he has approached! And what have we done, through our cursed agents? Sat on our backsides and watched ourselves being robbed!” A dark crimson congested his face, and May, full of fear, murmuring, rose and stood beside the bed. “We’ve got an eccentric screw breach, that Honore invented, that’s ten times better than Nordenfeldt’s. We’ve got better everything. We’ve got the French process secret of melinite, which Honore managed to secure for us. We could have sold directly, or through Robsons, to any of these governments, at a better price in the long run. But we didn’t! Why?” He struck the paper violently with his hand.

  Paul wet his lips. “I can’t imagine. We’ve got our agents on the job. Sazaroff is a slimy devil, and got around things some way. I trust our agents. We can’t get better men, Sazaroff or no Sazaroff. And besides, Sazaroff is on intimate terms with Georges Clemenceau. Thieves together. He’s got a lot of contacts like that. It’s something we can’t get around.”

  “When I was younger, I got around them!” shouted Ernest in a strangled voice. “But now that I’ve let fools help in my affairs, we get beaten all over the damned map.”

  Paul was silent. May, terrified, put her hand on Ernest’s forehead, but he jerked away from her savagely. Jules regarded the end of his cigar intently, and smiled gently.

  “Robsons are fit to be tied,” resumed Ernest, his passion rising more and more. “Nordenfeldt is tied up with that other English concern, and the business is going out of our hands. God, in all that mess over there, with French and British concerns fighting the Nickolayeff naval shipyards, and Turkish shipyards and naval ordnance in a filthy mess, we ought to have cleaned up in the hundred millions! But we didn’t. And now, Russia is turning her back on Schultz-Poiret and dickering with Sazaroff—”

  “You mean,” interrupted Jules gently, “‘was’ dickering.”

  Ernest turned to him, and his mouth fell open. “Eh? What is that?”

  Jules pulled his chair closer. Paul’s expression changed as he looked at his cousin. “It is regrettable,” continued Jules meditatively, “that our—I beg your pardon, Uncle Ernest—that your agents have been imbeciles. I always thought they were, but as I was not in a position to suggest, e
xcept as regards the Sessions Steel Company, I did not speak to you of them. However, I finally engaged agents of my own—”

  “Your own?” exploded Ernest, with fury. “Your own!” Then, curiously, his fury subsided, and his face smoothed out. “Go on, Jules,” he continued in an oddly mild voice, and turned his shoulder upon Paul.

  “I know it was presumptuous, and I deservedly, no doubt, merit Paul’s displeasure,” Jules continued, with his gently deprecating air. Paul’s hands slowly clenched. “But I felt, if things turned out rightly, that I would be forgiven. So I engaged three, much cleverer in many ways, than yours, and good matches for Sazaroff. One of them is the younger son of an English nobleman, whose father is a little niggardly. A very clever young man. He had some splendid connections in Russia and has done some excellent work for me—for us.” Jules elegantly produced a sheet of newspaper. “I must explain one or two things: it is true that Sazaroff apparently beat M. Schultz with regard to Russian contracts. But M. Sazaroff is an accommodating and dexterous man. He can play both ends, not against the middle, but for the middle, meaning himself. When my English agent approached him in a reasonable manner, about three weeks ago, Sazaroff, being a gentleman, listened. Listened, and suggested. He had already bought land in Russia for a new factory, from which he was to get most of the profits, near the Donetz basin. A very fine idea, as that region has coal and iron in abundance. So, as a result of most reasonable conversations between my man and Sazaroff, Schultz-Poiret, who wanted to build a factory in the Ural Mountains, which was to be a French concern only, had to withdraw. Was forced to withdraw.”

  Paul’s fleshy face became congested with murderous blood. “So that’s how we lost out!” he cried, half rising in his seat.

  But Ernest’s expression remained calm and intent. His eyes had narrowed to mere slits. “Go on, Jules,” he said, as though Paul had not spoken.

  Jules smiled, as at the memory of a humorous episode. “There is a nice friendly spirit being cultivated these days between England and Russia. I rejoice to see it. Eventually, as we all know, England will need a powerful ally against Germany. I’ve always hated Germany, myself. It must be the French in me.

  “At any rate, England and Russia are not going to let a little matter of war secrets interfere with their friendship. So now, I must read a little excerpt from the Morning Times, published only two weeks ago, with regard to Robsons-Strong and Russia: ‘The English company is under contract to build and equip the Tzaritzine works and also for fifteen years to co-operate in the production of artillery and has agreed to place its entire knowledge of the technical side of the work, all patents, improvements, etc., at the disposal of the Russian company and be responsible for their correctness.’” He made a humorous gesture. “We hold twice as much stock in Robsons-Strong as we do in Schultz-Poiret.”

  There was a stupefied silence. Paul, his eyes bulging, glared insanely at his cousin. Ernest stared as if petrified. The blizzard hissed against the window and the curtains wavered in a draft.

  Then Ernest burst into a mad shout of laughter, and struck the bony knee that rose under his counterpane. “You are a presumptuous dog, Jules! But I love you! Give me one of your poison cigars.” And Jules knew, that beyond this, Ernest could pay a man no greater compliment.

  Paul sat in rigid silence, his face was white as death, while Jules delicately lit the cigar his uncle held in his parched lips. May, sitting on the edge of the bed, sighed, fixed her anxious attention upon Ernest.

  Ernest puffed and blinked in the smoke that rose from his cigar. He coughed once, or twice. He ignored Paul completely.

  “Go on,” he said to Jules, and when he looked at his nephew he seemed as inscrutable as a Buddha.

  “It has been over six weeks, Uncle Ernest, since you were in Europe, and things have happened with which you are not informed as yet. When you left Windsor, you appointed Paul, Honore and myself, as your proxies. Things have moved very fast here, and Paul and I are willing to give you a brief synopsis tonight. Of course, various contracts and other matters must await your signature.

  “I wish to tell you at this time of a certain private agent I have engaged, a cultured and well-connected agent from New York. He is special correspondent for the New York Weekly News as well as my own employee. His name is Mr. Rudolph Johnson; a relative of his, by the way, is one of the chief stockholders of the Nobel Dynamite Company. I sent him to South America, believing, at that time, that there was to be some disagreement between Chile and the Argentine, and while he contributed some splendid articles to the newspapers of both countries, he tried to sell our products to them. The Argentine, however, was a little cold to the idea, maintaining that it still desired peace with Chile—a very pusillanimous pack of statesmen it has! But Chile finally bought some of the new type warships from us, somewhat of the type we are preparing to sell to either Spain or America in the event of war, or rather, I should say, when the war comes, which I am confidently informed will be within the next six weeks.

  “Then Johnson went to Siam and Japan. I have here a couple of letters from him:

  “‘I shall try to see the Prime Minister with regard to the new battleship, as per your instructions. I think I can show the same model to the Emperor of China. I hope to see the Emperor before the outbreak of impending hostilities in the Orient, which ought to be exceedingly profitable, prominent European Powers being distinctly interested in that part of the world.’

  “And another:

  “‘I intend, very forcibly, to bring to the acute attention of Japan the great increase of the American Naval force. I think your other agents have inexcusably neglected this phase of the matter. I believe I can concentrate the attention of Japan on the American activity, pointing out, naturally, to her government that sudden armaments programs in one nation do not portend well for the peace of another. I shall present secret letters written by some of our Senators with imperialistic ambitions. The Japanese are a singularly suspicious people, which is natural to a people of intelligence and with a need for expansion. I, therefore, believe that after a short time they will be a lucrative customer and will proceed with naval and military preparations.’”

  “Ah,” muttered Ernest. He squinted intently through the smoke at Jules. Paul had gotten up and was now standing at the window, staring out, his hands thrust in his pockets. Ernest turned to him. “Aren’t you interested, Paul?” he demanded satirically. “Or are we boring you?”

  Paul came back to his chair. His face was swollen and suffused. He refused to look at Ernest and Jules, and sat down heavily, where he stared at the fire. None of them noticed how silent May had become, sitting on the edge of the bed, and how she wrung her handkerchief between her hands, and how filled with horror her eyes were.

  “Where is Johnson now, Jules?” asked Ernest, after a little silence.

  “In Spain.” Jules smiled slightly. “However, I expect him home within the next two weeks. He has done some really excellent work there, especially in the newspapers. It seems there is a group of pacifists in the Spanish government, and the job Johnson has done holding them up to national scorn is something to admire!”

  Paul grunted, and threw his cousin a vicious and gloating glance. “In spite of Honore, however, Robsons-Strong are supplying the Boers with Maxims, and not the pretty little piece of thieving we are putting out.”

  Jules made a suave and deprecating gesture, very foreign. “That is true, Paul. But perhaps you did not know that Robsons-Strong have purchased rights to our own gun, which will be used against the Boers, when the English people have been sufficiently aroused against them.”

  Ernest laughed again, loudly and shortly, and his peculiar laugh, as usual, lacked real mirth. Paul sank into silence again; his breath came unevenly. It was evident he was fighting some terrific battle in himself, and after one brief but piercing look at him, Ernest knew exactly what he was thinking.

  “By the way,” he said, “what do you think of the prospects now of Alfred Ba
ssett’s appointment as Assistant Secretary of War? God knows, we’ve spent a fortune on the man.”

  “I am certain of his appointment,” replied Jules. “I received a letter to that effect from Washington only two days ago.”

  “I hope you’re right,” grunted Ernest. “If he isn’t appointed our plans for a Spanish-American war will go up the flue. There’s no chance of him becoming soft, after he’s appointed, eh?”

  “None at all! He’s America’s leading patriot, and his wife and daughter are both members of the Daughters of the American Revolution. And, by the way, Honore tells me that he has just received an immense order from Cuba for cartridges and rifles! That sounds exceedingly interesting, doesn’t it?”

  “There won’t be any war with Spain!” shouted Paul with passionate suddenness. “She hasn’t the money; her army and navy are rickety. She’s not insane enough to risk a war with us! Damned Bassett or no damned Bassett!”

  Jules replied, turning to his uncle, and smiling: “Sazaroff has just received some $25,000,000 worth of orders from Spain.”

  Paul glared at him, stupefied. Then he stuttered, purple with dismay and fury: “I don’t believe it! It’s one of your lies, Jules. I don’t believe it! Where the hell would Spain get $25,000,000 from? Unless she could borrow it from outside. And who the devil would lend it to her?”

  Jules spread out his hands, back up, and seemed to contemplate the smooth brownness of them with absent pleasure. “I’m not at liberty to say, he replied gently. Paul subsided, breathing audibly. He was livid now.

  “The more I think of it, Jules, the more I am convinced that you are a presumptuous, if not an impudent dog,” said Ernest amiably. “Your business was to attend to the Sessions Steel Company, principally. If Honore wished to have you meddling and smelling about the Kinsolving factories, that is his affair. But Barbour-Bouchard—”

  “Pardon me, Uncle Ernest,” replied Jules swiftly and with an effect of eagerness, “I believe, and I may be wrong, that we are all parts of a whole, that each one of us must be interested not only in his part but in all the others.”