Presidential Mission

by Upton Sinclair

  “Enchantée, Monsieur,” she replied, returning both his compliment and his smile. She allowed him to escort her into an ornate salle à manger, for which she was not properly dressed, and to seat her at a table with ceremony, and to press upon her food which would cost several hundred francs. She knew that he was a rich man—fabulously rich, she doubtless thought, knowing that his father was Budd-Erling, and it was known to all the world that America was pouring out billions of dollars for swift and deadly fighter planes. Well, this was how American multimillionaires treated ladies who caught their fancy; and she could only wonder what was coming next.

  VI

  It was a rather devilish thing to do to a woman. He treated her as if she were a duchess—he had treated a number of duchesses and knew all about it. He smiled charmingly and asked if she liked the taste of this and that which was put on her plate. Meanwhile he plied her with questions about the paintings in Madame Latour’s collection. She did her best, but her confusion grew, and at last she had to tell him that she really didn’t know much about paintings and had been kept too busy to study them. He asked about the rich lady, and from what her fortune had been derived; he only let up on his victim when he saw that she was blushing furiously and that the food was threatening to choke her. All the time that smile—or was it a grin? Was he telling her that he was deliberately teasing her, and that it didn’t matter much what she answered?

  “Chère Mademoiselle,” he said, with what had suddenly become grave kindness, “it is perhaps difficult for you to realize, in times of stress like the present, that a man can have an abiding faith in the permanence of art, and that he should take it as his duty to assemble a collection which will have enduring value, and which the people of his homeland, groping for culture, may have opportunity to study and imitate. To help in setting a standard of technique and expression for a new nation of a hundred and thirty million people—that is an undertaking for which it should surely be possible to have respect.”

  “Vraiment, Monsieur,” she replied. She was studying his face and trying desperately to read his mind. She must have been told by her comrades in this revolutionary coup de crime that they had cross-questioned him closely in their mountain hideout and revealed to him that he was suspected of being a Nazi-Fascist agent. Was he now trying to tell her that he was innocent of this charge, and that he really was what he pretended to be, an art expert acting as purchasing agent for American collectors? He had been robbed of fifty thousand francs and had not troubled to mention the matter to the police; he had escaped by bribing one of the band, and that must have cost him still more; yet, apparently, he hadn’t told a soul about it—certainly, at any rate, not in the Var. That didn’t look like the behavior of a Nazi-Fascist spy; and was he now spending money on a dinner for her in order to say: “I am not what you have thought me”?

  Yes, that must be the case. It was hardly likely that he was putting up this meal because he was lonely, or just for the pleasure of teasing her. He was asking for protection. You let me alone and I’ll let you alone! And he was doing it in a very clever and altogether charming way. He must have thought of it in a flash, running into her in a hotel doorway. Or could he have somehow found out that she was employed in this hotel, and that this was her time for leaving work? She couldn’t ask him that, or hint at it, for she had to go on stoutly pretending that she was the secretary of a wholly imaginary Madame Latour who hid up in mountains with imaginary old masters!

  VII

  Immediately after dinner Lanny excused himself and left the building. After making certain that he was not being followed, he walked to the headquarters of the city’s government, the Hôtel de Ville. In front is a large statue entitled “The Genius of Navigation,” and in its shadow Lanny saw his old friend and protégé waiting. When the American approached, Raoul strolled away, and Lanny followed at a distance; two experienced conspirators, they did not join each other until they had made certain they were not being followed, and until they were on a quiet street. This wasn’t easy, for it was a balmy night, and most of the population of Toulon lived in the streets. The city was completely “blacked out,” but a full moon was shining with dangerous brightness, and it appeared that every nook and shaded spot was occupied by a loving couple; children were under foot everywhere; in short, it was a Mediterranean port.

  Raoul’s first question was: “Are you all right for a walk?” When Lanny said he was, the other added: “I will take you out to Cap Cépet, and we can talk quietly in the gardens of the Hôpital.”

  First of all, Lanny wanted to know if his friend had heard the story of what had gone wrong when they tried to meet last time. Raoul, speaking English so as to be less apt to be understood if overheard, answered that Julie, his wife, was in Toulon, and had told him everything that Lanny had told to her. “A wretched contretemps!” he exclaimed. Lanny smiled and said it would be a story to tell to his grandchildren.

  “Have you told anybody about me?” he next inquired.

  “Not a soul,” the younger man replied. “I am not supposed to know anything about the matter myself. They sent me off on an errand to get me out of the way. They knew that you and I were old friends and that you had helped to support the school.”

  “I had an idea that the leader of that crowd was a former pupil, but I couldn’t bring him to mind. He was masked, and I had only his voice to guess from.”

  That might have been a hint for the former school director to talk, but he said: “You know, Lanny, I am under oath.”

  “That is quite all right,” responded the P.A. “I prefer not to know, for if something should happen to him, I might be held responsible.” After a moment he added: “Here is something I ought to tell you without delay. An hour ago I was having dinner with Mlle. Richard.”

  “Richard?” said the Spaniard inquiringly.

  “Marie Jeanne Richard is the name she gave me.”

  “I do not know her.”

  “She is a good-looking brunette, in her mid-twenties, I should guess; rather tall for a French woman, cultivated, and very good company. She is the person who met me in the hotel last time and told me that she was private secretary to a wealthy lady who had a collection of paintings; so I let her drive me up into the hills—perhaps the silliest thing I ever did in my life. But I thought I knew a lady when I saw one.”

  “I think I know who she is,” said Raoul. “How on earth did you come to dine with her?”

  “I ran into her in the entrance to the Grand Hotel. I saw that she knew me, and I thought it would be the part of wisdom to make friends with her and persuade her that I believed what she wanted me to believe—that she was an innocent party in that episode. I think I succeded in that, and perhaps in persuading her that I, too, am innocent.”

  “That is not possible, Lanny,” exclaimed Raoul quickly. “You are in danger. You ought not stay in Toulon tonight!”

  VIII

  The man of the underground lost all interest in taking his friend to the beautiful gardens on Cap Cépet; he wanted to find some place to hide. But Lanny refused to be worried. Said he: “I have been thinking it over and have things to tell you that may change the situation entirely. You must understand that America’s coming into the war has made a great difference in my job. I can no longer go into Germany or German-occupied territory. Even if I wanted to take the risk, my orders are otherwise. I have just been to Vichy and collected a lot of information, but I doubt if I shall wish to go there again, for the reason that those intriguers are getting to be of less importance, and it won’t be long before they are of no importance at all. The Americans are coming, Raoul.”

  “Sapristi!” exclaimed the former school director. “You really know that?”

  “I do.”

  “When?”

  “That I have not been told, nor the place. But I know they are coming, and in real force.”

  “That is the point everybody will ask about, Lanny. They all remember St. Nazaire. The people rose to help the British,
and then it turned out to be nothing but a commando raid; the British took to their boats again and the Nazis came back and slaughtered the French.”

  “I know all about it, Raoul. I am authorized to give the assurance that when the Americans come, it will be to stay.”

  “Naturellement that is the most important news in the world to me and my friends. But how can I convince them of it?”

  “That’s what I’m coming to. I am authorized, at my discretion, to meet some of the underground leaders and put them in touch with our Intelligence service.”

  “But, Lanny, they are convinced that you are a Fascist agent. It won’t be easy to persuade them otherwise.”

  “It won’t be enough if you vouch for me?”

  “I am afraid not. It might work the other way and lead them to distrust me. I must tell you, the leader you tried to recognize is a Communist, and you know how it is between the Communists and the Socialists. We have a truce for the struggle against the Nazis and try to keep the agreement loyally, but it is very hard for a Communist to recognize any loyalty or faith except to his own Party. This man is suspicious of me and inclined to oppose any proposition I put before our group. Probably in his heart he suspects me of trying to take the leadership away from him.”

  “Just like the old rows that used to be fought out in our workers’ schools. You saw them in Cannes, and Freddi Robin saw them in Berlin, and I saw them everywhere I went.”

  “Exactly so, Lanny. I will tell you something horrible that is in my mind—that some day there may be another world war, fought between the Communists and the Socialists.”

  “Let’s not talk about that now, Raoul; we have a war against the Nazi-Fascists, and that is plenty. Tell me this: will your leader respect credentials from President Roosevelt?”

  “Ah, mon Dieu, Lanny! If you have that, we can knock him cold!”

  “O.K., that is what I will show him. I can tell you now that for the past five years I have been what in inside circles is known as a ‘presidential agent’—‘P.A.’ for short. I report directly to the President, and only one other friend—the man who introduced me to the President—knows what I am. Less than a month ago Roosevelt told me what I was to say to you and others who can be trusted: that the Americans are coming, and not too long a time from now, and coming to stay. I have money which I am authorized to pay to leaders of the underground who can use it effectively.”

  “Lanny, I would like to sing!” exclaimed the younger man; but instead of that, he whispered: “I’d like to have an hour to get two or three people together and tell them this news. I have an idea they’ll be meeting to hear what your Mlle. Richard has to tell them. You ought to keep out of sight. But where?”

  “One of the safest places would be a cinema. That will be dark, and nobody is apt to notice me in the short time it takes to enter.”

  “Bien,” said Raoul, “I will take you to the nearest.”

  “One thing more,” added the P.A. “You know you asked me to bring you something, and I have it.”

  “All right, I’ll take it. Wait until we see a chance.”

  They continued their walk and presently came to a dark alley, into which they stepped. Lanny transferred his bundles of banknotes to his friend’s hands, and Raoul stuffed them into his pockets. They strolled farther, until they came to a motion-picture theater, dark, of course. “Come out exactly one hour from now,” said the younger man.

  IX

  The American purchased a ticket and went into the darkened cave, to see a crime-of-passion story, manufactured in Paris—the Germans didn’t care how degraded the French became, provided only that their films contained no ideas of liberty or democracy, or the glory of France past or present. They had tried offering newsreels showing Nazis troopers marching and Nazi propagandists speaking bad French, but the audiences had booed and rioted, and after a few experiments the Nazis had given up and just let the Vichyites feed themselves on their own native garbage.

  The two conspirators had compared watches, and promptly on the minute Lanny strolled out of the theater. He saw his friend a short way down the street and presently caught up with him. Raoul said: “I have talked with my friends, and they want to meet you; but they won’t reveal themselves to you until they are satisfied.”

  “Of course not,” Lanny replied. “I am quite willing to take a chance on convincing them. Did you tell them how long you have known me?”

  “They knew all about that. What makes them suspicious is that you deserted the school and turned into a Fascist so long ago.”

  “But that was the way I managed to get information. Did you tell them how I brought it to you, and how you fed it to the Socialist press?”

  “I told them all that, and that it was on your money they have been operating most of the time. But it’s the old trouble—the Reds don’t want to have to believe anything good about the Pinks. They’d have a hard time not being pleased if it should turn out that I am a Fascist agent, spying upon them all.”

  Lanny chuckled. “If that were the case, they’d hardly have much time to be pleased about anything!”

  Their walk took them into the “Old Town,” near the docks. They went into an alley and came to an ancient arched doorway of stone; it led into a sort of court, and they entered at an unlocked door, turned through an irregular passageway—very old buildings are like that, for reasons long since forgotten. Raoul gave three quick taps upon a door, and when it was opened he led his friend into a room that was completely dark. A voice said: “Asseyez-vous,” and Lanny, reaching about him, found an empty chair and took it. He did not have to hear another word in order to know that voice; it was the leader of the band that had abducted him, the masked man who had questioned him for an hour or two up in the low mountains, or the high hills, that lie back of this French naval base. Lanny had been sure that his life depended upon that matching of wits, and he was never going to forget the tones of the voice.

  “Monsieur Budd,” said the man, speaking educated French, “our friend Bruges wishes us to believe that you are a friend of the anti-Nazi cause and a confidential agent of President Roosevelt.”

  “That is true, Monsieur.”

  “You will understand that this is a serious matter to us, une affaire très grave. All the machinery of government is in the hands of our enemies, and we are being hunted like rats. If we are betrayed, it will mean torture of the worst cruelty our foes can devise.”

  “I understand that perfectly,” Lanny said.

  “Therefore you will not take it amiss if we question you closely, and refuse to accept your story until every possible doubt has been removed.”

  “That is quite reasonable. In such matters it has to be everything or nothing, and you could be of no use to me unless you were prepared to trust me.”

  “Très bien. Alors, let us hear your story.”

  “First, a question from me. How many persons besides Bruges and myself are in this room?”

  “Two men and a woman.”

  “You know who these persons are, Bruges?” Lanny asked. And the voice of Raoul answered that he did.

  X

  “Messieurs et Madame,” Lanny began. “At the age of seventeen I became interested in the labor cause, and very soon I was calling myself a Socialist. After the war, when I came to Juan, I met Bruges, who was then a clerk in a shoestore. We got together a small group and discussed the idea of a school for workers. I helped to raise the money, and later, when I began earning large sums as an art expert, I was able to carry a good part of the burden. I did this as long as the school existed, paying the money secretly to Bruges. After Hitler seized power, I realized that we were in for a long fight, and that I was in a special position to get information because I had met Hitler and had come to know the Nazis.”

  “Tell us how you came to know Hitler, for that is the crux of the whole matter.”

  “At the age of thirteen I spent a summer at the Dalcroze School of what is called Eurythmics, a kind of dancing; tha
t, was at Hellerau, a village near Dresden, and there I met a German boy named Kurt Meissner. I went to spend the following Christmas with him at Schloss Stubendorf, in Upper Silesia. Kurt grew up to become a famous pianist and composer. My mother was a widow—her husband, the painter Marcel Detaze, was killed in the second battle of the Marne. She took Kurt Meissner as her lover, and he lived at our home in Juan for a matter of eight years. That led to my meeting many Germans and to visiting that country. My friends were the rich and powerful, persons who despised the Nazis, but later, when the Nazis seized power, they did what we in America call ‘climbing on the band wagon’—montant sur le wagon de la musique.”

  “We have observed the same thing in France, Monsieur Budd.”

  “At Schloss Stubendorf I had met a son of the head forester, named Heinrich Jung, and he became a follower of Hitler in the very early days, and visited him in prison. In the course of the years he converted Kurt, and he labored hard to convert me. That was how I came to meet Hitler. I listened to him politely and then told him that I was a non-political person, an art expert. But as the years passed I realized that I had a valuable asset in that ability to go into Germany and meet its leader; and as Hitler’s power increased, I began telling Bruges what he was doing and planning. I did the same for a Socialist friend whom I have in England, the playwright Eric Vivian Pomeroy-Neilson. These two men used to put the information into articles for the Socialist and labor press, and I hoped that I was being of some help in awakening the workers to the threat which Nazism meant to them. Am I going into too much detail?”

  “Pas du tout, Monsieur. Continuez.”

  “I had another boyhood friend, Freddi Robin, son of the Jewish financier Johannes Robin. He became a Socialist and founded a workers’ school in Berlin. I helped him and went frequently to that school, and there I met a couple of artists, Ludi and Trudi Schultz. When Hitler took power the Nazis grabbed Ludi and killed him—at least he was never heard of again. Trudi became an underground worker, under the same conditions that you face here. For several years I gave her money, just as I have done in the case of Bruges. Then the Gestapo got onto her trail and I helped her to escape to Paris. To finish that story, they seized her in Paris, smuggled her back to Germany, and tortured her to death in Dachau. In the meantime she had become my wife—that was after my divorce from Irma Barnes—and so you can see that there is not much about your present position that I do not understand. I mean the underground life and the danger.”