“Say one now!” countered the great man, with one of those chuckles which were characteristic.
“I say that you don’t talk enough to the people. They are deluged with falsehood, in a thousand subtle disguises, and it’s impossible for them to see through all Dr. Goebbels’ tricks. What we are fighting is not just German Nazism and Italian and Spanish Fascism; it’s a worldwide movement and it takes a hundred different forms. It’s all over our own country. It’s privilege and class domination; it’s our big-business newspapers, our giant corporations which are tied up tight with the European cartels. Our people haven’t the slightest idea of all that; their thinking is a hundred years behind the times.”
“It will take events to educate them, Lanny.”
“Events are nothing by themselves; they have to be interpreted and explained. Enough has happened already, but the people just don’t understand it.”
“You want me to deliver a lecture on cartels?”
“When I put myself in your place, what I do is to write a sort of open letter to Hitler and Mussolini. I say to them: ‘Just what is it you want? Why aren’t you willing to bring your case into court and let it be settled by fair negotiations? You are driving the whole world to a race of armaments; you are spreading uneasiness and fear everywhere, and what is it all for? What are your purposes, and what guarantees are you willing to give to the peace-loving peoples of the world, of which we Americans are surely one?’ I feel quite sure that such an appeal would be approved by ninety per cent of our public.”
“You think the dictators would pay any attention to it?”
“It would present them with a problem. Goebbels would rave and insult you; but that’s all right, that would show the ninety per cent of our people what sort of dirty dog he is. All over this country, in the barbershops and crossroads stores, people would be saying: ‘The President put fair and honest questions to them, and look how they answer; they must be crooks and they must be looking for trouble.’ You can be sure nobody would be bored by such a letter, and only a few of the diehard isolationists would say that you were butting in where you had no business.”
F.D.R. took several puffs on his cigarette, staring before him meanwhile; then he turned his gray eyes upon his visitor and said: “You’re not the first who has had that idea, Lanny. Bill Bullitt suggested it when he was here, and Henry Wallace brought it up just the other day. Tell me: would you like to take a shot at drafting such a document?”
Lanny’s face lighted up. “You really mean that, Governor?”
“I’m not making any promises. I think I told you how I work. I talk over a speech or a letter or whatever it may be with half a dozen friends, and I tell each of them to try a shot at it. Maybe I take a paragraph here or an idea there; maybe some fellow hits it just right and I use a lot of it; again, maybe something causes me to change my mind and drop the whole thing for the present. In this present case, I gather, you have the ideas pretty clear in your mind.”
“Don’t worry about that. I don’t mind working any length of time if you’ll read it.”
“You may count upon my giving careful thought to it. I’m planning to leave for Warm Springs, Georgia, for a few days’ rest, and if you’ll get the copy to Baker he’ll send it to me there. You’d better let me see you again before you go back to Europe, for I might need to ask you something.”
V
Lanny went out from the presence, just about walking on air. He was going to have another chance to change the world! As had happened on a previous occasion, he was so excited that sleep seemed commonplace and unalluring. He wanted to take a long walk and think about all the things he had to say to Hitler and Mussolini—things that had been accumulating in his mind for almost a score of years, ever since the time of the San Remo conference when he had first laid eyes upon a smallish pasty-faced Italian intellectual with dark eyes and a little mustache, engaged in a political argument in a trattoria. One of this man’s former comrades had given him a scare, denouncing him as furfante and traditore dei lavoratori, which are very impolite terms in their own language. Lanny would have liked to use them again, but of course they wouldn’t belong in an open letter from the President of the United States to the Duce del Impero Romano, and holder of half a dozen cabinet posts in the Kingdom of Italy.
Spring comes earlier in Washington than in London, and this was a pleasant evening. Lanny walked from one white marble building to the next—all brightly illuminated at night. There was something like a tide flowing into his mind, a powerful tide like those that sweep into the Bay of Fundy, or Cherbourg harbor, or other places where great seas are funneled into a narrow channel. All the things that the grandson of Budd Gunmakers had been thinking about Fascism, all those that the son of Budd-Erling had been thinking about Nazism, were going to be concentrated and condensed into one masterpiece of eloquence which Franklin D. Roosevelt would hurl at the heads of the two dictators—and incidentally release to the radio and press of the civilized world.
The P.A. came back to his hotel room and sat up in bed for a while making notes so that he wouldn’t forget any of his important ideas. This room was as good as any in which to work; so next morning, after a glance at the Washington papers—one of them as close to Fascist as it was possible to get without the label—Lanny settled himself at his little typewriter. All day he hammered away, and part of the night; he revised and rejected, burning up everything he didn’t use. He had to do all the work himself, for of course he mustn’t trust any typist.
On the second day he was satisfied, and made a clean copy. He had decided that he would pick on the Führer of the Germans, because he knew him better. Now, reading the document over, it was as if he were in Berchtesgaden, speaking his real thoughts to the half-genius halfmadman in that asylum. Said Lanny:
“You realize, I am sure, that throughout the world hundreds of millions of human beings are living in constant fear of a new war or even a series of wars. The existence of this fear—and the possibility of such a conflict—is of definite concern to the people of the United States for whom I speak, as it must also be to the peoples of the other nations of the entire Western Hemisphere. All of them know that any major war, even if it were to be confined to other continents, must bear heavily on them during its continuance and also for generations to come.”
Lanny went on to list the recent attacks upon three nations in Europe and one in Africa, and then wrote: “You have repeatedly asserted that you and the German people have no desire for war. If this is true there need be no war.” He went on to call for “a frank statement relating to the present and future policy of governments.” He invited the Führer to make such a statement to him, offering “to transmit it to all the other governments concerned and invite them to give similar assurances.” Conferences would be held, in which “the government of the United States will gladly take part.” He concluded with an implication that neither Hitler nor anyone else would miss:
“In conference rooms, as in courts, it is necessary that both sides enter upon the discussion in good faith, assuming that substantial justice will accrue to both; and it is customary and necessary that they leave their arms outside the rooms where they confer.”
Lanny called a messenger and sent his precious manuscript to Baker. After he had called up and made sure it had been received and would be delivered to “the proper party,” he burned his carbon copy, for he made it a rule never to keep one scrap of any P.A. document, either on his person or anywhere in storage. If ever his secret leaked it wasn’t going to be through any carelessness of his own.
VI
Lanny didn’t phone his father from Washington, because he didn’t want Robbie to get the idea that he had any special business in that city. He took the first plane back to New York and phoned from there. Robbie said: “I am still awaiting a final report. Come out and see us, and I’ll tell you about it.”
So the much-traveling agent boarded a New Haven train to Newcastle, a couple of hours’ ride along
the Sound. He took a taxi to his father’s home in the suburbs of the town, and just had time to greet his stepmother and hear some of the news about a large family before Robbie came in. After dinner they shut themselves up in the father’s den and Lanny told his story, carefully thought out to be the truth though not the whole truth.
“I met this fellow in London about five years ago. He’s a German Socialist, and I think used to be a sailor. I happened to recollect him and sounded him out. He wanted money, so I put the proposition to him. He said he’d see what he could do, and presently he wrote me a note saying that he thought he could arrange it. The next thing I got was a postcard from Holland, saying that he was on his way to London. Then I got a note in care of Rick saying that he was on his way by steamer. And that’s all I know.”
Robbie took up the story. “He phoned me three days ago from New York. ‘This is Tiergarten,’ was all he said. I had decided not to let him come to Newcastle because small places are full of talk. I said: ‘I’ll be in New York in two hours.’ He answered: ‘I’ll be standing on the northwest corner of 35th and Lexington.’ I drove myself in, so no one else would share the secret. When I came to the corner, there was a man with a big box tied up in burlap. He got into the car, and said: ‘Drive on.’ I drove, and he said: ‘I had to cut the thing to pieces. I hope that won’t ruin it for you.’ I said: ‘Not if all the pieces are there.’ He said: ‘I can’t guarantee anything. If it isn’t right, somebody has played a trick on us. Germany is full of rascality. Take the thing and test it, and if it’s no good to you, dump it into the river. Meantime, I’ll stay at the hotel.’ I told him: ‘It may be a week or two. I have to turn it over to two of my experts and they have to take it to another place to test it. I don’t want to do anything in my own plant.’ He answered: ‘Your son told me to trust you, and I’m doing it. I’ll phone you at the end of two weeks and if you need more time, I’ll wait.’ And that was that. He got out of the car, and I haven’t heard from him since.”
“He is a man who can’t afford to talk much,” explained Lanny. “He knows you have Nazis in your plant, and there are plenty more in New York.”
“Have you any idea how he could manage this stunt?”
“Not the slightest. I know he got the gadget on Saturday night, and I had lunch with Göring on Monday before I left; he was perfectly amiable, so I felt sure he hadn’t missed anything.”
Said the competent man of affairs: “There is no record of a patent, so evidently he’s been counting on keeping the secret.”
“I have worried a little,” replied the less competent son, “because when he misses it, you and I will be the first persons he suspects, and that could do me a lot of harm.”
“Trust me about that, Lanny. I had my eyes on a small shop in Indiana and I bought it for a reasonable price. I have a couple of young fellows who know superchargers from nose to tail, and they put this box into their car and drove out there. They phoned me that they have put it together and are testing its performance. So far, it looks good—that’s all I can say. Even if it turns out to be the real thing, I don’t think you need worry about Göring; for before we get through with it, we may improve it so that he wouldn’t know his own child. It’ll be six months before we can be in production, and another six before Göring hears about it. Maybe he’ll be at war by that time, and have other things to think about; anyhow, I’ll be buying the gadgets from a concern that is entirely independent of Budd-Erling. And of course the fat rascal knows I’m entitled to the device.”
“That wouldn’t make him love me any better!” remarked Lanny. He couldn’t say more than that, for of course Robbie assumed that he was thinking of his picture business, a small item in comparison with what Robbie stood to gain.
VII
The president of Budd-Erling had enlarged the garage on his estate, and there were half a dozen cars in it. A shiny new roadster with a large trunk in back was put at Lanny’s disposal, and next morning the darling of fortune set out on a sunshiny April Fool’s Day. He found that the Canaletto had arrived and he cleared it through the customs and then drove uptown to lunch with Zoltan Kertezsi and show this treasure.
It was a fine painting of the Piazetta in Venice, showing the Campanile and San Marco and the famous columns in the foreground, the Grand Canal with its gondolas, all in careful perspective, a fine sky with clear light and hard lines. There had been an uncle named Canale whose works brought high prices, and there had been a nephew who imitated him and sometimes signed his name. So there were delicate questions involved, and Zoltan gave his opinion: this was the finest Canaletto that he had ever seen, and he wondered, had Der Dicke failed to appreciate it? He agreed with Lanny that Harlan Winstead would almost certainly want to add this work to his collection. Zoltan offered to go along and add his confirmation, so Lanny telephoned, and next day drove his friend out to Shepherd’s Corner, the unassuming pastoral name of the finest estate that either of them knew of in the western world. It was at Tuxedo Park, and behind its immense bronze gates lived a gentleman of Boston descent who had inherited a huge fortune, had accumulated all the culture of the ages, and was as desolate and unhappy as anybody could be and still live.
“Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?” a poet had inquired, and this man had thought that he had the answers. His possessions included not merely ancestry and wealth, which he had inherited, but taste and fine ideals, which he had acquired. He had been educated at Groton and Harvard, and all his life had cultivated what was refined and elegant, and held himself aloof from everything noisy and common. He had built this magnificent estate, surrounded by a high metal fence with spearpoints turned outward against a hostile world. He had found himself a gracious wife, trained in his own traditions, and she had borne him two lovely daughters. Together they had spent some twenty years raising these daughters, guarding them carefully from every contact with the vulgar herd—with the result that one of the young ladies eloped with a groom on the estate and the other insisted upon a marriage equally unworthy of her high station. The proud father refused ever to see either of them, and his lovely wife pined away and died; so now this white-haired old man lived alone in haughty splendor, holding his head high and never telling anyone what was going on in his heart.
All that he had left was a magnificent collection of paintings which by his will was to go to a museum. They represented his taste, reinforced by Zoltan’s over a period of a dozen years, plus that of Lanny for a half dozen. It was his quiet conviction that there was not one second-rate work in his gallery. He differed from other collectors Lanny knew in that he had no whims or peculiarities that you could cater to; if he said: “This is art!” it was because a great painter had chosen a great theme and done it justice. So now, when the Canaletto was hung in front of Mr. Winstead and he sat and studied it, Lanny held his breath. He had told Göring that he could get twenty thousand dollars for this not very large picture of Venice two hundred years ago. (It hadn’t changed much in the interim.) Lanny wouldn’t say who owned the painting, for that was an extraneous matter, and Harlan Lawrence Winstead was so fastidious and exacting a person that he mightn’t want anything in his home that reminded him of an old-style German robber baron with beer on his breath and blood on his hands.
But works of art have no smell, whether of beer, blood, or the foul canals of an over-aged Italian city. Mr. Winstead said, quietly: “I think that a Canaletto belongs in my collection”; and that was all there was to it. Lanny explained: “The owner prefers not to be known, and has authorized me to sign the bill of sale.” There was nothing unusual about that, since many of the old families of Europe considered it a sort of humiliation to part with their art treasures. The purchaser told his secretary to make out a check, and Lanny wrote a bill of sale in which he specified the name of the painter, the subject and the size; thus he earned a commission that would pay for all his traveling, and in the most elegant style.
The two experts were invited to stay to lunch. Two decorous
ly clad servants waited upon them’ in silence, and having lunch at Shepherd’s Corner was something like attending a church service—only the talk had to do with the salons in Paris, London, and Berlin, and with painters who were believed to be “coming on,” and others who represented false tendencies. Perversity appears to be ingrained in human nature, and notoriety hunting is as common in the field of art as in literature, politics, or social life; but these three gentlemen of elegance and taste repudiated it with quiet severity. From first to last they spoke only of the graphic arts, and if you hadn’t known anything else about life you might have come to the conclusion that correct putting of paint upon canvas and of pencil and crayon and pen upon paper was the purpose for which the Almighty had created a universe.
VIII
When Lanny got back to his hotel he found in his mail one of those plain envelopes which caused his heart to give a jump. It had been sent in Robbie’s care and forwarded from Newcastle. It contained nothing but a telephone number, which Lanny lost no time in calling; when he heard his friend’s voice he said: “Can you be at the northwest corner of 35th and Lexington in ten minutes?” That, of course, was equivalent to saying: “I have talked with my father.”
Lanny drove and picked up his fellow-conspirator. “Welcome to our city!” he said, with a grin; and then, without delay: “My father is still waiting for his final report; but so far, things look good.”
“That’s all right,” replied the other. “I haven’t been to your city in more than ten years, so I’m able to keep myself entertained.”
“What you have done has staggered me!” exclaimed the American. “How on earth did you manage it?”
“I’m not supposed to tell; but as a matter of fact I know very little. I had the good fortune to hit on the right man; he said he would make the try, and all I know is, I was told to leave the car at a certain place and the gadget would be taken apart and stowed in the car by seven o’clock on Sunday morning. I went there at the time set, and the man said: ‘It’s all there and all ready.’ I took it on trust, and here I am.”
Dragon Harvest Page 28