It became Lanny Budd’s duty to take the Blue Express, the night train to Paris, and to revisit his Rightist friends. He found a small civil war going on in Paris, between Daladier and his lady on the one hand and Reynaud and his lady on the other. Jeanne de Crussol wore her Premier out with stories of the intrigues of Hélène de Portes, and with demands that her adored Edouard should get rid of some Cabinet member who was on Reynaud’s side, or some general who had dared to lunch with the Minister of Justice. Daladier had been created a dictator in the war emergency, but he wasn’t a very good one, because his liberal conscience plagued him; he found it hard to make up his mind, and rarely did so until it was too late.
So it was going to be with the problem of Finland. “Dala” thought that something ought to be done, but he couldn’t bear to be the one to do it. If an expedition was sent, it would have to go by way of Norway and Sweden, and Germany would probably attack those countries, and it would mean real and terrible fighting. The Premier had been making speeches in which he promised to avoid the shedding of French blood in reckless adventures; and in this he had the support of old General Gamelin, who wanted to stay behind his fortifications.
What they did was to organize a force of volunteers, both British and French, supplied with arms from both countries, and they sent this through Sweden with German connivance. It was supposed to be the most closely kept secret in the world, and the censors wouldn’t permit the publication of a word; but Lanny’s important friends knew about it, and some of them were supplying the planes and tanks. He was able to send his Chief a schedule of the supplies, and an account of what had gone on at the meeting of the Supreme Council on February 7, in which the problem of Finland had been the topic of discussion, and in which, characteristically, they had decided to postpone their decisions.
“Too little and too late” was the formula. The Russians settled the matter by bringing up fresh troops, and beginning a determined assault upon the Mannerheim Line, named after the Finnish baron who was in command, and who had earned the adoration of the Rightists all over Europe by his slaughter of the Finnish Reds after the First World War. He had a German name and German training, and it was upon him that the Soviet hatred was centered. Now the news grew worse and worse, from the point of view of the fighting pacifists who were Lanny Budd’s friends and informants. At the beginning of March, just when the British and French had made up their minds to act, and had got ready fifty thousand troops from each nation, word leaked out that the Finns were in Moscow suing for peace.
VII
Lanny went back to Bienvenu, and to more efforts to investigate the underworld of Laurel Creston’s mind, and Madame’s, and Parsifal Dingle’s, and his own, at a point where they appeared to be all mixed up together. At any rate, Laurel in trance was able to tell any of them about things they had done or said, and so did Madame in her trances. Why one woman had to find it out through the mind of a deceased international Jewish banker, and the other through the mind of an Amerindian chieftain, was one of the mysteries of this unendurably mysterious universe.
Otto Kahn laughed when you asked him about it; he was far too urbane to become irritated, like Tecumseh, at the suggestion of “that old telepathy.” He said that of course he understood how impossible it was for anyone to believe in spirits; he would have taken exactly that attitude himself. But here he was, and he knew he was here, much as it embarrassed him to say so. Why was he here? Well, that was a difficult question. He countered with another: Why had he been on earth? And how did he know the things he revealed? Well, how could any spirit explain it to an embodied being? Things came into his mind, just as they had done on earth—for example, the idea of being an art patron, or of taking an interest in a beautiful diva at the Metropolitan.
When these remarks were reported to Laurel Creston after the trance, she said it was exactly as she remembered that genial man of high finance, conversing in her uncle’s Baltimore home. Could it be that there was another storyteller in her subconscious mind, making up Otto Kahn, in combination with herself and Lanny Budd and Parsifal Dingle and their circle of friends? Surely this was one of the most fascinating problems in the world! Dr. Morton Prince’s “Miss Beau-champ” had had five separate personalities in her, and if you could have five, why not five million, or for that matter all the people who now lived on earth or ever had lived there? When they asked that question of Otto Kahn he replied: “Well, why not?”
These fascinating inquiries continued; and meantime the sun maintained its ancient practice of rising a minute or so earlier each morning, and spring came back to the Riviera. The fig trees put out their buds, the stems resembling long gray candles with a bright green flame at the tip. The tulips and narcissi spread their colors in the court and the white jasmine flowers filled it with their delicate perfume. The birds built nests in the vines, and the bees filled the air with the sound of their visitations. A little human bee buzzed and a little human bird sang in that court, and Lanny marveled once more to see life renewing itself, so full of eagerness and trust, so delightful in its beginnings—and oftentimes so sad in its endings.
The warmth spread northward, and the buds and flowers came out all over Europe. It brought joy to the children, but to the adults only fear, for they knew what the lengthening of the days and the drying of the ground mean in wartime. In far-off Washington, Senator Borah had referred to this as a “phony war”; perhaps he had been trying to defend himself, having solemnly assured the country in the previous summer that he knew upon reliable authority there would be no war in Europe that year. The phrase “phony war” had caught on all over the world; it pleased people who were expecting sensations, and could not enjoy their breakfast without the slaughter of ten thousand of their fellows. Lanny heard Americans using the phrase on the Riviera, and he wanted to cry: “Idiots!”
He knew that for seven years Adolf Hitler and his able executives had been getting ready for what they were going to do this spring and summer and autumn. The whole industrial power of one of the three or four greatest nations on earth had been turned to the manufacture of deadly weapons. “Guns before butter,” Göring had said—and be sure that he meant it with all the power of his driving will. Now, at the end of the eighth winter, the armies were lined up at the frontiers, the men trained like athletes for a race, the plans completed to the last scratch of a pen. The planes were in their underground hangars; the tanks hidden in the forests, or in fields, camouflaged as haystacks or sheds; the shells piled in rows like village streets. From the factories were pouring rivers of new planes, new tanks, new shells, everything that could be used in war, and very little else—just enough to keep life going in eighty million Nazi robots, plus the slaves they had already taken, and the millions more for whom they had the pens already constructed.
VIII
Such was the promise of the spring of 1940 on the old continent of Europe. The only question was, where would Hitler strike, and on what day? It was Lanny Budd’s business to find that out, and he met many persons who were eager to tell him; but it was like a diagnosis by many doctors or a horoscope by many astrologers—they did not agree. The place to find out was Berchtesgaden, and Lanny thought of going there by way of Switzerland, but he kept hesitating, because he couldn’t offer to bring Miss Elvirita Jones again, and he thought it the part of discretion to let the memory of that lady grow dim. But meantime, the hour of decision was drawing near. Lanny considered the possibility of visiting Switzerland, and from there writing Hess an offer to bring Madame Zyszynski for a second visit. To be sure, Poles were not exactly honored in Germany at present, and they would probably search her to make sure she didn’t carry a dagger or a capsule of poison; but their curiosity might overcome their repugnance, and if she could produce the spirit of Paul Ernest Ludwig von Beneckendorff und von Hindenburg as she had done on her former visit, they would grant her the status of an honorary Aryan.
It would be a risky venture, for he could never know but that the Gestapo had alread
y dug up the truth about the much-wanted Laurel Creston. Even so, he had about made up his mind to chance it, when the fates were kind and presented him with another solution of his problem. There came in the mail one of those undistinguished envelopes which for the past few years had been making sudden changes in Lanny Budd’s plans. This time the envelope bore a Swiss stamp, also the seal and number of a French censor. It was written in English and addressed very formally to M. Lanning Prescott Budd, Connoisseur d’Art, Bienvenu, Juan-les-Pins, Alpes Maritimes, France; the honorific title being, of course, for the censor’s benefit.
Beauty was in the room when José brought this mail. While the mother looked at her own—mostly bills, alas!—Lanny slipped the letter into his pocket and pretended to be absorbed in opening up the London Times. After a while he got up and went to his room and shut the door, where he opened the letter, and read:
“Dear Sir: I have been keeping a lookout for paintings which might be of interest to American collectors, according to your recent suggestion, and this is to inform you that I have come upon a Werner here in Geneva which seems to me important, and which you might care to inspect upon your next visit. My employment keeps me busy and does not allow me much time, but I am so fortunate as to get Tuesday and Friday afternoons off. I use these to work in the excellent public library of this city, hoping to increase my knowledge of the fine arts so that I can be of service to an eminent authority such as yourself. Not being sure where you are at present, I am sending a copy of this letter to you in care of your daughter in England, and also one in care of your father at the Budd-Erling Aircraft Corporation in Connecticut.
“Respectfully, Brun.”
Lanny read this letter several times, and studied every phrase, knowing that Bernhardt Monck had done the same. The compliments, of course, were for the censor, also the mention of Budd-Erling. The significant word in the letter was the name of the painter; Anton von Werner had painted military scenes of the Kaiserzeit, and incidentally was a favorite of the fat Feldmarschall. No doubt Monck had looked him up in the excellent public library of Geneva. What he was telling Lanny Budd was that he had important news about the plans of the German army, and that Lanny could find him in that library on a Tuesday or a Friday afternoon. Incidentally, he had left one letter out of his name, which made it French instead of German; this also for the censor, an important person in the life of secret agents.
IX
Lanny wouldn’t waste time in hesitation. The day was Monday, and this was a time of “spot news”; what was alive today might be dead tomorrow. He told his mother: “I have a letter from a man in Geneva who thinks he has a worthwhile painting, so I’m taking the night train.” Beauty may have had suspicions, but it wouldn’t do her any good to voice them.
When Lanny told Laurel Creston of his plan, she said: “If you are gone for any length of time, I may not be here when you return. I have matters that I must attend to in New York.”
Lanny responded: “I shall miss you. But if you must go, it will be the part of wisdom not to delay.”
The American State Department was urging all Americans to come home, and had chartered a number of liners to bring them. The vessels had the American flag painted on their sides, and it was hoped that the U-boats would not be impolite to them. One would be sailing from Marseilles in a few days, and Lanny’s old friend Jerry Pendleton would try to get accommodations for Laurel. It wouldn’t be a stylish crossing, but it would be the same New York harbor into which the vessel would crawl, and the same Statue of Liberty she would pass. Americans appreciated that harbor and statue in these days of spreading calamity.
So the pair bade each other farewell. “You have taught me a great deal,” said the woman, “and I shall never cease to be grateful to you. I hope we may always be friends.”
“Indeed, yes,” was the reply. “May I write to you?”
“I hope you will. I don’t know what my address will be, but I will write you to Bienvenu. Also, you can always reach me in care of the Bluebook. They have accepted another story.” She didn’t tell him what it was about; but she did say: “I want you to know that my eyes have not been shut while I have been here. I think I know what you are doing, and I honor you for it. Be sure that I will never drop a hint of it to any living soul. Take care of yourself and good luck to you.”
“Thank you,” said the P.A. “I, too, have thought a lot about you, and am grateful for what you have done, and for what you have just said.” All very formal and proper, but there was deep feeling behind it, and Lanny could imagine that there might be tears in her eyes—after she had gone to her own room. The devil of it was, he couldn’t know whether or not she cared for him without making some approach to the subject, and that would be like trying to find out if a gun was loaded while having it pointed at your heart.
X
Lanny visited the Swiss consulate and got his passport visaed, giving as his purpose the purchase of paintings. He put his belongings into a couple of bags, including a file of correspondence having to do with his profession—this on the chance that anybody might search the bags in his hotel room. He drew some thousands of dollars out of his bank in Cannes, something he could do without attracting attention, since it had been his practice over many years. He took the notes to the travel bureau of his one-time tutor, who handled sums of money from all over Europe. Lanny said: “I want all the Swiss francs you can get me, and don’t mention me, because I don’t want to advertise the fact that I’m padding my coat with them.” Jerry grinned, recalling how, in the old days, Beauty Budd had insisted upon his going along with Lanny, guarding a couple of million francs with a gun.
The train wound its way up the valleys of the French Alps, and next morning the passenger stepped off in the Cornavin station of the old city which he had been visiting off and on ever since the end of World War I. He had bought pictures here, and after he had put up at the Hotel Beau-Rivage he set out to regularize his position by visiting the dealers. He wanted to satisfy the agents of various nations who swarmed here; for this was not merely the home of the League of Nations, but a sort of clearing house for the spies of all Europe. The government was sternly determined to preserve the country’s neutrality, and leaned over backwards in its effort; but of course there were plenty of individuals looking for a chance to make money, and some were making it from both sides.
After lunch, Lanny set out for another stroll, this time to the public library, which is in the University building. He went as a tourist, observing the spacious Promenade des Bastions, and the park which it bisects; when he ascended the steps of the building, the largest in this venerable city, his mood was that of an animal trainer entering a cage full of wild beasts. He did not have even the advantage of the trainer, who knows his beasts; here there was no way to tell a lion from a tiger, a hyena, or a jackal, or any of them from a respectable watchmaker or moneylender. There would be earnest students here, many of them refugees; for this was the native land of freedom, this had been a sanctuary through four centuries of varied oppressions. Voltaire had made his home in a near-by village, from which he had sent out the books which had overthrown the ancien régime. Rousseau had been born here, and Lenin had studied in this library. No doubt among the present-day students, men and women, were some who were mewing their mighty youth and preparing to change the future of the world.
Lanny had no time to inspect ancient Bibles, or the manuscripts of John Calvin, or books which had belonged to Bonnivard. He strolled into the reading room and pretended to be looking for a book on Swiss painters; having found it, he sat down and read, only now and then darting a quick glance about the room. He was searching for a familiar close-cropped German head, for the back of a neck which went up straight and solid, for a torso which was not that of a student but of a sailor and fighting man. No doubt Monck would place himself where he, too, could keep a lookout; he would know what he was looking for, and quite possibly he would know some of the lions and jackals.
The man of t
he underground came in by the main entrance, and did just what Lanny had done, selected a book and sat down to consult it. They exchanged one quick shot of the eyes; and after a while Monck got up and strolled out. Lanny waited a brief interval; when he went out, his friend was standing on the steps, looking out over the park. Lanny didn’t even glance at him, but strolled by; he knew that the other would follow, and he turned several corners, so that his friend could have a chance to make certain that no one was on their trail. Their meetings in Germany had always been under cover of darkness; Lanny knew there must be some special reason why Monck had specified afternoon. Perhaps he was employed in the evenings, or perhaps the library wasn’t open then. Whatever this experienced man of the underground did was bound to have a reason, and it was Lanny’s part to conform.
They were in one of the back streets, and he stopped to look at the contents of a shop window. Presently his comrade was standing beside him, and whispering out of the side of his mouth: “Can you meet me tonight?” When Lanny replied in the affirmative, Monck said: “I will be in front of the Reformation Monument exactly at ten o’clock.” Lanny replied: “O.K.,” and the other passed on.
These elaborate precautions meant real danger, Lanny understood. The one-time organizer of the Social-Democratic Party, the one-time Capitán of the International Brigade in Spain, might be known to the Nazi agents here, and was sparing Lanny the risk of being seen with him, even for a moment. Lanny was anxious to be spared, and only hoped that Monck wasn’t going to ask him to smuggle out any documents in wartime. Or to tell him that Der Dicke had found out who had stolen his supercharger! Or that Hess had learned who it was that Lanny had brought to the Berghof!
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