Presidential Agent

by Upton Sinclair

  IX

  All that was directly to the point; and driving his mother back to the hotel, Lanny inquired: “Have you ever met Lili Moldau?”

  “I met her casually in Berlin, and I believe in Vienna some years ago.”

  “She is in Paris now, I’m told, as the amie of Graf Herzenberg. Would you like to do a little job for me?”

  “What is it?”

  “You know Herzenberg has leased the château of the Duc de Belcour, who is an old friend of Emily’s. I went there and looked at some paintings, and I believe I could find a market for several of them, if Herzenberg were willing to release them. Naturally, nothing of the furnishings could be taken out during the period of his lease without his consent. It happens they are historical paintings and I don’t think he can especially enjoy looking at representations of French troops winning victories over Germans. What I thought was that if I met him socially, I might lead him to talk about them, and offer tactfully to get them out of his way. All you’d have to do is to get Lili Moldau to invite you to tea, and I’d bring you. I think I could do the rest.”

  Beauty Budd had lived a long time in the world—longer than she could be persuaded to admit—and for almost thirty-eight years of that time she had been watching her one precious son. “What is this, Lanny? Are you up to some of your radical tricks again?”

  “Bless your heart, old dear! This is a deal on which I would stand to make a few thousand dollars, and I could pay you one of them—or keep you a while longer in this center of the world’s elegance.”

  “Is that the reason you invited me?” she asked, ready to have her feelings hurt.

  “Goose!” he said. “You know I have to earn my living.” He didn’t mind hurting her feelings if he could divert her mind from his “radical tricks.”

  But he saw that he hadn’t succeeded. “When are you going to introduce me to that new amie of yours?” she demanded.

  “She isn’t in Paris now, or I would, honestly.”

  What was that strange intuition which made Beauty almost impossible to fool? “You don’t take your mother into your confidence any more,” she lamented. “When did I ever fail to help you when you asked me? I know perfectly well that you’re absorbed in something more important than selling pictures. I know you didn’t bring Hofman to Paris just to try experiments with Madame.”

  “I’m busy with a dozen things, dear. Robbie asked me to get some information from Baron Schneider for him, and Rick wants to know whether the French government is going to stand by the Nyon agreement. Hofman wanted to come, and I thought he’d be good company for Parsifal while I took you to parties. Haven’t I been behaving?”

  Why didn’t he take her into his confidence? She would have gone to bat for him, and would have kept his dreadful secret; but she would have worried herself full of wrinkles, and she would have tried to exact from him the same payment as Robbie—a pledge that never, never, never again so long as he lived would he engage in the madness of making war on constituted authority or established property rights. Beauty hadn’t much more social conscience than a tigress; only a tigress’s love of her own progeny. Moreover, she had what no tigress has, the ability to shed tears and to be unhappy for an indefinitely extended period. Every man knows that is hard on the man’s nerves as well as the woman’s—so what was the use?

  X

  Jesse Blackless had taken a sheet of note paper and torn it in halves irregularly, giving one piece to Jean and the other to Lanny. The latter had passed it on to Monck, alias Branting, together with Jean’s address. The French investigator had been told that some day a man would come to him with the other half of the paper, and by that token he would know the man he was to trust and obey.

  Following Lanny’s instructions, Monck rented a small and inconspicuous French car, and drove out to the mill where Jean had installed himself. Ever since the German had taken on this job he had been diligently making use of a pocket dictionary of the French language and by now was able to make himself understood. He knocked on the door of a moss-covered old building which stood perhaps thirty feet from the road, with an open space and a platform against which carts or small trucks could be backed up. The creaky door was opened by a smallish, narrow-chested fellow with a straggly brown mustache and a cigarette dangling perilously under it. That was Jean as he had been described; and Monck, having rehearsed the sentence, said: “J’ai un papier pour vous.”

  He handed out the half sheet, and the other man looked him over, then took out the paper from his pocket and carefully matched them against the frame of the door. When he was satisfied, he said: “Entrez,” and Monck stepped into the main room of the mill. It hadn’t been used for a long time, and the white dust had turned gray and moldy. The water passing over the dam sounded as if it were right in the room; everything was deadly damp and chilly, but there was a round-bellied iron stove with a long pipe hung from the ceiling, so presumably the place could be kept habitable. There was a lean-to at one side which had been used as bedroom and kitchen, but the roof leaked, and Jean had fixed himself a pallet on the floor in a dry corner. He had a table with a little oil stove and some food, and was having a good time camping out, he declared.

  He had been told that the purpose of this campaign was to pry into the secrets of the château, so as to provide the party press with a red-hot exposé and the député Zhess Block-léss with material for speeches in the Chambre. Jean was to be allowed to go on thinking this until the raid was over, and indeed for the rest of his life. The only persons who were to know the real truth were Lanny, Hofman, and Monck, alias Branting. At any rate, such was the hope; of course if Lanny couldn’t carry out his wonderful idea of becoming an overnight guest of Graf Herzenberg, then it might be necessary to bribe one or more of the former workers of the estate, or possibly even one of the Germans now employed there.

  Patiently, and with much consulting of the dictionary, Monck gathered the facts which Jean had accumulated. The Frenchman was a Communist and the German a Social-Democrat, which normally would have led to arguments; but Monck, forewarned, had nothing to say about politics and parties, or where he had come from or what he was. His only difficulty was to keep Jean from talking fast. “Lentement, plus lentement, beaucoup plus,” the visitor would say, out of his dictionary. French is hard to learn from print, because the look of the words is so different from the sounds; now and then Jean would have to find the word himself and point to it. Monck would say: “Ah, oui!” and repeat the word, learning language along with architecture, landscape, geography, milling, and what not.

  He took the man in his car and made a circle of the estate, and then through the near-by village and around it. They did this several times, observing the landmarks, and being careful not to make themselves conspicuous. Monck had already familiarized himself with the ground plans of the château and Lanny’s crude map of the grounds. Jean had got one of the former workers in the place to draw him a more detailed map by the device of claiming to have been inside and making assertions as to the position of things which irritated the other by their inaccuracy. When Monck cautioned: “You are sure you haven’t asked too many questions?” Jean replied, with pride: “I set up the drinks and get them to arguing. They are stupid, or why would they stay in a place like this?”

  XI

  Meantime, Lanny was working at the difficult assignment of getting himself into the Château de Belcour. He had called Rörich on the telephone the day after the party and said he was afraid he hadn’t behaved very well. The SS lieutenant answered that they had had a grand time and were everlastingly grateful. Lanny exclaimed: “I am immensely relieved. I don’t remember what I did or said, but it must have been terrible.”

  He suggested that they must get together again soon, and the other replied: “The sooner the better.” So now Lanny phoned to his friends the de Bruynes. The head of the family was away on one of those mysterious affairs about which no one asked questions. To Denis fils Lanny explained that he had met two office
rs of the staff of Graf Herzenberg, and found them well informed as to National-Socialist techniques both political and educational. He thought the family might like to make their acquaintance. He didn’t have to say: “In view of the fact that you are seeking reconcilement with Germany.”

  An engagement was made for the following afternoon, which happened to be Sunday. Lanny called at Belcour for his two friends, which meant that he had another chance to give his name at the gatekeeper’s lodge and then to drive through the double line of beeches to the front entrance of the château. He drove slowly, observing everything he could, for every little might help. He didn’t get a chance to enter the front door, for his friends came tripping down the steps, dressed in their elegant uniforms, with tall boots and belts newly shined; all, as the Germans say, poured out of the egg. They were young and full of excitement; they were winning a war—by the most agreeable method ever devised. Who could fail in loyalty and gratitude to Führer Hitler and Foreign Minister von Ribbentrop and the other great minds who had discovered how to conquer a nation by drinking tea with ladies and gentlemen of the highest social position?

  Lanny had the pair crowded into the front seat beside him, and while he drove he explained that from the French point of view a great honor was being done them, since Frenchmen of this class rarely opened their homes to foreigners. He explained the basis on which he himself stood with this family; the mother had been his amie for many years—which, of course, established Lanny as the very devil of a fellow. He said they would have to be on their best behavior. “I don’t think they’ll serve champagne, but if they do, please don’t ask me to drink any.” The amused passengers promised that they wouldn’t. Lanny added: “I don’t know if you know the reputation of the de Bruynes; they are very old, le vrai St. Germain, and the father has become a considerable financial power. All three of them are active politically, and have important plans in hand. I am not free to give you any hint of these, but it is possible they may do so themselves if you win their confidence.”

  The two officers stole a swift glance at each other. Herrgott! The man actually didn’t remember anything of what he had blurted out the other night! Jawohl, um so besser!

  XII

  Both châteaux being in Seine-et-Oise, the drive was short. The Nazis met two Frenchmen just in their thirties; cultivated, with gracious manners, high technical education, and military training as well. Some day it might be the fate of one pair to meet the other pair on the battlefield—but why should they? Both pairs found it pleasanter to sit on the terrace of this old red-stone building and sip coffee out of delicate porcelain cups and converse about their countries’ ideas and aims. Western Europe had a common philosophic and scientific heritage, a common literary and artistic heritage—and it had enemies still close to a state of barbarism, rapidly preparing for one of those raids which had come every century or so throughout recorded history. So, at any rate, these four believed and said.

  They talked about the new kind of training which the Nazis were giving to their youth. Lanny knew about it, for Heinrich Jung was one of those in charge, and had raved about it to Lanny for hours on end. Here were two products of that training and they spoke for themselves. Lanny mentioned the “Party day,” a celebration held in Nuremberg the first week in September. Fiedler had obtained a furlough to attend these ceremonies, and described them as the most beautiful and moving in the world A million German youths assembled in one giant airfield; and such decorations, whole forests of banners and standards; such music and singing, such marching, such eloquence of orators and fervor of consecration on the part of auditors—no one who attended could doubt that a nation had had its soul restored.

  The French brothers had been through all that themselves. They too were products of a “youth movement,” and had marched and sung, worn insignia and sworn oaths under the banners of the Croix de Feu. But on a scale so pitifully small in comparison! They did not conceal their envy of the Führer and his magnificent triumph; they looked upon themselves as a vanguard of such developments at home, dreaming of some magic whereby they might overcome the cruel skepticism and wicked cynicism of the French masses. Denis fils and Charlot had no ambitions for themselves, but were ready to be followers of some Jeanne d’Arc who would lead la patrie on a new crusade, a Catholic and conservative revolution against the materialistic and individualistic forces of the modern world. Lanny would have liked to tell them that the National Socialist German Workingmen’s Party had succeeded because of the second and fourth words in its title, and that the masters of French industry and finance would have to find themselves a rabble-rouser before ever they would see a million youths assembled to swear allegiance to their cause.

  The conservative French revolution was to have reconciliation with Germany as one of its goals, and therefore the two Nazis were cordial to it, and glad to reveal the secrets of their colossal success. Privately, they didn’t share the hopes of the de Bruynes, because the French were not Germans, and were incapable of such discipline, or of producing a Führer of such genius. But they explained their methods of organization and training—no secrets, since they were available in books, and both Frenchmen read and spoke German. More important, the Nazis told how it felt to be the objects of such efforts, the material of this discipline; how their doubts and uncertainties had been overcome, what had moved them and ultimately persuaded them, and what now, as finished products, they thought and felt and intended to do. All that was deeply interesting from the psychological as well as the political point of view.

  XIII

  Driving his SS friends home, Lanny found that they had been impressed by the sincerity and intelligence of the two brothers. Rörich said: “It is something that must not be allowed to happen, that Germany and France go to war again. Why should we destroy each other for the benefit of others?”

  “It would not be the same next time,” said the more practical-minded Fiedler. “The French army will not be such an obstacle.”

  “It is supposed to be a pretty good army,” ventured Lanny, mildly.

  “Lächerlich,” said the Nazi. “We would blow it to pieces in a few weeks.”

  “It must not be allowed to happen,” put in Rörich, quickly. “If we could bring it about that France was governed by such men as the de Bruynes, there would be no excuse for it.”

  They expressed their gratitude to Lanny for having brought about this meeting. They would be glad to know more such Frenchmen. It was an overture, and he responded at once: “Let us see more of one another.”

  “By all means,” said Rörich, the more genial of the two. Lanny waited to see if he would add: “Will you come to see us at the château?”

  But alas, no such luck! The SS lieutenant asked: “Will you be our guest some evening in Paris?” Lanny could only answer that it would give him pleasure.

  When they came to Belcour and he stopped in front of the steps, they didn’t say: “Won’t you come in for a while?” Nothing of the sort; just “Danke schön” and “Auf wiedersehen.” Lanny drove away, completely balked, and reflecting: “That place is a concentration camp, and I might as well expect them to invite me for a social call at Dachau or Oranienburg!”

  11

  Time by the Forelock

  I

  It is in the nature of social affairs that they cannot be hurried, and so Lanny Budd had to spend a lot of time waiting. He couldn’t use it all in living through imaginary scenes in the Château de Belcour, nor yet in listening to Hofman’s speculations as to what kind of locks he was likely to find on the doors of that place. There was Madame, always in the hotel, and Lanny kept thinking up schemes to get information by way of the psychic underground.

  There were some of his acquaintances who looked upon him patronizingly because he had let himself be drawn into this sort of activity. An aroma of fraud hung about it, and only a weakminded person would waste time on it. Lanny had heard this said by gentlemen who played the stock market and wore out their nerves trying to win gre
at sums of money for which they had no need; by others who got drunk at night, or amused themselves seducing other men’s wives. He had heard it also from ladies whose occupation in life was decorating their persons with expensive clothing and jewels, and from others who found diversion in staking their fortunes upon the turn of a card or a roulette wheel. Such occupations were fashionable; but to try to find out something about the mysterious universe you lived in was a waste of your own time and a deprivation to your friends.

  Lanny had read enough to know that it was truly a mysterious universe, and the clues to its secrets had been found in odd and unexpected places. An old-time Italian had occupied himself with touching a copper wire to frog’s legs and watching them jump; a retired merchant of Philadelphia had taken to flying a kite in thunderstorms—which must surely have seemed eccentric to the neighbors. So it must have been with the grinding of curved glass, which had opened up a universe of the infinitely large and another of the infinitely small. One could list hundreds of men who had watched some puzzling phenomenon—the falling of an apple, the bubbling of a tea kettle, the fermenting of liquids—and had persisted in asking why and how it happened, and so had expanded man’s powers over nature.