Presidential Agent

by Upton Sinclair

  “Aber!” exclaimed the SS man, greatly embarrassed. “This is really most unfortunate, Herr Budd. We are in no position to offer shelter to anyone, because Seine Hochgeboren is an official of the Embassy, and his home is under diplomatic status.”

  “So much the better, lieber Freund; I assure you, the French police have no possible way of guessing that I am here. I haven’t told a soul—not even my mother.”

  “Leider, leider, Herr Budd—how can I make it plain to you? We simply do not do such things. It is a question of the diplomatic proprieties.”

  “Na, na, Rörich, I am speaking as one Weltmann to another. This is for the cause, and we do not stand so strictly upon proprieties when Nazism is at stake. You know only a small part of what I have been doing; and I assure you that I value my life and my ability to work for the Führer more than I do the feelings of any Jewish-Bolshevik democratic republic.” Those were the strings you pulled when you wanted to ring the bell in a National-Socialist soul.

  “Believe me, lieber Herr Budd, I sympathize deeply. But you know I do not have the say in such a matter. I am only a junior officer.”

  “That I can understand. Ist Seine Hochgeboren zu Hause?”

  “I believe so. I will put it up to him if you wish.”

  Lanny wished it; and while the Leutnant was gone, he strolled into the library adjoining the smaller room, and took a good look at the catches which held the French windows. When the head of the establishment appeared, the visitor was examining rows of French classics bound in very fine leather stamped with the crest of the Duc de Belcour. They went back into the smaller room and closed the door—just the Graf and his “refugee.” Rörich had doubtless been told to keep out, and wasn’t sorry.

  XI

  It was a funny scene; at least it would seem so in after years when Lanny could look back upon it: an exemplification of the classic formula, an irresistible force meeting an immovable body, and what happens? Underneath the velvet glove of the trained diplomat was the iron hand of the master of men, one of the Herrenvolk destined to rule the world. Seine Hochgeboren was absolutely determined that this American stranger or near-stranger should not find refuge in his home, which had been in the past and might be now a small-scale Oranienburg or Dachau. Lanny, for his part, had adopted the ancient French motto: “J’y suis, j’y reste.” He was here, and he was going to settle right down and make himself at home, and nothing less than physical force would get him past the door—or one of those French windows of the library, the one Lanny had agreed to leave open that night; the third from the northwest corner of the building, with two catches at the top, two at the bottom, and an extra solid one in the center, holding the two sections together.

  All with the most elegant manner—suaviter in modo, fortiter in re!—Lanny explained what work he had been doing for the cause of the Hooded Men, identical with that of the National Socialist German Workingmen’s Party. He knew all the secrets and named the key names. Quite recently he had had lunch with Baron Schneider at his home, La Verrerie, in Le Creusot, and had been commissioned to offer financial aid to the Nazis through Kurt Meissner. He had been told how the arms were coming from Skoda, not Le Creusot, for better purposes of concealment. (He hadn’t been told any such thing, but he knew it was sure to be so.) He had dealt with the key men, and for that reason the French authorities would be seeking him more than any other person.

  Patiently Graf Herzenberg replied. The services of Herr Budd were appreciated to the full, and of course he could count upon all sympathy and assistance from the Nazi organization. But it would have to be at some other place than the home of an Embassy official. “We simply dare not offer such provocation to the French government. We do not permit any of our own secret agents to set foot upon these premises.”

  No less patiently, Lanny made his counter-reply. “I appreciate your position, Graf. I have never before forced myself upon any person, and it pains me deeply to do it now. But this is not a private matter and neither of us is a private person. I came to your estate because I thought of it, not as a home, but as part of the German Reich. I could not go to Kurt’s, because it is an apartment house, and I am well known there. If I made a mistake, I am sorry; but I came in good faith, and surely it is your duty to protect me from our enemies.”

  “I grant all your points, Herr Budd, and, as I have told you, I will see that you are taken to a place of security.”

  “When you propose that, you are subjecting me to a risk which I feel is entirely impermissible. I do not think I am a coward—”

  “I have never intimated such a thing, mein Freund—”

  “My life has value to your cause, far more than I am at liberty to tell you. It is my duty to protect it, and yours to help me.”

  “I will see that you are taken in a closed car, and since it is an Embassy car, it will be covered by diplomatic immunity.”

  “If I am discovered in such a car, it will be exactly as awkward for the Embassy as if I were discovered here. Behind your high fence and inside these spacious grounds I am safe from all observers, and I protest most earnestly against the idea of taking me out upon a public highway during this crisis.”

  “After dark, Herr Budd?”

  “Darkness makes no difference to the French police, for they have fast cars and flashlights. They will consider it far more likely that fugitives will attempt to travel at night, and they are accustomed to block the highways and stop and search all cars. Nor is there any safety in distance from Paris, for we have hidden our arms in all parts of France, and the search for our friends will be nationwide.”

  XII

  So they argued back and forth; and when they had said everything there was, they went back and said it over again. Neither would give an inch; finally Seine Hochgeboren declared, firmly: “I deplore this misunderstanding, Herr Budd; but this is my home and I am charged with the responsibility for the care of it. The decision must be mine, and I can only repeat what I have said before: I cannot permit you to stay.”

  Said the son of Budd-Erling, with exactly the same amount of firmness: “I appreciate your position, Graf Herzenberg, and it puts me in a most excruciating dilemma. If you knew the facts concerning my duties and responsibilities, you would not dream of turning me from your door. But I am under oath not to reveal these; so what am I to do?”

  “I can only act upon the knowledge which I possess, Herr Budd. If you have valid credentials, you must permit me to see them.”

  “Surely you know, my friend, that the last thing in the world a confidential agent would do is to carry credentials in a foreign country.”

  “No agent of Germany is working in this country without having some superior who knows him and will vouch for him. Tell me who that person is.”

  “What I tell you, Graf, is that you are mistaken. I have no superior in this country, I report to no one here and am known to no one here—at least not in my full capacity.”

  “Surely, Herr Budd, you know enough about our affairs to realize that I cannot accept such a statement without any sort of confirmation.”

  “All I can tell you is that if you force me to go farther, you will be making a mistake which you will greatly regret. I am a personally appointed and confidential agent of a person whose authority you will recognize.”

  “You will have to name that person to me.”

  “Despite the fact that I am under pledge upon my honor as a gentleman to do it under no circumstances?”

  “I am fully capable of keeping a secret, Herr Budd; and anyone in Germany who knows me will trust me for that.”

  “I am sorry, I have to keep my promise. What I ask is that you permit me to telephone to Reichsminister General Göring.”

  “You mean to telephone from this place?”

  “You make it necessary.”

  “You will give him your name?”

  “By no means. I can speak a few words which will identify me to him; and I presume that you will recognize his authority.”

>   “As it happens, Herr Budd, General Göring has no authority over me. I am an official of the Embassy, and my superior is Foreign Minister von Ribbentrop.”

  “I am sorry that my acquaintance with Herr von Ribbentrop is slight. Therefore, since you make it necessary, I have to ask to telephone to the Führer.”

  “Wirklich, Herr Budd? You enjoy a telephone intimacy with the Führer?” This was really too much!

  “I am sorry that you put me into the position of seeming a braggart, Graf. The last time I visited the Führer at Berchtesgaden he was kind enough to give me the telephone number of Haus Wachenfels—pardon me, if I am accustomed to speak of it by its old name, whereas you may know it as Der Berghof. Some time ago the Führer asked me to bring him a painting by my stepfather and I have neglected to do him that courtesy. If you will call him wherever he happens to be and say that the stepson of Marcel Detaze wishes to speak with him, he will understand it as code, and I am sure he will tell you that I am a person socially and politically acceptable.”

  For the first time the immovable body showed signs of being shaken. Said the Graf: “Even granting the truth of your claims, Herr Budd, it seems to me it would be most injudicious to attempt to call the Führer from a foreign country about a matter of so delicate a nature.”

  “Let me suggest an alternative. Would it be within reason for you to call Kurt Meissner and ask him to come out here at once on a matter of extreme importance?”

  “That I could do, but it would be quite futile. Kurt has already assured me of his warm friendship for you, and nothing that he could add would modify the decision I announced.”

  “Kurt has told you of our friendship, Graf, but has he told you what he knows about the Führer’s attitude to me? Unfortunately, Kurt was not present at my last visit to Berchtesgaden, when Herr Hitler was gracious enough to unbosom his soul and tell me of his true feelings concerning the French people. On that occasion he urged me to do everything in my power to avert misunderstanding between France and Germany, and I took that as a commission to do what I have been doing for the past year.”

  “Is that the confidential mission of which you spoke previously?”

  “By no means. That was a public mission. I was charged to tell everyone that I had it directly from the Führer’s own lips, and I have told it to hundreds of persons in the highest social and political and financial positions in France. Kurt has heard me say it more than once.”

  “Is that what you wish Kurt to assure me?”

  “What I would like more than anything else, Graf, is to have Kurt tell you what I did for him under circumstances almost identical with those which have driven me to your home. I do not know how much you know about his work for the Reichswehr after the war; I have never asked him about it, and am not hinting for you to tell me. Suffice it to say that he was in Paris in civilian clothes and under a false passport at the time of the Peace Conference of 1919; he was a spy, liable to a military trial and to be shot at sunrise. He asked me for help and I gave it to him, instantly and without question. At that time I was secretary-translator to a member of the American staff at the conference; I was only nineteen, but I had proved my ability, and earned a career if I chose to follow it. I, too, enjoyed diplomatic status, and might easily have pleaded to Kurt the risk I would be running and the higher duties I owed to my country. But I raised no such objections. I took him to my mother, who hid him in her apartment for a week, and then I bought a car and she took him into Spain as her chauffeur. Kurt knows that we saved his life, and has many times said so.”

  “I do not doubt it, Herr Budd, and all this puts me in an extremely painful position. As it happens, Kurt knows nothing about the special circumstances which determine my position, and nothing that he could say would possibly affect my decision.”

  XIII

  There followed a long and stubborn pause. Lanny was here, and didn’t need to talk; he waited to hear what else his host had to say. At last came a new proposal: “Would it come nearer to meeting your wishes, Herr Budd, if I offered to send you into Germany?”

  Lanny laughed. “Let me show you something.” He took from his pocket the cablegram he had received that morning and handed it over. “You see, I should be very well taken care of in Germany. My father has important business relations with General Göring; he shares in the use of all the new devices and processes which the German Air Force possesses, and you can believe that there are not many persons who enjoy that privilege. The General personally escorted him to Kladow and showed him that wonderful military base. He not only invited me to Karinhall and introduced me to his wife, but he offered to present me with a hunting estate near by. I have never accepted any favor from him, but I have done him many, and when I travel to Germany with my father we shall have the pleasure of enjoying a great man’s famous hospitality, and I shall tell him of intimate conversations about political affairs in Washington and New York as well as in Paris and London. Among other things I am sure der dicke Hermann will roar with laughter over the story of how I fled for shelter to Graf Herzenberg and what a devil of a time I had persuading him not to kick me out.”

  “I don’t want to kick you out, Herr Budd,” interposed the diplomatic official, obviously disturbed. “I, too, have orders which I am not at liberty to disobey, and which General Göring, as a military man, would be the first to understand.”

  “Es kommt darauf an,” said Lanny; the German way of saying that circumstances alter cases. “Now and then emergencies arise, and subordinates have to exercise discretion. I assure you that I don’t expect to impose upon you very long—for France, which I know well, is a mercurial country; not for nothing is it called Marianne, a woman’s name. Her tempests arise quickly and blow over even faster. I am not in danger of a French firing-squad as Kurt was, or even of a French jail; I am only afraid of their newspapers, which would break that shield with which I have protected myself—my profession of art connoisseur. If you knew what I have been able to do with it during the past few years you would understand that it must be protected against all mischances. That is why I thought I was safe in appealing to a man of culture and taste like yourself.”

  Lanny by now perceived the signs of weakening of his opponent in this long duel. He chose his most persuasive, vox humana tone, and pleaded: “I beg you to be reasonable, lieber Freund. I am here, I am safe, and it would be most distressing to have to depart. I assure you, I am a gentleman, and know how to behave myself. I will not meddle in your affairs, nor bore you with my company. I will, if you prefer, stay quietly in a room and read a book which I have brought. You may send me a little food, whatever is convenient, and I will keep your servants content with the proper Trinkgeld. When I feel the need of fresh air and exercise I will walk to the rear, completely out of sight of the road. If I may see the newspapers, I will be able to judge concerning this political thunderstorm, and when I perceive that it has blown over, I will take myself out of your way, skirting the dangerous city of Paris and heading for the fine old bridge which crosses the Rhine at Strasbourg. If on the other hand the danger seems likely to last, I will accept your kind suggestion and let you send me into Germany by whatever route you are accustomed to use.”

  The immovable body was moving—a bad prognosis for the future of the Third Reich! “I am forced to accept that compromise, Herr Budd, and to hope that your assurance of safety within these grounds will be justified by the event.”

  “Meinen aufrichtigsten Dank, Graf. You may be sure I will do everything in my power to repay your kindness.” He held out his hand, and they exchanged a clasp. Then, smiling his best, the American added: “Let me assure you that my title of Kunstsachverständiger is not just camouflage; I really do know about art, and sometime during the day, if you find that you have leisure, I should be happy to take you about these fine rooms and tell you what I know about the painters represented here, and the historical significance of these different works. Since you have to live with them, it might amuse you to know about t
hem.”

  “Thank you, Herr Budd. It happens to be a busy day for me, for somewhat the same reasons as for you. I am obliged to go into Paris, but if I am able to return before you leave, I will avail myself of your offer. Now if you like, I will have you shown to a guest room.”

  12

  Observe the Opportunity

  I

  Victory in one battle meant the beginning of another. Lanny lay upon the bed in the pleasant second-story room assigned to him, and talked to himself without words. “Don’t take it too hard. You have a lot of time to pass and you don’t want your hair turning gray.” He had brought with him Hans Driesch’s book on psychic phenomena, and now set himself resolutely to reading. It was a subject in which the Führer was interested and that made it respectable; it was in the German language, and Lanny was going to speak, think, and be exclusively German until this battle was won.

  There came a tap on the door. It was Rörich, friendly and smiling; might they have the pleasure of his company at lunch? Lanny assented; if they were going to treat him as a guest, that was to the good. As they went downstairs, the lieutenant grinned and whispered: “Sie sind klug!” Lanny had performed a feat in getting his own way, and Rörich was amused by it. He was glad to have company. Perhaps it becomes monotonous, running a concentration camp.

  The meal was served en famille, as it were, in a small room which apparently had been intended for the upper servants. Present were the Third Secretary of the Embassy, the very haughty Herr vom Rath; Rörich and Fiedler, a stoutish Hauptmann Bohlen, a young Doktor Flügelmann with pince-nez and little black mustache; also a humble and quiet male secretary. They had a very unpretentious luncheon, consisting of Wienerschnitzel and a salad with a reasonably good vin ordinaire, followed by a compote. A man-servant waited upon them; Lanny had never seen a woman on the place, and didn’t expect to—unless it was Trudi.