Leading brain-truster among this company was a Georgian—the American, not the Russian variety—dark and curly-haired, a Harvard graduate and employee of the State Department in the happy days before the New Deal. Lawrence Dennis had written three books advocating and predicting Fascism for his country, and he now published from a downtown office a bulletin called the Weekly Foreign Letter. He was prepared to defend anywhere the thesis that “democracy” was an evil dream, for the masses never had been capable of self-government and never would be. He was ardent in defense of Franco, and in this was supported by two other guests, an elegant old gentleman, Mr. Castle, who had been Undersecretary of State under Hoover, and a shrewd and forceful Mr. Hart, who, Lanny was told, was paid ten thousand dollars a year by certain big corporations to oppose whatever forms of social legislation might come up.
The Army was represented in this gathering by Major-General Moseley, who was treated by everybody with great deference, being looked upon as the future “Nationalist” party’s candidate for President; he contributed to the discussion the idea that refugees coming from Europe should be sterilized. The Navy was represented by Lieutenant-Commander Spafford, who, in accordance with Navy traditions, had little to say. The Press was represented by the city’s smallest newspaper with the largest circulation.
One of the women guests at this high-class social event delivered Lanny to his hotel, and on the way remarked that if the wealth represented there were totaled up it would amount to a couple of billion dollars. Lanny went to sleep in a state of deep depression, and next morning, to cheer himself up and to pacify the Trudi-ghost he put a thousand-dollar bill in an envelope, together with a typed unsigned note: “To be used for the combatting of anti-Semitism in New York.” He mailed this to a liberal clergyman of the city, the same to whom, more than a year ago, he had turned over the profits from the sale of the Goya painting. Before sailing for Europe, the secret agent wrote a report to his Chief, concluding with these words: “America has everything that Germany had during the period that Hitlerism was in the egg.”
25
Slings and Arrows
I
Lanny took a steamer to Le Havre, and a very slow train to Calais, where he had stored his car. He drove to Paris, where he met Zoltan, just returned from London with news about the sales at Christie’s and other art matters. They went to the spring Salon together, looking for new talent and finding mostly commonplace, for they were two exceedingly fastidious gentlemen. When they got too discouraged about their world they would go to the Louvre or the Petit Palais and commune with the old masters, who had really known how to paint, or so the experts thought. They would have lunch together in an outdoor café at the Rond Point; the spring sunshine was delightful, the crowds gay, and now and then the pollen of chestnut blossoms would be wafted down onto their table, supplying their food with extra quantities of vitamin A. They talked about deals they had made and others in prospect, and life seemed good—so long as you thought only about your personal affairs.
The political situation was truly depressing to any Pink. Franco’s armies had cut their way to the Mediterranean, thus dividing the Loyalist forces in two. Everybody agreed that the government’s position was hopeless; that is, everybody except the Spanish people, who refused to realize that they had to become slaves. In spite of continual bombing of cities and killing of thousands of civilians, the Valencianos and Madrileños went on fighting desperately in their sector, and the Barcelonese in theirs—something considered irrational and exasperating by all members of the governing classes of Europe. The British and the Italians, having come to an amicable agreement on this and other subjects, put pressure on the French and forced the closing of the border once more. Red Catalonia would be starved until it came to its senses—or rather to British and Italian senses.
A part of the agreement had been over Abyssinia: Mussolini’s triumph was to be legalized, and the 101st League of Nations Council proceeded to pass what was in effect an act of suicide, the renunciation of its last hope to prevent war. In harmony with the hypocrisy of the time, it would do this in the name of peace, and the ultra-pious Lord Halifax was chosen as the man for this job. “Great as is the League of Nations,” he announced, “the ends it exists to serve are greater than itself and the greatest of those ends is peace.” His white Lordship was answered by a frail little black man who looked oddly like a Jew, Haile Selassie, Negus of Abyssinia: “The Ethiopian people, to whom all assistance was refused, are climbing alone their path to’ Calvary.”
Affairs in France stood on the same plane of fraudulence. The Chautemps government had been forced out, because the Socialists had refused to vote it the “special powers” it demanded. On the day that Hitler had invaded Austria, la grande nation had been without a government. Then Blum had formed one which had lasted less than a month. Now France had what was called an “anti-Red” Cabinet under Daladier, and for Foreign Minister had a politician named Bonnet, lean and sallow, with a bald head and one of those long beaked noses used for smelling money. Lanny wondered, was any of it Nazi money? The Minister’s wife was one of Kurt Meissner’s intimates, and Lili Moldau was her constant companion.
The party of these men called itself “Radical Socialist,” but had long ago become a party of bribe collectors and distributors. “Envelopes” was the polite word; they were handed to journalists, to publishers, to political manipulators, to ladies who had any sort of influence. They would contain a proper number of bills—never a check that could serve as evidence. Bonnet had a great banking firm behind him, and when public funds were not sufficient for his purposes, the bank would make up the quota.
That was how France was governed now, and when you heard the inside story you despaired of the republic. There were patriotic and honest people left, but they were out of power, and their protests had become stereotyped; the great public, which craved novelties, was bored by them. Blum was a Jew, which damned him, and his party quarreled with the Communists, who repeated Russian formulas and urged Russian techniques—in face of the evident fact that its class enemies had the arms, the planes and bombs and poison gas, and in any attempt at uprising it would be the Fascists and not the Communists who won. The mass of the people read the great press, having no idea that the contents of these papers were for sale to the highest bidders, in many cases the agents of the Fascist and Nazi governments.
II
Lanny had obtained orders from clients in New York and thereabouts, and was planning to set out on another trip into Germany; but something occurred which changed his program in a few minutes. He was strolling, as was his custom, from one fashionable picture dealer’s to the next, looking at what they had to offer; this was important, for prices varied from time to time and from place to place, and Lanny’s success depended in part upon this knowledge. It wasn’t enough to say: “This is a genuine Monet, a worthy example of his art.” It would be necessary to add: “I saw one of his works offered in Paris last month for four hundred thousand francs.” Right now the franc was down to thirty-four to the dollar, and that made Paris an excellent place to go shopping for art.
The dealers all knew the son of Budd-Erling, and hastened to point out their best. One of them remarked: “I have something that might interest you, M. Budd: a very good seascape by Detaze.”
“Indeed?” said Lanny, surprised—for these paintings did not often come upon the market. “I should like to see it.”
He was still more surprised when he looked at the painting. He knew all of them by heart, as it were; every brush stroke, of which he had watched so many thousands being put on. He was quite sure that he had had this particular seascape in his hands during his last visit to Bienvenu.
“M. Bruget,” he said, “I am embarrassed to have to ask you to set this painting aside and not sell it until I have investigated the matter. I am practically certain that it was in my mother’s storeroom less than two months ago; and she never sells a painting without consulting me.”
; “Mon dieu, M. Budd! You mean that it has been stolen?”
“I don’t want to say until I have made inquiry. Would you mind telling me where you got the painting?”
“Certainly not. I bought it from the dealer Agricoli in Nice. I thought that was a natural place for a Detaze to be found.”
“Did he have more than one?”
“He said he had had three, but had only this one left.”
“Would you be willing for me to see the back of it?”
The man hastened to unscrew the back of the frame; and on the canvas, in addition to Marcel’s signature, which was always put on both back and front, was a lightly painted number, 94. “That is my catalogue number,” Lanny explained. “I have a cardfile at Juan, with the data on every Detaze that I have ever known of. I am sure that I had this one in my hands on my last visit to the storeroom, for I considered it as one of a lot which I was taking to Germany for sale.”
“I am greatly disturbed, M. Budd,” declared the man. “I hope you understand that I had no means of knowing and no reason to suspect anything wrong.”
“Certainly; that idea could not occur to me. I wonder if you would permit me to call my mother’s home and pay the charge. I may be able to get some information at once.”
Lanny put in a call; and since long-distance service was never very prompt in France, he strolled about and looked at other paintings until he was summoned, and heard his mother’s voice. He asked: “Have you sold any of Marcel’s works since I was last at home?” When she answered “No,” he inquired if she knew of anyone else having sold any. Then he said: “Please do not say anything to anybody about this call until you see me. I will be home late tonight.”
“Is something wrong?” Beauty’s tone was full of concern.
“I can’t be sure until I have talked to you, and to others. Please promise me, nothing until I arrive.”
She promised, and the dealer agreed to lock the painting up until he heard again. Lanny took a taxi to his hotel, packed his belongings, and set out on the Boulevard Champs Elysées to the familiar route nationale.
III
Lanny drove straight through, and Beauty was waiting up for him when he arrived. While waiting, she had been trying to guess, and he discovered that they had guessed the same thing. He told her what he had learned in Paris, and received once more her assurance that she hadn’t given anybody access to the storeroom. He consulted the cardfile which was kept in his room while he was away. Number 94 was marked with an “S,” which meant that it was supposed to be in the storeroom. The keys were kept in the top drawer of his chiffonier, and he looked and found them in the proper place.
Getting a torch, he hurried over to his studio. Doors and windows appeared to be intact, and he let himself in, first at the front door, then at the one which led from the main room to the storeroom in the rear. Everything appeared to be as he had left it; rows of deep shelves ran around the walls, and the paintings were ranged on these according to number. It took but a moment to make sure that 94 was gone; what others were gone would require a checking against the cardfile.
Lanny locked up again and went back to his mother. “Somebody has taken one painting, probably three, and possibly more. Either the thief is an expert at picking locks, or he had access to our home and knows where I keep the keys. Either he worked in collaboration with Agricoli, in Nice, or he made that dealer believe he had come by them honestly. I note that he went to an Italian, and that seems to me significant.”
“Oh, Lanny, it can’t be true!”
“I don’t want to say that it’s true. I’ll have a talk with Agricoli in the morning, and see what I can learn. This much I know, and you know it, too—that a man who gambles is always exposed to temptation, and I can’t see Vittorio as a very heroic resister. Where is he now?”
“Asleep in their room.”
“Well, let them sleep; there’s nothing more to be done now.”
“Oh, it will be so dreadful if it’s true! What shall we do, Lanny?”
“It’s always a waste of time trying to cross bridges before you come to them. All I want to know is my own position in the matter. Legally I have no rights in the paintings; they are your property by Marcel’s will, and I am merely your agent.”
“That is not so, Lanny. I made a definite agreement with you to handle the pictures and divide the proceeds three ways, you, me and Marceline. I should have put it into writing, and I’ll do it now.”
“Have you paid Marceline all the money that is due her on the Hitler sale?”
“No. I have been giving her a little at a time, as you suggested. She wants more, of course. Oh, Lanny, do you suppose it is possible she could have known about it?”
“My guess is it was Vittorio’s own bright idea. But it’s futile to speculate. The only sensible thing is to go to sleep, and not worry about troubles that you may never have to face.”
“If Marceline doesn’t know about it, she will be so horrified!?”
“It is important that we don’t give either of them any sign that we have noticed anything wrong. The thing for you now is to go to bed. Count your blessings and say your prayers!” The mother had become quite religious under the influence of her husband’s example, and when any good thing happened to members of her family, she piously attributed it to her spiritual exercises. Lanny wondered if she had prayed for Vittorio to succeed with his “systems” at the casinos? If so, her faith had been sorely tried!
IV
Lanny didn’t sleep much himself. He got up early, dressed, and got a bite to eat, served by the black-clad lame Spaniard who had taken over the management of the home, and who looked upon the young master as one who came down out of the skies in a chariot. After the fashion of servants, José had figured out the relationships existing among the members of this family; unlike most servants, he kept his thoughts to himself, out of loyalty to Lanny. Did he know or suspect anything about the paintings? Lanny didn’t hint at the subject; he took a glance at the morning papers, with news of bombings in Barcelona and Valencia, and remarked: “A good time to be in France, José.” Then he went out to his car and drove off. He wasn’t in the mood for play-acting with the young couple.
In Nice he found the art shop not yet open, and sat in his car reading items of depressing news from all over the world. At about ten there arrived a stoutish, round-faced Italian, with a pointed black beard and the proper morning coat and pin-striped trousers. It was a warm morning, and he had been walking, and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. He did it several times more when the highly respected stepson of Marcel Detaze followed him in and opened up with the tidings that he had been receiving stolen goods. “Dio mio, Mister Budd!” exclaimed the dealer, several times without variation.
“Let me relieve your anxiety, Signor Agricoli,” said the suave expert. “I don’t want to have any publicity, or to make any unnecessary trouble. If you will deal with me frankly, I will consider you an ally and a friend—and I am sure you will find it better that way.”
“Si, si, Mister Budd, sicuramente—naturellement—with my heart.” The frightened man seemed not sure whether he was speaking Italian, French, or English, so he said it in all three.
“I want two things: first, to get the paintings back, and second, to find out who took them, so that I can stop the leak. So far as the money losses are concerned, I am prepared to deal generously with you.”
“Merci, M. Budd—grazie—I thank you—I will do everything—tout possible!”
Hearing the story, Lanny realized that the man had reason to be worried. He had bought three Detazes at an absurdly low price, and had sold them for half what he might have got at the sales rooms of the Hotel Drouot in Paris. Such a procedure seemed to indicate a fear that the paintings had not been honestly come by. According to his story, a young Italian of good appearance had come to him, giving the name of Gigliotto and saying that he had three French paintings which had belonged to his recently deceased father in Genoa. He profes
sed not to know the name of the painter, but had been told that the works were valuable, so he had brought them to France. The pair had bargained back and forth, and the stranger had twice gathered up the canvases and gone out of the shop; finally the dealer had agreed to pay eighty thousand francs. He had the bill of sale, and Lanny inspected it but did not know the handwriting, or recognize the seller from the description. He was interested, however, when the dealer said that he had seen the man two evenings later, coming out of the casino with another young Italian, who wore an officer’s uniform with the left sleeve empty.
The dealer named the customers to whom he had sold the paintings. He had carbon copies of his bills of sale, and showed his books, in which purchases and sales were entered. That was all he could do, and all Lanny wanted. Said he: “The paintings are my mother’s property, and under the law you will be bound to reimburse the persons to whom you sold them. You will probably not get much back from the thief—since it appears that he frequents the casino. But all this would involve publicity, which my family does not want. I prefer to settle the matter quietly, and I make you the offer that if you will see your customers and buy the paintings back from them, I will reimburse you for the eighty thousand francs you paid to the thief. Does that seem to you reasonable?”
“Si, si, M. Budd, most generous—vraiment. Però—are we not breaking some law?”
“I don’t think the law will trouble itself, if no one complains. I am pretty sure I can find out who the thief is, and persuade him to get out of the country and stay out. The French law would be satisfied with that.”
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