VI
Discoursing thus entertainingly, Lanny roamed about the grounds of the structure with its many outbuildings, servants’ quarters, stables now turned into garages, kennels, aviaries, and what not. Lanny had learned the art of conversation in childhood, and could carry it on while the greater part of his mind was busy elsewhere. How wide were the openings into the basement? Too narrow for a human head to pass through, as in the old castles, or trusting to iron bars, as in later and more orderly days? “Just as I thought, an acetylene torch would cut one of those very quickly! And where does the telephone line run? And the electric light wires? And the servants and workers—all Germans, certainly. No chance of any leak to the outside! And the dogs? Yes, a number of them, and doubtless all turned loose at night!”
Aloud Lanny said: “Beautiful dogs, Herr Leutnant! Are you a lover of these friends of our race? I find it is better to know only one dog at a time—it is just as with a woman, they are jealous, even though they do not show it, even though they perhaps do not know what is the matter with them. Especially these German shepherds. In England they call them Alsatians, and in my homeland police dogs; I do not know why; perhaps people are unwilling to credit the Germans with having created anything so surpassing. May I have the pleasure of being introduced to them? I bought one of these dogs once, from a man who bred and raised him. The man led me to the dog and pointed me to him and said: ‘This is your new master; from now on you will have nothing to do with any other man.’ And I swear that creature understood the words and took them as his bible. Years later, when I was compelled to be away from my Riviera home for a long period, the dog would not eat and actually perished of starvation. You should have yourself formally introduced to these dogs, Herr Leutnant, so that you can walk out in the grounds at night with safety.”
“These are German dogs,” replied the Schutzstaffel officer, smiling. “I think they know the German smell.”
“Or absence of smell,” countered Lanny. “Since you have your laundry done regularly!”
So when they parted they felt themselves to be old friends. Lanny said: “I have no words to tell you how grateful I am for your courtesy. Perhaps you would let me return the hospitality some time. Are you stationed here permanently?”
“So far as I know, Herr Budd.”
“Menschenkind!—then you might like to join me in Paris some evening and let me show you some of the curious aspects of that city to which the ordinary tourist does not have access.”
“Ich bitte darum.”
“Just now I have to be away; but a little later, on my return—may I phone you?”
“Bitte sehr, mein Freund.” It was a case of Wahlverwandtschaften—translated as “elective affinities.”
VII
Lanny drove until he was a safe distance from the château, and then drew up in a shady spot by the highway, got out his notebook and pencil, and made maps and elaborate notes of every detail he had observed of the building and grounds, both inside and out. Then he drove on; and the Trudi-ghost said: “You are wasting your time. You cannot help me, and you will risk getting caught. Go to Spain.”
Lanny, mannish and stubborn, replied: “I am going to help you. Even if I go and get Monck, it will be to help you.”
The Trudi-ghost countered: “Monck will put you in touch with the underground, and you can give them the money.”
Lanny, who liked to have his own way but usually gave in when some loved person kept insisting, replied: “Oh, all right, all right; I’ll go.” It was like still being married.
He telephoned for an appointment and drove to his Uncle Jesse’s; parking as always some distance away so as not to attract attention in the neighborhood. All neighborhoods in France are full of curiosity.
The Communist deputy had had his nephew’s passport stamped with a visa for Valencia. At the time it wasn’t necessary to get an exit permit from the French government, for in one of the shifts incidental to the maneuvers of the Non-Intervention Commission, the border was open into Spain, and the French officials contented themselves with saying: “C’est très, très dangereux, monsieur, et vous y allez à votre risque.” The papers of the previous afternoon told of airplane bombs being dropped on the temporary capital of “Red” Spain, and the morning papers told of a cruiser bombardment and the sinking of a merchant vessel in sight of the city. Lanny said: “I won’t stay long, Uncle Jesse.”
In return for the favor he told his relative a lot about the Cagoulard conspiracy. He didn’t mention having met Schneider, and he warned his uncle, as many times before, that he must never let himself be tempted to mention any member of the de Bruyne family, no matter what offenses they might commit. There had been on this point a mutual understanding, never infringed over a period of some fifteen years. The de Bruynes of course knew about the Red sheep in Lanny’s family, something he couldn’t help and wasn’t to be blamed for. Sometimes Lanny would tell them news about the Reds and their doings, treating it playfully for the most part, and confining it to such items as anyone could easily have found out.
There was a curious aspect of this class struggle, even at its fiercest; each side looked upon the other with horror, but this feeling was mixed with a complex of other emotions: fear, awe, curiosity, even amusement. There was something romantic about the idea of actually knowing a real Red; of being able to go to his home and sit down and eat bread and cheese and drink wine with him. What was he really like? What did he talk about when he wasn’t making speeches? What did he do? Lanny would answer: “He paints portraits of little street gamins, whom he loves. They are only fairly good as paintings, but people buy them for the benefit of the cause.”
Jesse Blackless wasn’t doing much painting now; his hands were growing unsteady, he said—he couldn’t help thinking about Spain, and that made them tremble. There was a fresh crisis. The Franco invaders who absurdly called themselves “Nationalists” had been trying to get belligerent rights from Britain and France, and failing in this, they had sought to establish a blockade by means of submarines; they were sinking British and French and other neutral vessels seeking to enter Loyalist ports. That of course was “piracy” in the eyes of all neutrals, and it had provoked the first signs of real determination on the part of Britain and France. They had jointly announced that they would sink all submarines in those waters, and they had meant it—with the result that the mysterious pirates suddenly ceased operations about the coasts of Spain.
That was always the way, Jesse said; the moment you took a firm stand with the dictators, they backed down. It was well known that when Hitler had given orders to the Wehrmacht to march into the Rhineland, the General Staff had been afraid of the move, and Hitler had conceded the point that if the French offered resistance, the Germans would at once retire. It would have been the same with Italy in Abyssinia, and it would be the same in Spain, if only England and France would decide to grant real neutrality and let the Loyalist government buy arms like any other.
VIII
Only when Lanny was about to leave, he remarked quite casually: “By the way, Uncle Jesse, did you make any inquiries about the Château de Belcour?”
“I did, and there’s no doubt you have a straight tip. The place has been leased by a Nazi named Herzenberg, and they discharged every French employee, even to the laborers, men who had worked there all their lives, and their fathers before them.”
“Well,” said the nephew, “it strikes me that ought to be a story. I keep hearing reports that this and that member of the underground has disappeared without a trace. Suppose some of them were in the oubliettes of that château, surely your Party press would like to know about it! Why don’t you find some intelligent and dependable comrade to go to work quietly on this lead? The neighborhood must have reports of what’s happening in the place, and there must be ways of finding out more. The Nazis must have gardeners and chauffeurs and what not, and they must come out now and then; they might talk to a woman, or someone might get them drunk.”
“I know; but I smell what I believe is a sensation, and I’d be willing to put up a good sum.”
“How much, for example?”
“First, two conditions: you’re never to mention me to anybody concerned; and second you’ll keep the story to yourself until I say it can be released. The point is, the tip came to me in confidence, and I haven’t the right to jeopardize the life of a person who may be a prisoner in that place right now. It depends on what we find and what chance there might be to do something for the person.”
“That seems fair enough.”
“All right then. I’ll put ten thousand francs into your hands now, and you may draw on me for actual expenditures up to two or three times as much.”
“Sapristi!” exclaimed the Red painter. “That is a deal!”
“Here’s a tip for you,” said the nephew. “Make note that the château has its laundry done outside. It might be that some worker in that laundry is a Party comrade.”
IX
Lanny was through in Paris for the time being. Early next morning he had his belongings put into the car and took the route nationale to the south. He had driven over it perhaps a hundred times, so he knew every landmark. With him rode Rosemary, and Irma, and the Marie-ghost—but not the Trudi-ghost, for she had never seen his Riviera home. Most of the time she had stayed in a small studio; now she stayed in a dungeon beneath the Château de Belcour, where Leutnant Rörich came and tortured her; she clenched her hands and set her teeth and endured it, and now and then heard the singing of the Ça ira, and whispered to herself that Lanny was coming—but he shouldn’t, for he would surely be caught.
Half-way to his destination, Lanny took the road which parallels the Central Canal, connecting the river Loire with the river Saône; the former flowing to the Bay of Biscay and the latter to the Mediterranean. This is the historic land of Burgundy, rich in coal and iron, as well as in wines and olive oil. The district of the canals is one of Pluto’s realms, dingy and smoke-stained; in its valleys grew tall black chimneys instead of trees, and all nature was polluted and defiled. One of its towns is Le Creusot, which means The Hollow or The Crucible—and either might apply. Hither, a century ago, had come two brothers from Alsace and purchased a bankrupt foundry. They had built it up and learned to make arms, and the Crimean War had come at a fortunate time to make them millionaires. The son of one of them had multiplied his riches out of the Franco-Prussian War, and the grandson had done the same out of the World War. Charles Prosper Eugène Schneider had known the right statesmen and the right bankers, also the right words to whisper into their ears; it was rumored that his vast chain of enterprises had drawn sixteen milliards—or what the Americans call-billions—of gold francs from the earnings of the French people.
The Schneiders had built themselves a palace called the Château la Verrerie, which means the Glasshouse; the reason not being apparent, since it was made of the most solid stone obtainable. It stood on a hilltop with the village huddled around it for protection, exactly as in medieval days. The hovels in which the workers lived were of materials and style of architecture different from those which surrounded the Budd-Erling plant, but the principles on which they had been erected and the methods by which the community had grown were much the same. The workers of this Hollow or Crucible hated the master of the Glasshouse, and voted Red on every occasion; so the master feared them, and was financing political conspirators as the only means he could think of to protect himself. The tire manufacturer Michelin and the industrialist Deloncle and the landowner Comte Pastre whom Lanny had on his list were all in the same state of mind and taking the same course.
Lanny had telephoned for an appointment, and the Baron was expecting him for lunch. Afterwards, over the coffee and brandy, he reported on his interview with Kurt Meissner, making it more intimate than it had really been. The Komponist had been impressed by the news Lanny had brought him, and had promised to take the matter up with the Nazi authorities. Lanny was on his way south to visit his mother, and on his return in a few days he would see Kurt again and report developments.
After this, Lanny talked about the delicate situation in the British Cabinet with regard to the question of German supremacy in the manufacture of airplanes; he referred to the status of affairs in France at the moment—he had been told that the Deuxième Bureau was getting the same reports on German aerial activities, and that Premier Chautemps was treating the reports in the same way as Chamberlain. Lanny didn’t really know this latter fact, but he judged that it was quite certain to be the case, and that Schneider would know it. He took a shot in the dark and it landed in the bull’s-eye.
Charles Prosper Eugène, Baron Schneider, confessed that he was greatly worried because modern war appeared to be developing new techniques; leaping into the air and flying over that Maginot Line upon which the French people had based their hopes of security. There came something wistful into the voice of an elderly entrepreneur who had invested so many milliards of francs in weapons which might suddenly turn out to be worth so little that it wouldn’t pay to move them to the scrap pile. Lanny told how his father had foreseen this development several years ago, and had decided to stake everything he owned on the future of the fighter plane. He told of Robbie’s efforts to interest French and British army men—he could give convincing details on this subject, for the dumbness of the “brass hats” had been the theme of his father’s lamentations ever since Lanny could remember hearing his voice. French, British, Americans, it was the same with them all; only Germans were on the alert and ready to welcome new ideas.
The Baron sighed and said: “We are compelled to make friends with the Germans, greatly as we fear and dislike them.” Then he added: “I think, M. Budd, that it might be well worth your father’s while to pay a call upon me the next time he visits Europe.”
“I am sure he will be delighted to do so, Monsieur le Baron.” Lanny knew that he had achieved a coup for his father, one which might be worth another block of stock for himself if the frightened supermagnate should take up the notion to have a branch of Budd-Erling set up in France. In any case, the son of Budd-Erling had made himself solid with one of the most powerful men in the world. Schneider of Schneider-Creusot would take it as a matter of course that Lanny was trying to promote his father’s business, and would respect him for having made an approach in exactly the right manner. That is how the biggest business is carried on, with tact and dignity, and without hurry or worry. Whatever came of Lanny’s effort, he would be counted among those who had a right to get the Baron on the telephone, and the Baron would know that Lanny’s interest in the Hooded Men was the legitimate and proper interest of one who had property at stake.
“Stop by and see me whenever you are passing this way,” said the master of the Crucible and the Glasshouse.
X
Bienvenu was always the same. First came the dogs, clamoring loudly; Lanny had been romancing when he talked about only one, for they kept reproducing themselves and it was hard to find people to adopt them. His mother heard the racket and knew what it meant, for he had telephoned before leaving Paris. But she wouldn’t come out into the bright light of late afternoon—she had begun to note the crow’s feet in the corners of her eyes, and couldn’t endure for even her son to see them. Beauty Budd had never been much of an outdoors person, and now, without making any fuss, she stayed at home in the daytime, and made her social appearances under the protection of the kindly shadows of evening. Everybody said how marvelously she was managing to keep her charms; at any rate that is what they said in her hearing.
Beauty’s one serious trouble was, as ever, that known as embonpoint. The happier, the hungrier, seemed to be the rule with this one-time “professional beauty.” She weighed herself on the scales in her bathroom every morning, and what she saw destroyed her appetite for breakfast; feeling faint in the middle of the morning, she would nibble se
veral chocolates, and at lunch she would gaze longingly at the cream pitcher, which someone always left provokingly within her reach.
She was an intensely personal being; she was curious about every human she had ever known, and always Lanny had to answer a score of questions about how Robbie was, and Robbie’s wife, and all their family. Beauty might have had that family herself, but fate in the form of a cruel old Puritan plutocrat had intervened; so Beauty had only her one Budd, whom she adored and watched over and spied upon lovingly. What was the state of his heart now, and was there still no chance of his settling down? He would soon be thirty-eight and it was surely time.
His adoring mother wanted to know, had he seen Rosemary on this trip? He knew what that question meant: “Oh, Lanny, are you going to get tied up with that woman again?” The alternative was even worse, the affaire which she knew he was having in Paris, but she wasn’t allowed to know even the woman’s name; obviously, she was some variety of social outlaw, and a fond mother imagined the worst. She simply couldn’t be kept from scheming to get some suitable wealthy debutante to be brought to the house, or to meet Lanny by accident at the home of the former Baroness de la Tourette on the Cap d’Antibes near by.
Presidential Agent (The Lanny Budd Novels) Page 16