Presidential Agent (The Lanny Budd Novels)

by Upton Sinclair

  “A French name, I forget. Long—something.”

  “Longuet?”

  “That is it.”

  Lanny needed to ask no more. Manifestly, Trudi couldn’t have written to him, or to any of her comrades of the underground. She had thought of Jean Longuet, editor of the Socialist newspaper in Paris; she had heard Lanny talk about him, and knew that Lanny had been sending him secret news from Spain. He was well known, and to name him would be revealing no secret to the Nazis.

  Monck came in from his vigil in the passage. “It is a quarter past four and we are taking a grave risk.”

  “One moment,” Lanny answered. Turning to the prisoner, he said, in a firm voice: “Paul, you will not tell anyone that we have been here.”

  “Nein, mein Herr.”

  “You will not remember that we have been here. You will forget. Vergessen—vergessen. Verstehen Sie?”

  “Ja, mein Herr.”

  “You will sleep and get well. Schlafen und gesund werden.”

  “Ja, mein Herr.”

  With Hofman’s help Lanny laid the victim flat again and put the blanket over him. With quick strokes of his handkerchief Hofman wiped the pitcher and cup, so that not even the marks of gloved hands might be left on them. Bending over the prisoner’s face, Lanny whispered: “You will wake up.” He snapped his fingers. “You are awake.”

  They couldn’t delay to make sure. Monck took the American by the arm, guessing rightly that it was hard for him to tear himself from this scene, and that he might be a little weak in the knees. “Come,” he commanded, firmly, and led him to the door. All torches went off, and they came into the corridor, and waited while Hofman fiddled with the lock. They heard it faintly click. “O.K.,” he whispered, and Monck picked up the heavy box of tools, he being the sturdier man. They went down the corridor, softly but swiftly.

  IX

  No reason for delay now; they had only one thing to do, to get out. They went up the stairs, and closed the door at the top. Apparently Hofman had made a passkey, for he needed but a moment to lock it. In single file they went down the long corridor in the upper cellar, feeling their way by the walls. Had they counted the number of steps? Lanny didn’t ask; it was enough that he had counted, and now counted again. He knew the turns, but didn’t have to prompt the others, for Hofman, in the lead, took them straight to the proper door. Lanny flashed his tiny light for the fraction of a second, just long enough to pick up the coin which he had laid on the floor. Hofman opened the door softly, and when the others had gone through, he closed it behind him, but did not stop to lock it; he was willing to let it be supposed that some careless person had forgotten to lock it.

  They went up the flight of stairs on tiptoe, and waited while Hofman slowly and carefully opened the door which led into the butler’s pantry; he held it open a fraction of an inch, listening. This was a moment of danger, for there was a good chance that some servant might be getting early to work. But there was no sound, and Hofman opened the door all the way. When the others had passed through, he closed it, and again did not stop to lock it. Lanny didn’t ask if it had been found locked; he was sure that Hofman knew his business, and time was galloping for them.

  Into the dining room, and past the long table of French walnut at which Lanny had eaten a meal and might eat more; past the historical paintings upon which Lanny had discoursed to Rörich. A dim light pervaded these rooms, and the three intruders looked in every direction, all their senses alert. Across a wide hall, and then into the library, and over the soft velvet carpet to the third window from the northwest corner. Hofman stooped and picked up the coin, and then opened the half-window, really a narrow door. A blast of wind, a long blast, while three men slipped through; then he closed the barrier behind them.

  Had the watchman awakened? Had the dogs been turned loose? These were chances they had to take, and there was nothing to be said about them. “Au revoir,” whispered the locksmith, and Lanny replied: “See you in Paris this morning.” The two started across the floodlighted loggia, a paved and uncovered space in front of the château. They did not run, but moved with the dignity appropriate to an SS Hauptmann charged with secret duties by the Gestapo. Hofman was now carrying the tool kit—for of course it was unthinkable that an officer would perform such menial service. Lanny did not wait to watch them, but walked with his practiced casualness around the building to the porte-cochere.

  The watchman was still breathing heavily, and that was to the good, though Lanny’s peril was still far from over. He had to wait for a period of ten minutes, that being their estimate of the time required for the men to get to the steel fence and climb it. Once they were out of the light, they could carry the box of tools between them and make good time. The ladder was hidden in the bushes, and it wouldn’t take them long to get it up and climb over. But there was the possibility that some car might be passing; a peasant cart might delay them quite a while. It wouldn’t do for them to be seen climbing the fence with a heavy box, and still less would it do for the dogs to be turned loose until they were safely over.

  X

  So Lanny had to sit there and think about Trudi, and realize that he had proved all the worst that he had imagined. In that cell, or in one of the others adjoining, she had spent something like three months, being whipped and tortured by those half-dozen cultivated monsters with whom Lanny had eaten meals and might have to eat more. A feeling of nausea came over him, and he had to clench his hands and set his teeth tightly together. He wished that he had brought along his Budd automatic in his bag; he saw himself carrying it in his pocket when he went down to breakfast, and suddenly producing it and shooting down those men in a row. But no, it wouldn’t do the least good; he was fighting not men but a government and a system of thought, a set of ideas. The day might come when guns would be used, but it wouldn’t be one gun; it would be millions and perhaps tens of millions.

  He had got here too late. The delay was something he would never be able to forgive himself. But what could he have done? Everything had depended upon his becoming a guest in the château, and how could he have managed that a day earlier? Should he have tipped off the Socialists in the French government as to the Cagoulard conspiracy and thus caused the raid earlier? Possibly he might have done so; but the idea had not occurred to him until the telephone call had come from Annette de Bruyne. He couldn’t have given his name in an accusation which involved the de Bruyne family; and would the French cabinet have acted upon the basis of anonymous charges? No, that was just a crazy idea, one of many with which Lanny would torment himself, because he had to blame somebody for this tragic dénouement.

  He had failed completely, and forever, so he told himself, with sickness of heart and soul. The Nazis now had Trudi inside the vast dungeon which was Germany. They had taken her there to kill her, because they couldn’t break her will, and killing was what they did with the bravest and best. Lanny had no way to find her, and would never even know what had happened to her—unless some day she would appear at the foot of his bed in the night, or unless she would speak to him with the voice of Tecumseh. All Lanny’s elaborate efforts had been for nothing; all the time and expense, bringing Hofman from New York and Monck from Spain; all Lanny’s own time and labor, when he might have been really doing his job as presidential agent.

  It was good to crouch there in the darkness and shiver with cold and grief and rage all combined; it helped to pass the time, which was again standing still. All Lanny could hope to save out of this misadventure was the ability to go on deceiving the Nazi-Fascists. He still might fail at that, for Paul might not obey the hypnotic suggestion, or Max might stay drunk and tell who had got him drunk. The dogs might make a disturbance, the two burglars might be delayed in getting over the fence, somebody might see Lanny coming in at the library windows—oh, yes, there were plenty of mishaps to be imagined, and to keep Lanny looking at his watch. It might even be that some of the Nazis would be using hypnotism or telepathy, clairvoyance or trance mediumship
. Two could play at that game, and Hitler had men who knew all about it. You fought the devil with fire, and then discovered that he had discovered a new and hotter kind!

  Oh, God, oh, God, poor Trudi! Lanny would have to give her up; yet, no sooner did the idea cross his mind than he knew that he couldn’t do it. Already he began thinking about ways to find her in Germany. Who would have her in charge—Hitler himself, or Göring or Goebbels or Ribbentrop or Himmler? Could Lanny find that out if he stayed with the Graf and cultivated his friendship? Poor fool—so the son of Budd-Erling called himself—sitting here dreaming about such achievements, before he had even made sure that he could escape detection and the complete ruination of his career!

  XI

  The little imps or hobs or whatever they were that were sitting on the hands of Lanny’s watch and keeping them immovable at last had to let go; the ten minutes’ period was up, and Lanny arose and walked quietly to the rear of the building and back to the kennels. Nobody was there, at least not in sight. The dogs heard him coming and were on the alert; they weren’t used to being turned out at this hour, but whatever the friendly god did was all right. He opened the gates and they followed him; he closed the gates behind them and told them to run, and away they went into the darkness. They might find the scent of the men and might lead their keepers to discover the tracks, but if the invaders had got away in their car there would be no solving of that mystery.

  Lanny returned to the porte-cochere. He grabbed the watchman by the shoulders and shook him, saying: “Aufstehen! Aufstehen!” The man began to groan and protest; no doubt he had a headache that he wouldn’t forget for a long while. He must be roused sufficiently to get on his feet, and be made to realize his own danger, that of losing his job, a terrible thing to an elderly citizen of Germany, where everybody is regimented and his life-time record is on file. Lanny kept on shaking him, more and more vigorously, and commanding sternly but not loudly: “Wake up! Aufwachen, Sie Esel!”

  Lanny ventured a flash of his torch. By one of the pillars of the porte-cochere was a hydrant, used for sprinkling the flowers and washing the drive. Lanny turned it on slightly and got a little water in his handsome Homburg hat and went and threw it into the watchman’s face. He did it a second time, and by dint of more shaking and pulling he got the poor fellow onto his feet. “Now, walk!” he commanded. “Sie sind betrunken, Sie armer Narr! If they find you this way, you will be sent back to Germany. Verstehen Sie?”

  “Ja, ja, mein Herr.”

  “All right then, keep walking. Don’t let anybody know you have been drinking. Don’t say anything about me, or they will get it out of you. You understand?”

  Poor Max began to stagger along, with the American half holding him up. Ja, ja, he understood everything, and was terrified; ach leider, and Herrgott, and bitte um Verzeihung, Herr! And then Oh weh, oh weh, which is the equivalent of the English woe, and bitte sehr, which is please very much—everything a poor terrified elderly Diener could think of. “We have left undone those things which we ought to have done; and we have done those things which we ought not to have done; and there is no health in us,”—so runs the English formula, and this abject Pomeranian made it all up in his own language. Lanny would shove him along and catch him when he stumbled, and keep saying: “Vorwärts, marsch, machen Sie sich auf die Socken!—Keep moving and don’t sit down or you will fall asleep again and they will find you drunk.”

  “Ja, ja, mein Herr! Danke schön, mein Herr!”—and so on. Lanny knew there were still a couple of hours before dawn in the middle of November, and if the man could be sufficiently frightened and would keep on his feet, he would get over his spree and get to his bed without attracting attention. Lanny walked him all the way around the château, and then dared not stay with him any longer. He gave a final set of injunctions and obtained a final set of promises, and then went up to the loggia, scraped his feet thoroughly, and went in by the library window. Inside, he closed the window carefully, and fastened all the bolts; he took one glimpse around to make sure that the coast was clear, and then went quietly to the stairway. Still there was nobody about, so far as he could see. He went softly up the stairs and walked down the corridor to his room. He hadn’t failed to note which was his own door; he turned the knob and slipped silently in; he closed the door and locked it, and then went to the bed and dropped upon it and began to weep softly to himself—partly for Trudi, and partly in reaction from the frightful strain under which he had been laboring, not for three hours, not for three days, but for the three longest months of his life.

  XII

  Lanny did not sleep at all. He lay on the bed and rehearsed his night’s or rather his morning’s work, and tried to see if there was any flaw in the perfect crime. He searched his overcoat for smears of blood which might be difficult to explain; he found several on the sleeves, but they were small, and he rubbed them with a damp handkerchief. Fortunately tweeds do not show stains conspicuously. He washed his hands thoroughly, not forgetting his fingernails; he scraped and polished the soles of his shoes, and saw to it that the scrapings went down the drain. He hung his hat over his reading lamp, with the light turned on to dry it quickly. He shaved and put on a clean shirt, and when he went down to breakfast he looked reasonably fit and self-possessed.

  Did any of the Nazis have anything on their minds? If so, they were as good actors as Lanny. The morning papers from Paris were there, and everybody looked into them eagerly, and then talked about what he saw. Arrests were continuing, and l’affaire Cagoulard was occupying the attention of all France. L’Action française, which espoused the cause of these bold brave heroes, charged in flaring headlines that the exposure was the result of base betrayal, a jealousy vendetta by the partisans of the Croix de Feu. It was a feud between Léon Daudet and Due Pozzo di Borgo on the one side and Colonel de la Rocque on the other, and the Nazis at breakfast agreed that it was conclusive proof of the impossibility of dealing with the French, so feminine and unstable, so poisoned through with the virus of individualism and democracy.

  Lanny agreed with everything; and after he had had coffee and toast, and felt better, he borrowed one of the papers and sat in the library to read it. Incidentally he had a good look at the third window from the northwest corner and made certain that the carpet was not too dirty and that the long velvet curtains hung properly. When his reading was finished he sought out Eduard vom Rath in the office, and said: “Herr vom Rath, I have been reading the news and thinking things over, and I have made up my mind that this is one of those tempests in a teapot, of which I have seen so many in this unstable nation. I no longer feel that I am in serious danger, so long as I go about my art business and keep away from those who are having trouble with the police.”

  “Ich verstehe, Herr Budd. It has been a real pleasure to have you with us.”

  “I know that Seine Hochgeboren is disturbed at having me here, and his reasons are obvious and proper. Will you be so kind as to present him my compliments and let him know of my decision?”

  “Selbstverständlich, Herr Budd.”

  “I know that courtesy requires me to thank him personally for his hospitality, but under the peculiar circumstances it would not be wise for me to call on him, or even to telephone or write him.”

  “Ja, ja, das wird er einsehen.”

  “If he calls up, you can tell him that the guest has departed, without using my name; and when you see him, convey to him my deep and sincere gratitude for his courtesy.”

  “With pleasure, Herr Budd.”

  “Do not mention to anyone that I have been here, and be sure that I shall be no less careful.”

  “Your discretion is appreciated, Herr Budd, and we all enjoyed your company.”

  “Be so kind as to say my Lebewohl to the rest of your staff, since I do not wish to interrupt them at their work. Heil Hitler!”

  “Heil Hitler.”

  XIII

  Speed the parting guest! Lanny went up to his room and put his few belongings into t
he bag. His car was brought under the porte-cochere, scene of never-to-be-forgotten experiences. He drove away, never to return, or so he hoped; at least, not until this château had again become French, and he might undertake the marketing of some reasonably good paintings.

  The conspirator had made so real to himself the possibility of being involved with the Cagoulards that he took the precaution of phoning Hofman at his hotel, to ask if everything was all right. The locksmith met him on the street, and after making sure they were not being trailed, they took a taxi to Monck’s hotel. There, what a bull session they had! Three veterans of a war—and all the world knows how old soldiers like to fight their battles over again. They wanted every detail of Lanny’s story: how he had managed to force himself upon Graf Herzenberg, and the various persons he had met in the château, and how the dogs had behaved, and the nightwatchman. All these matters had been the subject of anxious speculation, and now to hear the true story was like being taken behind the scenes of history.

  They had failed in their purpose, but they had done their best, and Lanny hastened to assure them that he realized this. The task he had undertaken had lain beyond his power; both Hofman and Monck had been convinced of that from the beginning, and had told him so. They saw no hope for the woman artist, and as sensible men they could not pretend otherwise. A locksmith could break into a French château, but not into the citadel of Nazism; as for Monck, alias Capitán Herzog, alias Hauptmann Branting, he said that he had a company of hard-fighting men waiting for him up in the red hills of Aragon, and that was the place where Trudi Schultz could be saved if anywhere.

  The trio enjoyed a sleep, and then a bath and a meal. In the evening Lanny had a talk with each of them separately. Monck insisted that he had failed, and that the sum paid to him should be reduced accordingly; but Lanny said that the Capitán had done everything he had agreed to do, and the failure was not his but Lanny’s. Monck had got into touch with his wife through the underground, and she and the children were expected in Paris in a couple of days; they settled on the arrangement that Lanny was to get a hundred thousand francs from his bank, about four thousand dollars, and during the next few days Monck would occupy himself in changing these for notes with different serial numbers. With one half he would purchase American Express Company checks for the use of his family, and the other half he would turn over to the underground for the continuing of Trudi’s work.