That should have been enough from any master to any servant, so thought the Anglo-Saxon; but it wasn’t enough for a member of the Herrenrasse. The screams went on increasing in intensity; they became those of a panther rather than of a human being. Lanny had long ago decided upon “half-genius, half-madman” as a description of Adi Schicklgruber, but now he shifted the proportions in his mind; he began to wonder whether the Führer might not be physically attacking his victim, beating him with the horsewhip which for years he had carried in Munich—though he had abandoned the custom some time before taking public office. Lanny had heard from Hilde von Donnerstein and others how Hitler was said to foam at the mouth during such rages; his lips would turn blue and sweat would stream down his face. Now it was easy to imagine these things happening. Lanny was amazed by the ability of a human organism to endure such protracted effort and strain.
There fell a sudden silence; really quite portentous, and Lanny wondered, had Adi strangled his victim, or had he himself fallen unconscious? Apparently it was the latter, for he heard people running, and then he thought it proper to open his door and come out. He could see the stairway, and watched while half a dozen secretaries and staff members carried a heavy bundle upstairs and into the Führer’s apartment. That was all the visitor heard for quite a while; he returned to his room and shut the door, cherishing the hope that it might be an apoplectic stroke, freeing Germany and Europe once for all of this mad Mohammed.
But apparently it wasn’t anything out of the usual. When the dinner-gong sounded, Lanny came down, according to the rules, and here came the Führer, freshly bathed, shaved, and dressed, smiling like any well-bred host. The unfortunate Dr. Franck did not appear and was not mentioned; Lanny was left to wonder whether he had been carried off to Stadelheim prison, near Munich, where Lanny himself had been shut up by an unfortunate mistake. But no, he was soon in the news dispatches again, performing his Deputy’s functions in the Sudetenland, but presumably with care not to exceed his authority.
Lanny played, at request, Elizabeth’s Prayer and the Pilgrims’ Chorus from Tannhäuser, and then listened to Herr Kannenberg play the accordion and sing Bavarian peasant songs. Later he went to bed, telling himself that he had helped to prolong the life of the Czechoslovak Republic—possibly for as long as twenty-four hours!
28
The Stars in Their Courses
I
Lanny telephoned to Berlin, ordering his mail forwarded, and among the letters which came was one from Hilde von Donnerstein. She had a summer châlet on the Obersalzberg and invited him to visit there, adding that her mother was with her, so it would be quite comme il faut. The place was a good walk from the Berghof, if you liked hard climbing amid mountain scenery. Lanny paid her a call, and she took him to a summer house on a point of rock, from which you could see all around you, and make sure that nobody was eavesdropping on a shivery conversation. The Fürstin, who lived on gossip, wanted to hear the news about her many friends in England, including Irma, and in return she was ready to pay in kind.
The Führer of the Nazis lived in a glass house, it appeared. His servants told their sweethearts what was going on there, and even some of his secretaries and military aides were not above whispering secrets into one pair of ears. One pair was enough to keep the whole neighborhood informed; and furthermore, if you could believe Hilde, there were high-powered field glasses frequently trained upon that conspicuous house on the mountainside. Anyhow, Hilde knew all about the Dr. Franck episode, and was disappointed to learn that Lanny had been shut up in his room at the time. She knew, or professed to know, all about Geli Raubal, and half a dozen other young women whose happiness had been wrecked by the Führer’s peculiar practices. She even knew what Juppchen Goebbels had said to Magda the last time she had come back from the Berghof.
More important to Lanny, some friend had told her what was going on in the Wilhelmstrasse. She knew about the acts of provocation in the Sudetenland, how they had been planned and how they were being handled in the press. She had heard who was going to be put in charge of Skoda when it was taken over—something that would surely be of interest to Baron Schneider! With a nervous glance around the landscape, and after swearing a guest of the Berghof to everlasting secrecy, she told about the recent visit of Count Ciano, Mussolini’s son-in-law and Foreign Minister, who had listened to the Führer raving at the Czechs, and coming out, had thrown up his hands and exclaimed: “My God, that man believes his own atrocity stories!”
A curious phenomenon the visitor noted: this sophisticated lady, despising the crude men who had seized power in her country and willing to risk her family’s safety for the pleasure of repeating smart gibes about them, was yet in her secret heart proud of what they had achieved. A cynical worldling, she was nevertheless a German. The Fatherland had to expand, she remarked, casually; they were a vigorous people, and had the misfortune to be penned up in a small territory, and shut off from the rest of the world by the British fleet. That fleet, the press reported, was about to flaunt its power in Germany’s face by parading forty battleships in the North Sea; something which couldn’t, by the widest stretch of words, be called courteous behavior.
Lanny was free to tell about his visits to Professor Pröfenik, omitting the Trudi part. The Fürstin said: “By the way, a friend of mine has just had an extraordinary experience with a young astrologer in Munich. Of course he doesn’t call himself that, since it’s against the law, but he will practice it for people he trusts. He told my friend the most amazing things about her past and her future—and some of the latter have already come true.”
“I don’t think much of astrology,” answered the visitor. “I have never been able to find a rational basis for it.”
“I know; but when things like this happen,”—and Hilde began a string of episodes, the sort of marvels that people tell, doubtless not always getting them quite straight.
The other said: “Hess believes devoutly in astrology. I wonder if he knows this man.” He made note of the name, Reminescu—he was a Rumanian—and added: “Perhaps I’ll give him a try. I know so many people who would like to have a look into the future right now!”
II
In the course of his dabbling in psychic matters Lanny had naturally met a number of believers in astrology. They studied elaborate charts of the twelve signs of the zodiac, and were firmly convinced that under whichever sign you had been born, your character and destiny were thereby determined. They would cast your horoscope and look enormously wise and speak a recondite and mystifying lingo. You could see on newsstands in London or New York a row of magazines, proving that there were great numbers of persons who believed in this ancient science or art and were willing to pay good money for it. The first time Lanny had heard about the subject had been as a boy, and he had asked the opinion of an old friend at Bienvenu, a retired Swiss diplomat, M. Rochambeau. This student of books and life had answered in words about as follows:
“You see a group of stars in the sky which suggests to you a certain shape, a scorpion or a lion, and you call that a constellation and give it a name. That pattern has not changed very much since the stars were first observed, and it was possible to imagine all sorts of mystical things about it—until modern high-powered telescopes revealed that the stars which make up Scorpio or Leo are millions of millions of miles apart and have no connection with one another, save that they exist in the same universe. It is as if you stood looking out of a window, and saw three flies on the pane of glass, and three leaves on a tree outside, and three birds in the sky and perhaps an airplane, and all these happened at some moment to make a figure, which looked to you like a coffin and suggested death, or like a shoe, perhaps, and suggested that you were going for a walk.”
That had sufficed Lanny until long afterwards, when he had become convinced of the reality of telepathy and clairvoyance, and had been led to revise his thinking about all the practices called “occult.” We know so little about how psychic phenomena are brought
about, and what states of the conscious or the subconscious mind induce them. It might be that studying astrological charts, or the patterns of tealeaves, or the lines in a person’s hand, are forms of autosuggestion, of attaining concentration, of inducing mystical moods or feelings, which might cause some spark to fly, some energy to be released or diverted. Give it whatever name you please, the point is that these modern seers, or the ancients who had observed the flights of birds and the entrails of sacrificial beasts, may have found that they achieved some special mental state by such methods. The mere fact of believing ardently in bread pills has been known to cause some persons to recover from diseases.
So now, returning to the Berghof, Lanny talked with Rudolf Hess, and listened to his ideas about the stars in their courses which had fought against Sisera but now were fighting for Adolf Hitler and his National Socialist German Workingmen’s Party. Lanny remarked: “I have just been told about a remarkable fortune-teller in Munich, a young Rumanian by the name of Reminescu. Have you ever heard of him?” When the Nazi answered in the negative, Lanny said: “There are paintings I want to see in the city, and I might stop in and give him a try—if you don’t mind my breaking the law.”
“By all means go,” replied the other, unsmiling. “We need all the guidance we can get in these critical days.”
III
The outlawed interpreter of the stars had rented himself a rear parlor in a residential street which was gradually being converted to the uses of art and assignation. A small sign on the door described him as a “phrenologist,” and his room was decorated with the customary charts of the head, and with framed letters from satisfied clients. A young woman answered the doorbell, then disappeared, and at once the astrologer came in. He was in his late twenties, Lanny guessed, a rather frail dark chap with sensitive features and a deprecating manner. He wore an ordinary dark business suit, and apparently went in for no hocus-pocus. When Lanny said that he wished to have his horoscope cast, and would promise to consider it strictly confidential, the other looked him over, and said: “You are a foreigner?” When Lanny replied: “Yes,” he said: “My charge is ten marks.” Lanny produced a bill and paid in advance.
Then began the usual rigmarole. The visitor gave the year, month, day of the month, and hour of his birth, according to what his mother had told him. The man produced his charts from a drawer and began conning them, making notes and calculations. Meantime Lanny watched him in silence, thinking: “He has Jewish blood,”—but one did not ask about that in Naziland. Lanny thought: “He looks worried and unhappy.” He had been told that the Gestapo had all the mediums and psychics of the Fatherland on its list and was making life difficult for them.
Suddenly the man got up and moved a chair close to his visitor. “Would you mind if I held your hand for a while?”
Lanny consented and his hand was taken in one that was soft and warm, with delicate slender fingers. He did not look at Lanny’s, but closed his eyes and was still. Lanny thought: “He does not trust his stars entirely.” He wondered, as many times before, could there be vibrations of some obscure sort which passed from human hands, or from the brain? And if so, what was the sense that received them and interpreted them? Something happened, he was sure.
Suddenly the man remarked: “You are an American?” When Lanny replied, he added: “But I have a feeling that you were born very near here.”
That was a bull’s-eye, for Lanny had been born in Switzerland, a little more than a hundred miles from Munich. “Yes,” he admitted, and the astrologer tried another shot. “The stars tell me that you were born rich, and have become richer.”
That might perhaps have been inferred from Lanny’s appearance and manner. He replied, discreetly: “Standards of wealth are decidedly relative.” To this the other made no comment. Instead he remarked: “It appears that you have been married twice.”
Now there were only four persons in the world who were supposed to know that secret: Nina and Rick, Monck, and the President of the United States. Even supposing that Reminescu had recognized Lanny, which was unlikely, how could he know about a secret marriage in England under assumed names?
Lanny took a chance and said: “Only once.” The other shrugged his shoulders and replied: “I can only tell you what the stars report.”
The client was curious enough to ask: “Will I marry again?” The answer was: “You may wish to, but I doubt if you will.” Lanny thought: “Am I going to fall in love with the wrong woman again?” It had been his unfortunate habit.
The next statement came with the suddenness of a shot. “You will die in Hongkong.”
As it happened, this remote city was little more than a name to Lanny Budd. He said: “I have no reason for ever going to that place that I can think of.”
“You will find a reason,” was the reply; “and you will die there. It is in the stars.”
“I hope this will not be too soon.”
The astrologer went back and studied his charts. Then he announced: “It will be when Saturn is in the constellation Taurus; somewhere between three and four years from now.”
“I am not trying to be clever,” replied Lanny. “I am sincerely interested in the possibility of precognition, and anxious to understand your methods. Suppose I were to accept your warning and were to refrain from going to Hongkong, would I not thereby cheat this destiny?”
“One does not cheat one’s destiny. If you were destined to refrain from going, it would not be in the stars that you would go. There will be some reason for going that will seem to you important, and you will go.”
Lanny smiled. “You should not labor too hard to convince me, otherwise you yourself might be thwarting the stars.”
“If it were in my power to convince you, it would not be in the stars. You will not accept my warning, but will go away saying to yourself that it is nonsense.”
“I’ll surely remember it if I ever find myself on the way to Hongkong!” was Lanny’s wisecrack.
IV
That was supposed to be the end of the session; but the visitor wasn’t satisfied. He had been intrigued by the statement that he had been married twice—though he couldn’t discuss or even mention it. He took another ten-mark note from his pocket and laid it on the table. “I am very curious about this subject, Herr Reminescu. Could I make it worth your while to talk with me a bit longer?”
“Certainly, mein Herr. What can I tell you?”
“I am wondering just what part the stars play in your communications, and what part may be telepathy or clairvoyance or some other means. Do you generally hold your client’s hand for a while?”
The younger man admitted that when the stars did not give him satisfactory guidance he got it by mysterious “hunches.” He told a little about himself and his training, and Lanny in turn gave his name and identified himself as an art expert buying paintings in Munich. They took a liking to each other and chatted for a while—even though another client had arrived and was waiting. Lanny was about to leave, when the astrologer suddenly exclaimed: “Herr Budd, I wonder if I may trespass upon your kindness. I am in trouble, I fear, and greatly need advice.”
“With pleasure,” Lanny said, and resumed his seat; whereupon the other poured forth a story of difficulties with the German police. It wasn’t his illegal profession; that called for only the payment of a little graft. It had been his practice to travel back and forth between Munich and Bucharest, having clients in both cities; and now the police were accusing him of having smuggled jewels out of Germany. Once, he admitted, he had carried a small package for a wealthy client, but he had had no idea what the package contained or that he was violating any regulation. He had been summoned three different times for questioning, and now they wouldn’t give him an exit permit, but kept him in a state of anxiety for week after week.
This was a common enough story, and not the sort of thing that Lanny could afford to mix in. There was nothing in the possession of astrological science or of genuine psychic gifts that wou
ld keep a man from doing a little smuggling on the side, and of course if he had done it, he would earnestly insist that he hadn’t known what he was doing. No doubt the very efficient Gestapo was watching him at this moment, and Lanny didn’t want to get on their list as a suspected associate of a smuggling ring. He said:
“I am truly sorry to hear about your trouble, Herr Reminescu. I have no sort of influence with the German authorities, but there is one suggestion I can make. I happen to know a prominent person who is interested in astrology, and if you were to give him a convincing horoscope, or a séance, as you prefer, you might gain his friendship and then tell him your story as you have told it to me.”
“Oh, Herr Budd,” exclaimed the other, “I have no words to tell you my gratitude! When will this gentleman come, and what is his name?”
“He may prefer not to give his name, but to come anonymously, as I did. I will tell him the circumstances and it will be up to him to approach you in whatever way he sees fit.”
“Vielen, vielen Dank! I beg you not to delay too long—for you know how the Nazi police are—they move swiftly and one can never know what to expect.”
Lanny had an impulse to ask why the interpreter of the stars did not cast his own horoscope and find out whether he was going to die in Stadelheim prison or the Dachau concentration camp. But that wouldn’t have been kind, and the son of Budd-Erling would always be kind wherever he had a free choice.
Presidential Agent (The Lanny Budd Novels) Page 75