World's End

by Upton Sinclair

  You would have thought that the three officials had never before in their lives heard of anyone refusing to answer questions. They were shocked, they were hurt, they were everything they could think of that might make an impression upon a sensitive youth. They demanded to know: was it the natural course for an innocent man not to tell frankly what was necessary to secure his liberty? They wished him no harm; they were greatly embarrassed to have to detain him for a moment; the simple and obvious thing would be for him to tell them for what innocent reason he had come into possession of documents inciting to the overthrow of la république française, the murder of its citizens, the confiscation of their property, and the burning of their homes. The three officials had the incendiary documents spread out before them, and passed them from hand to hand with exclamations of dismay.

  Was all that really in the documents? Lanny didn’t know; but he knew that if he asked the question, he would be answering a very important one for the officials—he would be telling them that he didn’t know, or at least claimed not to know, their contents. So he said again and again: “Messieurs, be so kind as to send word to my father.”

  Never had courteous French officials had their patience put to a severer test. They took turns arguing and pleading. The oldest, the commissaire, was paternal; he pleaded with the young gentleman not to subject himself to being held behind bars like a common felon. It was really unkind of him to inflict upon them the necessity of inflicting this embarrassment upon a visitor from the land to which France owed such a debt of gratitude. In this the commissaire, for all his lifetime training, was letting slip something of importance. They took him for a tourist; they had not connected him with Juan-les-Pins, and probably not with Madame Detaze, veuve, and her German lover now traveling in Spain!

  The second official was a man accustomed to dealing with evildoers, and his faith in human nature had been greatly weakened. He told Lanny that la patrie was at war, and that all men of right feeling were willing to aid the authorities in thwarting the murderous intrigues of the abominable Reds. It was difficult for anyone to understand how a man would have such documents in his pocket and not be eager to explain the reason. And what was the significance of the mysterious figures penciled upon each sheet? If a man refused to perform the obvious duty of clearing up such a mystery, could he blame the authorities for looking upon him as a suspicious character?

  The third official was younger, wore glasses, and looked like a student. Apparently he was the one whose duty it was to read incendiary literature, classify it, and take its temperature. He said that he had never read anything worse in his life than this stuff which Lanny had had in his pocket. It was hard for him to believe that a youth of good manners and morals could have read such incitements without aversion. Was Lanny a student, investigating the doctrines of these Reds? Did he know any of them personally? Had he been associated with them in America? Lanny didn’t answer, but listened attentively and asked questions in his own mind. Were they just avoiding giving him any clues? Or had the two flics really not known who it was that gave him the papers?

  Certainly Lanny wasn’t going to involve his uncle unnecessarily. To all attempts to trap him he replied, as courteously as ever: “Messieurs, I know it is tedious to hear me say this; but think how much trouble you could save yourselves if you would just call my father.”

  “If you refuse to answer,” said the commissaire, at last, “we have no recourse but to hold you until you do.”

  “You may try it,” said Lanny; “but I think my father will manage to find out where I am. Certainly if an American disappears from the Hotel Vendôme, the story will be in the American newspapers in a few hours.”

  The official pressed a button and an attendant came and escorted Lanny down a corridor and into a room that was full of apparatus. In the old days it might have been a torture chamber, but in this advanced age it was the laboratory of a new science. Lanny, to complete his education, was going to learn about the Bertillon system for the identification of criminals. The operations were carried out by a young man who looked like a doctor, wearing a white duck jacket; they were supervised by a large elderly gentleman wearing a black morning coat and striped trousers, and with a black spade beard almost to his waist. They photographed their prisoner from several angles; they took his fingerprints; they measured with calipers his skull, his ears, his nose, his eyes, his fingers, his feet. They told him to strip, and searched him minutely for scars and spots, birthmarks, moles—and noted them all down on an elaborate chart. When they got through, Lanny Budd could be absolutely certain that the next time he committed a crime in France, they would know him for the same felon they had had in the Préfecture on the twenty-eighth of June 1919.

  II

  Lanny Budd sat on a wooden stool in a stone cell with a narrow slit for a window, and a cot which had obviously been occupied by many predecessors in misfortune. Perhaps the police were trying to frighten him, and again, perhaps they were just treating him impartially. For company he had his thoughts: a trooping procession, taking their tone-color from the dismal clang of an iron door. Impossible to imagine anything more final, or more crushing! So far, emotions such as this had been communicated to Lanny through the medium of art works. But the reality was far different. You could turn away from a picture, stop playing music, close a book; but in a jail cell you stayed.

  Lanny had no idea how old this barracks was. Had it stood here in the days when Richelieu was breaking the proud French nobility, and had some of them paced the floor of this cell? Had it stood when the Sun King was issuing his lettres de cachet? Had the Cardinal de Rohan been brought here when he was accused of stealing the diamond necklace? It seemed a reasonable guess that some of the aristocrats had sojourned here on their way à la lanterne; and doubtless a long string of those poisoners and wife stranglers who provided the French populace with their daily doses of thrill. All through the Peace Conference Paris had been entertained by the exploits of a certain Landru, who had married, murdered, and buried some eight or nine women. Every now and then the authorities would dig up a new one, and the press would forget the problems of the peace. This happened whenever the situation became tense, and it was freely said at the Crillon that it was done to divert attention from what the delegates were doing.

  The jailers brought Lanny food and water; but he didn’t like the looks of the former, and was afraid the latter might be drugged. He spent most of his time walking up and down—five steps one way and five the other—thinking about his possible mistakes and regretting them. Almost surely the bureau would be digging in its files, and coming upon the name of Lanning Budd as a nephew of Jesse Blackless, revolutionary. Would they find him as son of Beauty Detaze, mistress of Kurt Meissner, alias Dalcroze, much wanted German agent? Phrased in the language of police files, it was certainly most sinister. Lanny recalled the melodramas he had seen on the screen, with the hero lined up before the firing squad and rescuers galloping on horses, or rushing madly through automobile traffic. Invariably they arrived just before the triggers were pulled; but Lanny had been told that the movies were not always reliable. Ride, Robbie, ride!

  The father was supposed to be in conference with some “big” men. Sooner or later he would return to the hotel and find that his belongings had been rifled. He would learn from the elevator boy that Lanny had gone away with two strange men. Would he think that his son had been kidnaped, and apply to the police? That, indeed, would be funny. But Robbie had a shrewd mind, and he knew about his revolutionary brother-in-law, also about Kurt Meissner, alias Dalcroze. He wouldn’t fail to take these into his calculations. He had friends in high position in the city, and Mrs. Emily had still others. The commissaire of the Sûreté Générale would surely get a jolt before many hours had passed!

  The trouble was, the hours passed so slowly. Lanny’s watch was gone, so he couldn’t follow them. He could only observe the slit of light; and at the end of June the days linger long in Paris. Lanny recalled that at three o�
�clock the treaty was to be signed, and he occupied his mind with picturing that historic scene. He knew the Galerie des Glaces, and how they would fix it up with a long horseshoe table, and gilded chairs for the delegates from all the nations of the earth. Most of them would be black-clad; but the military ones would be wearing bright-colored uniforms with rows of medals, and there would be silk-robed pashas and emirs and maharajas and mandarins from where the gorgeous East showers on her kings barbaric pearl and gold. He could picture the equipages rolling up the great avenue, lined with cavalry in steel-blue helmets, with red and white pennants fluttering on their lances. He visioned the palace, with the important personages ascending the great flight of steps, between rows of the Gardes Républicaines, clad in brass cuirasses, white pants, and high black patent-leather boots; on their heads the shiniest of brass helmets with long horsetails stuck in the tops. There would be two of them to each step, their shining sabers at present arms. Inside, the hall would be crowded, and there would be a babel of whispering, the polite chit-chat of the grand monde which Lanny knew so well. How everlastingly delightful to be in places where you were assured that only the really important could come!

  The treaty would be bulky, printed on vellum sheets decorated with numerous red seals. Presumably somebody would have checked it this time and made certain it was right. The enemy signers would be escorted by those huissiers with silver chains who had been the bane of Lanny’s life, because they were forever trying to stop a secretary-translator from entering rooms where his chief had told him to go. Lanny had seen pictures of the two unhappy Germans: one big and beefy, like the proprietor of a Bierstube, the other lean and timid-looking, like a private tutor. They were the scapegoats, carrying the sins of their people, and signing a confession on two dotted lines.

  The huissiers would command silence, and a hush would fall while the pens scratched. A tedious ceremony, for the plenipotentiaries from all over the world had to fall in line and sign four documents: the treaty proper, the protocol with modifications extracted by the German clamor, an agreement regarding the administration of the Rhine districts, and an agreement with Poland regarding the treatment of minorities—she would keep the minorities but not the agreement, Professor Alston had remarked while helping to draft this document.

  Lanny’s imaginings were interrupted by the thunder of cannon. So! It was signed! Those would be the guns on the Place d’Armes; and then a booming farther away—that would be the old fort at Mont Valérien. Shouts from the crowds in the near-by streets—Lanny knew how people would behave, he had done it himself on Armistice day at St. Thomas’s Academy in Connecticut. The biggest banker in that state had warned him that he might get into jail if he didn’t mend his ideas; and sure enough, here he was! He got up and began to pace the floor again.

  Better to go on thinking about the treaty. He had been told by some of the insiders that General Smuts, head of the South African delegation, was going to sign under protest, stating that “We have not yet achieved the real peace for which the peoples are looking.” So, after all, the little group of liberals had not protested in vain! Alston had said that this treaty would keep the world in turmoil for ten years, twenty years, whatever time it took to bring it into line with the Fourteen Points. Was he right? Or was that French general right who had announced to the company at Mrs. Emily’s: “This treaty is turning loose a wounded tiger on the world. He will crawl into a hole and nurse his wounds, and come out hungrier and fiercer than ever”?

  Lanny couldn’t make up his mind about it; nothing to do but wait and see. Some day he would know—provided, of course, the French army didn’t shoot him at sunrise tomorrow morning.

  III

  The sun’s rays do not linger very long in any place, and the light faded quickly from Lanny’s cell. He sat in twilight, and thought: “Surely Robbie must have returned by now!” His stomach was complaining, and in many ways he was tiring of this bad joke. When at last he heard a jailer approaching his cell he was glad, even though it might mean a court martial. “Venez,” said the man; and escorted him to the office of the commissaire again.

  There were the same three officials, and with them, not Robbie, as the prisoner had hoped, but Uncle Jesse! So once more Lanny had to think fast. What did it mean? Doubtless his uncle had been brought in, like himself, as a suspect. Had he talked? And if so, what had he said?

  “M. Budd,” said the commissaire, “your uncle has come here of his own free will to tell us the circumstances by which you came into possession of those documents.” He paused as if expecting Lanny to speak; but Lanny waited. “Will you be so kind as to answer a few questions in his presence?”

  “Monsieur le Commissaire,” said Lanny, “I have already told you that I will answer no questions until my father has come.”

  “You mean that you don’t trust your uncle?” A silence. “Or is it that the gentleman is not your uncle?”

  “It would be such a very simple matter to telephone to my father’s hotel, Monsieur!”

  “We have already done that; but your father is not there.”

  “He is quite certain to arrive before long.”

  “You mean you intend to force us to keep you in this uncomfortable position until we can find your father?”

  “No, Monsieur, I haven’t the least desire to do that. I am willing for you to release me at any time.”

  There was a long silence. Lanny kept his eyes on the commissaire, whose face wore a stern frown. The prisoner wouldn’t have been entirely surprised if the man had said: “Take him out and shoot him now!” He was really surprised when he perceived a slow smile spreading over the features of the elderly official. “Eh bien, mon garçon,” he said, finally. “If I let you have your way, will you promise to harbor no ill feelings?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Lanny, as quickly as he was able to take in the meaning.

  “Don’t think that we are naïve, M. Blocléss,” said the commissaire to the painter. “We have investigated your story. We knew most of it before you came.”

  “I was quite sure that would be the case,” replied Uncle Jesse, with one of his twisted smiles. “Otherwise I might not have come.”

  “You are playing a dangerous game,” continued the other. “I don’t suppose you wish any advice from me; but if we are forced to ask you to leave the country, it will not be without fair warning—now repeated for the second time.”

  “If that misfortune befalls me, Monsieur, I shall be extremely sorry, for France has been my home for the greater part of my life. I shall be sorrier still for the sake of the republic, whose reputation as a shelter for the politically persecuted is the fairest jewel in her crown.”

  “You are a shrewd man, M. Bloc-léss. You know the language of liberty and idealism, and you use it in the service of tyranny and hate.”

  “That is a subject about which we might argue for a long while, Monsieur le Commissaire. I don’t think it would be proper for me to dispute with you in your professional capacity; but if at any time you care to meet me socially, I’ll be most happy to explain my ideas.”

  There was a twinkle in the elderly Frenchman’s eye. Esprit is their specialty, and he knew a good answer when he heard it. He turned to Lanny. “As for you, mon garçon”—taking Lanny into the family—“it appears that you have been the victim of persons older and less scrupulous than yourself. Next time I would advise you to look at papers before you put them into your pocket.”

  “I assure you, Monsieur,” said the youth, respectfully, “I intended to do it as soon as I got to my room.” This too had the light play of humor in which the French delight; so the commissaire said he hoped his guest hadn’t minded his misadventure. Lanny replied that he had found the experience educational, and that stories of crime and detection would be far more vivid to him in future. The suitcase containing Robbie’s papers was restored to Robbie’s son, and the three officials shook hands with him—but not with Uncle Jesse, he noticed. “M. Bloc-léss” was one of the “older an
d less scrupulous persons.”

  IV

  Nephew and uncle stepped out into the twilight; and it seemed to Lanny the most delightful moment he had spent in Paris. Very certainly the Île de la Cité with its bridges and its great cathedral had never appeared more beautiful than in the summer twilight. Flags were out, and the holiday atmosphere prevailed. To everybody else it was because of the signing of the treaty, but there was nothing to prevent Lanny Budd’s applying it to his emergence from the Préfecture.

  The moment was made perfect when a taxi came whirling up the Boulevard du Palais, and there was Robbie Budd peering forth. “Well, what the devil is this?” he cried.

  “You got my note?” inquired Jesse, as Robbie jumped out.

  “That—and your telegram.”

  “I wanted to be sure of reaching you. I was afraid they might hold me, too.”

  “But what is it all about?”

  “Get back into the cab,” said Uncle Jesse. “We can’t talk about it here.”

  The two got in, and Lanny handed in the suitcase, and followed it. When the Préfecture was behind them, the painter said: “Now, Robbie, I’ll tell you the story I just told the commissaire. You remember how, several months back, Professor Alston sent Lanny to me to arrange for a conference between Colonel House and some of the Russian agents in Paris?”

  “I was told about it,” said Robbie, with no cordiality in his tone.

  “Don’t forget that it was United States government business. Lanny did it because it was his job, and I did it because his chief urged me to. I have made it a matter of honor never to force myself upon your son. I have done that out of regard for my sister. Lanny will tell you that it is so.”