A World to Win

by Sinclair, Upton;

  VII

  “M. Budd,” said the leader without any preliminaries, “would you be so kind as to tell us what is your business in France?”

  It was going to be a polite session; and politeness was Lanny Budd’s specialty. “Mais certainement, Monsieur. I have several businesses. I am an art expert, purchasing old masters for American collections. I sometimes attend to matters for my father, who manufactures airplanes and supplied many to the French government from the outset of the war to the end. Also, you must understand that my mother has her home at Juan-les-Pins, and I have lived there most of my life, ever since I was a child in arms.”

  “What are your political ideas, M. Budd?”

  “I used to have political ideas, Monsieur, but I discovered that I was living in a time of strife and intolerance; since I am a man of peace, I decided to confine myself to my study of paintings. I am taking part in the forming of several great collections which will find their place in museums in the United States, and which I hope will help to raise the cultural level of that country.”

  “You take no part in politics?”

  “None whatever, Monsieur. People try to draw me into discussions, and when they do, I listen politely to what they have to say, and tell them that I have my own specialty, and leave the solution of social problems to those who are more competent to deal with them.”

  “You have traveled a great deal to Germany?”

  “Yes, Monsieur.”

  “And you know Hitler personally?”

  “He has been one of many clients. He purchased half a dozen of the works of Marcel Detaze, the great French painter who was my stepfather, as you may possibly know, and who died in the war to save la patrie.”

  “You have never discussed political ideas with Hitler?”

  “Monsieur, one does not discuss political ideas with Herr Hitler; one listens, often for hours at a time. I listened to such good effect that he asked me to find him some good examples of Defregger, the Austrian painter who paints peasants. I could see no harm in doing that, and he paid me the customary ten per cent commission.”

  “You know Göring also?”

  “I first met General Göring, as he was then, when he put a Jewish friend of mine in prison. I was able to persuade him to release this friend for a high price; then he became interested in my judgment as an art expert, and employed me to market some of his paintings in New York and to purchase for him certain examples of American paintings.”

  “You appear to be very successful in persuading people, M. Budd.” There was just a hint of sarcasm in the tone, and a suggestion: “You may not find it so easy this time!” The inquisitor continued: “You were with Hitler and Göring in Paris, were you not?”

  Lanny thought: They have a good intelligence service! Ordinarily he would have been glad, but not just now. He replied: “I was invited to meet Herr Hitler at the Crillon, and I went.”

  “To talk to him about paintings?”

  “I could not know what he wished to talk about. As a matter of fact, what he talked about was his great admiration for Napoleon Bonaparte.”

  “And nothing about politics whatever?”

  “He talked about his plans, and I was embarrassed, because I did not want the responsibility of having such knowledge.”

  “Did you talk to others about them?”

  “I was not told that anything was confidential, and I answered any questions that my friends asked on the subject.”

  “You were in Vichy not long ago, M. Budd?”

  “I travel all over France. I have bought three paintings in Vichy in the past few months.”

  “You met Laval, did you not?”

  “M. Laval owns a fine old historical painting in Châteldon, and he was courteous enough to permit me to view it.”

  “You called on Darlan, also. Does he own paintings?”

  “Admiral Darlan was a visitor in my mother’s home nearly twenty years ago. I reminded him of that, and asked him if he could do me the favor to let me travel to my mother’s home in any sort of camion, transportation being so difficult in these times.”

  “And you did not have political discussions with any of these persons you know so well?”

  “I did what I always do, Monsieur; I listened to what they had to tell me, and expressed no opinion, because that would have been presumption.”

  “And what do you do with all this confidential information that you collect?”

  “None of it is confidential, Monsieur; I never permit anyone to put me in such a position. If a man says to me: ‘I am going to tell you something confidential,’ I reply quickly: ‘Please do not, for I do not wish to carry such a responsibility. There are many chances of leakage, and I do not wish anyone to think of me as the possible source of a leak.’ People of good sense respect that attitude; and people who understand what great art is appreciate that a man of art is a neutral, one whose values are permanent, and above the battle of the factions. You may recall that Romain Rolland wrote a book with that title, Au-dessus de la mêlée.”

  VIII

  This was a P.A.’s regular “spiel”; the story he told to all except the outright Nazi-Fascists on the one hand, and his few trusted friends on the other. How well it might go down with these men he could not judge, for he did not see the expressions on their faces, and they had given few hints as to what they had learned about him. Evidently somebody had been watching him for a considerable time, and had reports on him from Paris as well as Vichy.

  “Search him,” commanded the leader, still in the even voice. This was a moment which Lanny had been anticipating—with no pleasure. The burly fellow who was his keeper dipped a hand into the prisoner’s right overcoat pocket and drew out a wad of banknotes, just about all that his large hand could encompass. “Jésu!” he exclaimed, and held them up; it would have been a safe guess that he had never seen that much money at any time in his life.

  The leader took the wad, and the man plunged his hand into the left overcoat pocket and repeated the performance. “Une banque ambulante!” remarked the leader, and took off his hat to hold the treasure. The search went on, and a few banknotes came from the breast pocket of the overcoat and a huge wad from the inside breast pocket. Then came the turn of the coat, and handfuls emerged from both side pockets and the inside breast pocket; then the trousers, the side pockets, and a back pocket. Two hats were required to hold it all, and they were spilling over. “Is that all, M. Budd?” inquired the man. “Or shall we strip you?”

  “You have it all,” Lanny said; “ma parole d’honneur.” He preserved the tone of polite irony which had been set for this conference.

  “May I inquire, M. Budd—you do not trust the financial institutions of l’État Français?”

  “I have already explained to you, Monsieur, I am in the business of purchasing art works. I came to Toulon with the expectation of making a deal.”

  “You may save me time if you will give me an idea as to how much money we have here.”

  “Certainly, Monsieur; about fifty thousand francs.”

  “You would pay that much for a painting?”

  “On a number of occasions I have paid several million francs, Monsieur.”

  “Diable! And you always pay in banknotes?”

  “When I am dealing with strangers, yes. I find the psychological effect of the actual money is very great. I decide what I think a painting is worth, and I count that out in cash. Very few people are able to resist the sight, and when I start putting the money back into my pockets they hasten to accept my offer.”

  This information produced the first signs of life in this strangely silent band. They had sat perfectly motionless, letting their leader do all the talking. But now they chuckled; and Lanny thought, what a sensation he might have created by stating the fact: “All this money was intended for you.” He might have brought this uncomfortable session to a sudden end if he had remarked: “Comrades, I am one of you. All you have to do is to ask Raoul Palma, whom you do
ubtless know. He will tell you that I have been bringing him both information and money, ever since Nazi-Fascism got its start.”

  But of course he couldn’t say that; to do so would be to put an end to his career as presidential agent. He might have said: “Comrades, I put you on your honor to keep my secret.” But suppose that some one of these six happened to be a spy of the government, watching this band and getting ready to turn them in? That was how the game was being played, plot and counterplot, spying and counter-spying, all over this wartorn old Continent. Or suppose that one of the six couldn’t resist the temptation to entrust so thrilling a secret to his wife or his sweetheart? The story would spread with the speed of electricity; it would reach the authorities in Toulon, then in Vichy, then Paris, then Berlin. The son of Budd-Erling would find himself arrested again, and this time his interrogation would be far less suave.

  No, he had to find some way to talk himself out of this mess. He must hold onto this secret, at least up to the moment before the last. Manifestly, he would be of no use to President Roosevelt if he were dead and buried in this rocky wilderness; so, if it came to the last extreme, he would surely confess, and go back to the land of his forefathers and marry Laurel Creston—or would it be Peggy Remsen, or Lizbeth Holdenhurst? The only trouble about this program was that these men of the underground might not take the trouble to give him formal notice of their decision; they might think it more polite for one of them to step up behind him silently and put a bullet into the base of his skull. That thought made it somewhat difficult for Lanny to concentrate on intellectual conversation.

  IX

  Besides paper money, the search had yielded a watch, a fountain pen, and a small pocket comb used by a gentleman with carefully trimmed wavy brown hair. Also there were documents: a passport book, a travel permit, a carte d’identification, and several of those letters concerning art deals which Lanny Budd was careful never to be without. The leader examined them—he knew English, it appeared—and then ordered them returned to the prisoner. “Concerning the money, we shall decide later, M. Budd. We desire you to understand that we are not bandits, but French patriots.”

  “I, too, have always counted myself a French patriot,” declared the captive quickly. “I have lived in France most of my life, and have never broken any law that I am aware of. I would take it as a courtesy if you would give me some idea of what I am accused.”

  “We will tell you in good time. We are awaiting the arrival of an investigator. In the meantime, I regret to say it will be necessary to bind you for the night.”

  “I point out, Monsieur, that ropes, if they are tight, stop the circulation of the blood, and that is particularly dangerous on a cold night like this.”

  “We will cause you as little trouble as possible, M. Budd.”

  Lanny decided that the man who tied him must be, not a peasant, but a sailor. He made fancy knots that were not too right about Lanny’s ankles but that wouldn’t slip over his feet. He did the same for the wrists behind Lanny’s back. The others rolled the logs out of the way, preparing to sleep close to the fire. They spread a blanket for Lanny and covered him up with half of it. He observed that several proposed to sleep without blankets, and he was touched by this. It was a circumstance he had noted through all the revolutions which had occurred on this bloodstained Continent since his childhood; the revolutionists had so often been humane toward their opponents, and sometimes had lost their cause on that account. This had been the case in Germany, in Hungary, in Spain; and wherever the reactionaries had come back into power, they had killed ten for every one their opponents had killed.

  But that wouldn’t help a P.A., if he happened to be one whom the revolutionists thought they had to kill. He felt sure they hadn’t brought him to this rendezvous in order to lecture him or to frighten him; they must be intending to close his mouth for keeps; and what more likely than that they meant to do it in a painless manner while he was asleep? So Lanny didn’t go to sleep, but lay with his feet stretched out to the warmth of the fire and thought as hard as ever he had done in his life hitherto. They could hardly be intending to shoot him because he had carried messages from Pétain and Madame de Portes, mistress of the Premier of France, to Lord Wickthorpe in England; nor yet because he had talked with Hitler and Göring, and later with Laval and Darlan. None of these messages had been written, so what evidence could there be concerning them?

  It must be they thought he had betrayed somebody to the Nazis, or to the collaborateurs. And who could it be? What trip had he taken or what word had he spoken that could have caused blame to be fixed upon him? Could it be that Raoul Palma had just been arrested, and that he, Raoul’s friend from old times, was under suspicion for this? Could it be that his visits to the bookstore had been observed and misinterpreted? Was his visit to the commandant of the port being connected with some conspiracy against the de Gaullists? There was bound to be a deadly war going on between the authorities here and those who held them to be traitors to la belle Marianne. It would be a war of knife and dagger, of grenades and dynamite, and it would be growing hotter every day as pressure of the Nazis increased. Somehow—perhaps he would never know how—a bland and elegant étranger had blundered in between the firing lines of this bitter fraternal strife!

  X

  Lanny tried his bonds enough to make certain there was nothing he could do except to tear the skin off his wrists. He might have chafed the ropes against a rock, but he could only have got to a rock by hopping, and that would surely have awakened the men. The rope tied to Lanny’s ankles was attached to the wrist of the man who was his special keeper, and who lay flat on his back on the cold ground, snoring loudly into one of Lanny’s ears. Perhaps this crowd would have liked nothing better than to have the prisoner attempt to escape, so that they might apply to him what the Spaniards called la ley de fuga. The fire was dying, and the cold creeping nearer, but Lanny’s trembling wasn’t due to that.

  He was determined not to fall asleep, because he wanted to speak one sentence before anybody pulled the trigger of a gun. His eyes roamed from one to another of the sleeping forms. The leader was on the other side of the fire, wrapped in a blanket like the prisoner. Apparently there was a distinction made in favor of the intellectuals, as being more delicate and perishable; or perhaps it was up to each man to bring a blanket if he wanted one. The wind had died down, and deadly cold seemed to be settling in this little valley; he wondered, was it high enough for snow in these mountains? They had seemed high, but perhaps that was because he was climbing them in the dark and his wrists had hurt.

  Lying on one side with your hands tied behind your back is a far from comfortable position; especially when the fire is dying and the cold creeping into your bones. Lanny couldn’t roll over without pulling on the rope and awakening his keeper; he had the impression that this keeper didn’t like him anyway, and if the man’s sleep was disturbed he might cast his vote for the immediate ending of his own discomfort. Lanny remembered a long night he had spent, waiting while Monck and a locksmith were trying to rescue Trudi from the Château de Belcour; this was another night of anxious waiting, and Lanny couldn’t guess the time, or how far away the dawn might be. He decided that it was the stupidest misadventure he had ever got into, and called himself a booby many times over for having gone off driving with a strange woman, no matter how well mannered. Marie Jeanne Richard—that was a nom de ruse, undoubtedly. Who would she be? He imagined melodramatic things about her; she was a member of the d’Avrienne family, or perhaps the mistress of the commandant of the port. She had despised Lanny as a Fascist, and had done to him what he would have liked to do to every Fascist in the world!

  XI

  The captive could lift his head a little, and he looked at the dying fire. The moon had come up, and was sending faint shafts of light through the pine trees. Lanny saw, or thought he saw, a movement of one of the men who lay on the opposite side of the fire. The man raised his head, and then got up on his hands and knees and beg
an to creep backward, away from the fire. Perhaps he was going to put some more wood on, without awakening his fellows; that would be a service which Lanny would appreciate. The man got up and began to tiptoe, and Lanny watched him as far as his eyes could follow. He was the one whom Lanny had noted as having a Ligurian accent. He was coming around to Lanny’s side of the circle and presently he was where Lanny couldn’t see him without turning over.

  The horrid idea flashed over the prisoner’s mind that this might be the moment; this fellow had been ordered to put him out of his misery. Usually they did it with a shot from the rear, just at the base of the skull; that destroyed the medulla and was painless. This time, since Lanny was lying on his side, a shot in the ear would be wiser, to avoid the chance of hitting the next man. Lanny’s heart was pounding wildly and he could hardly breathe; he heard the man behind him, right over him. Now, if ever, was the moment to shout: “It is all a mistake! I am one of you!”

  The fellow had got down on his knees; his face came close, his warm breath in Lanny’s ear. The latter checked his mad impulse, realizing that this was not the posture of an assassin. The man was about to speak to him; and the next moment Lanny heard, in the faintest imaginable whisper, four French words: “Combien pour votre liberté?”

  How much for your freedom! So, there was a traitor among the group, just as Lanny thought likely! Or, at any rate, a man who was offering to turn traitor! That psychology which Lanny had expounded had worked right while he was speaking; this fellow had gazed, with eyes popping behind his mask, at enough banknotes to fill two hats and some spilling over, and he had decided that he was in contact with one of those most godlike of human beings, an American millionaire: Who in the world, from China to Peru, has not seen them on the cinema screen, scattering largess, commanding miracles—mountains to be removed and palaces to arise!