The Final Hour

by Caldwell, Taylor;

  ‘And this is the thought: I will purchase Eagle Aviation. You will merge Duval-Bonnet with it, under the name of Eagle Aviation, with you, of course, as president at a very good salary. That ought to appeal to you. Your personal fortune, as Bouchard fortunes go, isn’t very large, thanks to your delightful father. And, as president of the merged companies, you will be in control of the most powerful aeroplane manufacturing combine in the country.’

  Christopher, dazed, his ears ringing, his heart roaring, could only stare at him. Suddenly, he could not contain himself. He literally shot to his feet. He began to move up and down the room, his face chalky, his eyes newly glittering. And Henri watched him, smiling grimly to himself. Christopher stopped before him, abruptly.

  ‘What do you want?’ he asked, in a low and shaking voice.

  ‘Sit down, Chris. I’ve never seen you so agitated.’ Henri was smiling calmly. ‘Good God, is it always a question of a deal between any two of us?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Christopher, in a tone that informed Henri that he was at the breaking point. ‘It is always a question of a deal. What do you want?’

  ‘Sit down, I said. That’s better. Now, we can talk reasonably. What do I want? I want Eagle Aviation. I want you as president. After all, you’re my sister’s husband. By the way, you know I still control Edith’s bonds and shares in

  Bouchard. You’ve thought that ungenerous of me, haven’t you? You’ve wanted to control them, as her husband. Unfortunately, I’ve thought differently. No bad feelings, I hope?’

  Christopher did not answer. He sat on the edge of his chair, his bony hands grasping his knees. He could not look away from Henri.

  ‘Of course, this is still in a state of discussion,’ continued Henri. ‘I may change my mind—tomorrow. I only wanted your reaction to my suggestion.’

  ‘You only wanted—’ repeated Christopher, with a faint and ghastly smile. And then could say nothing more.

  ‘In the event the deal is consummated, and you are willing to merge Duval-Bonnet with Eagle Aviation, and become its president, say at about four times your present salary, I will retain fifty-one per cent of the preferred stock of the combined companies, which will give me the controlling interest. You realize, of course, that I will have to supply you with Giant Motors and Spark instruments.’

  ‘That will give you control, then,’ said Christopher, in a stifled voice, ‘of Duval-Bonnet, too, my own company.’ ‘Only,’ interjected Henri, smoothly, ‘figuratively. I’m not overly interested in aviation. I’ve got Bouchard & Sons, and we’ll be very, very busy soon, manufacturing armaments. Incidentally, did I tell you that on next Monday I purchase the Concord Arms, too? A fine little company! I intend to merge it with Kinsolving Arms, after I’ve had a talk with Francis.’ Christopher was speechless. Only once before in his life had he been so enormously shaken. His rapacity clamoured in him exultantly. He could hardly restrain himself. Yet, he held himself motionless, forced his eyes to battle with the pale eyes of the terrible Henri Bouchard.

  ‘You want something,’ he whispered.

  There was a brief silence in the room. Henri leaned back in his chair and surveyed his brother-in-law with calm intentness. ‘Yes,’ he said quietly, ‘I want something. I want you.’ Christopher heard these words with immediate terror. He thought: Does he know? Is it possible he knows? How could he know? It was incredible that this formidable swine could have heard the slightest whisper. But, if he knew, then he would move. There was still time. There was still time to crush the plotters, and Christopher had no illusions that he, himself, would be spared.

  The two men stared at each other in that silence. There was a singing sound in Christopher’s brain, a sickness about his heart. He tasted the bitterness of complete fright and dread. He tried to pierce behind that large expressionless mask of Henri’s face. But he could read nothing there.

  Mingled with his terror was the rising shout of his exultant rapacity. He was over fifty now, but compared with the other Bouchards (whom he knew laughed at him in private) he was nothing. His enormously wealthy wife’s fortune was still controlled by her brother; her husband could not touch it. Edith’s mother had given that control to Henri, out of her malice and hatred for her daughter. Christopher, in exile in Florida, was a nonentity in his relatives’ eyes, even a ludicrous figure, thanks to Henri Bouchard. Now the opportunity had arrived to give him power equal to any held by any other member of the family, save Henri. It was the fulfilment of a dream dreamt during hundreds of sleepless and gnawing nights of hatred.

  He cried out suddenly, over his suspicions and his terror: ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Good God,’ said Henri, mildly. ‘I’ve told you. Perhaps I’ve had a change of heart, too. After all, Edith is my sister. I’d like to see her more often. Then, as I told you before, you’ve impressed me with your ability. I’ve watched you for years. Who else would I naturally choose for Eagle Aviation, but you? Who else is there, so familiar with the aviation business? Can you name anyone else in the family?’

  Christopher was silent. But his eyes bored into Henri’s, with renewed fear and confusion.

  ‘There’s another thing,’ said Henri, in the gentlest of tones. ‘It’s a matter of precaution. Not that I don’t trust you implicity, of course. But to protect my own interests, I’ll have my own men in the company—to assist you. Only to assist you, naturally.’

  He knows! thought Christopher. And immediately was numb with fright.

  ‘I want you to come in with me,’ said Henri, even more gently. ‘But I want to trust you. You know, I didn’t like Peter’s story about Brouser and Schultzmann. Even though, I am sure, it wasn’t true. Nevertheless, it disturbed me. I don’t like—lies.’

  Christopher rose again, walked up and down, passing his hands over his head in that old gesture of his, so like his father’s. And Henri watched him without expression.

  To accept all this would mean the abandoning of the plot, his association with the others, his dream of power and vengeance. But, he thought, in his fever, there was no need of vengeance now, because of what Henri proposed to do with Celeste. And, plots can be discovered; plotters can be sought out and ruined—destroyed. The plot, though the plotters were themselves powerful, was still precarious, full of mortal danger. This, that Henri was offering, was sure, and certain. But, to accept, would make him Henri’s man. He could not move against Henri without destroying himself. He knows! he repeated to himself, savagely.

  Here was a means of escape from a plot of which he had always had his inner doubts. It would bring him power, wealth, triumph, this escape. It would force him to betrayal, but the betrayal of his relatives would not annoy him in the least! It would be his personal triumph over them, after years of ridicule and none-too-secret laughter.

  He stopped abruptly before Henri, and Henri saw all the polished evil of this man, his cruel exultation, his wild and deadly decision.

  But Henri said, ‘I repeat, I must trust you. And,’ he added, with a smile, ‘you dare not let me distrust you.’

  He looked at his brother-in-law, and waited, impassively. Christopher drew a deep breath. ‘May I offer you a suggestion?’ he asked, in a peculiar voice. ‘Get rid of Antoine, my sparkling nephew. At once.’

  So, thought Henri, it is done, then.

  ‘Yes?’ he said with quietness. ‘Antoine? And who else?’ Christopher sat down again. His breath was still coming in quick and audible gasps. ‘I think we ought to have a little talk,’ he said.

  CHAPTER XIX

  Peter wrote, feverishly, swiftly:

  ‘This is a story told to the middle class of America, of the world. The powerful do not need to be told. They know the story too well. The Masses are incapable of enlightenment, due to a biological immaturity of mind which only centuries of evolution can eradicate. Though they suffer in these days, they suffer as animals suffer, blindly, dumbly, without question, without even a desire for change. The forces of reaction, the strength of the status quo, do not
reside in the mighty, as popularly believed, nor in the cautious middle class, as they believe, themselves, but in the Masses. Therefore an attempt to enlighten the Masses is a failure. The old aphorism of Cæsar’s, that the mob desires only bread and circuses, is still valid. If Cæsar can contrive to make those circuses bloody, resounding with the cries of the dying, the Masses are happy, contented, satisfied, and will return to their hovels and their gutters without a single wish to improve their own lot. Thus, the purpose of circuses.

  ‘Therefore, this book is not dedicated to the illiterate Masses, who are actually the greatest sufferers at the hands of their masters. For it is not the Masses that reform government, that destroy the tyrants, that overthrow the oppressors. The men who lead the Masses, men of goodwill, of compassion, pity, justice and indignation, have come, in most cases, from the enlightened and intelligent middle class. Nor do I desire the support and the anger of the intellectuals, those milky and impotent eunuchs who know little of government, much of dead books, and nothing at all of men. Their vinegar indignations are impotent. Their cries are the cries of acid children. They are ignored by the tyrants, rightly, and regarded with contempt by vigorous and healthy men generally.

  ‘This book, then, is dedicated to that class still least corrupted: the middle class of the world. For this is the class that has given to every republic, every democracy, the soberest soldiers, the best art, the strongest and most decent government, the greatest social improvements, the firmest stability, the clearest minds, the cleanest spiritual morals, the most judicious indignation, the soundest reforms, the most advanced science. When this class is destroyed, the whole nation perishes, whether it be destroyed by the mighty (who are endlessly conspiring against it) or the Masses (who endlessly envy and hate it). It stands alone, sane, strong, sometimes bewildered, often stupidly enraged, almost always healthy, and upon it, and its enlightenment, depend the whole structure of civilization, the whole progressive evolution of man, the whole hope of the future.

  ‘The Masses are easily kept in subjection by the oppressors. In truth, they prefer subjection, strong paternalistic government and autocratic guidance, for they lack the organs with which to think, weigh, judge and plan.

  ‘In America, today, the conspiracy against the middle class has already been hatched, its doom pronounced, its destruction planned. This was done in Germany, by Hitler. If these things are allowed to come to pass in America, we shall see the end of civilization, a reducing of the earth to a habitation of slaves and princes, which condition, though beloved of the Church, sought after by the masters, is so horrible, so repugnant, so appalling, that the last of the men of good will must put nooses about their own necks and die in despair.

  ‘To you, then, the great, sound, healthy and enlightened middle class, I give my salute, all my hopes, all my prayers, knowing that you alone can save the world of men, knowing that you can change America from a royalistic Republic to a Democracy, knowing that only by your own will can you perish, and all of us with you.

  ‘This, America, is the story of your enemies.

  ‘You believe you have many enemies. It is this dull and stupid politician, or this one. It is “Communism,” perhaps. It is this man who would keep you isolated from the world of men, or the man you bitterly denounce as a “war-monger.” It is this President, or this ex-President, it is Hitler or Winston Churchill or Stalin. It is this religion, or that race. You do not like this man with the long nose? You do not like the English, or the French? Perhaps the Jews annoy you? Perhaps the Italians irritate you with their ferocity, or their gaiety, or their laughter? You have been told by your priests and your teachers that all men are brothers, and that God is your father. But someone has told you, has he not, that this is absurd, dangerous, fantastic, the dream of fools who would lead you to war and death and economic ruin?

  ‘Yes, you have many enemies. But the ones you have been given are non-existent. They have been conjured up for you by your true foes, by your masters in America who know no race, no nationality, but who conspire with their secret fellows in every country in the world, not only against you, but against all your brothers under every sun, and against their own people.

  ‘Do you think your American enemies and masters hate and fear and despise their fellow conspirators in Germany, in England, in Italy, in Japan, in South America, in Russia? If you do, you are naïve, and stupid. You are dangerous in your ignorance. And in your danger, America may die.

  ‘Should there be war—and there will be, God have mercy on our souls—do you think your American enemies will sternly refuse to do business with your enemies across the seas? Do you think the masters, the banks, the industries, will automatically put up walls against each other? Again, you are naïve, and stupid. While you die, while you starve, while you struggle, and pray and hope and sacrifice, your American masters will gaily be meeting their co-conspirators in Switzerland, perhaps, or some other “neutral” spot, and financial and utility and war-matériel exchanges will be happily arranged, money and credits passed, all in a spirit of the fondest fellowship, and your ultimate fate decided in an atmosphere that has transcended nationality, race and boundaries. You will probably be in a death-struggle with Germany. But while Britons and Americans are fighting, kneedeep in mud and blood, against Germans and Italians and others, American bankers, British bankers and German bankers will be quietly and fondly meeting together to discuss exchanges of credits in some anonymous little spot. Do you think your newspapers will tell you of this? Again, you are pathetically naïve. No report will reach your ears. The black curtain will be drawn over the conspirators and you will never know.

  ‘While America will be feverishly arming herself and her allies-to-be, your American masters will be arranging for shipments of vital war-necessities to your alleged “enemies” through international cartels. And these war-necessities, translated into guns and bullets and bombers, will be directed against the lives of your sons, your children and your friends.

  ‘Was it Hitler who invented fascism, or Mussolini? Look closer, my brother, into those great offices behind the smoking mills and factories, into that boudoir, into that suave dining-hall where the lustrous ladies and their benefactors sit and devour the riches of the world, into that mighty bank with the bronze doors, into those rooms of the international stock-exchanges, and behind those towering cathedrals in the midst of starved cities. In these places the plot against mankind was invented, planned, carried into world-wide action.

  ‘When Manchuria was invaded, who directed that the matter be reported obscurely, that your antagonism be subtly aroused against the Chinese? When Ethiopia was tortured, who inspired the newspapers with admiring comments that Mussolini had “made the trains in Italy run on time”? When the Spanish Republic was attacked by the hirelings of reaction, slavery and exploitation and ignorance, who was it that told you that the Republic was “Communistic,” criminal, a murderer of innocents and priests? Who was it that deafened your ears against the cries of the tormented and the helpless, and dulled your conscience when your brother was dying? Who was it that distorted news from Russia, that inspired your distrust and hatred, that threatened vague calamities unless Russia was checkmated and restrained, that denied shipments to Russia unless paid for immediately in gold, while other shipments were sent to Germany through international cartels—without gold? Who called Russia “godless, atheistic, plotter against the world, against order, against God, against morality”? Who, when the world of sane and civilized and decent men was betrayed at Munich, hailed the senile Chamberlain as a great man, a hero?

  It is not too late. You have only to look, to understand, to learn. You have only to draw aside the rich curtains and see your despicable enemies whispering together in secret. The men of all nations, who invented Hitler, Mussolini, Franco, and their abominable conspiracies against mankind.

  ‘Among these men your American enemies are the most powerful. These men have decided what forms of government every country shall have
and maintain, betrayed them to their enemies, robbed them of the natural resources of their homelands, elevated madmen to power and authority over subjugated peoples, enlisted priests and princes of the Church in their secret army of destruction, extended their rapacious hands to the farthest corner of the world, decreed how you shall live, what you shall read, eat, wear and think, what politicians you shall support, who good men you shall murder, what victims you shall torture or ignore, what armies you shall maintain or not maintain, whether you shall live, or die in agony and hatred.

  ‘For these men have such undisputed and sinister control of the destinies of the American people, and the destinies of the world, that they can decree what shall be sold, how much shall be sold, how much produced, and at what price, anywhere on earth. They can decree what man shall be elected President of the United States, what our foreign policy shall be, what modifications shall take place in our government, or even decide its overthrow! Who shall sit on the thrones of Europe, who shall control the chancelleries, who shall march, who shall retire, who shall die? These decisions lie in the hands of these men.

  ‘Their hirelings and henchmen in Congress, their labourbaiting organizations, fascist in character, their paid clergymen, satellite businessmen and industrialists, their suborned newspapers and treacherous publishers, their political machines, have, for their ultimate object, the superseding of the political power of the American people, and the establishing of themselves as the supreme dictators over all phases of the life of the world.

  ‘You, the people of America! What agonies you have endured at the hands of these men, in wars, in starvation, in despair, in hopelessness and in poverty, in exploitation and loss of liberty! What agonies you are still to endure—unless you look behind the walls of newspapers, politicians, churchmen and silence, that they have built up about them to hide themselves.