The Final Hour

by Caldwell, Taylor;

  Antoine rose again, and moved to the windows. He gazed out upon the snow. Without turning, he asked: ‘And—if he hasn’t—what is your position?’

  Christopher placed his glass carefully on the table, very neatly, very precisely. ‘My position? I haven’t any. Celeste can manage her own affairs, for all of me. She isn’t a child. What she does is her own choice. I can tell you this, however: she won’t divorce our dying Galahad.’

  ‘But, after he is dead?’

  ‘Henri knows on which side his bread is buttered. He won’t divorce Annette. Can you imagine him doing anything so indiscreet? So disastrous?’

  ‘No,’ admitted Antoine, turning from the window. He thrust his hands in his pockets. This gesture did not in the least disturb his elegant appearance or rob his slender quick figure of its grace. Now his face was in such shadow that Christopher could not see it. But he felt its malignant alertness.

  ‘You know, of course, that our angel Celeste has been meeting the Iron Man in some cosy rendezvous in New York, quite regularly?’

  For the first time Christopher showed some perturbation. His hands tightened on the arms of his chair. But he said calmly: ‘Has she? Who is your informant?’

  He felt, rather than saw, Antoine’s wicked smile. ‘I can’t tell you that. But I know the source is authentic. Is it possible you are disturbed, Chris?’

  Christopher deliberately relaxed himself. ‘No,’ he said. ‘As I’ve remarked before, it is Celeste’s affair. But what is all this leading to?’

  Antoine came back to his chair, sat down, leaned towards his uncle, his smile very broad and sparkling. ‘Yes, you’re in with us very deep, Chris. Henri might be interested to know just how deep. We’ve kept minutes, you know. Incidentally, he still hasn’t the slightest idea?’

  ‘I can vouch for that,’ said Christopher, keeping his voice neutral. ‘If he had, don’t you think he would have moved before this? He can still smash us. Yes, as you’ve so subtly pointed out, I’m in this deep. But, as I asked you a moment or two ago: What is all this leading to?’

  ‘Just this,’ replied Antoine, in a sweet tone. ‘If my little sister should hear of these delightful rendezvous, I imagine she will divorce the Grey Glacier promptly. And—if there is a divorce—’ He threw up his hands swiftly, pursed his lips as if blowing away a feather.

  ‘Henri is done,’ concluded Christopher. ‘Well done. My fat brother will throw him out of Bouchard, bonds or no bonds. Of course, in that event, Henri might be moved to wreck Bouchard. Have you thought of that?’

  Antoine was silent. His brown face puckered drily. His eyes fastened on Christopher’s bloodless face, in which the mouth was smiling ever so slightly.

  ‘The plan—your plan—smells,’ said Christopher, still in a very gentle tone. ‘We can’t risk the smashing of Bouchard. Ever heard of Samson? There’s something about Henri that reminds me of Samson.’ He paused, then continued:

  ‘If he wrecked Bouchard, he’d wreck himself, you’d say. And what of you? You’re Secretary of Bouchard. Would you enjoy being part of the wreckage?’

  Antoine did not answer. He began to rub his puckered mouth very daintily with one forefinger. It was not a usual habit with him. Christopher saw the gesture, and suddenly it was as if there had occurred an appalling explosion in his chest. He remembered that gesture, delicate, reflective; it was his father’s very own. Now he was alive, burning, quickening, with the most fantastic and irresistible hatred for Antoine. His hands clenched on the arms of his chair, and his transparent nostrils dilated. By some trick of the firelight, playing on Antoine’s features, so brown and taut and narrow, it was Jules’ face that was turned to Christopher.

  ‘You wouldn’t enjoy the wreckage,’ he repeated, in a strangely hoarse voice.

  Antoine began to simile. ‘So. You are still involved with your darling, eh?’

  The explosion of uncontrolled hatred in Christopher was still shaking him. But he said, calmly enough: ‘Suppose we leave my sister out of this? I’ve merely pointed out to you that you can’t polish off Henri without ruining yourself. Do you want to risk it?’

  He was surprised when Antoine said thoughtfully: ‘I’d like to see the old fool’s will. Of course, Annette will have her share. There is also my share. There will be provision, naturally, for Henri to be retained as president of Bouchard. Nevertheless, I’d like to know the exact terms of the will. Have you any idea? Papa is your brother, after all.’

  ‘We’ve not been very devoted, you will remember,’ Christopher pointed out. His triumph was hardly less disastrous in its physical effect on him than his hatred. ‘He’d hardly confide in me.’

  ‘You’ve got the same firm of lawyers. You could find out, Chris. A few discreet questions.’

  Christopher was silent. But he was smiling again. He gloated inwardly. For the first time, he had exulted over his father in exulting over Antoine.

  Antoine sighed, flung out his hands again. ‘Yes, as you’ve remarked, the plan smells. I was very fond of it. There were personal implications, too. I’ll keep it in mind, however. If we are forced to use it, you won’t object.’

  ‘Why should I?’

  Antoine was suddenly relieved as he thought of something. ‘We’ll keep things quiet for a year. By that time, most probably, it won’t matter. Old Stone Face won’t be in a position to smash Bouchard. Still, I’d like to know about that will.’ He studied Christopher intently. ‘I’m rather fond of my sister, too.’

  Christopher laughed a little. ‘You know how she adores Henri. Annette’s no imbecile. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if she had some idea of Henri’s frequent little depredations. Wives always know by some damned intuition. If she hasn’t made any objection in the past, she won’t, now.’

  ‘She might be forced to.’

  Christopher lit a cigarette. ‘I wouldn’t rely on that. And now, shall we drop the subject? We have more important things to discuss, I think, than the state of women’s hearts.’ Antoine began to laugh amiably. ‘How do you like our hero, Jaeckle? He’s costing us five thousand dollars a month, but he’s worth it’

  ‘It was a clever move,’ admitted Christopher. ‘Five thousand dollars? Out of whose pocket?’

  ‘The general fund, of course. Rosemarie managed it very nicely. At our next meeting, I suggest a considerable increase in the funds for the Committee. It now has three more subsidiary committees, too, which need financing. Especially in the South, among the Ku Kluxers. We’re taking up the Negro angle, there. Negroes in the South, Jews in the North, Mexicans in the Southwest, labour in the East. A very neat programme, if I say it myself. We can so disorganize the damn country that it will stop staring at Europe for a while. We need that, while we complete our plans. Hitler must have a clear field; he mustn’t be annoyed by alarmed preparations in America. Disunity must be stimulated. It won’t be hard. The mob hasn’t the brains of a louse.

  ‘Rosemarie is a very bright girl. The Family hasn’t appreciated her enough. She is now organizing a pacifist society to be called “Mothers of America.” All the mamas in the throes of libido will join with enthusiasm, to protect their “boys.” We’ve begun to subsidize Halliday, too, as you know. Three thousand a month. Our next step will be to organize the middle class. Have you heard of that Irish scoundrel, Patrick McHenry, of New York? He’s been clamouring for years that Roosevelt is out to liquidate the middle class, but no one has listened to him very closely because he lacks funds. We intend to supply them.’

  Christopher had been listening keenly. At intervals, he had nodded his head with an air of grave approval.

  ‘We’ll give Roosevelt enough to think of right at home without troubling his tender heart over Europe,’ added Antoine. He paused. ‘You think all this very crude? It lacks finesse? When has it ever been necessary to use elegant tactics with the masses? Especially the American masses?’

  ‘I haven’t said I’ve thought it crude,’ said Christopher.

  Antoine thought of something else.
‘By the way, have you heard the latest commentator, Gilbert Small? We’re outlining a plan for Jaeckle to denounce him as a Communist, a tool of Stalin, a warmonger, an interventionist and hireling of the New Deal and dupe of Britain. We have a dossier on him. It’s unfortunate that he isn’t a Jew. He isn’t even a New Yorker, which is always good for our brand of propaganda. He’s a Middle Westerner, and his mother is a native of Martin Dies’ own State. All this has disarmed us, temporarily. He, too, again unfortunately, is a war hero. We tried to find a connection between him and the Spanish Communists, but I must admit that his dispatches to his former newspaper, the New York Times, were fine examples of neutral and dispassionate reporting. Moreover, as you know, he wrote a book on Russia which has forever barred him from Stalin’s bailiwick. Nevertheless, for public purposes, he is a Communist. We’ve put pressure on the broadcasting chain which allows him to spill his trash on the air. But for some mysterious reason they are resistant, in spite of threats. And, mystery again, he is acquiring a huge following in America. Have you heard him at all?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Christopher, thoughtfully, ‘I have. His scripts are excellent. Just the right amount of fire, and very logical. Simple, too, and moving. Not his style, which was always rather dull and reportorial. I wonder who is really writing his scripts?’

  ‘We’ve tried to discover that, too. But it remains a mystery. He’s dangerous to us. He’s connected with the American Freedom Association. I’d like to know who is financing that Association, too. None of our boys, you can be sure of that.’ Christopher’s face was properly serious and interested.

  ‘Of course,’ continued Antoine, ‘our America Only Committee has over three million members to date, while the American Freedom Association has less than two million, if that. And our Committee is growing larger every day.’ He laughed. ‘The Association has made the mistake of hiring gentlemen and scholars, with the exception of Small. Whereas we concentrate on clever hoodlums, rabble-rousers and liars. Consequently, we shall always be more potent in America than the Association.’ His spirits were rising. His love for intrigue was rampant. Christopher watched him closely.

  ‘Have you been to see your revered father-in-law, Boland, recently, about shipments of oil and aluminium to Germany? And what about Canada? The shipment of nickel?’

  ‘I’m to see him while I am in New York, Chris. Italy has almost enough aluminium for Hitler. But the petroleum and the nickel are other matters. The nickel problem will be settled next week. Our subsidiary in Canada has its orders. It is just a matter of quiet ships to South America, and that is being arranged, also. But more important than this: I’m to see Phyllis’s husband and father-in-law, the Morse National, next week. Hitler needs huge funds in the near future. Loans can be arranged through the banks in South America, not to mention the Banque de France and the Bank of England, and others. Dr Schacht will meet our representatives in Switzerland sometime during the next three months. By the way, Rosemarie’s little sister, Phyllis, is organizing the Catholic Wives and Mothers of America, to assist our Committee. We expect it to be a potent organization.’

  There was a soft tap at the door, which opened slowly, to reveal the rosy round face of Mrs Antoine. ‘Tea, dears,’ she chirped, fondly. ‘And darling Annette is here, too, Uncle Christopher. Have you finished your very, very important business?’

  CHAPTER XXXI

  There was a great hot fire in one of the vast drawing-rooms, and there, as though crouching about heat and light in the immensity of some primordial cave, full of looming shadows and shadowy carved ceiling far overhead, sat young Mrs Antoine, Annette and Armand. The firelight sparkled rosily on the pale silver, picking out the elaborate curve of handle or lid, and lying in pink reflection in the waiting shells of teacups. Behind them lurged the dim shapes of heavy furniture and the glimmering backs of long tables, like prehistoric animals, half-seen in the flickering light. The draperies had been drawn on windows that reached from floor to ceiling, and were the shape of cathedral apertures. But the wind roared and bent against them like a strong resistant presence, and in quieter intervals one could hear the dry hiss of snow. Sometimes the fire flared up to show the dark gilded portraits on the walls, their spectral faces seemingly coming alive and growing vivid for an instant.

  Antoine and Christopher joined the group about the fire. Antoine was all affability, his sparkling smile quite radiant and full of laughter. Mrs Antoine, serenely pouring tea, glanced at him fondly from time to time, her round rosy face blooming with health and placidity, her short plump figure already betraying signs of approaching maternity. Dear Tony is such a wit, she thought to herself. He quite brightens up even such a day as this. She was very happy.

  Armand had spread a huge white napkin over his fat knees. His clothing, as usual, was crumpled and soiled. Between the spaces of his thin grey curls his big round scalp gleamed. He had become very old these last three months, but calmer, almost contented, since the marriage of his son. Behind his glasses, his tiny black eyes were less frightened, less apprehensive. Nevertheless, when he saw Antoine and Christopher, his pudgy features tightened, and he said, in a strange voice: ‘Winter’s come early this year.’

  Christopher lifted his head alertly and turned his enigmatic eyes upon his brother. But Antoine said lightly: ‘Wars always bring early and hard winters.’

  ‘What’ve you two been plotting about, again?’ asked Armand, wiping away crumbs from his thick lips. He smiled, but again that smile was uneasy, and fearful, and cunning.

  ‘Would you like to know?’ countered Christopher, and now a cruel and amused gleam passed over his attenuated face.

  Armand lifted his hands and fluttered them. The plate tilted precariously on his knee, and he caught it just as it was about to slide, with its contents, upon the floor. ‘No, no,’ he said, very quickly, and with another frightened smile. ‘I’m done with all that. I only want to be left in peace.’

  He rubbed a drop or two of tea from his vest. Christopher saw that his hand was shaking. The old man, his eyes searching for refuge, encountered his daughter, Annette.

  ‘Tony never plots; he’s’ too gay,’ said young Mrs Antoine, gracefully filling cups for her husband and ‘Uncle Christopher.’

  ‘She means, the darling, that I haven’t the brains to “plot,”’ said Antoine, deftly kissing the plump little hand that gave him his cup.

  Mrs Antoine smiled comfortably. ‘How you change the meaning of my words! I never meant that, Tony. I only meant you are just too sweet and happy to care much about anything except your books and your pictures. And some are ugly pictures! Especially that—that Renoir. Such fat women; no shape at all.’

  ‘In the sunlight, your body would look just like a Renoir,’ said Antoine gallantly. ‘All rosy plumpness and mother-of-pearl shadows.’

  Mrs Antoine giggled and blushed. ‘How would you know, you naughty boy? You’ve never seen me in sunlight.’

  Annette, beyond greeting her brother and uncle with a faint smile, had said nothing. She sat near her father, her black wool dress making her appear more fragile and wan than ever. Her little triangular face was quite haggard, and seemed to have dwindled lately. But the great pale-blue eyes, so full of light, were gentler and more profound than they had ever been. The firelight sparkled in her cloud of fine light hair, so that her head was haloed.

  Antoine’s vivid glance dwelt on her musingly for a moment. Then he said: ‘Where’s the Iron Man? Didn’t he come with you, Annette?’

  ‘No. He had to leave for Washington this morning. I presume you mean Henri?’ replied Annette, with her quiet bright smile.

  ‘I think Henri’s a darling,’ prattled Mrs Antoine, looking about her contentedly, and loving her relatives. ‘He says the nicest things to me. He told me last week that I was just what I was made for, and that you deserved me, Tony. Wasn’t that, sweet?’

  ‘Very,’ answered Antoine, wryly. Christopher was laughing, his silent and virulent laughter which made his death’s-head o
f a face quite startling in the firelight. Antoine again turned to his sister. ‘You came alone, rabbit? Why didn’t Celeste come, too? I thought you were such friends.’

  Annette stirred her tea, and accepted a tiny sandwich from the gilt plate which Mrs Antoine was pressing upon her. Her face was very calm and still. ‘Celeste’s in New York. Last-minute discussion with the decorators. I understand there are a pair of silver lamps on Madison Avenue that she wants, and the decorators are quite violently against them. She intends to settle the argument, and bring the lamps back with her.’

  ‘So,’ said Antoine, slowly, looking at Christopher, and smiling evilly, ‘you and Peter are alone in your tombs. You in your warm tomb, and Peter in his glass and chromium mausoleum. You ought to have invited him, Mary.’

  For an instant Mary was uneasy and embarrassed. ‘Oh, I’ve invited both Uncle Peter and Aunt Celeste very often, dear! But they never come. They haven’t been here since October. Dear Uncle Peter depresses me so; he looks so ilL And Dr Gordon doesn’t think I should be depressed.’

  Christopher was no longer smiling. His features had the colour and texture of plaster again. He sipped his tea thoughtfully. But Antoine was grinning diabolically. He hummed very softly under his breath.

  ‘Celeste hopes to have the new house completely ready by Christmas,’ remarked Annette. ‘She has already invited us for Christmas dinner. All of the family who will be in Windsor at that time. There are only a few things to do to complete the house.’

  ‘Such as the lamps, from Madison Avenue,’ agreed Antoine, smiling at her.

  For a long moment brother and sister regarded each other in a suddenly rigid silence. Annette’s little face was pale and shining, her eyes resolutely bright. ‘Such as the lamps,’ she agreed, at last. Her hand did not shake as she held her cup.

  As he stared at her, Antoine’s face lost its evil look, became dark and closed and brown in the wavering light. There was a peculiar pain in his chest, a most unfamiliar pain. He turned away from her, but he knew that she still gazed at him, indomitable in her fragility, and at bay. She knows, he thought.