Wide Is the Gate

by Upton Sinclair

  “Very few of us have had training for the work we are doing, Mr. Budd; it is all too new. We have to learn as we go along; we try things and see what happens.”

  “Mr. Roosevelt,” said the grown-up playboy, earnestly; “you are paying me a compliment, and I would hate to seem not to appreciate it. I believe with all my heart in what you are doing, and I would love to be of use to you. But I have ties which compel me to return to Europe and make it impossible for me to settle down to a regular life.”

  “There might be things you could do for me in Europe, and they wouldn’t have to be ‘regular.’”

  There was a silence, with Lanny thinking hard. He glanced about him to make sure they were alone in the room; then, lowering his voice, he began: “There is something I should have to tell you about my own life, before I could be of any service to you. It is so much of a secret that I didn’t mention it to Professor Alston; I haven’t told even my father and mother, whom I love. Not merely my own life but many others might depend upon it.”

  “I am used to receiving confidences, Mr. Budd; and you may be sure that I keep them.”

  “This must never under any circumstances be told or even hinted to any other person.”

  “I promise—unless, of course, it is something contrary to the interests of the United States.”

  “It is nothing of that nature. Many years ago I met in Berlin a young couple, artists, also ardent Social-Democrats, working for freedom and enlightenment in their country. When the Nazis came in, this couple took up what is called underground work; the man was caught, and no doubt has been dead for years. The woman went on with her dangerous tasks in Berlin, and I used to give her money which I earned as commissions on picture deals. When the Gestapo had got all her associates and were hot on her trail, I managed to smuggle her across the border. A year or more later we were secretly married in England. You can see how that dominates my life, and makes it impossible for me to be ‘regular.’”

  “You mean that she is still going on with her activities?”

  “Nothing could induce her to stop. I ramble over Europe, buying pictures for American clients and earning sums of money which I turn over to her. I needn’t go into details about what she does; it is a question of getting the truth into a country which has fallen into the hands of the Prince of Lies.”

  “I quite understand, Mr. Budd; and naturally I sympathize with such efforts.”

  “I make use of the social position of my mother and father, and of their friends; also, of course, the reputation I have been able to build up as an art expert. That gives me a legitimate reason for going into any country, meeting prominent persons, and hearing what the insiders are saying. I have visited Hitler at the Braune Haus in Munich, and at his Berchtesgaden retreat. I have been on hunting trips with General Göring, and had him try to hire me as his secret agent. As I told Professor Alston, I refuse his money, but promise to tell him things in friendship; what I tell him is news I am sure he already knows, or that won’t do any particular harm.”

  “Fabulous, Mr. Budd! Might it not be worth while for you to visit me now and then, and tell me what you learn from General Göring?”

  “I have thought of it, sir. What I am afraid of is, it might kill my opportunities in Germany, and put the Gestapo on my trail. You live of necessity in a glare of publicity; and because I was until recently married to a very rich woman, I too have had more than my share of attention. Many reporters know me, and how could I come to the White House without its arousing curiosity? I don’t need to tell you that the German embassy has its swarm of spies, and that everything of interest is cabled in code to Berlin.”

  “All that is true; but it happens that I often have to act secretly, and I have ways of arranging it. There is a so-called ‘social door’ to the White House, and my friends often slip in unobserved. Also, I have among my personal bodyguards a man whom I have known from his boyhood, and whom I trust. He wouldn’t have to know your name; we would agree upon a code word, and any time you got in touch with him and gave that word, he would report it to me and I would set a time for him to bring you. You would be known as a ‘P.A.,’ that is, ‘Presidential Agent,’ and would have a number. I believe the next number is 103.”

  “Very well, Mr. President. If you feel that I can be of use to you in that way, I will do my best.”

  “Keep an expense account; it will come out of my secret fund.”

  “No, that is not necessary. I am able to earn plenty of money; I have to, because that is my camouflage.”

  “But you like to use the money for your cause, do you not?”

  “I sometimes earn more than can be safely spent by my wife and her associates; and what I do for you would add nothing to my expenses. Let me be one of your dollar-a-year men.”

  XV

  F.D.R. pressed a button on his desk and the woman secretary appeared. “Missy,” he said, “I want to speak to Gus at once.” When the woman had gone he said to Lanny: “Choose a code name. Something unusual and easy to remember.”

  The visitor thought. “How about Zaharoff?”

  “Fine!” said the other, with a chuckle. “How long do you plan to be in this country?”

  “A couple of weeks. I am here to report to some of my clients.”

  “Will you be able to see me again before you leave?”

  “Certainly, if you wish.”

  “I may be able to think up a list of questions to ask you, and matters about which you might try to get information for me.”

  “You will hear from me without fail.”

  A youngish man built like a college fullback entered the room. “Gus,” said the President, “this gentleman is a very special friend whom I shall be seeing now and then. Look him over carefully so that you will know him whenever you meet him. You are not to know his name; we have chosen a code name which he will make use of over the phone, or by mail or wire. The name is Zaharoff. Fix that in your memory.”

  “Zaharoff. O.K., Chief.”

  “Whenever he calls or wires you, you will name a time and place where he can get you again in a few hours, and then you will come to me, and I will make an appointment so that you can bring him to me. Nobody else is to know anything about him, and you are not to mention him under any circumstances. Is that clear?”

  “O.K., Chief.”

  “You will give him the phone numbers of your hotels in Washington and in Poughkeepsie, and any other place where he is likely to find you.” Then, turning to his visitor: “Could you make it convenient to call in a week or two?”

  “You bet,” replied Lanny, doing his best to make himself at home in the land of his fathers.

  “His name is Gus Gennerich, and he used to be a New York cop. Talk to him a little, so that he will know your voice over the phone.”

  Lanny turned to the ex-policeman, who had never taken his eyes off him for a moment. “Mr. Gennerich, I have just been spending a couple of the most interesting hours of my life. I have been meeting a great man and a wise man whom we can trust. He is doing a job for all of us, and we have to be ready to protect him with our lives. You agree with that, I am sure.”

  “I do, sir.”

  “The name we have agreed upon is that of a Greek peasant boy who was born in a Turkish village and who came to be at one time the richest man in the world. He was called the munitions king of Europe, and he was the embodiment of everything that we in America dislike and distrust. Z-A-H-A-R-O-F-F, with the accent on the first syllable. You think now you will know me and my voice?”

  “I think so.”

  Lanny took out his notebook and jotted down the phone numbers which the man gave him. The President said: “That is all, Gus,” and the man went out.

  “Mr. President,” declared Lanny, “you have done me a great honor, and I appreciate it.”

  “A lot of my friends call me ‘Governor,’” replied the other. “It is easier to say, and reminds me of the days when I had only one forty-eighth of the burdens I have now.
May I follow Charlie Alston’s example and call you Lanny?”

  “Indeed you may; and be sure that if you give me a commission, I will do my very best to carry it out. Unless I am mistaken we have hard and dangerous times ahead of us, and you will need men whom you can trust.”

  “I need more of them right now, Lanny, and if you know any, tell me about them. I meant to invite you to stay and have afternoon coffee with us; that is a sort of institution in our family, and you would meet my mother and a couple of my secretaries. But in view of the plans we have in mind, I think you had better just walk out quietly.”

  “I understand, Governor.”

  “Don’t fail to call Gus a week or two from now, for I shall do a lot of thinking in the meantime. Good-by and good luck to you.”

  Lanny went out and got into his car and drove away, saying to himself: “By heck! I have fallen for the Roosevelt charm!”

  2

  Wise as Serpents

  I

  Northward up the valley of the Hudson and into that of the Mohawk, Lanny began one of those motor trips in which he combined business with pleasure. He had learned to drive as a boy, and loved the gentle purring of a well-cared-for motor. He enjoyed the variety of landscapes slipping by; his subconscious mind was pervaded by the presence of nature, even while his thoughts were occupied with his personal problems or the destiny of the world. If the mood took him he might turn on the little radio in the car, a combination of inventions by which music could be brought to millions of homes and to travelers on all the world’s highways.

  Lanny Budd had learned to enjoy those pleasures of the mind and imagination which cost very little and do no harm to any other person. He had learned to take care of himself in a world that was often dangerous. He had learned what he could do, and tried not to grieve because it wasn’t everything. The world was tough and stubborn and changed very slowly; just now it evidently meant to grow worse before it grew better. Jesus, who had lived in a time not so different, had said to his disciples: “Behold, I send you forth as sheep in the midst of wolves: be ye therefore wise as serpents, and harmless as doves.”

  In the trunk of Lanny’s car was a cardfile listing hundreds of paintings with their prices, also a couple of bags containing photographs. He was what the English call a “bagman” and the Americans a “drummer,” but never in either land had there been one so exclusive. He would travel a couple of thousand miles and call upon only half a dozen clients, all of whom had invited him to visit them whenever he could. In each case he had telephoned to make sure the visit would be convenient. He would arrive at a country estate and the servants would carry in his bags; he would spend the night or a week-end, making himself the most acceptable of guests. He would tell about the great ones overseas and what they were doing and saying. He would inspect his host’s art treasures, and would say what he thought with judicious and precise discrimination. He would linger over the last treasure he had purchased for this client, asking how it was “wearing”—meaning whether the client still found pleasure in looking at it. If there was any uncertainty in the tone of the reply, Lanny would say: “You know I could probably get you an offer for it.”

  When the time came to settle down to business and tell this client what the bagman or drummer had in mind for him, it would be one special item which Lanny had come upon in some old castle of the Rhineland or château of the Loire country; something that had caused him to exclaim: “This belongs in the Taft collection”—or whatever it might be. Sometimes he would come in his father’s station-wagon, bringing the painting with him; if he came early, ahead of his host, he would make bold to have the butler take down a painting from the head of the staircase and hang the new treasure, so when the host came in there would be a vision of glory hitting him between the eyes.

  It was Lanny’s practice to let the work speak for itself; never, never could anyone say that he tried to force a sale or revealed anything but critical impersonality. “Be sure, this work will find a home before I get back to Connecticut.” And the host would know this was true, for money was free in America again; the fortunate few had floods of dividends rolling in, and it was a problem to know what to do with them. If you were collecting old masters and wanted an expert to bring you choice items, you behaved in such a way as to earn his respect: that is, you sat down promptly and wrote a check for twenty or forty or possibly a hundred thousand dollars.

  All his life Lanny Budd had been learning how to handle the rich and powerful. In earliest childhood he had watched his father and mother doing it. In those days Robbie had been selling the instruments of killing. Generals and cabinet ministers had been the customers, and duchesses and countesses had been flattering and cajoling and “pulling them in,” all for a fee, of course. Early in his twenties, Lanny had discovered his own line; the sums were smaller but the techniques the same, and the psychology of the victims. The excessively rich were as shy as wild birds; everybody was hunting them and they took wing at the least hint of danger. They were abnormally sensitive and had to be handled as if they were made of wet tissue paper. They would absorb flattery like sponges—but only that subtle kind which assured them that they were above flattery. Each client was a separate problem, and love of beautiful art and love of wonderful self were tied up together in a knot of many complications.

  II

  The last stage of this tour was Pittsburgh, where Lanny’s friend Harry Murchison made and sold immense quantities of plate glass, and was always interested in the latest news about glass-shattering in Europe. Harry had gained about two pounds avoirdupois every year since the outbreak of the World War, when he had come so near to becoming Lanny Budd’s stepfather. Now he was married to his former secretary, and Lanny never tired of observing the speed and certainty with which American women acquire the social arts. Adella Murchison was now a stately matron, perfectly sure of herself and her leadership in the cultural life of her grimy home city. Lanny had provided her with the lingo of the arts, and every time he came visiting she acquired a fresh supply with which to impress her friends. She was willing to pay generously, and when Harry objected: “Where on earth will you put another painting?” she replied: “I have heard you say that no excursion steamer is ever so crowded that there isn’t room for one more passenger.”

  Adella was at their place in the Adirondacks, and Harry said: “I have got me the wings of a dove and I fly to my beloved every weekend.” He invited Lanny to come along, and when Lanny explained that he had an urgent engagement in Washington, his friend countered: “I’ll deliver you in Washington on Monday morning before I come back here.” When Lanny asked about his car, Harry offered to have a man drive it to Washington. When the rich want something, they get it.

  Harry’s dove proved to be a comfortably equipped private plane with seats for a pilot and three passengers. It rose from the Pittsburgh airfield just after business hours and settled gently down on the Lake Placid airfield before sundown. Harry’s secretary had phoned to announce their coming, and Adella was waiting, driving the car herself; they wound through pine forests laden with pungent odors and came to what was called a “camp,” a quite sumptuous slab-sided mansion on a remote little lake. They supped on a platter of fried black bass which had been swimming in those blue waters a couple of hours previously. The couple plied their visitor with questions—Harry about the prospects for more glass-shattering in Europe, and Adella about the friends he had met and the paintings he had discovered on that unhappy but interesting old continent.

  Presently it came out that the Murchisons had seen a play about Queen Elizabeth and the Earl of Leicester, and Lanny perceived that Adella’s imagination had been captured by the brilliant and willful figure of the queen’s lover. “I can tell you where you can get a portrait of his wife,” remarked Lanny, “the unfortunate Amy Robsart. She was married when they were both mere children, and she was killed by falling down a flight of stairs. There were whispers that somebody had thrown her down, as a means of freeing her hu
sband to marry the queen.”

  “Is it a good painting?” asked the plate-glass lady.

  “The painters of that time were none of them of the best. This is supposed to be the work of Marc Gheeraerts, whom the English call ‘Garrard.’ I am not sure if the attribution is justified, but it’s an interesting work. The painter was apparently more concerned with the subject’s elaborately jeweled clothes than with her character. All those Tudor ladies were so stiff in their corsets that it is hard for us to imagine them as having any life.”

  “Where is the painting?”

  “It is at Sandhaven Castle. The owner’s wife is Rosemary, my old flame; they neither of them care much about paintings, and every time Bertie gets into debt she invites me to tea and brings the conversation around to the price of old masters.”

  So it was that Lanny carried on his business, having a cardfile of paintings and another of customers, and matching a card from one with a card from another. Adella lit up right away; she had met Rosemary Codwilliger, pronounced Culliver, and had driven by the castle, and now she asked questions about both, and then about the unfortunate Amy Robsart. Lanny said: “You can read all about her in Sir Walter Scott’s Kenilworth.” He knew that this would make a hit, because Adella liked to have stories about her pictures, things that she could use to interest and impress people.

  “What do you think it could be bought for?” she wanted to know, and he told her he hadn’t asked for a price, but his guess would be something less than a thousand pounds.

  “I’d better not cable, because that might sound as if you were anxious. I am sailing for England at the end of the week and I’ll pay a call on Rosemary and take a stroll along the gallery and lead up to the subject tactfully. The Robsart family was connected with Bertie’s—I don’t remember just how and he probably doesn’t either.”

  “You have sold us so many men,” remarked Adella, referring to her two Goyas and her double Velásquez suspected of being a del Mazo. “It’s time you got me a woman. Is she really pretty?”