He wanted to question the son of Budd-Erling and proceeded to put him through the same sort of grilling as Alston had done. He desired to know everything there was to know about conditions in Unoccupied France and French North Africa. Not merely did he have to consider what materials must be allotted for a campaign there, but he had to start guessing what foodstuffs and other supplies might be required later. Lanny told him that the natives, who wore nothing but cotton sheeting, were pretty nearly in rags now, and what they would look like after the havoc of an invasion was beyond any P.A.’s power to guess. A curious whim of destiny, that a harnessmaker’s son from a town of the corn-and-hog country should have the job of deciding what food should be eaten and what clothing worn by the people of Morocco and Dahomey and Iceland and Trinidad and China and the Solomon Islands and pretty nearly every other strange part of the world you could think of!
VII
The competent Baker came and took Lanny back to the town. On the way he said that he had been instructed to provide Mr. Budd with a properly visaed passport, and when would he want it? Lanny said in about a week, and Baker said he would have to be in New York before that and would deliver the document personally. Also he would provide a ticket for him on the Clipper. Lanny gave Baker his phone number, and that was that.
The sensible thing would have been to stop at a hotel for the night; but the breeze was cool, and the moonlight on this foothill country so lovely, that he decided he would rather drive and think out some of his problems on the way. How many things he had to think about! He had been born into a time of strain and suffering, but at least nobody could say that it lacked variety, nobody had a right to be bored! Lanny had identified himself with a cause, and he lived in that and for that, and it kept him busy most of the time. Only rarely did the thought occur to him that the cause might fail; and those were indeed uncomfortable moments. In that case, he reflected, he wouldn’t want to survive—and probably would not be allowed to.
Back by the same road he had come, a dog’s journey, as the saying goes. West of Wilmington he picked up Highway Number 1 again, and it wasn’t so crowded at one o’clock in the morning. The great trucks were moving slowly; the factories were blacked out—but all of them full of activity. Night or day was the same in wartime, and Lanny knew that was the case all over this vast land. America was going into action, preparing to show the world what a free people could do in the machine age. The P.A. had been that night in the brain center where the whole project had been conceived and from which it was directed. His whole being was afire with the sense of living in a great period of history, of seeing the world’s future in the making. With Tennyson’s Ulysses he could say:
Much have I seen and known; cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honor’d of them all.
It was after three o’clock when he arrived at the apartment. He had a key and let himself in quietly. He undressed in his own room, and the first awareness Laurel had of his presence was when he slid into bed beside her. He said: “Go to sleep again. I am tired.” She complied, and when later on she opened her eyes at the normal hour she lay still so as not to disturb him. That was easy for one who had not made herself a slave of the coffee habit and who found this hour of fresh awakening a good time to plan the story she was going to write that day.
Later they prepared the combination meal known as “brunch,” and afterward he told her the news that he was scheduled to leave in a week or so. She could not hide the look of distress which crossed her sensitive features, and he hastened to say: “I am one of the lucky ones, darling. I’m not going to be in any danger. I am only going where I have been before; first to London, where the bombing now amounts to almost nothing; then to Vichy France and Algiers, where there is no bombing at all.”
“And when am I to expect you back, Lanny?”
“I can’t be sure about that. It is usually two or three months. It will surely be before your confinement—if you take care of yourself and don’t overwork.”
She made the promise, but he wasn’t sure that she would keep it. She, too, had a stern master, who went by the name of Art, and sometimes she couldn’t be sure whether it was more important to produce a baby or a minor masterpiece. She was modest about her talents but quietly determined to make the most of them, and she was rebellious against the vegetative state her condition called for.
“Listen, dear,” he said, to spare her feelings; “there are interesting things that I would give anything to be able to tell you; but I am under explicit orders. It appears that the military forces are especially afraid of wives.”
This brought a sparkle of mischief into her brown eyes. “I grant you, I have known a few who would not be good keepers of secrets; but I have also known men of the same sort.”
He answered: “Professor Alston tells me that in one single project with which I am concerned there are thousands of wives who have no slightest idea what their husbands are working on.”
“Misery loves company,” she said. “But, as a matter of fact, I have been putting two and two together—a good many twos. Be sure I’m not saying a word to Agnes or anybody else, and I’m not having my feelings hurt. Some day you will tell me all about it, and I promise to be interested.” It was the sort of wife for a P.A. to have, and he put his arms about her and made plain with many kisses that he knew what a prize he had drawn in the marriage lottery.
VIII
Downtown there was the efficient Mr. Post, an executive with many problems on his mind, and just now a smile on his face after the fashion of the cat which has swallowed the canary. “Hartley has talked over the telephone,” he said, “and has made appointments which he must have thought sounded innocent. We have picked up the people and I am awaiting more reports today. I think they are the men we are looking for.”
Lanny said: “I have orders to leave for abroad in about a week; so anything you get from me will have to be within that limit.”
“I think we have everything already, Mr. Budd. If you don’t mind, it will be better if you don’t say anything to Hartley until the day before you are going. No use to unsettle his mind.”
“Quite so. I have a handy excuse—an important client who has given me a commission. I suppose it will be all right if I leave the propaganda business in charge of Cartier?”
“He is prepared to carry it on as long as necessary. Hartley won’t like it, of course, but you can give him a raise in salary to salve his feelings.”
“What troubles me, Mr. Post, is the fear that Hartley will get his mind fixed on me as being responsible for his betrayal. I don’t see how that can fail to happen. And sooner or later he or his associates will make their suspicions known to the enemy world.”
“We mean to take the greatest pains to avoid that, Mr. Budd. We shall not arrest any of these men until we are sure we have them all; then we shall carefully prepare a story of how we came to detect them, and it will be a story which has nothing to do with you.”
“It will be bound to get into the papers, will it not?”
“Unfortunately we cannot avoid arraigning them in court, nor keep them from getting lawyers to represent them. But the account we give of the affair will reveal some clue which put us on their trail, one which will convince them and leave no reason for suspecting you.”
“But if Cartier testifies against them, and I introduced Cartier to Hartley—”
“Cartier will never testify. He will be arrested with them and arraigned with them. He will be in a cell with Hartley and will pretend to be furious with Hartley for getting him into this jam. In the course of their arguments Hartley may reveal details of importance. If later on Cartier is released, it will seem natural to Hartley and his gang, for they know perfectly well that Cartier was not in the secret of the diamonds and that his propaganda efforts were no crime.”
“All that sounds plausible enough. But can Cartier afford to have his family name dragged into such
a mess?”
“Cartier is not his real name, Mr. Budd. I apologize for not telling you that, but you know how it is, the less a man knows, the less chance there is that he may let something slip by accident. Cartier is a name for the occasion; when he comes out of jail, he will be a martyr in the eyes of Miss van Zandt and people of her sort, and will be in an excellent position to keep contact with them and report on what they are doing.”
“That sounds all right to me,” declared Lanny. “I hope that among those who will appreciate his martyrdom will be Mr. Harrison Dengue and the rest of the group who think so ill of President Roosevelt.”
“We are surely not forgetting them,” declared the F.B.I. man with emphasis.
IX
Lanny went up to the newly established office of the American Christian League, which so far consisted of three men and a secretary, unless you counted one elderly spinster on Fifth Avenue and her secretary and companion. Things at the office were peaceful, but promised activity. Hartley had been to call on the spinster—without consulting Lanny—and had brought back with him a manuscript which had been composed by a member of the numerous retinue which surrounded this old lady and plied her with compliments day and night. It was entitled The Red Nightmare, and Hartley said that he had listened carefully to what Miss van Zandt thought of it, and then repeated it all to her in more vigorous words, thus confirming her opinion that he was a man of excellent judgment. He had asked if she did not think it would make a good opening shot for the new League, and she had assented.
Lanny read the article and found it a collection of all the most uncomplimentary things which had been said about the Soviet Union. It was old stuff, and he commented: “We could do better; but if this is what Queen Hortensia wants, it is a command performance.” So they had something to do right away, and the efficient Tom Cartier had collected samples of other such propaganda literature and was in process of getting estimates for a first edition of ten thousand copies. Lanny said: “Let’s go easy on this one, because it’s really not very good, and if we send it to Miss van Zandt’s mailing list and put it on sale at a few meetings, that is all she will ever hear about and it will satisfy her.”
“But we ought to be doing something at the office to make things look right,” said the Englishman.
“I’ll make out a list of names and addresses of the right sort of people, and you and Cartier can get up a letter telling them about our work.”
Lanny went back to the apartment where he had such a list, compiled during the years that he had been watching the Nazi-Fascist agents and their dupes. He didn’t in the least care how much money Hartley might collect, especially since he was hoping that the F.B.I. would scoop it all up in a few days. He told Laurel what he was free to tell her about it, and she helped by typing out the list. He said: “They won’t get very far with it, because most of these people have their own movements and won’t want any rivals; but it will help to make it look like the real thing.”
Next day Baker telephoned and brought the passport and the ticket for the Clipper, five days from date. Lanny took those precious documents and put them in his safety-deposit box at the bank; then he drove out to have lunch with his friend Mr. Vernon, who had just received the shipment of the first mosaic from Algiers and was as happy as a child with a new toy. In truth there could be no jigsaw puzzle so fascinating; all his friends had come in to see it, and it was that rare thing in the lives of the very rich, something entirely new. This country gentleman, who had already paid Lanny’s bill in full, was now open to a proposition for a large and really beautiful Moorish fountain, used for ritual ablutions, which Lanny had observed on his last visit, but hadn’t quite had the nerve to buy. Mr. Vernon supplied the necessary courage, and the art expert drove back to New York well content with his day. It wasn’t that the money was so important, but he had a business letter to carry in his suitcase, to be read by all the spies and secret agents who would rummage through his belongings in the hotels of two continents.
X
To his wife he said: “I think you have a holiday coming to you. Let’s have some fun before I leave.” So they packed several suitcases and stowed them in the car and drove on a warm summer evening through a thunder shower to the town of Newcastle and had a reunion with the Budd tribe. They were begged to stay, but no, they were for the open road. Next morning they set out along the little Newcastle River and into the Berkshire Hills; from there northward to the foothills of the Green Mountains, and westward into the Adirondacks. Fine roads winding through endless pine forests, and vistas of mountains, tier behind tier, with rushing streams and blue lakes in the valleys—they were reminded continually of southern Bavaria where Hitler had his eyrie, and where they had had their first adventure together. They had been in fear at that time and hadn’t been able to give much thought to scenery, but now by agreement they put all cares behind them and enjoyed their lives while still the little lamp shone. Freut euch des Lebens weil noch das Lämpchen glüht!
They had lunch at a summer-resort hotel, and Laurel slept for a couple of hours. Then they drove again, and toward evening came to the “camp” belonging to Lanny’s old friends the Murchisons. He had telephoned to make sure Adella was there, and on the way he told Laurel about this couple, how Harry had woocd and not won Beauty Budd in the carefree days before World War I, and how he had married his secretary on the rebound, and how Adella had taken Goya for her hobby and purchased several examples with Lanny’s advice. They had this comfortable camp on Saranac lake, and Adella was there with three women friends, enough to play bridge, but they were bored and glad to see company. In these days the men were all up to their ears in work in hot and smoky Pittsburgh; so were most of the women, but Adella had overworked and the doctor had ordered her away, and she had brought with her three members of the “younger set” who were “expecting” and therefore had an excuse. Now Lanny had brought a fourth, and they could have a pleasant time sympathizing with one another’s symptoms while Lanny went fishing. In the course of his career he had caught a number of big political fish, but he didn’t succeed in getting a single nibble from an Adirondack trout.
Laurel and Adella became friends at once, and Laurel was begged to stay and spend the summer in this cool delightful spot. But duty called her back to the sweltering city—she had to be near a library, so she declared. Adella said that Harry would be grieved at having missed them; he might not get here more than once or twice in the whole summer. He had given his plane to the government, and it wasn’t considered patriotic to drive a car, and anyhow, you couldn’t get the gas. They all wanted to know how Lanny had got it, and he explained that the car belonged to his father, and Lanny was using a couple of months’ supply of ration coupons. Robbie, who had half a dozen cars, didn’t have time to drive any of them except between his office and his home.
They stayed two days, and then set out again, through Keene valley and past Schroon Lake, and so out of the mountains and down along a little river to Albany. There was their old friend the Hudson River, where Henry had been so disappointed not to find the Northwest Passage. In a couple of hours they were passing Krum Elbow, and Lanny said: “The Squire doesn’t have much time to look at his Christmas trees these days.” He said nothing about “Shangri-La,” and nothing about a P.A.’s duties; but Laurel knew well what he was thinking. Her lovely holiday was over, and she was coming back into the world of suffering and danger.
XI
That night, in their snug little nest, she said: “Let’s try one more séance.” They had held several, but always with disappointing results. Otto Kahn had talked only idle pleasantries and had reported that the “spirits” who made their appearance were persons of no social distinction, nor yet of intellectual; he kept insisting that he knew nothing about the Holdenhursts and did not have the honor of the acquaintance of Laurel Creston’s grandmother. Now the time was growing short, for Lanny was to depart the day after next, and Laurel wouldn’t dare to try a séance with anybod
y else. She had told her friend Agnes that sometimes she talked in her sleep, and not to worry about it if she heard it.
They tried again; and there was the genial banker, always on call. They could imagine him, dapper and elegant in his evening clothes, for surely he would not have appeared otherwise. He was ready to chat, but didn’t have anything important to say. When they asked him to produce some of their friends in the spirit world he said that conditions here were difficult; but he didn’t explain why. He said there was a spirit named Hodges, who had been one of his—Otto’s—stockbrokers, but who wasn’t a very talkative man, especially where there was no ticker and no quotation board. There was tiresome old Sir Basil, as always; and there was a lady who claimed that she had a special revelation from God. “You know how persistent these religious souls can be,” said Otto.
“You haven’t seen anything of God yourself?” inquired Lanny. And the reply was: “How would I know?” quite in the style of the New York sophisticates. When Lanny asked about Reverdy Holdenhurst and then about Lanny’s former wife Trudi, the banker said that he was feeling under the weather that evening, and his voice faded away. It was for all the world like a phonograph running down.
Laurel came out of her trance and was told about all this. She asked, as she had asked before: “What can this fantastic thing mean?” Lanny’s reply also had been heard before: “I’d give a good part of what I own to anybody who could find out.”
It was difficult even to talk to the average person about these phenomena. You might explain ever so clearly that you didn’t pretend to know what these entities really were; they called themselves “spirits,” and that was as far as you could get. The person would say “Spirits!” and go off and report that you had “blown your top,” and everybody to whom he mentioned the matter would agree. But that wouldn’t stop the phenomena from continuing, everywhere, all over the world. There were thousands of persons who had this mediumistic gift, and many who never made money out of it, and gave no signs of being “cracked.” The voices spoke and did their best to convince you that they were real, even to having their feelings hurt when they weren’t believed.