Now and then this grown-up playboy would retire from the company of his guests and seat himself in a corner of the Great Hall, and resting a pad of paper on the arm of his chair would start writing with a lead pencil. Nobody disturbed him at such times, for they knew that he was writing a directive which would change the policy of his papers, or perhaps an editorial which would change the policy of the United States government. Sometimes these editorials would be signed with their author’s name, and in that case they would appear double-column in large type; or they might be published as run-of-the-mine editorials, always in all the papers on the same day.
It was quite a pulpit, and if you knew the text you could pretty well write the sermon yourself. Willie Hearst had hated the British Empire ever since he had shot off his first firecracker on the Fourth of July. He had hated France ever since the year 1930, when he had been ordered out of that country after having brought all the guests of San Simeon for a tour of Europe on a whim. He hated the Reds and the Pinks, every variety of them, ever since they had undertaken to carry out the program which Willie had been advocating when he hoped to become the people’s candidate. He hated F.D.R. for having succeeded where Willie had failed—and especially for having promoted an income tax which had made it necessary for Willie to part with his art treasures and with the financial management of his chain of publications.
Lanny watched closely, day by day, and was quite sure that he recognized where some of his host’s editorials had come from. For a secret agent not merely had to listen, he had to voice ideas, and be sure that the ideas were those his listener wanted to hear. Afterwards he winced when he discovered these ideas being circulated to the extent of five million copies, sometimes in the very words he had used. This new Willie-Lanny team told the American people: “If the American people want war, they should surely re-elect Mr. Roosevelt. Whether they want it or not, they will surely get it by electing him.”
And again: “Congress, in the gravest hour in the history of the Republic, has ceased to function constitutionally. It is not asked whether it wants war or peace. The people, the ultimate power in our democracy, are treated and shushed away from official doors in Washington—doors behind which we are being sold down the river to war and economic slavery.”
And yet again: “By its pernicious system of political bounties and pillage of the public treasury, and by its vicious appeals to class-consciousness—which inevitably begets class hatred—the New Deal has actually labored to make America mob-minded, and neither law nor democracy can survive in a mob-minded country.”
VIII
Election day, November 5, 1940, arrived, and there were few guests at San Simeon, because they considered it their duty to scatter to their homes and record their votes against the great American Dictator. But after voting they came by planeload and by motorcar to play tennis and ride horseback and swim until it was time to turn on the radio in the Great Hall and listen to the returns. California, being three hours behind the East, gets the early returns in the latter part of the afternoon; by five o’clock they were coming in a flood, and by dinnertime it was all over, and everybody knew that the Third Term had swept the country. Willkie was going to carry only ten states—and you could get what comfort there was in the fact that it was a gain of eight over what the Republican candidate of four years ago had managed to obtain.
Lanny could not recall when he had ever seen so large a collection of unhappy human beings; certainly not since he had been in the old gray smoke-stained building in Downing Street, the home of the British Foreign Office, on the night or rather the early morning when Hitler had begun his raid on Poland. Conversation in the San Simeon refectory was in low tones, and not much of it. Lanny wondered: Was this Hollywood play-acting, carried on for the benefit of the host, or had they actually come to believe their own propaganda? Anyhow, it was like a funeral repast, and to have laughed would have been a shocking breach of taste.
Later in the evening, in the host’s very private study, the P.A. had the serious talk for which he had journeyed across a continent. “We have met with a grave disappointment, Mr. Hearst,” began the guest, “and before I take my leave, I should like to know what you think about it, and what I should advise my friends abroad.”
What Mr. Hearst thought was that the country was in one hell of a mess, but there was nothing that he or anybody else could do about it. The American people had made their bed and would have to lie in it; they had lighted a hot fire under themselves and would now stew in their own juice. The vexed old man predicted a series of calamities, to which getting into the war was but the vestibule. The public debt would pile up and there would be no way out but to declare national bankruptcy; the industry of the country would be converted to war purposes, and likewise its labor, and when the horror was over, whichever side won would be the loser. There would be such an unemployment problem as had never been dreamed of in the world; there would be strikes, riots, and insurrections. Worst of all, there would be the Red Dictator sitting in the Kremlin, chortling with glee; he would be piling up his military equipment, and at the end he would be the only power left in Europe; he wouldn’t even have to take possession by force of arms, his Communist agents would do it by propaganda, and bankrupt countries would tumble into his lap like so many ripe peaches.
Lanny waited until this Book of Lamentations had arrived at a chapter end, and then he said: “I agree with every word you have spoken, Mr. Hearst. My father has been saying the same things ever since Munich. I think the greater number of our responsible businessmen realize the dangers, and there are some I have talked with who aren’t disposed to sit by and let fate have its way.”
“But what can they do?”
“We Americans have hypnotized ourselves with the idea of the sovereignty of the ballot; and that is a great convenience to our opponents, who have the mob on their side. As you well know, it is the property owners who are going to have to pay when this débacle comes, because they are the only ones who have anything to pay with.”
“No doubt about that, Budd.” Lanny was being promoted by the dropping of the “Mister.”
“Well, Hitler showed the industrialists of Germany that they didn’t have to lie down and submit to having their pockets emptied; and it seems to some men I know that they have the same elemental right of self-defense.”
“You mean they are proposing to turn Roosevelt out? That would mean a civil war. I couldn’t face it!”
“It might mean a small-sized one, but surely it would be cheaper than the one we are being betrayed into. Just think of it, we are being invited to conquer the Continent of Europe! We are being put into the position where we shall be obliged to do it, for Germany will not submit forever to the treacherous underground war that Roosevelt is conducting. Also, Japan will not sit by in idleness, and we shall find that we have undertaken to conquer Asia too.”
“All that is beyond dispute, Budd. But, good God, we haven’t the means for overthrowing the Administration!”
“There are some who think we can get the means; and it is a matter of no little importance to them to know what your attitude will be.”
The Duce of San Simeon did not exclaim: “Get out of my house, you scoundrel!” Instead he remarked, rather sadly: “I am an old man, and such adventures must be left to younger spirits.”
“Old men for counsel, young men for war, the proverb says. The question is, what counsel you have to give. Surely this cannot be the first time you have heard the idea!”
“I have heard it talked about a lot, naturally. But if any group is contemplating action, I have not been informed of it.”
“If tonight’s news does not bring them to the point of action, then they might as well stop talking. Roosevelt is going to take this election as a complete endorsement, and will go ahead with his plans more recklessly than ever.”
“That we can be sure of, Budd.”
“If there are men who mean to act, they will want support, financial as well as moral
. Understand, please, I wouldn’t touch any money myself; but I might put them in contact with you if you would permit it.”
The Duce of San Simeon looked worried; as much so as he had looked in a photograph which Lanny had seen of him when his newspapers had charged four senators with having accepted bribes, and then, summoned before an investigating committee, he had watched the documents in the case proved to be forgeries. Said W.R.H.: “This is a matter in which one could not afford even to be named without careful consideration. I shall have to ask that you do not mention me to anyone without first telling me who the person is and giving me an opportunity to consent or refuse. Count me out of it!”
“That is a proper request, Mr. Hearst, and I assure you that you may rely absolutely upon my discretion.”
“It is a matter that I cannot leave to anyone’s discretion. You must agree positively not to mention me in connection with this matter. It is far too serious.”
“You have that word. But let me urge this upon you in the meantime: Do not weaken in your opposition to Roosevelt and his war policies.”
“That you may count upon, on my word. The Hearst papers will stand like a rock in the midst of a raging torrent.”
So they left the matter. It wasn’t until next morning that Lanny discovered how this man of much forethought had prepared in advance and sent to his newspapers an editorial to be published in the event that his long-maintained verbal war upon the Presidential Dictatorship should turn out to be unsuccessful. Said the Los Angeles Examiner, on the morning after the election: “The Hearst newspapers have never questioned the right of the American people to give Mr. Roosevelt a third term, or any number of terms he may seek and they see fit to grant.”
IX
When Lanny decided that he had learned enough about the idea and purposes of William Randolph Hearst, he announced his departure and expressed his thanks, and then went to his suite in the Casa del Sol to pack his suitcases. He did this in an unusual way, putting some sheets of writing paper on top of his clothing in one suitcase, and contriving it so that one sheet was slightly displaced and was caught by the lid when it was closed—but not enough to show. With his other suitcases he did the same thing with the tail of one of the shirts, folded not quite regularly, and with one edge caught by the lid—but not showing. He did not lock the suitcases, but left them in the middle of the floor to be carried down by one of the servants.
The reason for this was a chat Lanny had had with a prominent motion-picture director who was among the guests. Lanny had remarked that everything in his suite was “period,” even to the toilet articles; and the director, an Irishman with a sense of humor, had replied: “Don’t try to carry any of it off. Your baggage will be searched before you leave.” To Lanny’s exclamation of incredulity the other had offered a wager; and though Lanny hadn’t accepted, he was making a test, just out of idle curiosity. He judged that anybody making a search would be in a hurry and would fail to note the significance of a bit of paper or a shirt tail caught under the lid of a suitcase.
And so it proved. When the guest was deposited at the Burbank airport he carried his bags to the car which he had stored, and there he carefully opened one after the other. Sure enough, the single piece of paper was inside with the other sheets; also the bit of shirt had been pushed back and was no longer caught by the lid. Both bags had been opened!
Lanny reflected on this episode, then and later, and realized that there was something to be said for a man who conducted a free country club for the Hollywood elite. It was a common practice of hotel guests to carry off spoons as souvenirs, and doubtless the lord of San Simeon had sustained many losses. Lanny decided that he was glad he didn’t own so many things that the rest of the world wanted. “Lay not up for yourselves treasures upon earth, where moth and rust doth corrupt, and where thieves break through and steal”!
8
My Dancing Days Are Done
I
Back in Hollywood again, Lanny attended some more parties, and cultivated the acquaintances he had made. Those he had met at San Simeon represented the rightwing of the industry; there was a left-wing, also, smaller but vociferous. The Rightists called themselves America Firsters, and their opponents called them Fascists; the Leftists called themselves Liberals, and their opponents called them Reds. Each side tried to slip something of its “ideology” into the productions with which it had to do, and then watched eagerly to see its judgment vindicated in the box-office returns, the Hollywood equivalent of ballots.
A presidential agent, of course, couldn’t afford to be seen drinking cocktails with anybody from the Left. He cultivated Cecil de Mille, and Major Rupert Hughes, also Victor McLaglen, who had organized a cavalry troop of simon-pure patriots for the purpose of keeping the labor unions in their places. Lanny wanted to know how these cinema troopers were taking their recent licking at the polls, also who was putting up the money for the men who were dropping showers of leaflets from the rooftops of office buildings in Los Angeles, calling for a Nazi-style revolution in the sweet land of liberty.
This wasn’t the job which had been assigned to P.A. 103, so after a while he took the precaution to get Baker on the long distance telephone. He was told that his Chief was leaving in one week for a vacation in the Caribbean. Lanny, troubled in conscience, replied: “I’ll be there in six days, possibly five,” and packed his bags and set out within an hour.
He took the southern route, partly to avoid the snow in the Rockies, and partly in order to see more of the land of his fathers. He drove back through the orange groves, but instead of turning north he continued eastward through the date country, and past the mountains called “Chocolate,” looking very tasty from a distance but hot and deadly dry. He crossed the Colorado River by another long bridge, and it was Arizona, land of the Apaches, long since tamed and mostly departed. Here were more masses of tumbled mountains, and rocks of every color, from the size of a pebble to the size of a city, painted every hue and sculptured to every shape. The road wound through passes and climbed high ranges, and came down into broad irrigated valleys and through towns which had been desert only a generation ago.
Lanny had undertaken to drive three thousand miles in five or six days, so he would have to stick at it all the time except for eating or sleeping. He would have a sharp pain in the back of his neck, due to the strain of balancing his head against the motion of the car; but he would get over it, as he had done many times before. Landscapes gliding by seldom failed to entertain him, and when he tired, there was the verbal panorama of present-day history. At no place was he out of range of some radio station which would give him reports from the great air blitz. London was still holding out, and the R.A.F. miraculously continuing to give more than it took. The Germans had not sailed against England.
Toward midnight, emerging from a mountain pass upon a high plateau, he saw the gleam of many lights, as if it were a miniature of the Great White Way. It was an auto camp, a development of the motor age in this far western country, “motels,” some of them were called, for the people here were as bold with the language as with the landscape. A row of brightly painted cabins were set back from the highway, so spaced that between each cabin and the next was a covered shelter for a car. Inside the cabin was a bedroom with twin beds, and sometimes a couch for a child; also a bathroom and a tiny kitchenette. Everything would be spic and span, and you would pay your two or three dollars and have the use of this retreat until noon of the next day.
In the morning you would find a filling station, a grocery store, and a lunch counter where you might have your orange juice or coffee and your toast and eggs. Lanny had never seen anything like this in benighted Europe, nor even in the self-satisfied eastern states; he decided that when the horror of Nazi-Fascism had been banished from the world he would like nothing better than to spend a year driving over the national highways of the West and visiting its national parks. He drove from this “motel,” pondering the question: Who would be riding by his side, Liz
beth Holdenhurst or Laurel Creston? Youth or maturity, beauty or brains, philoprogenitiveness or philosophization?
II
Presently it was southern New Mexico, the same kind of country, and then Lanny’s car rolled down from high gray-colored mountains into bright and shining El Paso—“the Pass.” Everything had to be bright in that dry land where there were no fogs and no dust except during storms. Presently the car was speeding down the wide valley of the Rio Grande, famed in story and song. The mountains were gray and brown, and so were the adobe houses of the Mexicans; the gray concrete highway was painted with a brown stripe in the center—a harmony of colors which would have delighted Whistler, and if he had painted it he would have called it a “symphony” or an “arrangement” or something fancy like that.
Some unkind person has compared Texas to hell; but in truth Texas is a continent, and can be compared to most any place. The hills faded away, and there were barren dry plains which a stranger might have mistaken for farming country, the mesquite trees looked so much like orchards. The road went straight, mile after mile—you could drive all day at sixty miles an hour and still it would be Texas. The day was warm and the night cold, but Lanny had an overcoat and a rug. Tire trouble delayed him only half an hour to put on his spare wheel, and he had the “flat” fixed while he ate lunch. The morning and evening of the third day he rolled into the city of Dallas, where there was another auto camp in a lovely grove of trees.
Next day it was Arkansas, and then a ferry across the “Father of Waters,” and he was in Memphis, where the “blues” come from, and the country which all the world knows about from Huckleberry Finn. Then the lovely river valleys and farms of Tennessee. It was like coming into another world, where rocks and sand have never been heard of, where rivers run all the year round, and hills and mountains are covered with hardwood trees on their lower slopes and pines higher up. Lanny’s route led through the Great Smokies, the country of the moonshiners and the hillbilly songs. There was a snowstorm in the high pass, and he had to drive carefully. But he spent that night in North Carolina, and in the morning phoned to Baker and asked for an appointment in the evening. Three hours later he phoned from Lynchburg and had the appointment confirmed.