Fleuve du. Tage was the name of an opera melody which Lanny at the age of five or six had had as a finger exercise on the piano. In the mountains of the interior he had once helped Alfy Pomeroy-Nielson to get across that river, escaping from Spain. There it had been clean, but it had become lazy and muddied in this busy estuary where ships gathered from all over the world. Now and then you would hear firing at sea, which meant that some ship was in trouble; but nobody bothered about it in Lisbon. So far as a tourist could see, nobody in Lisbon bothered about anything, and neither did anybody rejoice very much. The principal occupation of all appeared to be sitting still in cafés and looking dull.
If men had the price, they sipped oversweet coffee; if not, they stared at the foreign women—mostly at the legs, which were novelties in a Catholic capital where the women wore skirts down to their ankle-bones. This Portuguese habit of staring had been utilized by the Nazis for their propaganda. The newspapers were rigidly controlled and their falsehoods divided equally, so the Germans hired store windows and set up exhibits of the wonders of their New Order. They had speedily made the discovery that the Lisbonites had no interest in statistics as to the increase in German coal production, but would stand for hours gazing at photographs of sturdy blonde Aryan Mädchen in abbreviated or non-existent swim-suits. Heil Hitler!
It was the pleasantest time of the year, and Lanny, waiting for his plane ticket, found it enjoyable to ride out to Estoril, the swanky bathing beach and gambling resort, much like those on the Côte d’Azur. He knew so many people in Europe that he met one or more on every esplanade. The only trouble was that so many of these were refugees, frantic to escape from this slim edge of a Nazi continent. Many were out of funds, and he might have been glad to help one or two of them—if it could have been done secretly. As it was, he hardly dared be seen speaking to them.
Instead, he amused himself by permitting a Japanese spy to strike up an acquaintance with him. These small gentry swarmed all over the place, correctly dressed in outing flannels or white evening clothes or whatever the occasion called for; they bowed low and showed rows of yellowish teeth, and the polite art expert accepted an invitation to make a foursome at golf; when he found that he was beating them he played badly, having heard that they were not good losers. He gave them information, but it was mostly about modern painting, and what he gave about his own affairs was not correct. When this palled, he lay on the sand and watched Portuguese fishing craft with upswept prows inherited from the Egyptians and Phoenicians; or he read New York and London newspapers, which came by air and could be bought at a high price. When his hour of departure arrived and a British flying boat lifted him into the air, he decided that the white stone and stucco capital looked much more attractive from that point of view.
II
In London a P.A.’s first duty was to lock himself in his hotel room and type out what he had learned in Madrid and Lisbon. The promises of secrecy to Rudolf Hess had been made with his fingers crossed; Lanny told F.D. all about The Link and the Englishmen who reportedly belonged to it; also, about the Deputy’s mad scheme to fly to England—but predicting that when the Deputy got back to Berlin he would find more useful ways to serve his Führer. The really important matters were that the coming invasion of the Soviet Union was positively confirmed, and that Franco had definitely made up his mind to wait and allow Hitler to take Gibraltar for him. Spain’s pitiful condition was doubtless already known to the President; but he would be interested to know how large a percentage of the imports then permitted to enter the country were being passed straight on to Germany.
Having seen this letter safely delivered to the American Embassy, Lanny was free. As usual the first thing he did was to get The Reaches on the telephone. “Hello, this is Bienvenu. Can you come to town?” It took Rick only two or three hours to get there, and then what a rime they had! Lanny kept nothing from this lifelong friend, save only the name of his Chief in America. In the obscure hotel which they had chosen for their rendezvous there was no chance of dictaphones or spies, and Lanny unbosomed himself of the whole Hitler-Hess picture. “You understand,” he said, “this project of flying here is absolutely top secret, and you mustn’t even hint at it.”
“Righto!” was Rick’s reply. “If the man isn’t mad, then I am.”
“If he comes unarmed he can’t hurt anybody, so we don’t have to worry. He seems to have a lot of backing here, and that is what is serious. The business of The Link looks pretty black to me.”
“I find it hard to believe, Lanny. Ivone Augustine Kirkpatrick is a career diplomatist; the Pater knows him, and if he’s turned traitor I’ll surely be surprised. As for the Beaver, his papers are shouting for more and harder war, and that hardly seems to fit in with secret trips to negotiate a surrender.”
“Not exactly a surrender, Rick; but of course it would amount to that in the long run. Could it possibly be that a great newspaper proprietor has changed his mind but hasn’t got around to telling his staff?”
“The devil only can guess what is going on in the mind of a press lord. But this occurs to me—that somebody on our side may be playing with Hess, somebody besides you. Have you thought of that?”
“I began thinking of it from the first moment I heard about this Link. Somebody may have made it up, and be sending Hess a lot of letters in the names of various Englishmen.”
“It would be pretty tough on the Englishmen; but I suppose anything would be fair in a war against such rotters.”
“Who would be doing it, do you suppose?”
“Probably B4. That’s our last word in secrecy; we aren’t supposed ever to breathe the syllables. They’d be trying to lure some top Nazi agent over here and then trail him and see whom he visits. Or maybe they just want revenge for the Venloo incident—you remember, at the outset of the war, the Nazis raided across the Dutch border and kidnaped two of our important agents.”
“This is getting to be pretty hot stuff, Rick—spies and traitors, and plots inside plots.”
“Be careful somebody doesn’t kidnap you,” remarked the baronet’s son, and that seemed an invitation for Lanny to tell the story of his odd experience in the back country of Toulon. “My God!” exclaimed Rick. “What a life you do live! And how you do get about!”
Lanny asked: “How is Alfy?” and the reply was: “He had a crash, but got off lightly. He’s in hospital with a couple of ribs and a shoulder cracked. What he’s afraid of is that they’ll ground him and put him to teaching.”
“He has done his share,” was Lanny’s comment. “Give him my love. You know, of course, I can’t go to see him.”
“Surely not,” said the father. “He wouldn’t expect it.”
III
Lanny went off and thought matters over. An idea occurred to him, and next morning he called the modern structure known as the “Black-glass House,” the office of the Daily Erpress and the Evening Standard. He asked for the secretary of Lord Beaverbrook, and to this functionary he said: “This is the American art expert, Lanny Budd. Lord Beaverbrook will remember having met me at Wickthorpe Castle, also at Maxine Elliott’s home in Cannes, along with Mr. Churchill. I have just returned from a visit to Berlin, and thought that he might be interested to have a report on what I found there. Explain that this is strictly personal and private, nothing to be published.”
The secretary said: “One moment, please,” and then reported: “His lordship wishes to know if you will lunch with him at the Carlton Club at one o’clock.”
Lanny figured that it couldn’t do him any harm to be seen with this noble gentleman, because Hitler and Hess believed him to be on their side, and Hess had asked for a report on him. “The Beaver,” as he was called by the British masses with a sort of affectionate hatred, was a little bouncing man with a gnome’s face. His name was Max Aitken and he had been a company promoter in Canada; he had come to London with a million pounds and devoted himself with infinite ardor to the vulgarization of English journalism. He was one of Ameri
ca’s contributions of “ginger” to the motherland; Winston Churchill being another, or, to be exact, one-half of another. The Beaver had filled his papers with gossip, “spice,” and reactionary opinion. Was it for such services that men were ennobled in the days of British commercialism rampant? His lordship had been pretty close to Fascism in the old Neville Chamberlain days, but had soon realized that that wasn’t going to be a paying proposition. He hated the Reds so much more than he hated the Nazis that he would come back again and again to nibbling at the Hitler hook.
An aggressive ego, he ordinarily made it difficult to get a word in edgeways. But he really wanted to know how matters stood in Hitlerland, and also in the Franco jail, so he plied his guest with questions. He found it hard to believe that a man could be carrying on the business of purchasing old masters in the midst of a continental war. Lanny said, with a grin: “If you’ll come to my room at the Dorchester I’ll show you a couple of them.” The American didn’t say anything about Rudolf Hess’s project of flying to Scotland, but he said in general terms that both Hitler and his Deputy were most anxious for an understanding with Britain, as a preliminary to their invasion of Russia.
“They’ve got to invade anyhow, haven’t they?” asked the publisher, his shrewd little eyes twinkling.
“Of course, but if they have to fight Britain at the same time, they may not win. They figure you wouldn’t like to have the Reds come out on top.” This was a problem that worried all members of ruling classes, all privileged persons in the world. The proprietor of the Standard and the Express sat with knitted brows.
“Tell me,” said the P.A. “Have you ever taken any interest in The Link?”
“The Link?” repeated the other. “What is that?” His tone appeared genuine.
“I don’t know much about it, but was told it’s a group of people trying to face up to this problem and to work out some basis for an understanding between the two countries.”
“I did my share of trying,” declared his lordship. “But those Nazis are bastards that nobody can trust. The feeling of our people is that they have to be put out of business. Nobody is ever again going to be left in a position to bomb these islands.”
So that was that; and Lanny talked for a while about the state of German finances and food supply. He discussed Paris under the occupation, and what Schneider’s friends had said. And then to Spain: he mentioned that Franco was standing out against the Nazi demand as to Gibraltar, and this the Beaver heard with satisfaction. In the course of the talk Lanny remarked, casually: “I was rather expecting to meet you while I was in Madrid.”
“Why should you have expected that?” inquired the other.
“There was a report that you were coming. Somebody told me it was in the papers.”
“Many silly rumors get started in wartime. I haven’t any reason for going to Spain.”
“Perhaps,” remarked the P.A. with a smile, “the Nazis were trying to get hold of you, to talk peace.”
“Never again!” said his lordship, and used language that would have ruined his papers.
When they parted, Lanny said: “All this is strictly off the record. You can use the facts as background, but I don’t want to be interviewed or even mentioned.”
“Certainly, certainly,” said the Beaver somewhat testily, for a newspaperman does not like to have his valuable services spurned. “What you have told me is illuminating, Mr. Budd. I will esteem it a favor if you will call me up whenever you come to town.”
Lanny went out and telephoned Rick. “You remember the man who was supposed to be going to Madrid? I just talked with him and he says it’s not so. Evidently that matter isn’t what it is supposed to be, but something else again.”
“I get you,” said Rick. Like many other Englishmen, his language had been corrupted by contact with Americans.
IV
Lanny strolled about London. The springtime air was balmy, and overhead the barrage balloons waved slowly in the breeze, looking like huge fat silver sausages. In all the parks were anti-aircraft guns. Lanny was curious to see what landmarks of the old City were gone. The shaky walls had been torn down and the rubble cleared away, and there were acres of empty space around St. Paul’s. He wondered what they would put there when the war was over, if it ever was. Would they behave like the ants and the bees, and restore everything exactly as it had always been? He wondered how it was possible for the financial world to carry on its infinitely complex affairs in spite of such destruction. Rick had said they were doing it, a little here and a little there; some underground, some in the suburbs. There would always be an England!
According to his custom he telephoned to Wickthorpe. Would it be agreeable for him to pay a visit? Irma said: “Frances asks for you every day.” Lanny specified the train he would take; a car would meet him at the station.
It was the end of April, the loveliest rime of the year. Not many bombs had been wasted on this countryside, and fears were ended. When you came to the Castle, you discovered that the lovely green lawns which had been nibbled by so many generations of sheep had been plowed up and planted to cabbages. All save one little corner, where Ceddy played at bowls with the curate and other friends!
Lanny’s little daughter came in the car to meet him, and she never let go of his hand. Somehow she had decided that he was a very wonderful father; his absence made her heart grow fonder, and now she dragged him all over the place, to show him new crops that had been planted and new creatures that had been born. The refugee children from London were at school; all scrubbed, fed on vitamins, and taught proper manners. Ceaseless pressure from both sides had broken down barriers, and Frances was allowed to take part in their games now and then, and even to let some of them ride on her pony. She had just celebrated her eleventh birthday with a big party, and they as well as the village children had all been invited; everybody had been nice to her and it was “scrumptious.” Lanny was not allowed to teach her democracy, but if the war did it, he could approve.
Eight months had passed since he had seen her. He had had little notes from her in America, carefully written—he suspected they had been revised and recopied. Also drawings, and little paintings in water color, submitted to him as an expert. Now there were more of these, and he gave her advice; he watched her mind and the questions she asked. She was becoming aware of the great world; the war was forcing geography and history upon the attention of everyone. To Frances it was thrilling and delightful—no sense of the pain, or of fear. He marveled at life renewing itself; at eagerness, curiosity, trust in nature, which was cruel as often as it was kind.
Frances Barnes Budd was going to be a little English girl; nothing else was possible. She had the accent and the key phrases of the ruling class. Also she would have the manners; she would learn to repress her enthusiasms, to wear a mask before the world. Irma, sedate and placid, would make her over in the mother image; it was a mother’s privilege. She would say: “Hush, dear! Not so loud.” English children were becoming more free and easy in their manners, but Irma did not approve, and Lanny said nothing. Only when they were alone he let the little one enjoy herself; he told her about Isadora Duncan’s dancing, gave her an idea of it, then played the piano and let her try.
Lanny did not fail to pay his respects to the Honorable James Ponsonby Cavendish Cedric Barnes, Viscount Masterson, who was destined to become the fifteenth Earl of Wickthorpe. He was two years of age, toddling away whenever he was let loose, and staring at strangers out of big blue eyes. Also, to make assurance doubly sure, there was his younger brother, the Honorable Gerald Cedric Barnes Masterson, born on the day that Paris fell. He was just trying to get up on his feet, and whatever he could find on the floor he tried surreptitiously to get into his mouth. Irma’s duty to the British Empire had been done, and she was concerned that it should not have been done in vain—in other words, that the Reds shouldn’t get it!
V
In the evening, Lanny sat with his former wife and her present husband. “
Good breeding” made this possible; the most important thing in their world. They talked freely about other personalities, but never about themselves or their own troubles. When Irma had quarreled with Lanny and left him, she had talked it over with her mother and made up her mind: there must be no scandal, no recriminations. They were different people and could not live together, but they were decent people and could respect each other’s rights.
Later, when the Earl of Wickthorpe had come wooing, the practical-minded Irma had had an understanding with him on the difficult role of stepfather. Little Frances would be a permanent fact in their lives. Having been celebrated in the newspapers as the twenty-three-million-dollar baby, she could not be treated as an ordinary human mite; Lanny couldn’t just come and carry her off to a hotel, or to Bienvenu or Newcastle; her mother would never have a moment’s rest for fear of kidnapers. No, he would have to come to the Castle to see the child. Ceddy said: “Why not?” and Irma remarked: “The village will call it a scandal.” He replied: “The village belongs to me, not I to the village.” It was the voice of his ancestors whose portraits hung in a long gallery, most of them with swords and several clad in mail.
The matter was made easier by the fact that Lanny and Ceddy had known each other since boyhood. They had never been intimates, but had been on coaching parties to the races, and later on to international conferences where they had drunk cocktails and discussed the strange manners and morals of continental diplomatists. They knew what to expect of each other; what was done and what wasn’t. Irma’s new marriage was what she wanted, and wiped the memories of old intimacies out of her mind. Neither she nor Ceddy knew that Lanny had been married again, but Lanny knew it, and that helped him. When he thought about love, it was heroism and martyrdom. The Trudi-ghost still walked with him, and supervised not merely his actions but his imaginings.