It was all a pipe dream, of course; but Adi was living on drugs these days, and he swallowed dose after dose and called for more. Evidently he was watching American affairs closely; he had an extraordinary memory for both friends and foes, and had heard of every person his visitor named. He wanted the details regarding each one’s wealth and position and activities, and even his or her personal appearance. Lanny was careful not to name anyone he couldn’t describe; having reinforced his own knowledge with that of Jim Stotzlmann, a walking encyclopedia of social gossip, he was able to pour out a flood of “really good news.” Never in the fifteen years that he had been dealing with this genius-madman had he enjoyed such a sense of making a hit.
IV
What was to be done? The Führer had his program, and the only problem was to get the masters of America to understand it. There must be immediate peace between Germany and Italy on the one hand and America and Britain and France on the other. All three of the so-called democratic nations would be left with everything they had, and the smaller nations, Belgium and Holland and Denmark and Norway, would be set free. America would be at liberty to conquer the Japanese and to take the whole Pacific, and South America too if she wanted it. All that Hitler wanted was a chance to go at Russia. He wouldn’t ask help from anybody; he would put the Reds out of business and keep them out for a thousand years, and what more could any American capitalist or man of great affairs desire?
It was all so obvious to the Führer, he could not understand how anyone could fail to see it, and he wanted Lanny to tell him how and why they did fail. The experienced P.A. knew better than to try; he said they were coming to understand the situation now. The class lines were forming rapidly in America, you could almost see it happening.
“But there is no time to spare,” insisted Hitler; “the issue will be decided this summer!” He didn’t say that his armies might not be able to hold the Russians, but Lanny knew well what was behind the desperate urgency in his voice. Lanny had been in Berlin in February, when the Reichswehr and the Nazi party had been combing countryside and city slums for new manpower; they had taken the sixteen- and seventeen-year-olds, the fifty-five-year-olds, the once- and the twice-wounded, the tubercular and the syphilitic. All these were now in the lines, and how long would they be able to hold?
“It is the most perilous crisis in the history of the world, Herr Budd. And you Americans are making it, compelling me to send seventeen divisions to stiffen the backbone of the Italians.” Lanny did not fail to take note of the figure; it was the same that his Boss had given him a few days previously. The Führer’s lack of discretion was the despair of his generals; but perhaps he was indiscreet only as Lanny was, by forethought, telling those things which he could be sure the other person already knew.
Lanny followed this technique and told his chief enemy what he had observed of Allied preparations in Algiers and Bizerte. There could be no question that a landing in Sicily was being prepared, and it was hardly to be imagined that the joint armies would resist the temptation to cross the narrow strait to the Italian mainland, where they would find so many airfields, easy to repair. Lanny had obtained Roosevelt’s permission to say this, not merely to Hitler, but to the Italians he might meet. The island of Pantelleria had just been bombed into surrender, and all the airfields of Sicily and the tip of the boot were being bombed day and night; this pattern of gaining air control before attempting a landing had become standard, and no military man would fail to recognize it. Of course it was possible to bomb two areas and thus create uncertainty as to which was to be invaded; but in this case the Allies were not bothering with any such device. Their every move spoke Sicily.
V
The Führer wanted to know by what route his messenger had come, and Lanny narrated how he had hired a fisherman to sail him in a boat from a small place on the Tunisian coast, La Calle. You could do anything with the Americans if you were willing to spend money, and the same was true of the Italians. This led, by Lanny’s intention, to the subject of Hitler’s exhausted and reluctant ally. Lanny didn’t say that the Italians had been dragged into the war against their will; he said they were now frightened and sick, when they realized that they were scheduled to be blasted, first with bombs and then with artillery. The Italians in New York were as busy as bees, trying to figure out a way to prevent this, and they had evolved the idea that Italy might make a separate peace on condition that the Allies would not use the peninsula as a base from which to attack Germany or German-held territory.
“You must tell me what would be your attitude to such a proposal, mein Führer,” said the respectful agent; and Hitler replied that he might be willing to consider it, but he doubted if the Allies would consent, or would keep their word if they gave it. “You know well that it is Churchill’s program to attack through the soft ‘underbelly’ of Europe.”
Lanny answered, “Yes, but supposing my friends should succeed in putting Roosevelt out of the way—it is not likely that Churchill could hold out very long.”
“In that case, of course, it would be a different matter; we should negotiate a peace as quickly as possible—with every country except. Russia. Meantime I should say that the idea of peace between Italy and the Allies, on the basis of the inviolability of Italian territory, might make an excellent talking point, especially among Italians.”
“You would be willing for me to tell them it is your idea?.”
“Surely. It will tend to convince them that we are reasonable, while it is the Judeo-democracies which plan to destroy the treasures of Italian art and culture in the vain effort to break through our southern defense wall.”
VI
This was an important point the P.A. had gained. It would enable him to pose as Hitler’s representative in Rome, and to have something definite to propose and to ask questions about. One more thing he wanted, and that was for Hitler to want him to go. Then he would be safe against all enemies—save only Hitler’s enemies. He began, “I must not fail to warn you, mein Führer, that there are many Italians, and some of them high-placed, who have treason in their hearts; fair-weather friends who got fame and wealth by espousing your cause, but who now are getting ready to desert what they believe to be a sinking ship.”
“I am not unaware of that situation, Herr Budd, and am taking steps to protect our sacred cause. Any information you can give me will be carefully noted.”
“Unfortunately, mein Führer, all that I know is secondhand. I had only a few hours in Italy. I went straight to Marshal Kesselring, because I wished to take no risk of falling into the hands of the Italian police with an American passport in my pocket.”
“You were wise in that. What do you intend to do now?”
“I promised Signor Pope, one of my influential Italian friends in New York, that I would meet some of his friends in Rome and find out how the land lies there. I have been told that the Duce’s own son-in-law has begun to weaken, and that is the reason Il Duce removed him as foreign secretary and sent him to the Vatican, where intrigues are indigenous and do no harm.”
“I have a whole dossier on Ciano on my desk now, Herr Budd, and you may assure your friends that their suspicions are fully justified.”
“I have heard also that Dino Grandi has begun to listen to the song of the sirens.”
“That too is no idle rumor.”
“And General Badoglio, the old dotard, of course hates Il Duce, because Il Duce made him carry the blame for the collapse of his armies in the Greek war.”
“Stimmt auch!”
“There are other names I might mention; but, as you know, I have never been accustomed to deal in secondhand information. Since there is nothing more I can do in the States at the moment, it has occurred to me that I might spend some time in Rome and see what information I can pick up for you. It happens by a fortunate circumstance that I can get access to the right circles because of the fact that one of my oldest friends in France has a niece who is married to a member of the Roman nobility. My
French friend is Denis de Bruyne, the wealthy industrialist who helped to finance the Cagoule. He was arrested by the French police at the time their plans were exposed, some six years ago. He is a man to be trusted.”
“I know of him by reputation, Herr Budd. I do not forget the friends of our cause. If he could have had his way, it would not have been necessary for me to invade and conquer France.”
“His niece is the Marchesa di Caporini, and if the son of Budd-Erling Aircraft were to show up in Rome, with plenty of money in his pockets and confidential messages from important Italians in New York, he would have no trouble in reaching the right persons and gaining their confidence.”
“May I have the pleasure of furnishing the money, Herr Budd?”
“No, mein Führer, I want to be listed as one of those persons who really believes in your cause and thinks no more about personal gain than yourself. I am still able to carry on my profession of art expert. Would you believe it, with the help of Reichsmarschall Göring’s staff I was able to purchase a couple of paintings from a Jew in Berlin and to store them in Sweden; when I got to New York I was able by paying a sum to the right party to get permission to bring them into the country, and I made enough to pay for the trip.”
“Herrlich, Herr Budd!” For the first time that day the Führer permitted himself a chuckle. “Do you expect to do that sort of thing in Rome?”
“That is part of my camouflage, Exzellenz. Every Italian will understand the desire to make money, and all take it for granted that American millionaires do not care what they pay for anything.”
“Then there is nothing I can do for you?”
“Yes; you will have to give me a letter to your Marshal, telling him that I am all right; and it might be a good idea to drop a hint to Il Duce, so that his police will let me alone.”
“Kesselring will attend to the Italians for you. Mussolini is a difficult man to deal with, and he is in a contrary mood at present. I am going to have to have a talk with him soon and put him in his place.”
The P.A.’s face wore an understanding smile. “A lower place than he feels entitled to, I am sure. Il Duce would not remember me, but when I was young I had two encounters with him. One was at the San Remo Conference, just after World War I. I saw him in a violent dispute with some of his comrades who resented his too sudden change of front. A year or two later at Cannes I was present when a friend of mine interviewed him for an English newspaper. You know, mein Führer, in those days we young fellows imagined we were Socialists.”
“I am still a Socialist, Herr Budd.”
“Of course; but I refer to the international variety. It was you who taught me the difference between sound National Socialism and the bogus Marxian kind, and for that I owe you an eternal debt of gratitude. For a while, if you remember, I held myself aloof; I didn’t want to admit that you were right, but events forced me to do so. I think it was the riots I saw in Paris that made up my mind. Heinrich Jung and Kurt Meissner helped to make your ideas clear to me.”
“Kurt came to see me not long ago,” put in the Führer. “I was saddened to see him crippled by wounds, but his spirit is undaunted, and it strengthened mine.”
This gave the visitor a chance to pour out a mouthful of words about the strength of the Führer’s spirit, and how it stood like the Brandenburg Gate, a monument to war which so far the war had not touched. Such remarks went down as well with Adi as with all dictators and despots through the ages; his ability to absorb compliments increased with the years, and it had become less and less possible for him to tolerate the presence of persons who disagreed with him. The fact that this gracious and elegant Kunstsachverständiger came from abroad lent weight to his praise; his voice represented what the judgment of the Anglo-Saxon world would be when it had come to its senses and realized that Adolf Hitler had been from the outset the staunch defender of Western culture against the advancing hordes of the East. Lanny was in all probability the only American whom the Führer had met in a long time, and it was balm to a tormented soul to be told that the powerful nation was preparing to switch from the side of incarnate evil to that of incarnate righteousness.
VII
The sweet interlude was broken by a buzzer on the desk. The Führer took up a telephone receiver, listened, then said, “Put him on.” He listened again for a few seconds. Lanny could not hear the voice at the other end and dared not appear to be trying. But he could not help seeing Hitler and the transformation which the few seconds produced in the listener’s face and manner; he frowned, gritted his teeth, clenched his free hand, and when he spoke again it was the bellow of a bull. “Der gottverdammte Schurke! Was für ein Betrug! Take the Schweinehund out and shoot him! No, you don’t need any written order. Shoot him first and get the order afterward.” There followed a string of epithets which Adi had learned in the Innviertel, some of them filthy words of which Lanny had to guess the meaning.
The Führer of the Germans slammed down the receiver and sat glaring at his imaginary foes in empty space. Lanny shrank inwardly, not wishing to divert that Stygian wrath upon himself. But there was no escaping; an auditor was required, and there was only one at hand.
“There is your Prussian Adel, your Junkertum!” he burst out. “These proud gentry think they are the masters, they are the rulers of Germany for the past hundred years and they dare to set themselves against my will, they disobey my explicit orders, they plot together like so many Bolsheviks. Aber, Gott sei mein Zeuge, I will teach them their mistake! Ich bin es, ich, whom the German people have chosen as their guide, and those who oppose me I shall crush to the last scoundrel, the last traitor!”
That was the start. Every time Lanny had been in the Führer’s home he had witnessed one or more of these outbursts, and wondered in Gottes Namen, when they would stop, and how could a human organism endure the expenditure of such quantities of energy. Here was a man who might speak to fifty million people anytime he chose—indeed he might speak to the whole world with the certainty of being heard or read by all the thinking portion; yet again and again he was willing to expend the same amount of effort in addressing one or two persons—could it even be no person? Lanny wondered if he had these frenzies when he was all alone in that eagle’s eyrie which he had had built for him on the top of the Kehlstein? Did he there make orations to God, or to posterity, or to that German Geist who was his dream companion?
Now he was talking to his American agent, and he wasn’t content to denounce the Prussian nobility, the arrogant caste whom he was breaking to his will; he must go on and tell why they were wrong and why he, the divinely appointed Führer of the Aryan world, was eternally and everlastingly right. Lanny never did find out who it was that was being shot at this moment; but apparently the victim had spoken or written something about having the Führer shot. It didn’t occur to Adi that he himself had just been planning to have Roosevelt shot, and if he had been reminded of this he would have seen no resemblance between the two cases. The Jewish-descended Rosenfeld was the representative of democratic license and Bolshevik depravity, whereas Adolf Hitler was the white knight of Aryan purity and virtue. His cause was holy, and those who opposed it were devils or disciples of devils.
All this the onetime wastrel from the home for the shelterless in Vienna explained to the son of Budd-Erling Aircraft in detail. A note of frenzy came into his voice, almost of despair; he was surrounded by these diabolical foes, and they were crowding in upon him, he was being forced to face the fact that they might bring him to complete collapse and ruin. It was too awful, too wicked, too far beyond belief. This marvelous Third Reich that he had built, this thing of power and goodness beyond compare, this structure that was guaranteed to last a thousand years and that had triumphed over one foe after another—Austria, Czechoslovakia, Poland, Holland, Belgium, Norway, France, and then Rumania, Hungary, Bulgaria, Greece, Yugoslavia, and at least half of Russia—wonderful, wonderful beyond all the tales of history! And all this was to fail, all this was to collapse into ru
in, because of two despised rotten democratic lands and one obscene ghoulish Asiatic land ruled by its Lumpenproletariat! No, it was beyond belief, it was the victory of Satan over God. Adi, who had so far relied upon himself alone, became religious in his language when he contemplated this cosmic calamity.
Apparently he had the idea that this grown-up playboy from overseas was the god out of a machine who could save the situation; he implored the divine messenger to go at once and have Roosevelt carried down to Hell—to do it himself if necessary! And Lanny, scared white in the presence of this foaming tirade, could only keep murmuring, “Ja, ja, mein Führer! Wie recht haben Sie! Die reine Wahrheit aus Ihren Worten! Wie klar ist Ihre Voraussicht!” and so on, anything that would indicate his lack of opposition to this genius-madman, this wretched gutter rat whose inferiority complex had evolved into a Messiah compulsion beyond anything that any psychiatrist could have conceived. One man’s mental disorder had knocked down a dozen nations of Europe and had forced the rest of the world to assemble twenty or thirty million men in arms, and to convert their economies from the production of useful goods to the means of wholesale killing. The son of Budd-Erling thought, Dear God, all I want is to get out of this place alive!