I
THE Supreme Council was now going ahead under full steam. They were hearing the claims of the small nationalities, and it was proving a tedious procèss. As the Americans reported it, Dmowski, presenting the case of Poland, began with the fourteenth century at eleven o'clock in the morning, and reached 1919 at four in the afternoon. Next day came Benes to present the claims of the Czechs, ahd he began a century earlier and finished an hour later.
Professor Alston had to be there, for no one could say at what moment an American commissioner might beckon to him and ask some question; Lanny had to be there, because of the heavy portfolios, and also because the professor's French couldn't cope with the outbursts of Clemenceau, who used not merely the slang of the boulevards, but that of the underworld — many of his ejaculations being so obscene that Lanny was embarrassed to translate them and the recorders of the proceedings had to be told to expurgate them.
A weary, weary ordeal! You couldn't lounge or tilt back in a frail gilded chair a couple of hundred years old; you had to sit stiff and motionless and tell yourself it was a history lesson. But did you want to know all that history? Lanny would close his eyes and remember the beach at Juan, the blue water sparkling in the sunshine, and the little white sailboats all over the Golfe. He would summon up the garden with the masses of bougainvillaea in bloom; he would remember the piano, and yearn over those boxes of books which he had had shipped from the home of Great-Great-Uncle Eli and which some day he was going to have the delight of unpacking. Did he really want to be a person of distinction, live in the grand monde and submit to endless, unremitting boredom?
He would open his eyes and watch the faces of the old men who were here deciding the destinies of the nations. Clemenceau sat shrunken into a little knot, the hands with the gray gloves folded over his stomach, the heavy lids covering his weary brown eyes. Was he asleep? Maybe so,' but he had an inner alarm clock, for the moment anyone said anything against the interests of his beloved patrie he was all alert, bristling like the tiger he was named for. The pink, cherubic Lloyd George quite frankly dozed; he told one of the Americans that two things had kept him alive through the ordeal of the war — naps were one and the other was singing Welsh hymns.
Woodrow Wilson was unsparing of himself, and as the weeks passed his health caused worry to his associates. He was attending these Council sessions all day, and in the evenings the sessions of the League of Nations Commission. He was driving himself, because he had to sail on the fourteenth of February to attend the closing sessions of the Congress, and he was determined to take with him the completed draft of the Covenant of the League. A thousand cares and problems beset him and he was getting no sleep; he became haggard and there began a nervous twitching of the left side of his face. Lanny, watching, him, decided never to. aspire to fame.
The oratory became intolerable, so the Council picked out the talkers, and appointed them on what was called the “Clarification Commission,” where they could talk to one another. Altogether there were appointed fifty-eight commissions to deal with the multiplicity of problems, and these commissions held a total of 1646 sessions. But that didn't remedy the trouble, because all the commissions had to report — and to whom? Where was the human brain that could absorb so many details? Hundreds of technical advisers assembling masses of information and shaping important conclusions — and then unable to find a way to make their work count!
All the problems of the world had been dumped onto the shoulders of a few elderly men; and the world had to crumble to pieces while one after another of these men broke down under the strain. There was that terrible influenza loose in Paris, striking blindly, like another war. It was the middle of winter, and winds came storming across the North Sea, tempered somewhat by the time they got to Paris, but laden with sleet and snow. It would cover the mansard roofs and pile up on the chimney pots; it didn't last many hours, and then the streets would be carpeted with slush, and the miasma that rose from it bore germs which had been accumulating through a thousand years of human squalor.
II
Early in February the Bolshevik government announced its willingness to send delegates to the Prinkipo conference. That put it up to President Wilson to act, if he was going to stand by his project. A few days later Alston told his secretary an exciting piece of news: the President had decided to name two delegates, one an American journalist, William Allen White, and the other Alston's old-time mentor, George D. Herron!
The official announcement was made a day or two later and raised a storm of protest from the “best” people back home. The New York Times led off with an editorial blast exposing the Socialist ex-clergyman's black record; the Episcopal bishop of New York followed suit, and the church people and the women's clubs rushed to the defense of the American home. It was bad enough to propose sitting at a council table with bloody-handed thugs and nationalizers of women; but to send to them a man who shared their moral depravity was to degrade the fair name of Columbia the Gem of the Ocean. All this was duly cabled and printed in Paris, and reinforced the efforts of the Quai d'Orsay to torpedo the Prinkipo proposal.
Herron, who had gone back to his home in Geneva, now returned to Paris, deeply stirred by the opportunity which had come to him. No longer would he have to sit helpless and watch the world crumble. He saw himself arbitrating this ferocious class war which had spread over one-sixth of the globe and was threatening to wreck another huge section of Europe. He was busy day and night with conferences; the newspaper men swarmed about him, asking questions, not merely about Russia and the Reds, but about free love in relation to the Christian religion, and whatever else might make hot news for the folks at home.
The Socialist prophet was all ready to go to work. But how was he to do it? He had never held an official position, and came to Alston for advice. How did one set about working for a government? Where did one go? If he was to set out for Prinkipo, presumably he would have a staff, and an escort, and some funds. Where would he get them?
Alston advised him to see Mr. Lansing. That was easy, because the Secretary of State didn't have much to do in Paris. Formal and stiff, his feelings had been mortally wounded because so few persons paid attention to him. But he didn't want the attention of Socialist prophets; he looked on Herron as on some strange bird. He was as cold as the snowy night outside, as remote as the ceiling of his palatial reception room with the plaster cupids dancing on it. He had received no instructions about the conference, didn't approve of it, and was sure it would prove futile.
President Wilson was driven day and night trying to get ready for his departure, and Herron could find nobody who knew or cared about the musical-comedy place called Prinkipo. The Supreme Council had passed a resolution, but unless there was someone to fight for it and keep on fighting, it would be nothing but so many words. Alston explained the intrigues of the French as he knew them. Herron, a simple man to whose nature deception was foreign, was helpless against such forces. People fought shy of him, perhaps because of the scandal freshly raked up, but mainly because he was believed to sympathize with the Reds. In a matter like that it was safer to lie low — and let Marshal Foch and Winston Churchill have their way.
III
Over at the Hotel Majestic was the British staff, almost as large as the American; and from the outset they had been coming over to make friends. The Americans did their best to keep on their guard, but it was difficult when they found how well informed and apparently sincere the Englishmen were. They had such excellent manners and soft agreeable voices — and, furthermore, you could understand what they said! A Frenchman, or a European speaking French, talked very rapidly, and was apt to become excited and wave his hands in front of you; but the well-chosen words of a cultivated Oxford graduate slid painlessly into your mind and you found yourself realizing how it had come about that they were the managers of so large a portion of the earth. If a territory was placed in the hands of such men, it stood a chance to be well governed; but what would happen if the Italians got it — to say nothing of the Germans or the Bolsheviks!
The British members of commissions of course had young secretaries and translators carrying heavy portfolios, and Lanny met them. They reminded him of Rick and those jolly English lads with whom he had punted on the Thames. One of them invited him to lunch at their hotel, an ornate structure which seemed to be built entirely of onyx; the dining room was twice as big as the Crillon's, and in it you saw the costumes of every corner of the empire on which the sun never set. The English youth, whose name was Fessenden, had been born in Gibraltar, and was here because of his fluent Spanish and French. He was gay, and had the usual bright pink cheeks, and Lanny exchanged eager confidences with him; each was “pumping” the other, of course, but that was fair exchange and no robbery.
What was this business about Prinkipo? Lanny told how anxiously Dr. Herron was trying to find out. The English youth said his government hadn't appointed any delegates, so presumably they thought it was going to fizzle. One more of those “trial balloons.” Fessenden's chief had said that the only way it might be made to work would be for President Wilson to drop everything else and go there and put it through. But of course he couldn't do that. “Don't you think perhaps he's a bit too afraid of delegating authority? One man just can't make so many decisions by himself.”
That was the talk all over Paris; three of the peace commissioners were figureheads, and Colonel House had been weakened by an attack of flu. That was no secret, and Lanny admitted it.
“All of us,” said the Englishman, “at least all the younger crowd, were hoping Wilson could put it over. Now we're a bit sick about it.”
Lanny answered cautiously. “One hears so many things, one doesn't know what to believe.”
“But there are definite things that you can be sure of. It seems as if your President just doesn't know enough about Europe; he does things without realizing what they mean. At the outset he agreed to let the Italians have the Brenner! Shouldn't he have asked somebody about that before he spoke? Of course it's important for the defense of Italy, but if you're going to distribute the world on the basis of strategic needs, where will you stop?”
“I don't know much about the Brenner,” admitted Lanny.
“It's a pass inhabited almost entirely by German people; and what is going to happen to them when the Italians take them over? Will they be compelled to send their children to Italian schools, and all that sort of rot?”
Lanny smiled, and said: “Well, you know it wasn't we who signed that treaty with the Italians.”
“True enough,” admitted Fessenden. “But then it wasn't we who brought up those Fourteen Points!”
That was why it was a pleasure to meet the English; you could speak frankly, and they didn't flare up and deliver orations. It was true they wanted the Americans to pull some chestnuts out of the fire for them, but it was also true that they would meet you halfway in an effort to be decent. The best of them had really hoped that the American President was going to bring in a new order and were saddened now as they discovered how ill equipped he was for the tremendous task.
Lanny didn't tell his English friend an appalling story which Alston's associates were whispering. The Supreme Council was planning to recognize a new state in Central Europe called Czechoslovakia, to consist principally of territories taken from Germany and Austria. The Czechs, previously known as Bohemians, had a patriotic leader named Masaryk, who had been a professor at the University of Chicago and a personal friend of Wilson. An American journalist talking with Wilson had said: “But, Mr. President, what are you going to do about the Germans in this new country?”
“Are there Germans in Czechoslovakia?” asked Wilson, in surprise.
The answer was: “There are three million of them.”
“How strange!” exclaimed the President. “Masaryk never told me that!”
IV
Lanny was worried because he hadn't had any letter from Kurt. After he had been in Paris a month, he wrote again, this time to Herr Meissner, asking that he would kindly drop a line to say how Kurt was. Lanny assumed that whoever the mysterious person in Switzerland might be who had been remailing Kurt's letters to Lanny, Kurt's father would be able to make use of him. Lanny followed his usual practice of not giving his own address, for fear the letter might come into the wrong hands; he just said that he was to be addressed at his mother's home.
Lanny sent his letter in care of Johannes Robin, in Rotterdam, and there came in reply one from Hansi Robin, saying that his father had forwarded the letter as usual. Hansi was now fourteen, and his English was letter-perfect, although somewhat stilted. He told Lanny how his work at the conservatory was progressing, and expressed the hope that Lanny's career in diplomacy was not going to cause him to give up his music entirely. He said how happy he was that his father had become a business associate of Lanny's father and that they all hoped the adventure was going to prove satisfactory. Hansi said that his brother joined in expressing their high regard and sincere good wishes. Freddi, two years younger, added his childish signature to certify that it was true.
Lanny put that letter into his pocket, intending to forward it to his father the next time he wrote; and maybe that was the reason why for the next two or three days his thoughts were so frequently on Kurt Meissner. Lanny was sure that he would get a reply, for the comptroller-general was a business-like person, and it would be no trouble for him to dictate to his secretary a note, saying: “My son is well, but away from home,” or: “My son is ill,” or whatever it might be. Every time Lanny called for his mail he looked for a letter with a Swiss stamp.
And of course he thought about Schloss Stubendorf, and Kurt's family, and Kurt himself, and wondered what four and a half years of war had done to him. What would he be doing now, or planning? Would he be able to go back to music after battle and wounds, and the wrecking of all his hopes? Around him Lanny saw men who had become adjusted to war and couldn't get readjusted. Some were drinking, or trying to make up for lost time by sleeping with any woman they could pick up on the streets — and the streets were full of them. Would Kurt be like that? Or was Kurt dead, or mutilated as Marcel had been? What other reason could there be for his failure to communicate with the friend to whom he had pledged such devotion? Could it be that he now hated all Americans, because they had torn Germany's prey from out of her jaws?
Such were Lanny's thoughts while taking a walk. Such were his thoughts while he sat in the stuffy, overheated rooms at the Quai d'Orsay, attending exhausting sessions whenever a geographer was likely to be needed. While furious and tiresome quarrels were going on over the ownership of a hundred square miles of rocks or desert, he would turn his thoughts to the days when he and Kurt were diving and swimming off the Cap d'Antibes; or the holiday at the Christmas-card castle, which he saw always as he had seen it the first morning, with freshly fallen snow on its turrets shining in the newly risen sun. There were so many beautiful things in the world — oh, God, why did men have to make it so ugly? Why did they have to rage and scream and bluster, and tell lies so transparent that a geographer and even a secretary were made sick to listen.
Kurt was only a year older than Lanny, but he had seemed much more; he was so grave, so precise in his thinking, so decided in his purposes, that Lanny had honored him as a teacher. For nearly six years the American had kept that attitude; and now, when Kurt didn't write to him, he was worried, puzzled, hurt. But he kept telling himself that he had no right to be. There was bound to be some reason, to be explained in good time.
V
The streets of Paris were full of picturesque and diverting sights: dapper young officers in Turkey-red pants, looking as if they had just stepped out of bandboxes; poilus trudging home from the front, unshaven, mudstained, bent with weariness; elegant ladies of fashion tripping from their limousines into jewelers' and coiffeurs'; pathetic, consumptive-looking grisettes with blackened eyebrows and scarlet lips. The glory of La Ville Lumiere was sadly dimmed, but there had to be ways for the foreigners to enjoy themselves. There were always crowds of them in the fashionable restaurants, no matter how often the prices were raised; always lines of people trying to get into every place of entertainment. So many had made money out of the war — and they had to have pleasure, even though their world might be coming to an end.
The strolling youth would note these things for a while, and then again be lost in thoughts about the problems of the peace. What was the conference going to do with Upper Silesia? That territory was full of coal mines and many sorts of factories; the French wanted to take it from Germany and give it to Poland — so that in the next war its coal would serve the purposes of France, and not of her hereditary and implacable foe. There was a commission to decide all that, and Professor Alston had been asked to attend it; when Lanny finished his walk he would hear arguments concerning the destiny of the Meissner family! A translator, of course, could take no open part, but he might be able to influence his chief by a whispered word, and his chief might influence the higher-ups in the same way.
So thinking, Lanny strolled on — into what was to prove the strangest adventure of his life up to that time. He had come to a street intersection and stood to let the traffic by. There came a taxi, close to the curb, and as it passed it was forced to slow up by another vehicle ahead. In the taxi sat a single passenger, a man, and at that moment he leaned forward, as if to speak to the driver. His profile came into clear view; and Lanny stared dumfounded. It was Kurt Meissner!
Of course it was absolutely impossible. Kurt, an artillery captain of the Germany army, riding in a Paris taxicab while the two countries were still formally at war! It must be somebody else; and yet from the first moment Lanny knew it wasn't. It hadn't been merely a physical recognition, it was some kind of psychic thing; he knew that it was Kurt as well as he knew that he himself was Lanny Budd. Could this be another apparition, like the one he had seen of Rick? Did it mean that Kurt was dead, or near to death, as Rick had been?
The cab was moving on, and Lanny came out of his daze. His friend was in Paris, and he must get hold of him! He wanted to shout: “Kurt! Kurt!” — but the traffic was noisy, and Lanny's training kept him from making a public disturbance. He began to run, as fast as he could, dodging the pedestrians, and trying to keep his eye on that cab. Perhaps he could catch it at the next crossing; but, no, it was going on faster. Lanny was despairing, when he saw a vacant cab by the curb. He sprang in and cried: “Follow that cab! Quick!”
Taxi drivers have such experiences now and then. It means a pretty girl, or perhaps a fashionable married lady — anyhow, some sort of adventure. The driver leaped into action, and presently they were weaving their way through the traffic, Lanny peering ahead, to pick out one cab from all the others. He made sure he had it, because he could see through the rear window the passenger's gray fedora, which had been a part of the image stamped upon his mind in one quick flash.
VI
They had turned onto the Boulevard Haussmann, with much fast traffic, so there was nothing to do but follow; meanwhile Lanny had a chance to think, and get the aspects of this problem sorted out in his mind. Kurt in Paris, wearing civilian clothes! He couldn't be on any official mission, for there were no enemy missions in France; there had been a lot of talk about having the Central Powers represented at the Peace Conference, but the talk had died down. Nor could Kurt be here on private business, for no enemy aliens were being given passports into France. No, his presence could mean only that he was here on some secret errand, with a false passport. If he were detected, they would try him before a military court and stand him against a wall and shoot him.
Lanny's next thought was that he, a member of the Crillon staff, had no business getting mixed up in such a matter. He ought to tell his taxi driver that it was a mistake, and to turn back. But Lanny hadn't learned to think of himself as an official person, and the idea that he couldn't speak to Kurt just didn't make sense. Whatever his friend might be doing, he was a man of honor and wouldn't do anything to get Lanny into trouble.
Kurt's cab turned off the boulevard, into the Neuilly district. “I can drive up alongside him now,” said Lanny's driver; but Lanny said: “No, just follow him.” He would wait until Kurt got out, so that they could meet without witnesses.
Watching ahead, Lanny saw the passenger turn round; evidently he discovered that he was being followed, for his cab began turning corners rapidly, as no sane taxicab would have done. Lanny could imagine Kurt saying: “Ten francs extra if you shake off that fellow behind us.” Lanny said: “Ten francs extra if you don't let that fellow get away from us.”
So began a crazy chase in and about the environs of Paris. Lanny's driver had been a dispatch rider on the upper Meuse front, so he called back to his passenger; he looked like an apache, and behaved like one. They turned corners on two wheels, and Lanny leaned out of the window to balance the cab. They dashed through cross-wise traffic — and they held onto the other car. More than once Lanny saw the passenger in front turning round to look-always holding his gray fedora below the level of his eyes. Lanny took off his hat and waved it, to give his friend every opportunity to recognize him. But it had no effect.
However, Lanny's apache was better than the other one. Kurt's taxi stopped suddenly in front of a department store, and Lanny's came up with screeching brakes behind it. Kurt got out, paid his driver, and turned to go into the store; Lanny came running, having also paid quickly. He realized the need of caution, and didn't call out; he came up behind the other and whispered: “Kurt, it's me — Lanny.”
A strange thing happened. The other turned and gazed into Lanny's face, coldly, haughtily. “You are mistaken, sir.” Lanny had spoken in English, and the answer was given in French.
Of course it was Kurt Meissner; a Kurt with features more careworn, stern, and mature; his straw-colored hair, usually cut close, had grown longer; but it was Kurt's face, and the voice was Kurt's.
Lanny, having had time to think matters out, wasn't going to give up easily. He murmured: “I understand your position. You must know that I am your friend and you can trust me. I still feel as I have always done.”
The other kept up his cold stare. “I beg your pardon, sir,” he said, in very good French. “It is a case of mistaken identity. I have never met you.”
He started away again; but Lanny walked with him. “All right,” he said, his voice low. “I understand what is the matter. But if you get into trouble and need help, remember that I'm at the Crillon.
But don't think that I've turned into an official person. I'm doing what I can to help make a decent peace, and you and I are not very far apart.”
One of the clerks of the store came forward with inquiry in his manner, and Kurt asked for some gloves. Lanny turned and started to leave. But then he thought: “Maybe Kurt will think it over and change his mind.” So he waited, just inside the door of the store. When the other had completed his purchase and was going out, sure enough, he said: “You may come with me, sir, if you wish.”
VII
The two of them went out to the street, and walked in silence for quite a while, Kurt looking behind them to make sure they were not being followed. Then they would take a glance at each other. More than four years had passed since their last meeting in London; they had been boys and now they were men. The German officer had lines in his long thin face; he walked as if he were bowed with care — but of course that might have been because he was trying not to look like a military man. It was plain that he was deeply moved.
“Lanny,” he exclaimed, suddenly, “may I have your word of honor not to mention this meeting to any person under any circumstances?”
“I have an idea of your position, Kurt. You can trust me.”
“It is not merely a matter of my own life. It might have extremely unpleasant consequences for you.”
“I am willing to take the risk. I am sure that you are not doing anything dishonorable.”
They walked on; and finally Kurt broke out: “Forgive me if I am not a friend at present. I am bound by circumstances about which I cannot say a word. My time is not my own — nor my life.”
“I promise not to misunderstand,” replied the other. “Let me tell you about my job, and perhaps you can judge about trusting me.” He spoke in English, thinking it would be less likely to be caught by any passer-by. He told how he had come to be at the Crillon, and gave a picture of the Peace Conference as it appeared to a translator-secretary.
Kurt couldn't bear to listen to it. He broke in. “Do you know what is being done to my people by the blockade? The food allowance is one-third of normal, and the child death-rate has doubled. Of course our enemies would like them all to die, so there wouldn't be any more of us in the world. But is that what President Wilson promised?”
Lanny replied: “There isn't a man I know in the American delegation who doesn't consider it a shame. They have protested again and again. Mr. Hoover is in Paris now, wringing his hands over the situation.”
“Wringing Mr. Hoover's hands won't feed the starving babies. Why doesn't President Wilson threaten to quit unless Clemenceau gives way?”
“He can't be sure what that would do. The others might go on and have their way just the same. It's hard to get a sane peace after a mad war.”
Said the captain of artillery: “Are you aware that our people still have some of their gold reserve? They don't ask anybody to give them food, they ask merely to be allowed to buy it with their own money. And there's plenty of food in America, is there not?”
“So much that we don't know what to do with it. The government has agreed to take it from the farmers at fixed prices, but now there's no market. There are millions of pounds of pork that is going to spoil if it isn't used.”
“But still our people can't spend their own money for it!”
“The French say they want that gold to restore their ruined cities with.”
“Don't you know that we have offered to come and rebuild the cities with our own hands?”
“That's not so simple as it sounds, Kurt. The people here say that would throw their own workers out of jobs.”
“Maybe so; and again maybe it would let them find out how decent our people are — how orderly and how hard-working.”
The two strolled on, arguing. Lanny guessed that his friend was sounding him out; and presently Kurt said: “Suppose it became known to you that there were some Germans in Paris, working secretly to try to get this wicked blockade lifted — would that seem to you such a bad thing?”
“It would seem to me only natural.”
“But you understand that in the eyes of military men they would be spies, and if they were discovered they would be shot?”
“I realized that as soon as I saw you. But I don't see what you can possibly accomplish here.”
“Hasn't it occurred to you that you can accomplish something anywhere in the world if you have money?”
A light dawned on Lanny. So that was it! He had heard his father say many times that you could get anything you wanted in Paris if you had the price.
Kurt went on: “There are people here who won't let our babies have milk until they themselves have gold. And even then you can't trust them — for after they have got the gold they may betray you for more gold. You see, it's a complicated business; and if one happened to be in it, and to have a friend whom he loved, it would be an act of friendship to be silent. It might be extremely inconvenient to know about these matters.”
Lanny didn't hesitate over that. He declared with warmth: “If that was all that was being done, Kurt, I should think that any true friend would be willing to know and to take a chance at helping. Certainly I would!”
VIII
The walk prolonged itself to several miles. Lanny decided that his duties at the conference could wait. His friend was questioning him as to persons who might be interested in helping to get the blockade of Germany lifted. There were two kinds whom a secret agent might wish to know: journalists and politicians who might be bought, and idealists and humanitarians who might be trusted to expend money for printing or other such activities. Lanny told about Alston and others of the staff — but they were doing all they could anyhow. He told about Herron, who was being called a Red because he wanted a truce with the Bolsheviks, and a pro-German because he didn't want the French to keep the Rhineland. He told about Mrs. Emily, who was kind and charitable, also influential; too bad that a German officer couldn't come to her home and be properly introduced and invited to set forth his case! Kurt hinted that perhaps she might be useful as a distributor of funds. It was hard to give much money without having the French police make note of the sudden increase of spending power of some group. But if a wealthy American lady were willing to furnish funds to help make known the plight of the starving babies of Germany . . .?
Presently Lanny, racking his mind, mentioned another person who was an idealist and propagandist of a sort, however perverted. That was his uncle. “I never told you about him, because I've been taught to be ashamed of him. But it appears that he's a personage of a sort here in Paris.” Kurt was interested and asked many questions. Just what were Jesse Blackless's ideas? What group did he belong to? Was he an honest man — and so on.
Lanny answered: “Really, I hardly know him at all. Most of my impressions have come from my father's calling him names. Robbie thinks his ideas come from the devil, and the fact that he really believes them only makes it worse.”
“How much money has he?”
“He lives like a poor man, but he may give money away. I suppose he'd have to, believing as he does.”
“Do you suppose I could trust him with my secret?”
“Oh, gosh!” Lanny was staggered. “I wouldn't dare to say, Kurt.”
“Suppose I were to go to him and introduce myself as a musician from Switzerland, interested in his ideas: how do you suppose he'd receive me?”
“He'd probably guess that you were a police agent, and wouldn't trust you.”
They walked on, while Kurt pondered. Finally he said: “I have to take a chance. Can you do this for me? Go to your uncle and tell him that you have a friend who is interested in pushing the demand for the lifting of the blockade throughout Europe. Tell him that I have money, but there are reasons why I do not wish to be known. Tell him that you know me to be a sincere man — you can say that, can't you?”
“Yes, surely.”
“Tell him someone will come to his room at exactly midnight and tap on his door. When he opens it the person will say the word 'Jesse,' and he will answer the word 'Uncle,' and then a package will be put in his hands. He will be under pledge to spend the money in the quickest and best way, for leaflets, posters, meetings, all that sort of thing. I'll watch, and if I see signs of his activity, I'll bring more money from time to time. Would you be willing to do that?”
“Yes,” said Lanny, “I don't see why I shouldn't.”
“You understand, both you and your uncle have my word that never under any circumstances will I name you to anyone.”
“How much money will it be?”
“Ten thousand francs should be enough to start with. It will be in hundred-franc notes, so it can be spent without attracting attention. You will be able to see your uncle before midnight?”
“I don't know. I'll try.”
“You know the park of captured cannon in the Place in front of the Crillon?”
“I see them every day.”
“There is a big howitzer, directly at the corner as you enter the center lane of guns. It happens to be one that I had charge of; I know it by the marks where it was hit. It's directly across from the main entrance of the hotel, so you can't miss it.”
“I think I know it.”
“Can you be standing in front of it at exactly eleven tonight?”
“I guess so.”
“If you lean against the gun, it means that your uncle says all right. If you walk up and down, it means that he says no, and the deal is off. If you're not there, it means that you haven't been able to find him, or that he wants more time before he gives his answer. In that case I'll look for you at the same hour tomorrow evening. Is that all clear?”
“Quite so. Isn't there any way I can get hold of you again?”
“Your mail at the hotel comes without censorship?”
“Oh, surely.”
“I'll write you some time, a note in English, just saying, meet me at the same place. I'll sign an English name — shall we say Sam?”
“All right, Sam,” said Lanny, with a grin. It promised to be great fun. Lanny's mother would be dancing tonight in behalf of charity, and Lanny would be conspiring in the same cause!
IX
The conspirator paid another call on his Uncle Jesse. This time no one answered his knock, so he poked a note under the door, saying he would return at seven. He had pressing duties, and the only time he could get free was by skipping his dinner; he bought a couple of bananas and ate them in the taxi, donating the dinner to the German babies. On his second call the uncle was waiting; Lanny, explaining that he had to attend a night session of one of the commissions, got down to business at once. “Uncle Jesse, do you agree that the blockade of Central Europe should be lifted?”
“I am an internationalist,” replied the other. “I am opposed to every such interference with human liberty.”
“You know people who are working to have it lifted — I mean they are writing and publishing and speaking in support of that demand, aren't they?”
“Yes; but what-?”
“I have a friend, who for important reasons cannot be named. It's enough that I know him intimately, and trust him. He feels about this blockade as you do, and it happens that he has a great deal of money. He asked me to suggest some way that he could put money into the hands of someone who would spend it for that purpose. I took the liberty of naming you.”
“The devil you did!” said Uncle Jesse. “What then?”
“You realize that I don't know you very well — I haven't been allowed to. But I have the impression that you have real convictions, and wouldn't misapply funds that you accepted for such a cause.”
“You have guessed correctly in that.”
“No doubt you have friends who are trying to raise money for promoting your party, or whatever it is?”
“We get it by persuading poor workingmen to cut down on their food. We don't have rich people coming and dropping it into our laps.”
“Well, this is one time it may happen — if you say the word.”
“How much will it be?”
“The first payment will be ten thousand francs, in bank notes of small denominations.”
“Jesus Christ!” said Uncle Jesse. Lanny had heard that these Reds were nearly all hostile to the accepted religion, but they still had one use for its founder.
“You have to pledge your word to spend it in the quickest and most effective way to promote a popular demand for the lifting of the blockade throughout Europe. If there are signs that you are spending it effectively, more will come — as much as you can handle.”
“How will I get it?”
“Someone will knock on your door at midnight tonight. When you open the door the person will say 'Jesse,' and you will answer 'Uncle,' and a package will be put into your hands.”
The painter sat eying his young nephew. “Look here, Lanny,” said he. “The police and military are busy setting traps for people like me. Are you sure this isn't a scheme of some of the Crillon crowd?”
“I can't tell you whose scheme it is, but I assure you that the Crillon knows nothing about it, and neither do the police. They'll probably take notice as soon as you begin spending the money. That's a risk you have to run.”
“Naturally,” said Uncle Jesse, and pondered again. “I suppose,” he remarked, “this is some of the 'German gold we read about in the reptile press.”
“You mustn't ask any questions.”
“I'm free to spend the money according to my own judgment?”
“For the purpose agreed upon, yes.”
The painter thought some more. “Son, this is wartime. Have you thought what you're getting in for?”
“You take risks for what you believe, don't you?”
“Yes, but you're a youngster, and you happen to be my sister's son, and she's a good scout, even if her brains don't always work. This could get you into one hell of a mess.”
“If you don't mention me, there's no way it can get out. Wild horses couldn't drag it out of my friend.”
Again a pause; and the bald-headed painter smiled one of his crooked smiles. “Perhaps you read in the papers how Lenin was in Switzerland when the Russian Revolution broke out, and he wanted very much to get into Russia. The German government wanted him there and sent him through in a sealed train. They had their reasons for sending him and he had his reasons for going. His reasons won out.”
Lanny got the point and smiled in his turn. The uncle thought for a while and then told him how, many years ago, there had been a big fuss in America over the fact that multimillionaires who had corrupted legislatures and courts were trying to win public favor by giving sums of money to colleges. It was called “tainted money,” and there was a clamor that colleges should refuse such donations. One college professor, more robust than the rest of the tribe, had got up in a meeting and cried: “Bring on your tainted money!” The painter laughed and said: “That's me!”