The Final Hour

by Taylor Caldwell

  ‘Especially as your own sister is now Henri’s wife,’ said Armand, reprovingly. He turned his round cropped head, with its almost white hair, uneasily from one to the other. ‘Not a nice topic of conversation.’

  ‘By all means, let’s converse about diet,’ said Christopher, with a smilingly vitriolic glance at his brother. ‘How’s the pancreas, Armand?’

  His ridicule was lost on the infatuated Armand, who appeared grateful. ‘My doctor has told me that I can reduce the insulin to one shot a day. Something new. Concentrated, I believe. Very convenient. No more fuss about asking for boiling water, when I go out to dinner. Sometimes people stared.’

  He beamed at them, as if he had accomplished a meritorious act, which they must applaud. Henri watched the curling of his smoke; Christopher drank quickly and deeply. Antoine smiled at them all.

  The french door opened and Celeste appeared. They rose and greeted her. ‘Well, Auntie, you are as ravishing as ever,’ said Antoine, taking her hand and kissing her cheek with an air. He adored pretty women, even when they were his relatives. He studied her with cunning amusement. An assured piece. She sat down and accepted one of Antoine’s cigarettes, and he lit it for her. Stony, he thought. But stone cracks under repeated blows. He closed his lighter with slow and thoughtful movements.

  ‘Peter will be down directly,’ she said. Over those deep-blue eyes there was a kind of veil as she looked at them. ‘He won’t need his day-nurse any longer, he believes,’ she added, though no one had asked about her husband. ‘He thinks it silly, and I do, too. Miss Tompkins may go the end of the week. He sleeps well at night, he says, and hardly coughs at all. Tomorrow, he wants to go for a drive.’

  She leaned back in her chair, and her white hands tightened only a little on the arms. She smiled. She looked at Christopher.

  ‘You’ve been very bad, Christopher. You agitated him terribly this morning. You might have been kinder, considering everything.’

  ‘Good God, is he a child?’ asked Christopher. ‘You know very well that he’s argumentative. He always was belligerent and accusing. Then, he never liked me. What did I do to him? He asked me some questions, and I answered them. Celeste, you aren’t his mama, you know.’

  ‘You forget how ill he’s been,’ she replied. ‘Well, never mind. You two never were congenial.’ For all her calm, there was a pent restlessness about her. Antoine, watching her closely, saw that she never looked directly at Henri, who appeared bored. He had averted his head. He was looking out over the long roll of green grass, which was turning mysterious in the twilight. The sky was heliotrope, the tops of the great trees burnished in the failing western sun. The penetrating sweetness of the rose-garden came to them in the warm evening wind. The birds whistled with melancholy notes in the high branches. There was a great and shadowy peace all about them, yet Antoine, with his acute perception, knew there was no peace on this quiet terrace.

  ‘Is he going to write again?’ he asked.

  But Celeste only moved her head slightly.

  ‘Another expose of the Bouchards,’ mused Antoine. ‘“The War-Mongers.” What does he think we are doing now? He’d be surprised.’

  At this, Henri turned to him, and something in that immobile broad face, impelling and implacable, caused Antoine to pause. There were times when he forgot the power of Henri Bouchard, when he could chaff his brother-in-law and impudently challenge him. But he had the infuriating impression that these occasions were only by Henri’s consent. An agile monkey might torment a lion, when the latter felt indifferent or indulgent. But there were other times when it was extremely perilous. This was one of those times, Antoine saw.

  He subsided. But his fine fingernails pressed against his palms.

  ‘Nothing about the family would surprise Peter,’ remarked Celeste, bitterly. She stopped, abruptly. Peter and Annette were coming out upon the terrace, Annette laughing softly. Peter walking slowly and with deliberate firmness. Behind them appeared the thin dark face of Edith, and her smart frock.

  Chairs were drawn up for the ladies, and Antoine, with many gestures, drew one also for Peter, whose sunken face flushed at this ostentatious courtesy. Antoine gracefully asked about his health. The silent Edith accepted a cocktail Annette began to prattle in her sweet and breathless voice.

  ‘Isn’t it nice, Henri?’ she asked. ‘Celeste and Peter have decided to stay with us a little longer, until they build their new house. I had such a time persuading the darlings,’ she added, with a fond glance at her young aunt. ‘She believed she was “imposing” upon us. Now, wasn’t that absurd?’ She looked at them all, radiantly.

  So, thought Antoine, Celeste wants to run. Very interesting. In the neat dossier of his mind he entered another fact.

  Dinner was announced, and they all rose. Antoine felt that he had gathered much diverting and useful information in the past five minutes, information which he believed might someday undo Henri Bouchard.

  CHAPTER XIII

  Armand set up his list near his plate, and anxiously consulted it whenever the butler held a dish at his left. He would adjust his glasses, peer forward to study the list, after a reproachful glance at the dim candles, and then either accept what was proffered, or shake his head. The windows stood open; a cool and scented breeze invaded the charming room. Somewhere, a thrush sang to the approaching night. Over the garden wall a crescent moon rose, sweeping like a silver scythe against the electric blue of the evening sky.

  Annette was all happiness. It was beautiful to her, to have her relatives about her. She dwelt on each fondly, from her place at the foot of the table. Never had she felt such peace and contentment. That moment against the door of her room was forgotten. Somewhere, out in space, the abyss waited, but here all was candlelight, flowers, the shimmer of silver, the sparkling of water in crystal glasses, the faces of those she loved. Sometimes she leaned forward to study her father’s list with him; he sat at her right. As her bright soft hair caught the candlelight, and her gentle rosy mouth pursed in profound concentration, Armand would forget his diet to scrutinize that sweet and fragile profile with a strange and desperate aching in his frightened heart.

  ‘Papa,’ she said, reproachfully, ‘it says you can have fruit salad. You refused it. And such delicious fruit, too.’

  ‘But cantaloupe disagrees with me,’ he replied.

  ‘And fish. You can have that too. But you didn’t take it.’

  ‘Not when there’s meat. Too much protein.’

  Peter was absorbed in some sombre meditation of his own. He sat near Edith, who watched him with considerable thoughtful sadness. How much he had suffered all his life! she thought. But he was one of those who are born in pain, live in sorrow, and die in anguish. It was better for them to die quickly; it was even better if they were never born. Die soon, poor Peter, she thought. That is the most merciful thing for you.

  She saw his tired hands, listlessly holding the silver. His thin cheek had a febrile flush upon it. He struggled to restrain impulses to cough. Celeste watched him closely, as always, and as she did so, the worn expression about her eyes increased, and the corners of her lips sank deeply with a drawn look. It was she who filled his plate silently, though he shook his head automatically. And then, at her anxious look, he would smile at her briefly and tenderly, and obey her silent urgings.

  It was Antoine, and Christopher, who alone saw how Henri watched these two, without appearing to do so, and how the brutal sombreness increased on his face. Christopher observed this with inner satisfaction, and Antoine smiled internally.

  Celeste had feared a certain constraint after the morning’s affair, but Christopher was amiability itself, especially to Peter, who responded with reluctant curtness. Edith was distrait; she watched her husband with a curious line between her nut-brown eyes, and then her glance would touch her brother quickly. Annette chattered sweetly; Armand studied his list, and admonished his daughter about the probable amount of albumen in her parfait. ‘But I’m sure there are no eggs in
it, dear,’ she replied. He tasted the delicious mixture cautiously, shook his head, laid down his spoon with resolute finality. ‘Certainly, there are eggs,’ he said. Annette lost her appetite.

  In the meantime, Christopher had become engaged in a conversation about gasoline with Henri. ‘We are experimenting with a new aeroplane engine at Duval-Bonnet,’ he said, ‘which promises to be exciting. But it requires a high test gasoline beyond any which has now been developed. We have, of course, been using the principle of catalysis. But one of our chemists thinks he has developed a fluid catalytic cracker, which, as you might know, is really a very fine powder, and can be piped and pumped and handled exactly like a liquid. You may not think that very dramatic, or important, but I assure you it is one of the most spectacular discoveries of this century.’

  ‘Have you used it in the gasoline you employ in your planes?’ asked Henri, with an interest apparently out of proportion to the subject. But Peter suddenly raised his head alertly, and listened with intense eagerness.

  ‘Yes,’ Christopher paused, and looked at Henri significantly. ‘We’ve built forty crackers, full size. It was an expensive experiment. It succeeded.’

  ‘And the engine design?’ asked Henri, casually. ‘To use the new gas?’

  ‘We have an offer. An exceptionally splendid offer. We’ll probably accept it. The other includes the new cracking process.’

  Peter laid down his fork. He looked at Henri, and Christopher.

  ‘Would this famous offer come from Germany?’ he asked.

  They turned to him, Christopher with arch surprise, Henri with that immobile look of his.

  ‘Good God! You certainly have an intense imagination!’ exclaimed Christopher with a light laugh. ‘No, the offer did not come from Germany. It might, you know, have come from our own blessed Government. That’s all I can tell you.’

  Henri smiled a little. He took out his cigarette case, tamped a cigarette on the cover, lit it. Through the smoke, his eyes gleamed like cold agates.

  You lie, thought Peter, with desperation.

  Christopher, after a long smile at Peter, turned to Henri again. ‘As you know, we’ve been experimenting with butadiene—adding styrene and various other things. We’ve hopes of it. That it will eventually free us from the East Indies’ rubber. There’s at lot of work to be done. You ought to see our new plant, and laboratories. There’s chemical history in the making, there.’

  ‘Why,’ said Peter, ‘is it necessary for you to experiment with this—this butadiene? You aren’t expecting aggression from Japan in the Indies, are you?’

  Christopher laughed again. But Peter’s eyes were ablaze; a muscle jerked in his cheek.

  ‘Christ!’ said Christopher, softly. ‘You are a monomaniac, Pete. We expect nothing, not even a war in Europe. We aren’t interested.’ He repeated, even more softly: ‘We aren’t interested. At the present time, our sole interest is in making America self-sufficient.’

  Peter said nothing for a moment, then he spoke with intense quietness: ‘I’ve heard that Germany has already perfected a process for synthetic rubber. It wouldn’t be your process, would it, Christopher?’

  Christopher was quite amazed, and overwhelmingly amused. ‘How should I know? After all, brains aren’t confined to America. It is possible that German chemists are also experimenting.’

  Peter’s face was grim, as cold as ice. ‘I have heard it is called the “American” process. Two of your men were in Germany eight months ago, Chris, and they spent six weeks with German chemists.’

  For an instant the bright metallic mask over Christopher’s delicate features dimmed. He met Peter’s eyes, but Peter was indomitable. He returned Christopher’s look with bitterness and contempt, and great desolation.

  ‘You are misinformed, Pete,’ said Christopher at last, very gently. ‘You’ve been had. No one from Duval-Bonnet has been in Germany. Who told you that?’

  ‘Their names,’ continued Peter, as if he had not heard, ‘were Carl Brouser and Frederick Schultzmann. Would they be familiar names to you?’

  Christopher smiled. But his fingers clenched about his fork, as if it was a weapon. Henri dropped the hand with the cigarette, and looked slowly from Peter to Christopher. The smoke curled from between his square strong fingers in a long spiral. Antoine, for some reason, found Henri more interesting in these tense moments that Christopher. Edith, lifting her dark head alertly, stared at her husband, her lips pinched, and Celeste could only sit in silence with her violet eyes shining brilliantly in the lamplight. Armand, oblivious, was studying his list with the aid of his anxious daughter. Their heads were together.

  ‘Brouser and Schultzmann have never been away from Duval-Bonnet for more than a few days, for the past four years,’ said Christopher. ‘Someone has been telling you fairy tales.’

  Now Henri spoke, and he looked only at Christopher. ‘Have they?’ he asked, with profound quietness.

  Was it fear that betrayed itself in the light eyes of Christopher, thought Antoine, and defensive hatred? For a moment, he was speechless.

  ‘Have they?’ repeated Henri, in a louder voice, but still quietly. However, there was something terrible and violent in his tone.

  ‘Good God! What is this? Certainly, it is a lie. Carl and Fred are our most trusted chemists. They have families in Florida, also. They are American citizens. Like most gifted chemists, they are absorbed in their work. They spend twenty hours a day, sometimes, in the laboratories. Nice chaps. Devoted. Geniuses.’

  ‘Very interesting,’ commented Henri, breaking rudely into Christopher’s speech. ‘Nevertheless, I’m not in the least interested in their families or their poetic consecration to Duval-Bonnet. I only want to know if they were in Germany, as Pete says.’

  He did not move; the smoke from his cigarette rose tranquilly between his fingers. However, he gave an impression of cold and colossal violence as he sat motionless in his chair.

  Christopher apparently was astounded, and could only stare at his brother-in-law. Still looking at him, Henri said to Peter: ‘Pete, where did you get this information?’

  Peter turned to him, and studied him with frowning bewilderment. He saw that large and stony profile, with its deadly lack of expression. Was it possible that Henri was acting, that this was a play to throw him, Peter, off? But, when he glanced at Christopher, and saw the spectral tightness of his mouth, the drawn and glittering eyes, he was not so sure.

  He said, very slowly: ‘I’ve ways of finding out. I won’t tell you, Henri. It would endanger the men who told me. The Social-Democratic Germans who form the Underground in Germany. Two of them are employed in a chemical concern in the Ruhr. That is all I can say. You’ve probably heard of the Gestapo, haven’t you?’

  ‘I tell you,’ said Christopher, with unusual emotion, ‘that it is a lie! Brouser and Schultzmann have never been away from their posts for more than a day or two.’ He paused. His delicate nostrils flared. ‘I’m positive of their loyalty. It is possible, however, that there are spies, even in Duval-Bonnet, but I can hardly credit this.’

  ‘Brouser and Schultzmann were in Germany. Photographs were shown me,’ said Peter.

  ‘You have those photographs?’ asked Henri, still watching Christopher.

  ‘No. Certainly not. But I could identify the men if I saw them.’

  A dark purple vein rose in one of Christopher’s bloodless temples, and beat visibly. Edith had turned very pale. She stared at her husband with dilated eyes.

  ‘It is easy to get photographs of anyone,’ said Christopher. ‘To fake photographs, too. It is very possible that your ridiculous spy obtained such photographs directly from Florida, and passed them off to you dramatically as being taken in Germany.’

  ‘Goering was in the background. His hand was on Schultzmann’s shoulder,’ said Peter, quietly.

  Christopher burst out laughing. ‘Christ! Do you think, if that were true, that such photographs would dare be taken, dare be distributed, dare be made accessible to a
nyone?’

  ‘It was a secret photograph, taken by one of the Underground Germans. He had developed a camera small enough to be enclosed in a ring. I might add that there is no need to search for that camera. It is destroyed now, or successfully hidden. The photograph was shown me, and one or two others, for a certain purpose. The spy wished this information to be laid before American authorities.’

  Christopher, though still smiling, struck his clenched fist lightly on the table. But his eyes were malignant as he looked at Peter.

  ‘It was a faked photograph. I insist that it was. Any amateur could do it.’

  ‘The spy,’ said Peter, ‘talked freely with Schultzmann and Brouser. Don’t have your friends look for him, however. You won’t find him.’

  There was a sinister silence around the table, Armand, feeling the portentousness in the atmosphere, forgot his list. He looked slowly at them all, apprehensively silent. He had not heard the conversation; he only knew that something quite terrible was happening. He moistened his dry fat lips.

  Then Henri moved a little, and smiled. It was like a basilisk smiling.

  ‘All nonsense, of course,’ he said, serenely. ‘I’m sorry, Pete, but the dramatics aren’t convincing. If Brouser and Schultzmann were really there, Chris would be the one to know.’

  Christopher drew an inaudible breath into lungs that had been tightly compressed. ‘I most assuredly would know. However, I’ll question the boys very closely, when I return.’ He smiled amiably. ‘What damned nonsense.’

  Peter thought: Is it possible Henri didn’t know, that he is enraged, that he will do something to find out? And if he didn’t know, why does he care? He is tied up with the I.G. Farbenindustrie; it would be the most natural thing in the world for him to arrange to give the Germans the cracking process and the design for the new planes—for a round sum. It would be natural that Christopher had his approval. Under the circumstances, why should it enrage him, make him look at Christopher in that deadly way? They’ve been doing these things for a century—the Bouchards.