V
Just before Lanny left the Riviera a world-shaking event took place—the Russian revolution and the overthrow of the Tsar. Everybody was speculating as to what it meant, and what would be its effect upon the war. Most people in France believed it would help the Allies; the Russians would fight harder, now that they were free. But Robbie said that Russia was out, because of graft, incompetence, and the breakdown of her railroads. He said that freight had been landed from hundreds of steamers at Archangel in the far north, and at Vladivostok on the Pacific, and there was no way to get it to the war zones. Tens of millions of dollars’ worth of goods was piled along the railroad tracks for miles, without more than a single tarpaulin to cover the boxes. Included in the stacks were Budd machine guns, and of course they were rusting and would soon be useless; meanwhile the Russian peasant-soldiers were expected to defend themselves with clubs and march to the attack with five men to one rifle.
“What is going to happen,” said Robbie, “is breakdown and chaos; the country may be pillaged, or the Germans may take it. The German troops will be moved to the west, and may well be in Paris before the Americans can raise an army or get it across the ocean. That is what the German General Staff is reckoning on.”
The father revealed the purpose which had brought him to Europe. The War Department of the United States government had sent an emissary to the president of Budd’s, asking him to consider proposals for the licensing of Budd patents to various firms such as Vickers and Schneider, which were working day and night making munitions for the Allied governments. Under such licenses they would be permitted to make Budd machine guns, Budd anti-aircraft guns, and so on, paying a royalty to be agreed upon. If America should enter the war, Budd’s itself would no longer be in position to manufacture for European nations, and it was desirable that our Allies should have the benefit of Yankee ingenuity and skill.
This question of patent licensing had been a subject of controversy inside the Budd organization for years. Foreign governments were always proposing it, offering handsome royalties. Robbie had opposed the policy, while Lawford had favored it, and each had labored to persuade the father to his point of view. The older brother insisted that it was dangerous to expand the plant any further; they would have to borrow money—and then some day the pacifists would impose a scheme of disarmament, Budd’s wouldn’t be able to meet its obligations, and some Wall Street banking syndicate would gobble it up. Robbie, on the other hand, argued that European manufacturers would make the most generous offers and sign on as many dotted lines as you prepared for them; but who was going to watch them, and know how many shell fuses they really made?
Lanny got from this a clearer realization of the situation between his father and his oldest uncle. The uncle was morose and jealous, and a dispute which had begun in the nursery had been transferred to the office of the company. Lawford opposed everything that Robbie advocated, and attributed selfish motives to him; as for Robbie, he seemed convinced that the chief motive of the brother’s life was not to let Robbie have his way in anything. Now the War Department had stepped in and given Lawford a victory. Licenses would be issued to several European munitions firms, and in order to salve Robbie’s feelings, his father had sent him to do the negotiating.
VI
Robbie telephoned to the home of Basil Zaharoff, which was on the Avenue Hoche. Lanny was in the room and heard one-half the conversation; the munitions king said something which caused Robbie to smile, and reply: “Yes, but he’s not so little now.” Robbie turned his eyes on Lanny as he listened. “Very well,” he said. “He’ll be happy to come, I’m sure.”
The father hung up the receiver and remarked: “The old devil asked if I had that very intelligent little boy with me. He says to bring you along. Want to go?”
“Do I!” exclaimed the intelligent little boy. “But what does he want with me?”
“Don’t let your vanity be flattered. We’ve got something he wants, and he’d like to make it a social matter, not one of business. Watch him and see how an old Levantine trader works.”
“Doesn’t he have an office?” inquired the boy.
“His office is where he happens to be. People find it worth while to come to him.”
Lanny dressed for this special occasion, and late in the afternoon of a day which promised spring they drove to 53, Avenue Hoche, just off the Parc Monceau. It was one of a row of stately houses, with nothing to make it conspicuous; a home for a gentleman who didn’t want to attract attention to himself, but wanted to stay hidden and work out plans to appeal to other men’s fears and greeds. A discreet and velvet-footed man in black opened the door, and escorted them into the reception room, which had furniture and paintings in excellent taste—no doubt the duquesa’s. Presently they were invited to a drawing room on the second floor, where the first thing they saw was an elaborate silver tea service ready for action. The windows were open, and a soft breeze stirred the curtains, and birds sang in trees just outside. Presently the munitions king entered, looking grayer and more worn—one does not make a quarter of a billion dollars without some cares.
He had hardly finished greeting them when a lady entered behind him. Had she heard the story of the boy who had had such an odd idea about helping his father’s business? Or was it the special importance of the contracts which Robert Budd was bringing? Anyhow, here she came, and Zaharoff said: “The Duquesa de Villafranca,” with a tone of quiet pride. The duquesa bowed but did not give her hand; she said, very kindly: “How do you do, Messieurs?” and seated herself at the tea table.
She had been only seventeen when she had met this munitions salesman, and they had been waiting twenty-seven years for her lunatic husband to die. She was a rather small and inconspicuous person, gracious, but even more reserved than her companion. His blue eyes were watching the visitors, and her dark eyes for the most part watched him. She had the olive complexion of a Spaniard, and wore a teagown of purple, with a double rope of pearls nearly to her waist. “You have had a dangerous journey, M. Budd,” she remarked.
“Many men are facing danger these days, Madame,” replied Robbie.
“Do you think that your country will help us to end this dreadful war?”
“I think so; and if we come in, we shall do our best.”
“It will have to be done quickly,” put in the munitions king; to which Robbie answered that large bodies took time to get in motion, but when they moved, it was with force.
They talked about the military situation. Zaharoff set forth the extreme importance to civilization of overcoming the German menace. He told about what he had done to set up Venizelos in Greece and bring that country in on the side of the Allies; he didn’t say how much money he had spent, but that he had moved heaven and earth.
“Greece is my native land,” he said. “Love of Greece has been the first passion of my life, and hatred of Turkish cruelty and fanaticism has been the second.” As he talked about these matters his voice trembled a little, and Lanny thought, was all that playacting? If so, it was a remarkable performance. But Robbie told him afterward that it was genuine; the munitions king did really hate the Turks, and had spent millions buying newspapers and politicians, pulling wires against King Constantine and his German wife. Zaharoff had gone in for oil, and wanted Mesopotamia for his British companies. He used his money for things which the Allied governments wanted done, but which were too discreditable for them to do directly.
VII
Presently they were talking about President Wilson, who had said that Americans were “too proud to fight,” and had been re-elected with the slogan, “He kept us out of war.” Robbie explained the Presbyterian temperament, which would find some high moral basis for whatever it decided to do, and would then do it under divine direction. Now this President was talking about “war for democracy,” and Zaharoff asked if that was supposed to be a moral slogan.
Robbie replied: “The founders of our nation didn’t believe in democracy, M. Zaharoff, but i
t is supposed to be good politics now.”
“Well, I should want to write the definition somewhat carefully.” The old man smiled one of those strange smiles, in which his watchful eyes never took part.
“It is playing with fire,” said the other, unsmiling. “We have seen in Russia what it may lead to, and not even Wilson wishes the war to end that way.”
“God forbid!” exclaimed the munitions king; and no one could doubt the sincerity of that.
When you are having a lady of ancient lineage to pour tea for you, it is necessary to pay some attention to her. So presently Robbie remarked: “That is a lovely tea service you have, Duquesa.”
“It is an heirloom of my family,” replied María del Pilar Antonia Angela Patrocino Simón de Muguiro y Berute, Duquesa de Marqueni y Villafranca de los Caballeros.
“I had a gold one,” put in the host. “But I have given it to the government, to help save the franc.”
Was there just the trace of a frown on the gentle visage of the Spanish king’s cousin? She had been laboring for a quarter of a century to make a gentleman out of a Levantine trader; and perhaps it cannot be done in one lifetime; perhaps in the midst of wars and revolutions one must excuse lapses from a much-burdened mind.
After they had had their tea, the old man remarked: “And now about that matter of business, Mr. Budd.”
The hostess rose. “I am sure you gentlemen don’t want an audience for your conference,” she said; and added sweetly to Lanny: “Wouldn’t you like to come and see my beautiful tulips?”
Of course Lanny went, and so lost his chance to observe the old trader in action. He was taken into a fine garden, and introduced to a pair of snow-white poodles, beautifully groomed and shaved to resemble lions. He learned about the tulips, which were just unfolding their beauties: the bizarres, which are yellow marked with purple and red; the bybloemen, which are white marked with violet or purple; also a new kind from Turkestan. The Dutch people had cultivated them for centuries, and once they had been the basis of a great financial boom.
“Do you really love flowers?” asked the duquesa; and Lanny told about Bienvenu, and the court full of daffodils and bougainvillaea where he did his reading. He was used to ladies with titles, and not awed by them. He suspected that one who had the munitions king for a companion didn’t feel entirely safe or happy, so he was moved to be kind. He mentioned Mrs. Emily, and found that the duquesa knew her, and had aided her war work; so Lanny told what she was doing at Sept Chênes, and added the story of M. Pinjon, the gigolo, which the duquesa found sympathique. She remarked that she would like to send a present to that poor man; since he played the flute, perhaps he might like to have a good one.
Time passed, and the two men of business did not appear. Lanny didn’t want to be a nuisance to his hostess, who must have other things to do than to entertain a casually met youth. He told her he was used to getting along by himself, and she offered to take him to the library. He had seen many large rooms in fine homes, having walls lined with volumes de luxe which were rarely touched save to be dusted. The munitions king’s were all behind glass, but on the table were magazines, and he said he would be happy with those. So the gentle lady excused herself. Lanny understood that she was far too rich to ask him to call again; and besides, maybe this was all just a matter of business, as Robbie had said!
VIII
At last the two emerged from their conference; both suave as ever—but you couldn’t tell anything from that. The father and son strolled down the street, and Lanny said: “Well, what happened?”
Robbie answered, with one of his grins: “I thought he was going to cry, but he didn’t quite.”
“Why should he cry?” The boy knew that he was supposed to be naïve, so that his father would have the fun of telling it.
“I hurt his feelings by suggesting that we should require observers in the Vickers plants, to check their production under our licenses.”
“Is he going to let you?”
“He said it was a very serious matter to admit strangers to a munitions factory in wartime. I answered that they wouldn’t be strangers very long; he would know how to become acquainted with them.” Robbie began to laugh; he enjoyed nothing more than such a battle over property rights—especially when he held the good cards close to his chest. “They really need our patents,” he said; “and, believe me, they won’t get them without paying. Why should they?”
Lanny didn’t know any reason, and said so.
“Well, the old devil thought he knew a number of them. He was horrified at the schedule of royalties I put before him; he said he had been given to understand that America wanted to help the Allies, not to bleed them to death, or drive them to bankruptcy. I said I hadn’t heard of any bankruptcies among the hundred and eighty Vickers companies in England, or the two hundred and sixty of them abroad. He said they had cut their prices to the bone as a patriotic duty to the British and French governments. I told him it was generally understood that his companies were getting the full twenty percent profit allowed them by British law. You can see it wasn’t a conversation for a duquesa to hear. Was she nice to you?”
“Very,” said Lanny. “I liked her.”
“Oh, sure,” said the father. “But you can’t like the consort of a wolf beyond a certain point.”
Lanny saw that his father was not going to like Basil Zaharoff under any circumstances. He said so, and Robbie replied that a wolf didn’t want to be liked; what he wanted was to eat, and when it was a question of dividing up food with him, you had to have a sharp-pointed goad in hand. “We have paid out good American money, financing inventions and perfecting complicated machines. We’re not going to give those secrets to Zaharoff, not even in return for a tea party and a smile from a duquesa. We’re going to have our share of the profits, paid right on the barrel-head, and I’m sent here to tell him so, and to put before him a contract which our lawyers have constructed like a wolf trap. I said that very politely, but in plain language.”
“And what did you decide?”
“Oh, I left him the contracts, and he’ll weep over them tonight, and tomorrow morning I’m to see his French factotum, Pietri, and he’ll plead and argue, and demand this change and that, and I’ll tell him to take it as it’s written, or the Allies can get along with a poorer grade of machine guns.”
“Will they, Robbie?”
“Just stick by me the next few days, son, and learn how we businessmen pull wires. If they turn down my contracts, I know half a dozen journalists in Paris and London who will make a story out of it for a reasonable fee. I can find a way to have the merits of the Budd products brought to the attention of a dignified and upright member of Parliament, who wouldn’t take a bribe for anything, but will endeavor to protect his country against the greed of munitions magnates and the bungling of War Office bureaucrats.”
IX
Robbie’s next conference was with Bub Smith, the ex-cowboy with the broken nose who had come down to Juan three or four years previously and demonstrated the Budd automatic for Captain Bragescu. Bub had given up his job in Paris to work for Robbie, and had made a couple of trips to America in spite of the submarines. It was he who had brought letters for Lanny into France.
Now Robbie told his son that Bub had proved himself an “ace” at confidential work, and was going to have the job of keeping track of the lessees of Budd patents. “Of course Zaharoff himself is a man of honor,” said Robbie, with a smile. “But there’s always the possibility that some of the men who run his companies might be tempted to try tricks. Bub is to watch the French plants for me.”
“Can one man keep track of them all?” asked the youth.
“I mean that he’ll be the one to watch the watchers.”
Robbie went on to explain that it wasn’t possible to carry on an industry without workers; and there were always some of these glad to give information in exchange for a pourboire. Bub would build an organization for knowing what was going on in munitions factorie
s.
“Isn’t it a rather dangerous job?” asked Lanny. “I mean, mayn’t they take him for a spy?”
“He’ll have a letter from me, and the embassy will identify him.”
“And won’t the munitions people find out about him?”
“Oh, sure. They know we’re bound to watch them.”
“That won’t hurt their feelings?”
Robbie was amused. “In our business you don’t have feelings—you have cash.”
18
Away from All That
I
A telephone call for Lanny at the Crillon. He answered, and let out a whoop. “Where are you? Oh, glory! Come right up.” He hung up the receiver. “It’s Rick! He got leave!” Lanny rushed out to the lift, to wait for his friend; grabbed him and hugged him, then held him off at arm’s length and examined him. “Gee, Rick, you look grand!”
The young flying officer had grown to man’s stature. His khaki uniform was cut double in front, making a sort of breastplate of cloth; on the left breast was a white badge, indicating that he had a flying certificate, and high up on both sleeves were eagle wings. His skin was bronzed and his cheeks rosy; flying hadn’t hurt him. With his wavy black hair cut close and a brown service cap on top he was a handsome fellow; and so happy over this visit—they were going to see Paris together, and Paris was the world!
“Gee, Rick, how did you manage it?”
“I had done some extra duty, so I had it coming.”
“How long have you got?”
“Till tomorrow night.”
“And how is it, Rick?”
“Oh, not so bad.”
World's End (The Lanny Budd Novels) Page 36
