The Eagles Gather

by Caldwell, Taylor;

  Christopher called him Amanita Phalloides. And surely nothing could have been so apt as naming him for the deadliest of the fungi, which yet has no sharp color, no acrid taste, to warn a man of its deadliness.

  Like most of his family, he knew no loyalty, except that which Jules had designated “rogues’ loyalty.” And no one of his family was entirely deceived by him except his big blonde wife, Alexa, of Wagnerian stature and extraordinary stupidity, and his pompous, pious, entirely stupid cousin and brother-in-law, Alexa’s brother, Alexander. They were deceived by him to the end of their lives, for he was grateful for their deception. Alexander was vice-president of The Sessions Steel Company, of which his father, old, rosy, blond Andre, was president. Yet Jean, who was only secretary of the company, was paid a salary much higher than that of Alexander, Andre being a clever man in spite of his resemblance to a “pink scrubbed hog.”

  On this particular blue-and-white December morning Andre had called his nephew, Jean, for a consultation. (He rarely called in Alexander, who usually sulked in bewilderment over this, without, however, subsequently feeling resentful towards Jean.)

  Andre was sitting at his desk, when Jean entered. He was corpulent and old now, with huge round belly and thick round thighs straining at the seams of his immaculately creased trousers. His bald scalp was rosy and polished, his blue eyes glittering behind his Oxford glasses. In the gray silk of his cravat was a large pinkish pearl. As usual, he appeared to have stepped only a moment ago from a hot bath lavishly full of soapsuds.

  “Come in, Jean,” he said. He took off his glasses, rubbed them with a huge square of the finest white linen, replaced them. He smiled. A faint odor of eau de cologne emanated from him. Jean sat down. His manner, towards his uncle, was always one of fondness, respect and attentiveness, which Andre found very soothing and flattering.

  “Jean,” said Andre, “bring Alexa and the children to dinner tomorrow night. Your aunt is much better, and would like to have all of you.”

  “Thank you, uncle,” said Jean, smiling his pleased and affectionate smile.

  “Has Bertie got over his grippe?”

  “Yes. And Dorcas didn’t have measles, after all.” When he spoke of his little daughter Jean’s expression changed subtly into one of authentic tenderness. Andre smiled. He was extremely fond of his little granddaughter, who he believed resembled him remarkably. On each of her birthdays and on Christmas and other holidays he bought her a beautiful rose-tinged pearl, of fine size and unsurpassed luster and value. So far, at five years of age, she had fifteen of these pearls, strung on a platinum chain. It was calculated that when she reached the age of twenty-one she would possess a necklace of exquisitely matched pearls whose value would be beyond price. Jean, who had no aversion to having his little daughter remain the favorite of Andre, did everything in his power to confirm his father-in-law’s belief that Dorcas resembled him amazingly.

  There was a fine photograph of little Dorcas on Andre’s desk of polished ebony. The silver frame enclosed the face of a small blonde angel with an expression of infinite sweetness in its blue eyes. Andre beamed at it sheepishly. Then he turned from it with a gesture of paternal dismissal, and regarded his son-in-law, who was also his nephew.

  “Jean, I’ve got something for you to do today of the utmost delicacy, and importance. Nicholas has just called me from the bank. He has asked me to have you call on him at once. I have an idea what it is about, but I would rather that you handled it.”

  “I see.” Jean became thoughtful. He exchanged a steady look with his father-in-law which was a mixture of cunning and caution.

  “Not,” Andre went on, “that there is anything we can really do, you understand. But forewarned is forearmed. It is always well to know what one’s adversary is doing, isn’t it?” So Jean called for his car and was driven to the bank. All during the ride he hummed under his breath, a habit he had when deeply engaged in thought. Once arrived at the bank, he was admitted immediately into the office of Nicholas Bouchard, president, and son of Leon. He glanced up at Jean, grunted, thrust out his thick underlip. He seemed much older than his thirty-six years, for there was no coloring of youth about him, and only thickness, solidity, and a uniform tint of greenish eye, skin and greenish-brown hair.

  “Come in, come in. Sit down. Are you busy? This won’t take long.” He sat stockily and sullenly behind his great ornate desk with its glass top. He regarded Jean with his customary dully belligerent eyes. But these eyes were less antagonistic to Jean than to any other of his relatives.

  “I am busy,” said Jean, smiling. “But not so busy as to disregard the importance of anything you have to tell me.” Nicholas grunted, and then smiled his unwilling and entirely unprepossessing smile. “Have a cigar. Go on; these won’t hurt you. They’re not as strong as the others, which you don’t like. Go on. I won’t keep you long.”

  Jean took a cigar, first lit Nicholas’ and then his own. The pale bright December sun struck through the high cold windows and lay across the desk. Nicholas puffed, leaning back in his chair, his hands thrust into his pockets. He surveyed Jean unwinkingly, his cold stare full of calculation. Then abruptly he leaned towards his desk, took up a paper, and thrust it at the other man. Jean took it. It was a confidential report from the offices of Jay Regan.

  Jean read, then whistled softly. He put down the paper, and again met the unwinking stare of Nicholas Bouchard.

  “Now why,” he said thoughtfully, “should Emile and Hugo and Francis turn over that amount of Bouchard stock to Christopher? Why? And where did he get the money?”

  “Don’t ask me. I ask you. That is why I called you here. To ask you.”

  “Does Armand know?”

  “No. No use telling him. Yet. Why should we tell him? We don’t know anything. No use telling him something we don’t know the answer to. Is there?”

  “I don’t know, Nick. Sometimes I don’t always agree with you, you know. There is an answer to all this, and somehow I believe it intimately concerns Armand, and all the rest of us. But, naturally, if you would rather I wouldn’t say anything—“

  “You always talk too much. You’ve got that reputation.” Nicholas’ voice was surly. He regarded Jean with harsh deliberation. “Well, have you any ideas? That’s why I called you. Ideas.”

  “Have you?”

  Nicholas grunted. “Plenty. But none of them tangible. You know what that white snake has always wanted. You know he’d like to cut Armand’s throat. But where does that get us? Nowhere. Facts are facts; we’ve got to get more of ‘em. Why did the others give Christopher that stock? I know his financial standing down to the last penny. I know that, besides the Bouchard stock, he’s suddenly deposited money in the Morse National in New York. A fortune. Where did he get it?” He spat out a scrap of leaf. “And another thing: checks have been drawn on that account. All to cash. What’s the answer?”

  “He couldn’t have borrowed from Henri, could he?” mused Jean.

  Nicholas’ eyes narrowed to greenish slits. “No. The stock was transferred to him a week before he got friendly with Henri and Edith. The money was deposited before, too. I happen to know that Emile, Hugo and Francis withdrew tremendous sums of money from the banks, which were subsequently deposited to Christopher’s credit.”

  “Then,” said Jean, frowning in concentration, “he’s sold them something. Something very valuable, too, for I can’t see them lending him money or giving him anything! Not even if it was to sink old Armand a thousand feet in hell. He’s sold them something!”

  Nicholas’ thick lips curled outwards with contempt. “Now, then, aren’t you bright! Did it take all that effort to think that out? Bah. I thought it out myself. I didn’t ask you to agree with me. What has he sold them? It must be good. And where did he get it? And another thing I’ve found out: Henri’s bought something from him, too. And paid for it with a flock of Bouchard bonds. Which Chris is keeping very carefully tucked away. Well? Well?”

  Jean shrugged. “I don’t
know riddles. But there’s one thing ‘very certain: they know very well that they couldn’t keep transactions of this size a secret from us.”

  Nicholas laughed his harsh reluctant laughter. “Again, aren’t you bright! Of course they know it’s not a secret. But where does that get us? Nowhere. They know we don’t dare ask them. It’s confidential business. Bank business. Not supposed to be broadcast. Now then: are you going to ask them?” and he grinned derisively.

  Jean exhibited no rancor. “Whatever it is, it smells bad for Armand, and all of us. And Regan can find no answer? Christopher hasn’t bought anything on the Market?”

  “Nothing we can find, of any importance. The Bouchard stocks and bonds are in Christopher’s boxes in the Morse National. They haven’t been touched for months. He’s hoarding them. Why? Hell, haven’t you any ideas?”

  Jean was silent a moment, and then replied frankly: “Not an idea. But there’s danger in it, and it’s up to us to find out. There’s another thing I don’t like, either: Christopher is very intimate with Henri and Edith. Alexa and I have tried to be friends with them, but we get nowhere. And Christopher is evidently going to.marry little Celeste off to Henri. Alexa said only this morning that she heard they are going to announce the engagement at Christmas. The whole family has toadied to Henri and Edith until it is nauseating. But though they are pleasant and agreeable in return, the intimacy is all between them and Christopher.” Jean’s face quickened. “I’ve noticed, too, that they seem more friendly towards Emile’s and Francis’ families than they do to us. And they’ve just got back from visiting Hugo and Christine in New Rochelle. “This is interesting! There’s a conspiracy, somewhere!”

  Nicholas grunted contemptuously, but made no comment.

  Jean went on: “And whatever the conspiracy is, it smells very bad indeed. I know Christopher! We’ve got to find out what it’s all about.” He mused intensely for a few moments. “I’ve found it very important not to overlook anything. And somehow, I feel it’s of the utmost importance to Christopher to marry Celeste to Henri. I remember speaking of the possibility to old Armand last week, and I noticed that the idea upset him a little. At any rate, he rubbed his backside uneasily on his chair; you know, that way he has. And he changed color, though he made no comment. Why wasn’t he easy about Celeste? I’ve never caught him showing the poor little thing much affection. Is he uneasy because old Adelaide has been getting after him? I notice she doesn’t particularly care about Henri and Edith. This is something we ought to look into.”

  Nicholas stared at him incredulously.

  “You think we ought to get in a plot to keep that girl from marrying Henri? Do you see lots of movies? That’s your trouble. Movies and plays. That’s what you get for hanging around the theatres in New York. Plots! My God, ain’t you got any better ideas than that?”

  But Jean only smiled. “The old plots, used from Aristophanes to Shakespeare to Bernard Shaw to Hollywood, are still valid, otherwise they would have died out long ago. They’re based on human nature. However, I don’t think we could do much about it, anyway. She plays Trilby to Christopher’s Svengali. Yes, I admit it’s all very fantastic, and that we can’t do anything about it. We’ve got to concentrate on increasing Armand’s antagonism to the marriage, though I doubt it’ll do much good. We might even work on old Adelaide, though I don’t know how. Alexa isn’t much good at being subtle, though old Adelaide seems to like her. Yes, the more I think about it the more I am sure that a lot depends on that marriage.”

  He got up to go. “Anyway, we do know there’s a conspiracy. We do know a lot of cash and bonds and stocks have changed hands. We don’t know what was given in return, but you can be sure it was good. Very, very good. And what it was, we’ve got to find out.”

  CHAPTER XVIII

  Adelaide had never been in the offices of Bouchard and Sons since Jules’ death. Now, as she was driven up to the doors of them, she could see the outlying factory buildings, the chimneys seemingly extended into the sky through the medium of straight columns of reddish smoke. She thought to herself that the business of Bouchard and Sons must be extraordinarily good. She recalled that the days of the War had not been busier. Adelaide was not a woman to question existing facts very acutely, especially when those facts did not concern her intimately. But now she wondered, anxiously. Why should the business of war be so active in the days of peace? Who was buying the powder and the guns and the steel and the ordnance and the chemicals and the gases which Bouchard and Sons and their subsidiaries manufactured?

  All at once, even as she was about to get out of the car, she was assaulted with a nameless apprehension and fear. In some way all this seemed to concern Celeste and herself. The sight of the great fuming buildings frightened her. In times of peace, Jules reminded her, one must prepare for war. War with whom? Who in the world threatened any one else? Of course, these days, there was a lot of talk about war debts, but who went to war to collect debts? Such a course was insanity. There was a lot of talk, too, about Germany’s resentment about the occupation of the Ruhr, and the Versailles Treaty. But one did not again go to war with a foe already prostrate. Then who was the plotted victim of all this manufactured death?

  “Why haven’t I given these things thought before?” she asked herself accusingly. “I’ve been a foolish old woman, without any sense of duty or justice beyond the walls of my own house.” The problem and despair which had brought her here became a universal problem and despair.

  She was admitted to Armand’s office. He rose on her entry, surprised at this invasion. She smiled at him nervously as he gave her a chair.

  “Armand, dear, you can be sure I wouldn’t have come to your office except that I thought I had to. You see, we are never alone, when you visit us, and I can never speak to you privately in your own house. I hope you aren’t too busy?” He returned her smile diffidently, yet with affection. “Not too busy to see you, Mother. I am going to lunch soon. Will you come with me?”

  “No, no, dear,” she answered hurriedly. “I won’t stay long. And Armand, you—you will not tell Christopher, or Emile, that I was here to see you?”

  He was puzzled. “Of course not, Mother.” And then his chronic uneasiness sharpened. Part of this uneasiness was a vague but constant feeling of guilt. He dared not analyse why, but whenever he came into contact with his mother, or spoke to her, that feeling of guilt was always present. He sat down. He regarded her with an apprehension that made him squirm on his chair. “But what is it I can do for you? You know I’ll do anything—”

  She looked at him with sudden and passionate gravity. “Will you, Armand? Will you?”

  “Of course, Mother.” But he was alarmed at her earnest voice, and the way she leaned towards him. He stared at her with the fixity of his alarm.

  She continued to gaze at him with that grave and penetrating passion. Then she sighed, as if hopeless. Her tense thin body relaxed with the deflation of despair. Nevertheless, she said: “It is about Celeste, Armand.”

  “Celeste!” Whenever he was nonplussed, and was sparring for time, he had a habit of repeating what his opponent had last said, causing that opponent to reiterate his last words.

  “Yes, Armand. Celeste.” Her voice was despairing. She studied him. He had flushed darkly. He was staring at her intently, and thinking to himself, amid his confusion, that his mother had failed greatly the last few months.

  “You see, Armand,” she said quietly, “Celeste mustn’t marry Henri Bouchard. No, the engagement hasn’t been announced yet. But it soon will be, I am afraid. But she mustn’t marry him!”

  “Why not, Mother? It will be a good catch for the girl.” He wet his lips. His heart had begun to thump with a sensation of dread, as though he were being cornered.

  “Armand! Don’t you see—it will really kill Celeste—! I know my child. I know what a marriage like that would do to her!” Adelaide’s voice rose to a cry.

  “I think you are being unreasonable, Mother. So far as I can see,
Henri is the most eligible young man in America at the present time. Doesn’t Celeste like him? Please, I am trying to help you.”

  Adelaide’s head dropped. She answered quietly: “Yes, she likes him. But that is because she has never been allowed to associate with other young men. She can’t make comparisons. You say it will be a good catch for her. And I say, when she finds out what he really is, it will kill her.” Now she looked at her son directly and said with bitter emphasis: “You see, all her life I’ve tried to prevent her from finding out what you are all really like. She couldn’t stand it. It would ruin her whole happiness.”