This might be what in café society in New York was known as “making a pass at him.” He was supposed to say: “Is it too late?” or something like that. But this proper grandson of the Puritans remarked: “Irma and I always trusted each other, but I knew she wasn’t happy, and was sorry about it. We agreed to remain friends, and never let our little daughter know there had been any trouble between us.”
“What cold-blooded people, you Americans!” exclaimed the Prussian princess. “It seems to us ganz unglaublich that a nation should have set to work deliberately—kaltblütig—to provide a place where you can go and hide for a few weeks and come back with a new partner! Schrecklich!”
“It isn’t quite like that,” smiled the grown-up playboy. “We seldom create anything deliberately; we discover what we call a ‘good thing,’ and then a lot of people rush in to make use of it. Nevada is a large state which consists mainly of deserts and mountains. It has a small population who haven’t many ways to get rich, and one of its frontier towns discovered that quick divorces and wide-open gambling would bring tourists with checkbooks in their pockets. It’s about the same thing as Salzburg discovering that a music festival could be made to pay, and that tourists like to dress up in short brown leather pants and hats with a Gemsbart on them.”
“Salontiroler, we call them!” laughed the Fürstin, who had a summer home in those mountains, and had been expecting a visit from Irma and Lanny on the very day when their marriage had gone kaput.
VIII
A maidservant wheeled the tea service into the drawing-room, and then departed, closing the door. Hilde poured the tea, and then, as part of the ritual, took the “cozy,” a sort of padded tent which was put over the teapot to keep the heat in, and set this object carefully over the telephone. There existed in Berlin the widespread belief that the Nazis had some sort of device whereby they could listen in on conversations, even when the phone was disconnected. Lanny doubted very much if it was so, but his knowledge of electrical matters was not sufficiently great for him to risk his own life or that of his friends upon it. He had seen this tea-cozy procedure in more than one home, and was never surprised if any host or hostess rose suddenly and stepped silently to a door and opened it to glance outside. Sometimes the person would apologize, and sometimes go on as if nothing had happened.
Hilde took a peek out of two doors, and then drew her chair a foot or so closer and turned on the gossip spigot. “Also, Lanny, have you heard the news about unser kleine Doktor?”
There might possibly have been many little doctors in Naziland, but for Hilde and her guest only one. He was short and frail-looking and dragged a club foot; to make up for these defects he had a pair of keen observant eyes, a lightning-swift mind, and a mouth so wide that when he opened it and shouted, the whole world heard him. He was one of the two most dreaded men in Naziland, the other being Himmler, head of the Gestapo. Now Hilde was radiant with delight, and though she spoke in a half whisper her voice carried a thrill. “Jupp” at last had got what was coming to him—from a screen comedian who had objected to nothing more serious than Jupp’s having forced the actor’s young wife to submit to his advances.
The popular Gustav Frölich had lain in wait for Jupp and given him a sound drubbing; whereupon Jupp had appealed to Himmler, who had had the actor thrown into jail; whereupon the actor’s friends had rallied and given Jupp an even more complete working over, so that now he was laid up, giving out that he had been hurt in an auto accident. Herrlich! The Moscow radio had got the story and broadcast it last night—had Lanny happened to be listening? Die ganze Welt listened to Moscow these days—it was the only way you could get the truth about Berlin. Magda Goebbels, the little doctor’s wife, had got the facts that way, and now she was giving Jupp a third licking, the worst of all. Unschätzbar!
IX
Lanny had had the honor of meeting the Goebbels couple early in his Nazi career. In his efforts to aid Johannes Robin he had appealed to Heinrich Jung, who had taken him to Magda. Lanny never knew just what had happened after that. Apparently it had been Dr. Robert Ley, head of the Nazi Labor Department, who at first had the bright idea of grabbing a Jewish millionaire and his yacht; then Dr. Goebbels, who called Dr. Ley a drunken rowdy, got the bright idea of taking him away from Dr. Ley; then Reichsminister Göring, who called Dr. Goebbels a deformed monkey, had the bright idea of grabbing him away from Dr. Goebbels. Of course Lanny wouldn’t say a word about this to Hilde; he just said that he had been in the Goebbels home, and had found the little doctor a witty and delightful companion.
“He is a double personality,” commented the woman; “when he takes his public role he is so bitter, so grausam, it makes you shudder.”
“I suppose he takes a professional attitude toward his work. He began as a journalist, and newspapermen all have to do what in America is called ‘taking policy.’ When such a man goes into politics, he carries over the same attitude.”
“Ach, ja, but does he have to be such a Raubtier toward young women?” Hilde got up and went to the door of her drawing-room, opened it, and then came back. “This wretched deformity has the whole stage and cinema world at his mercy; it is part of his propaganda department, and every young and attractive actress must come to his bachelor apartment in the Rankestrasse and submit to whatever indignities he cares to inflict. And poor Magda has to hear about it over the Moscow radio—not to mention all the anonymous letters.”
“The last time I saw her was at the Berghof,” said Lanny. “I thought I had never seen an unhappier-looking woman.”
“She greatly admires Die Nummer Eins,” replied Hilde, who even in the privacy of her own home was afraid to say the word Führer. “Some say she goes there to pay the little doctor off; aber—it would be better not to say, even if one knew.” A pause, while a struggle between loquacity and security went on in the soul of the Princess. Apparently the latter won, for she dropped the sex-life of the Number One Nazi.
“Do you know Magda’s story? She was an orphan, brought up by a wealthy Jewish family—and what a strange reward they have received! She married an elderly millionaire, Herr Quandt, who took her to New York, hoping to distract her restless mind. She rewarded him by demanding a divorce with a handsome alimony. Then she became a convert to our new racial religion, and her income was found useful at Party headquarters. She became Die Nummer Eins’ dear friend, and there have been many times when he was in fear of poison and she alone was trusted to prepare the vegetable plates with one poached egg which he adores. She was, as you know, eine Schönheit, and many men fell in love with her. I suppose she thought our Juppchen offered the surest road to wealth and fame. At that time, you know, Göring was not married, so she expected to become our first lady. When the cabinet was formed, and Hermann was in it but Jupp was not, she entered upon a period of mourning; but finally Jupp became a Reichsminister, and Magda began to bloom. You should see the estate they have acquired on the Wannsee; and the entertainment they gave there last July—fabelhaft—it was like A Midsummer Night’s Dream, only much more of everything. An island called the Pfaueninsel, and you go to it by a bridge of boats, held in place by men in livery; and on the other shore you find the SS men all in white uniforms, and lovely maidens in white—what do you say? Maillots?”
“Tights.”
“You see a thousand huge artificial butterflies lighted from within; a dancing stage for a thousand guests, and forty men mixing drinks, and such foods as you would expect only at a royal banquet; after supper a ballet and then fireworks—such a racket that all the diplomats wonder, does the Propaganda Minister tell them that all art and hospitality and deutsche Gemütlichkeit are to end in war?” The Fürstin interrupted herself. “What do you think, Lanny? Is it so?”
“Liebe Hilde!—you will have to ask the Reichsminister.”
“Jawohl! It is so anyhow with die arme Magda—her happiness has ended in domestic war. Her mail full of unsigned letters, and broadcasts from Moscow concerning her husband’s black eye
! Preis und Ehre sei Gott!”
X
Lanny had to be careful while drinking tea with this free-spoken member of the Prussian aristocracy. In the old days he had been free-spoken himself, and Hilde was proceeding on that basis. She was talking to him, but he had to remember that before long she would be talking about him. He took occasion tactfully to remind her that he was General Göring’s art expert, and that his father was the General’s business associate. “I have had to learn to keep my thoughts to myself in many different parts of the world,” he said. “Don’t expect me to express opinions on Nazi personalities.” That must have disturbed her, for she said no more about Nazi personalities for a while.
Irma had told her about Lanny’s psychic experiments, and now he mentioned the cross-correspondence they had got in Berlin, and how he had just revisited one of these mediums and got additional messages from his grandfather. Hilde wanted to know how such things could happen, and he told her his theories or guesses. She said the Nazis were trying to repress astrology and fortune-telling, on the ground that it was nonproductive activity; but several of their prominent leaders dabbled in all sorts of mystical and occult ideas.
“I have heard that stated concerning Die Nummer Eins,” remarked Lanny, leading the conversation to where he wanted it.
“Ja, wirklich!” exclaimed Hilde—and again the gossip-spigot was turned on. “Do you know the story of Hanussen?”
“I have heard that he, was killed because he made some unacceptable prophecy concerning a high eminence.”
“Nein, nein, glauben Sie’s nicht! That is the sort of story that people make up because it pleases them. My husband met Hanussen, and attended one of the séances he used to give for the Berlin élite. He was a Jew, you know, but that was in the days before die neue Ordnung was installed. Hanussen was an astrologer, and some sort of Genie, people said; when he went into a trance he foamed at the mouth, and the things he told were often quite terrifying. It is true that he predicted the death of Die Nummer Eins—but after all, we have to die some time, nicht wahr?”
“Why was he killed?”
“It is one of our dreadful stories. He became wealthy, and loaned large sums to Graf Helldorf, who was one of the first of our Prussian nobility to take up with the Nazis, and became president of our Berlin police. He is a gentleman of more extravagant tastes than his estates warrant; also he is one of those whose Liebesleben is somewhat different—I was going to say from the usual, but perhaps I had better say from the non-Nazi. Anyhow, Hanussen made the mistake of letting Helldorf give him notes; and when the sums had grown very large and the first of the notes was due, Göring had the Jew-astrologer killed, and the notes have never since been presented at any bank.”
“You know, Hilde,” remarked the visitor, “your Nummer Eins has said that he is building a regime to last for a thousand years. I should say—”
“Ja, Lanny?” said the woman, expectantly. She had heard him say clever things, and was eager for his comment.
But it was one of the times when Lanny bit his tongue. He had been on the verge of saying that what Adi had done was to provide Hollywood with plots for a thousand years; but the Princess might consider that a mot and pass it on. He remarked, tamely: “I wonder if some fortune-teller made that thousand-year prophecy.”
“I have never heard it said.”
“Do you know if Adi consults such people at present?”
“I’ve heard no mention of the subject.”
“I’d be much interested to know. I take these psychic matters seriously, and I am wondering to what extent his powers are derived from subconscious forces. He might use hypnotism without even realizing it; and it may be that his extraordinary self-confidence is due to his conviction that he has some kind of supernormal support.”
“I haven’t the least doubt he believes that, Lanny. He calls it his intuition.”
“It is the same thing, whatever name you give it. Socrates talked about his daimon, and Jeanne d’Arc about her St. Michael. I’d be tremendously interested to know if this dynamism is supported by some medium, or by some psychic procedure, a ritual, or prayers, or act of worship. What does he do when he has a spell of discouragement?”
“They say he falls into a fit and chews the rug.”
“Yes, but there is nothing medicinal in a rug. Sooner or later he gets up and goes to work to overcome his obstacles. I’m interested to know if there is somebody who goes into a trance, or who sits over a magic spring and breathes gases like the Delphic oracle, and tells him that he is a man of destiny and that all the world is going to belong to him before his end.”
“I’ll see if I can find out for you,” replied the Princess. “One has to be careful asking questions about these matters, of course.”
XI
Hauptmann Furtwaengler telephoned to say that Seine Exzellenz was having a shooting party at Rominten over the week-end, and would Herr Budd like to accompany him. Lanny said: “Mit Vergnügen!” He knew that Robbie had made an excellent deal with Der Dicke, and would wish the intimacy to be cultivated—but not with Emmy! This time would be safe, because Rominten lay away to the east from Karinhall, and in Germany ladies as a rule do not go on shooting parties; especially not ladies who are on the way to presenting their nation with an heir apparent.
The baby-blue limousine called again, and now Lanny and the General had the rear seat to themselves, except for a bearskin robe. It was a cold afternoon, and a light snow was falling; the mournful horn sounded incessantly while the great man went on pumping Lanny dry on the subject of French and British statesmen of all parties. Hermann’s body might be lazy, but his mind was surely not; he was better educated than any other of the Nazi leaders whom Lanny had met, and whatever he heard he retained.
Rominten was what the British call a “shooting box,” and had a thatched roof like a peasant’s hut; but inside it was roomy and comfortable. Besides Furtwaengler and the other adjutants and aides-de-camp there was one of Göring’s Swedish brothers-in-law, Count Rosen. Maidservants waited upon them and brought a supper consisting of half a dozen choices of game. Afterwards, Lanny played the piano and they sang, as at the Château de Belcour. Never again would he sing German songs without remembering the mental strain of that earlier occasion; he could play with one part of his mind, and with the other be thinking: “Trudi, where are you?”
Trudi had been taken away from Belcour, and this fat man with the bellowing voice was her keeper. When he retired to his bedroom to read “reports,” was there one about Trudi Schultz among them? Or had he already ordered her killed, her body burned, and her soul forgotten? “Dead men tell no tales” has been the creed of tyrants and criminals since the beginning of human time, and the formula includes female as well as male saints and reformers. Lanny’s face wore a smile and his fingers tripped lightly over the notes of a sentimental love song, while the mind which controlled them was thinking about pressing the trigger of a machine gun.
In the morning the company was called before dawn, and Lanny was put into a sleigh, along with the Hauptmann and an Oberstjägermeister, also a keeper who had charge of the particular beat they were to visit. Outside was complete darkness, except for the stars shining like jewels; the two-horse sleigh sped silently along a wood-road through a deep fir forest, and meanwhile the keeper told them where they were going and what they were expected to do. Their goal an open glade, the haunt of a great “sixteen-pointer,” a stag which was expected to come out with his hinds to feed upon what grass could be got by pawing in the snow. Herr Budd, as guest, would have the first shot, and the Hauptmann would be second; the “Colonel-hunter-master,” being attached to the estate, had to be content with shooting the partridges, hares and other small game which appeared upon the table three times a day.
XII
They came to the Hochstand, a platform some twenty-five feet high with a ladder at the side. They climbed up silently and mounted guard, not speaking even in a whisper, flexing their muscles to keep w
arm, and peering by the gray light of dawn to make out the forest and meadow. It was bitterly cold, and the first thing they saw clearly was the white streamers of their own breath. But soon the scene grew clearer, the fir forest, carefully kept, so that only the great trees and the proper number of smaller were left. Presently the animals put in their appearance, and they, too, were carefully kept, fed from hayracks when grass could no longer be found; the hinds were never killed, and the stags only when they had attained their full growth. It was a great honor to be invited to have a shot, and a great fall in prestige if you missed.
Lanny had to wait a considerable time for a clear shot; for of course it would not do for him to hit the wrong animal. The leader of this herd could have no idea of his danger, but it really appeared as if he were purposely keeping one of his ladies between himself and his foe. The men were tense with excitement, standing rigid as if they were parts of the Hochstand. Lanny was excited, too, but always there was that other part of him, saying: “What would Trudi think of this waste of time and money?” He recalled how she had urged him to cultivate the fat General; some other of her comrades had been doing the same, and had stolen precious documents from Der Dicke’s files. While Lanny’s eyes watched the stag, the underground part of his mind was saying: “I wonder would Monck know who that person was? And could he put me in touch with him?”
“Achtung, die Herrschaften,” whispered the keeper. The great antlered beast had taken a couple of steps forward, exposing his front half, and Lanny raised the rifle which had been put into his hands that morning, and which he had never fired. He knew all about guns, and had been taught to shoot in his boyhood; he had visited other shooting-boxes, and had studied a book which gave diagrams of the bodies of stags and showed the location of the heart from several angles. “X marks the spot,” and Lanny raised his rifle and aimed at it with care. He pulled the trigger, there was a report, and the great creature dropped in his tracks. That was all there was to it, except that the two officers wrung his hands and patted him on the back. The rest of the herd had vanished into the forest, so the hunters descended from the stand and drove back to the “box” to learn what had happened to the other parties.
Presidential Agent (The Lanny Budd Novels) Page 44
