Presidential Agent (The Lanny Budd Novels)

by Upton Sinclair

  They went out again before sundown, and waited at another stand. This time there were two stags in sight, and Lanny offered the first shot to the Hauptmann, who had done him many favors. They argued in whispers, but the officer insisted that it would be displeasing to Seine Exzellenz; so Lanny shot first and got his, and then, as the herd did not run, Furtwaengler got his, and all were happy.

  Sledges came and brought in the carcasses, and laid them on the lawn in front of the house. A bonfire of pine branches was built, and the Jäger wearing dark green uniforms and carrying horns in their hands, stood lined up behind the trophies, while the Hauptjäger read off the list of the kills and the names of the killers. The keepers of the herd had a name for each stag, and Lanny learned that he had killed first Heinie and then Stax. The General made a brief speech of thanks to his guests for the service rendered, and then the Jäger raised their horns and sounded the Hallali, or death of the stag. The notes were echoed back by the tall trees of the forest, and in the starlit night the scene was so beautiful that all parts of Lanny’s mind forgot his wife for a few minutes.

  But not so a little later, when Göring asked if his guest would like to have the head mounted and take it to his home. Lanny said: “Danke schön, lieber Hermann.” He remembered the time when he had smuggled Trudi’s stolen documents out of Germany in the back of one of Hermann’s paintings for which Lanny had found a customer in America. A stuffed and mounted stag’s head would offer an ideal hiding place for papers or jewels or whatever it might be. Lanny would ask the hotel to store the trophy for the present, against some emergency which might arise in the career of a “P.A.”

  17

  Dangerous Majesty

  I

  “It is a great honor the Führer is doing you,” said Heinrich, in that formal manner which he assumed when speaking of the greatest man in the world. “He hardly ever sees foreigners nowadays, except diplomats in his line of duty.”

  “Gerade drum! It’ll be good for him to have a change of scenery now and then.” Thus Lanny, with that free and easy American manner which half-frightened and half-fascinated a Party bureaucrat.

  The appointment was for four, at the Chancellery. The weather had turned mild, the sun was shining, and they walked from Heinrich’s office, past many cold white marble monuments to German glory. New buildings were going up, mostly of gray Swedish granite; they were part of the public works which the Herr Doktor Schacht had lamented. Lanny was committing no breach of confidence when he told of the Finance Minister’s anxieties. Heinrich commented: “These mighty structures will be here long after the Herr Doktor’s name is forgotten, and everyone will recognize them as one more proof of the Führer’s manifold genius.”

  There was the “Old Chancellery,” which had been built for the Hohenzollerns, but had not been good enough for a one-time painter of picture postcards. He had added to it the so-called “New Chancellery”; three-storied, massive, and rectangular, looking like a military barracks transplanted to the Wilhelmstrasse. In its upper stories were halls devoted to his greatest works, the models of the new city hall, the administration buildings, and of stadia and baths, layouts of whole cities, Prachtbauten which he was going to cause to arise. Heinrich had brought his friend early, at the great man’s own suggestion, in order that these marvels might be shown to him.

  The stern-looking SS guards gazed suspiciously at all visitors, even one in Heinrich’s uniform. However, this pair had the proper cards of admission, and Lanny displayed the proper fervor as they wandered through the vast corridors with red marble floors and Gobelin-tapestried walls. Precisely on the stroke of four they presented themselves to the double guards in front of Der Adolf’s private study. Over the double doors was a sort of coat-of-arms with “AH” inside the design. The visitors were passed in to the secretary, and by him ceremoniously into the inner sanctum.

  In the Berghof and the Braune Haus the Führer had chosen modernism and simplicity; but here he had apparently been overcome by the spirit of Berlin, which is that of barbaric magnificence. He had set himself to outdo Mussolini in the colossal size of his office. It was paneled in dark wood, and had high broad doors leading out to the park of the Chancellery. There was a capacious fireplace, with a lifesize Bismarck over the mantel and a statue of Frederick the Great near by. The Führer’s desk was at the left, an awesome distance away; it was flat-topped and large, and on it Lanny observed books of military strategy, a magnifying glass, a row of colored pencils, and, unexpectedly, a pair of spectacles, never worn in public for reasons of prestige.

  Enormously high ceilings and glittering chandeliers, heavy draperies and thick rugs rather dwarfed the ex-painter, who was nothing much to look at. He was clad in a blue civilian suit with white shirt and black tie, and if you had passed him on the street and hadn’t seen him in the newsreels you would have taken him for a reasonably successful grocer or a Beamter of the lower ranks, say a customs official like his father. He had grown stouter since Lanny had seen him last; his cheeks were rounder and also his nose; the little dark Charlie Chaplin mustache must have been growing also, but that could be reduced with less trouble than embonpoint.

  He was in his amiable mood; indulging himself in the luxury of meeting one of his adoring followers, and a visitor from the land of wild Indians and cowboys. In his youth Adi’s favorite reading had been a German romancer by the name of Karl May, whose endless volumes dealt with the noble redskin and his conquest by German emigrants on the plains. Since then the subcorporal of the World War had learned that America had heavy industry and could produce cannons and shells, but his thinking about the continent was still colored by his early imaginings. He would have been glad to have Karl May’s America for his friend, and the son of Budd-Erling meant to him a glimmer of that hope. So this was not just a social call but a diplomatic démarche.

  He shook hands with both his guests, and when he had them seated, he opened up on Lanny at once: “I thought you were going to send me a Detaze.”

  “I assumed you would have forgotten all about it, Herr Reichskanzler,” said the art expert.

  “Why should you wish me to do that?”

  “I thought you were just being polite.”

  “I can be polite in less expensive ways. I wanted the painting because it will give me pleasure, and because I am doing what I can to promote friendship between the two countries, and to bring our two cultures together.”

  “I owe you an apology for my negligence. I will gladly make you a present of one of our best Detazes.”

  “You made that offer before and I told you I could not permit it. You said the pictures were for sale and I asked to buy, one. I am not a rich man—you perhaps know that I do not take any salary for this office I hold—but the German people read my book, and I derive royalties from the sales, and can afford to indulge my taste in art to a modest extent. Tell me, what do Detaze landscapes bring on the market?”

  “The prices have varied considerably, Herr Reichskanzler.” Lanny did some quick mental arithmetic. “Some of the smaller works have sold for as low as eight thousand marks; on the other hand, at our show in New York, before the great panic, we sold several for as high as forty thousand marks.”

  “Let us compromise,” said the Reichskanzler. “Would you consider thirty thousand marks a fair price to pick me out one of the best land and seascapes?”

  “In view of the advertising it would bring, Herr Hitler, I should consider I was taking an unfair advantage of you.”

  “Not many people get an opportunity to do that, so you had better make use of it. Send me the painting with a bill in regular form and it will be paid.”

  II

  The Führer talked about art for a while, and the efforts he was making to promote sound taste in the Fatherland. He didn’t defend his tastes, he just stated them with quiet finality; in the course of five years nobody had ventured to dispute his authority on the subject, so it was perhaps only natural that he should consider the matter closed. Art exis
ted for the purpose of inspiring the people with sound Nazi ideals; it was a branch of Dr. Juppchen’s Department of Education and Propaganda, and the fact that Juppchen was just now laid up with a black eye didn’t invalidate his principles nor stop the work of their inculcation. The Führer had that very morning received a visit from his old and dear friend Magda and had laid down the law to her in the plainest terms; there was to be no divorce and no more scandal in the Parteileitung; as soon as Jockl—so the Führer called the little doctor in the doctor’s Rheinland language—was out of bed again he would be summoned to the presence and have the law laid down to him: he would live on terms of outward amity with his wife and he would assign parts to young actresses on their merits and without any other price: otherwise the Führer would apply to Jockl the Nazi laws requiring sterilization of all persons who possessed hereditary physical defects, which included clubfoot.

  Of course Hitler didn’t say any of that to his visitors. It was Hilde who would tell it to Lanny at their next meeting; it might be that the detail concerning sterilization had been added by Hilde herself, or by the person who had passed the delicious tidbit on to her. It is not only in Naziland that the great and famous are the subject of gossip, and that it has a tendency to grow like the fish that gets away from the angler.

  Adolf Hitler forgot very little that was of importance to his cause, and he remembered that at their last meeting he had charged the son of Budd-Erling to inform the French people of his friendly intentions toward them. Now he listened with pleasure while the visitor told how he and his friend Emily Chattersworth had helped Kurt Meissner to meet persons who were socially and financially prominent in Paris, and how all three had helped to spread the message of peace on earth and good will toward Germany. It was of course important for Hitler to understand the Cagoulard movement, how strong it was and what reliance he could place upon it; and here was a man who had, apparently, lived in the very center of that movement.

  Lanny talked freely, and Adi listened attentively. He trusted few persons altogether, but he had to trust many part way, and to determine how far in each case was the first duty of a man of affairs, a seeker of power. The last time this plausible American had come visiting, his rich wife had been enthusiastic for National Socialism, while the husband had been reserved and noncommittal. Now he had changed, and said it was because he had seen the wonderful work the Führer was doing. And that was all right; many persons were being convinced by that method, and not all of them were climbers and self-seekers. Some were idealists, a type to which Adi considered himself as belonging. Because of his social position this middle-aged playboy from overseas could accomplish a great deal without any special effort. In these days of complex organization an engineer who understands a great machine can do more work by pushing a button than a thousand laborers can do by all their toil and sweat. The Führer of the Nazis was looking for such social engineers, and as he listened to Lanny Budd he was thinking, first: “Is this the real thing?” and second: “How can I harness him and put him to work?”

  III

  Lanny talked about the French statesmen, their incomes, their connections, their financial and journalistic backing, their lady loves and other weaknesses. He talked about the men at the top in the money world of Paris, the inner circles of the two hundred families. He told of Baron Schneider, and that uncertainty which tormented the soul of a munitions king, who knew that he had either to co-operate with Hitler or else get ready to fight him, and couldn’t make up his mind which. This amused the Führer, and he rubbed his hands together and slapped his thighs, as was his way when pleasurably excited.

  Then Lanny got launched on his story of the de Bruynes, and how he had got the news of their arrest, and had sought refuge in the home of Graf Herzenberg. That was a priceless tale, and Adi bubbled with delight, and abandoned some of that caution which he was trying to teach himself, never with entire success. Seine Hochgeboren was one of those haughty Junkers whom a humble army sub-corporal was now having to battle and subdue to his will; one couldn’t expect a man who in his youth had been reduced to sleeping among the bums not to distrust, and in the depths of his soul to hate, one of those great estate owners who kept their land and their privileges through all wars and revolutions, and now were tolerating a mob-leader, a rabble-rouser who could be made to serve their purposes for the moment.

  Adi had known this rich American for a matter of ten years, and he knew that Kurt and Heinrich had known him since boyhood. There could be no question that he really moved in the circles of which he told. Let him go on and talk, as he seemed to enjoy doing, and reveal his tastes and his ambitions. That was the way to win men, and to keep them in one’s service. If right now, for example, this man could be tactfully caused to pay a visit to Vienna, he might meet on intimate terms the associates of a statesman whom Adi called “dieser verdammte Schuschnigg,” and ascertain what promises of support he has received from Mussolini, and how far the Italian windbag could be trusted—if at all!

  IV

  Just as the Führer was trying to make up his mind to approach this delicate subject, his visitor suddenly shifted the conversation. “Eure Exzellenz, I have been having some unusual experiences along the line of psychic research, and it occurred to me you might like to know about them. I have heard that some years ago you carried on experiments along this line.”

  “I am still a believer in many occult ideas, Herr Budd; but I have had to discourage these activities in Germany, because I have found such a mass of fraud connected with them, and credulous people are swindled unmercifully.”

  “No doubt that is generally true, though I myself have been fortunate in escaping it. Eight years ago my stepfather discovered a medium in New York, an old Polish woman, and we brought her back to the Riviera with us. She has lived in our home ever since, and we have had every opportunity to check on her activities. I have kept notes of my sittings with her, and my stepfather has done the same. Many days we drew blanks, but on others events took place which took my breath away.”

  “That interests me of course, Herr Budd. Tell me more about it.”

  “One of our friends who sat with this medium was Sir Basil Zaharoff. They met in a hotel room in Dieppe, where he had come as a stranger, and I am sure that Madame had no idea who he was. As soon as she went into her trance she began crying out about guns going off, and people shouting curses at the sitter. Then she introduced relatives of Zaharoff, and it was embarrassing, for they accused the old munitions king of actions which he denied. Finally the spirits made it so uncomfortable for him that he jumped up and left the room. Subsequently I verified one of the charges in the files of the London Times some fifty years back; it seems that he had pleaded guilty in the Old Bailey police court to the charge of having converted to his own use one hundred and sixty-nine sacks of gall belonging to a merchant in Greece. The medium had given the number of sacks, though I doubt if she had ever heard of gall as an article of commerce. I know I hadn’t.”

  “That is certainly an extraordinary story, Herr Budd.”

  “Zaharoff was so impressed that after a long interval he came back, and for years he used this medium to communicate with his dead wife, the Duquesa de Marqueni. Early this year I happened to be having a séance with Madame at my hotel in Paris, and I was told that the spirit of Sir Basil had just arrived. Afterwards I went out and got a paper with the news of his death.”

  “I have never had any experience so convincing as those. Where is this medium now?”

  “She was in Paris when I left. My mother was intending to take her back to our home.”

  “Would it be possible for me to see her sometime?”

  “Surely, if you are really interested. Would you like me to bring her to Berchtesgaden?”

  “I should be most grateful. If you would let me pay the cost of the trip—”

  “Do not trouble about that. We have taken her to visit friends in London and other places, and have never failed to be rewarded by some interestin
g development. I must give you fair warning—the spirits are no respecters of persons, and Sir Basil is not the only one of our friends who have been embarrassed by what has come out in a séance.”

  “I am one who has nothing to hide, Herr Budd—unless it be matters of state, of course.”

  “In those the spirits manifest little interest. But I think you would like to hear of one incident which occurred to me some three and a half years ago. I was having a séance with Madame in my studio at home—the building which was used by Marcel Detaze. I take her there because it is quiet and the influences seem to be soothing. The paintings are Marcel’s, and a fine library on the walls was willed to me by my great-uncle who was a Unitarian minister in Connecticut. This was on an afternoon, and the mistral was blowing outside, rather noisy in the pine trees and cypresses of the Cap d’Antibes. Madame gave a violent start, as she does when anything painful comes up. Her control, an Indian chieftain called Tecumseh, doesn’t usually let himself be upset, but now his voice trembled as he said: ‘A spirit has just come over; a little man in civilian clothes. He has just been shot. I see him lying on a couch covered with yellow silk; blood is pouring from a wound in his neck, and from other wounds. It is a great room with high ceilings; he is an important man. Others are running in excitement, some trying to help him, others crying out. I hear the word Doll—is that a name? He is not a doll, but a small man. He calls for a priest, but none comes. He fingers a rosary, and so I think the man is a Catholic.’ Such was the scene, Herr Reichskanzler, and I made my notes of it; the date was July 25, 1934, and as soon as the séance was over I called up the newspaper office in Cannes and got word that Dollfuss had been killed in Vienna about three hours previously.”