After saying this, the dictator began asking his American visitor how it was that Hitler and Mussolini had managed to get so large a part of the workers behind them. Lanny knew that Schuschnigg had in mind the forty per cent Marxist vote which had been cast in Austria, and which was now sullenly opposed to his regime. Lanny ventured: “If you don’t mind my speaking frankly, may it not be because the Führer and the Duce have taken such pains to put forward a social program?”
“Aber! I too have a social program, Herr Budd, the best in the world. I am following the program of Pope Pius XI, in his encyclical Quadragesimo Anno, which favors neither the rich nor the poor, but seeks equal justice and fraternity between them.”
“Unfortunately,” replied the visitor, “this appears to be an irreligious age, and a program to be popular has to be rougher and more noisy.”
Seine Exzellenz explained that it had long been the desire of the Austrian people to join with the German people in friendship and on equal terms; but to be dragged in by force, and to be governed by such rowdies and gutter rats as the Nazis were hiring here in Vienna—that they would fight bis zum Tode—to the death. They would never submit to it, niemals, niemals—the Chancellor spoke the word a dozen times in the course of his declaration, and Lanny wondered, whom was he trying to convince, his visitor or himself? Surely he couldn’t expect to convince Hitler at this long range!
V
The Führer’s ambassador in Vienna was Franz von Papen, known as “the gentleman jockey,” a man who had set out to exemplify by his life the formula of Hamlet, that one can smile, and smile, and be a villain. In the first half of the World War this Prussian aristocrat had been an attaché of the German legation in Washington, and had busied himself hiring saboteurs to blow up munitions plants. Shrewd, but never quite enough so, he had kept the stubs of his checkbooks to prove that he had expended the money honestly. On his way back to Germany the British had captured him and his papers, and had turned the latter over to the American government. So now Fränzchen couldn’t visit his many friends in Washington and New York—there being a grand jury indictment standing against him.
Lanny had met him first at a reception in the Berlin home of General Graf Stubendorf; afterwards at the Goebbels’ and other places. Slender, pale, blond-gray with a blond-gray mustache, urbane and elegant, with a long “horse-face” deeply lined but always smiling, he would tell you whatever he thought you wanted to hear, and he must have the memory of an encyclopedia to remember what he had told each one in the course of years. Once in his life he had tried the experiment of telling the truth and had nearly paid for it with his life. A year or more after the Führer had taken power, the super-diplomat had decided that the regime was through, and had made a speech calling for freedom of the press; as a result, he had been attacked in his office during the Blood Purge and had several of his teeth knocked out.
Hitler would never trust him, but would use him, with a curb-bit and tightly held rein. A year and a half ago he had signed with Schuschnigg a solemn agreement of the two governments to be friends and to let each other’s internal affairs alone. A Catholic Chancellor had to assume that the Germans meant to keep their word. But if so, why had the number of their agents in Austria been doubled, and why were they coming and going day and night at the palatial offices of von Papen in the Metternichgasse? Why was the German Travel Agency, with headquarters in the Hotel Bristol, importing salesmen, technicians, students, professors, and plain tourists in constantly increasing numbers? And what was that “Committee of Seven,” with headquarters at No. 4, Teinfaltstrasse, composed of the most ardent Nazis, actively buying supporters and never in need of funds?
VI
“Fränzchen,” as Papen was called, approached Lanny at one of the smart receptions, chatted amiably, and invited him to lunch. Lanny was pleased to accept, for he was beginning to think that he, too, was a smart fellow, and could get as much out of a gentleman jockey as a gentleman jockey could get out of him. Had Fränzchen by chance learned of Lanny’s visit to Hitler? And did he wish to know about it for his own satisfaction, or had Hitler requested him to check on a too-plausible American? Or did Fränzchen suspect that Hitler had sent the American to check on a too-plausible Prussian? Oh, for a practicing telepathist, who could give a glimpse of the system of wheels whirling around in that narrow aristocratic head!
Lanny talked generalities, which must have been irritating to his host, who was paying for an elaborate luncheon in a private room of the Jockey Club. Lanny said that the prosperity which Adolf Hitler had brought to Germany was the wonder of the world. The ending of unemployment was a social contribution; Lanny told what he had heard important men of affairs say on the subject—including his own father. Let Fränzchen quote that to his Führer if he wished!
After a while the guest paused to let his host ask questions, and thus reveal his mind. It soon became evident that Papen was concerned to know what Lanny was doing in Vienna; evidently he didn’t believe it was to get prices on Defreggers and photographs of those whose prices were right. Lanny explained that Vienna was a delightful city to live in; the music was of the best, the conversation sophisticated, the ladies beautiful—and the dollar commanded a great advantage over the schilling. To all this Fränzchen smiled assent, and probed more persistently. Whom had Herr Budd met that pleased him especially?
Lanny’s fancy had been taken by Nora Gregor; lovely creature, off-stage as on. He mentioned her husband-to-be only incidentally. The Viennese reported him as borniert, that is, limited; the Viennese were subtle, and could be counted upon to find exactly the right word. Prinz Ernst was really a man of simple mind; he hated the city, and was much happier among his own sort of people, wearing yodeler’s pants and a green cap with feathers in it. In the parliament, before it had been shut down, people had called him “the Loud Mouth,” but in private his manner was one of easy familiarity, even gaiety, when he was not worrying about the upkeep of his many castles.
Whom else had Herr Budd met that appealed to him? Jawohl, he had had a delightful Unterhaltung with the Countess Vera Fugger von Babenhausen, who had just come down from her castle, bringing her four little Fuggers to spend the winter in town. Lanny wouldn’t gossip, of course; he would wait until the well-informed ambassador mentioned the love affair which had developed between this wealthy lady and Seine Exzellenz Doktor von Schuschnigg. What an odd thing that both wings of Austrian Fascism should have been loaded down with a divorce scandal at this critical time! The Chancellor himself was a widower, but unfortunately the Countess’s husband was still living, which made necessary a tiresome and complicated ecclesiastical procedure.
Lanny knew that Papen himself was a Catholic, so he ventured no comment upon the ingenious devices whereby Holy Mother Church denies divorce to her humble devotees, but can always find a pretext upon which to grant an annulment of a marriage to the heiress of a great fortune—to say nothing of a statesman who was in position to protect the funds which the Church had gained by the sale of such favors to rich ladies. Lanny asked politely how the matter stood now, and learned that the annulment had been approved by the ecclesiastical courts of the city and of the nation, and that a favorable decision was now hoped for from the Rota Court in Rome.
Lanny had carefully studied the technique of giving information which his hearer already possessed, or which could do no harm. He had practiced it upon General Göring, and had managed to establish himself as well-informed and at the same time discreet. Now he employed the method upon one of the world’s most cunning intriguers, and must have annoyed that gentleman not a little. Papen wouldn’t believe in any man’s good faith, of course; but what would he believe? Would he think it over and realize how many clues he had given the American, by the questions he had asked as well as by those he hadn’t? It may be true that language was created to conceal thought; but when there are so many thoughts to be concealed—when, indeed, there is nothing of importance which does not have to be concealed—then the most casual
word may be loaded with dynamite, and there may be nothing for a super-diplomat to do but eat his lunch alone and in silence.
VII
Lanny rarely ate alone, because there were so many persons in this old city who had fine homes and wanted to hear news from abroad; or perhaps they had fine homes but no money to keep them up, and wanted an American art expert to find purchasers for their paintings. He listened to many people, some of whom spoke in whispers, and casting glances over their shoulders now and then. He collected masses of information and sorted it out in his mind, trying to decide what to believe. He had learned that where freedom of the press has been abolished, rumors thrive like weeds in a garden. One starts, and spreads from mouth to many ears, and next day comes back in a form such that its own creator would not recognize it. Never had the son of Budd-Erling heard so many wild tales as in Vienna under a benevolent Catholic dictatorship. No way to check them, for always the people who knew the truth were people you couldn’t ask.
This circumstance caused Lanny to miss what might have been a remarkable “scoop.” One morning while he was shaving he received a call from a certain Herr Grüssner, whom he had met six years ago as a dramatic critic for one of the newspapers. Lanny said for the gentleman to come up to the room, and was shocked by the change in his appearance. He had lost his position and was going downhill like so many thousands of others; what hair he had left was white, his face was lined and haggard, and he had a cough. Lanny assumed that this was to be a “touch,” and being sorry for the poor devil, was ready to reach for his purse.
But it wasn’t that. Herr Grüssner came quickly to the point, as if fearing that this wealthy and elegant American might begrudge him time for a tactful approach. He had certain journalistic connections, concerning which he was not free to give any hint; suffice it to say, he had come upon a piece of information of the utmost urgency—he began to grow agitated as he told about it, and traces of color appeared in his waxen cheeks. He had heard that Lanny had talked with Seine Exzellenz the Chancellor, and this item of news was of such gravity that Seine Exzellenz ought to know it at once.
“You don’t know any Viennese who can tell it to him?” inquired the American, surprised.
“You do not understand the situation in our unhappy country, Herr Budd. Anybody who passes such a story on assumes a certain amount of responsibility, and I am a poor wretch who cannot afford to make powerful enemies. I come to you because you are an outsider, and in a position not to be harmed. Bitte, um Gottes willen, hear what I have to tell.”
“Certainly,” said the outsider; “I will hear, but I cannot promise to do anything about it.”
Came the ritual of looking outside the door, and then the lowered voice, laden with fear. The story had to do with that Committee of Seven, the Nazi activists who made their headquarters at Nummer vier, Teinfaltstrasse, and were about ready to bring affairs in Austria to a head. Their plan was the old reliable one of provocation; they were going to organize a riot in front of the German embassy, and then blame it upon a prominent anti-Nazi, a member of the Austrian Legion. Ambassador von Papen would be shot, and this of course would excite indignation in Berlin, and divisions of the Reichswehr which were near the border would march in.
“I know, Herr Budd,” persisted the one-time critic, “it sounds like melodrama, the sort I have seen many times upon the stage and have considered as deserving my critical contempt. But I assure you it is the truth—I know it as well as if I myself had been present in the office of Dr. Tavs, the secretary and leader of this Secret Seven.”
An alarm bell was ringing in Lanny’s mind. This might be anything. It might be Fränzchen, trying to find out Lanny’s attitude to himself; again, it might be Schuschnigg doing the same; or it might be true—who on earth could guess? Plots within plots, like a set of Chinese puzzle boxes! No doubt the Nazis would be perfectly willing to sacrifice the life of a “gentleman jockey” whom they could never count upon, in exchange for a plausible pretext for seizing the timber and wheat and iron ore of Austria. But, on the other hand, it was just as likely that some enemy of Dr. Leopold Tavs and his committee was seeking to get them into trouble with the police of Vienna. One thing and one only was clear—it was no affair for an American Kunstsachverständiger!
Lanny said, very gently and tactfully, that he was here to find a good Defregger for a client, and if Herr Grüssner knew of any, he would be pleased to pay him a small fee; but as for Austrian political affairs—surely Herr Grüssner could see that it would be hopelessly bad taste for a visitor to mix in them.
Tears came into the eyes of this poor sick man. He pleaded that he was thinking about the safety of his country, and what could he do, even by risking his pitiful life? He could not get access to the Ballplatz, watched day and night by the Infantry of the Guard. If he talked to any subordinate, how would he know that the message would get to Seine Exzellenz? The government was honeycombed with spies and traitors; there were Nazi agents everywhere—“literally everywhere, Herr Budd; they may be searching your room, or spying on your callers. For a man like me to act in this matter would mean to be marked, and if they succeed in their plans and some day march into Vienna, I go to a concentration camp.”
“I am very sorry, Herr Grüssner, but I cannot take any part in your country’s political struggles.” Thus Lanny, severely. He weakened to the extent of giving the ex-critic a few schillings, and saw him torn between pride and desperate need, thanking the rich American and begging his pardon for being an unfortunate wretch, ein jämmerlicher Kerl.
Lanny might have told this tale in an unsigned letter and sent it off by airmail to Rick. But he doubted its truth, and spent several days wondering what net of intrigue somebody might be trying to spread about his feet. Then all at once the cafés of Vienna were buzzing with the news—only partly told in the controlled press; the police had raided the headquarters of Dr. Tavs and seized a mass of documents proving a conspiracy of the Nazis to stage a raid upon their own embassy in Vienna. Several different revisions of the program had been found. The one to shoot Ambassador von Papen was signed “Heinrich Himmler,” and included the idea of blaming it on the Communists. The one to have the Reichswehr divisions stationed near Munich march in was signed “R.H.,” which people agreed meant Rudolf Hess.
VIII
The information which Lanny had collected was not so confidential that he was afraid to mail it, of course unsigned. A letter to Gennerich, saying that Austria would be annexed to Germany in the course of the next month or two; that Schuschnigg threatened to resist, but almost certainly wouldn’t; that Mussolini knew what was coming, but would pretend not to, because for him to know was too humiliating; that it was the definite policy of the British government to permit this coup to happen, while publicly protesting against it; that Britain wouldn’t let France do anything, even if she wanted to, which she didn’t. Lanny sent a carbon copy of this report by air mail to Rick, and then took a train for Berlin.
Back at the Adlon, he might have communicated directly with the Führer, but as an act of courtesy he consulted Heinrich, who had been his means of access hitherto. Heinrich thanked him, but said it would be better for Lanny now to make his own approach; it wasn’t a good thing for a subordinate to know too much about a great man’s affairs, or to seem to thrust himself in where he wasn’t needed. The cautious official didn’t know anything about mediums and spirits, and maybe the Führer wouldn’t want him to. This much advice Heinrich would give: Better to wait a day or two, for again there was trouble in the Parteileitung and important persons were in a bad temper.
Whenever this was the case, the person to call upon was Hilde von Donnerstein. “Ach, grossartig!” she exclaimed. “Berlin is the most interesting city in the world! Come and have coffee!” So Lanny went, and along with his Kuchen was offered a delicious bonbonnière of scandals. General Werner von Blomberg, Minister of Defense, the man responsible for the rearmament program, had married his secretary. For a high-up Junker this was un
thinkable, but Die Nummer Eins and likewise Die Nummer Zwei had stood by him and publicly committed themselves by attending the wedding. Now the haughty warrior was enjoying his honeymoon in warm Capri sunshine, and here in ice-cold Berlin it had been discovered that the bride in her early days had been a lady of easy virtue, to say the least. Number One was furious, and was chewing the costly rugs on the Chancellery floor, according to his practice when his subordinates misbehaved.
Lanny asked about the subject of psychic research, and Hilde said she had talked to several persons who ought to know, but had not been able to learn of Die Nummer Eins having any astrologer or medium in his entourage at present; in fact, one man denied that the great person had ever been interested in this subject, it was all just idle gossip. However, Rudolf Hess, known as the Deputy Führer, lived surrounded by fortune-tellers all the time. Hilde had learned that he was now pinning his faith upon the prophecies of an old woman, a certain “Elsa” in Munich, and that at times he consulted a Berlin “professor” of the occult arts by the name of Bruno Pröfenik. Hilde didn’t know where he came from or what sort of name that was, but he was much talked about by smart ladies. “How could I find him?” inquired Lanny, and she replied: “He ought to be in the telephone book,”—which proved to be the case.
Presidential Agent (The Lanny Budd Novels) Page 49
