Dragon's Teeth

by Sinclair, Upton;

  VII

  Emily Chattersworth had persuaded Irma that it was important for her to take a serious interest in her husband’s occupation and to let him have the manly sensation of earning his own money, however small the amount. So Irma would go with him to look at old masters and would gravely offer her opinion upon their merits and prices. She wanted to be cultured, and this was a part of it. Many of the paintings really were beautiful, and now and then when Lanny came upon a bargain Irma would buy it herself and have it stored until the time when she had her own palace, either in England or France, she wasn’t sure which.

  Sir Joshua was an especially interesting master, because he had done so many beautiful aristocratic ladies and their children. Irma herself was such a lady, and Lanny had told her that he was looking for the right man to do a life-size portrait of her. So now she saw herself in these duchesses and countesses, and studied poses and costumes, in order that when the time came she would be able to tell the artist exactly what she wanted. That is the way to meet life, she had decided: know how to spend your money, say what is your pleasure, and hold the respect of those you deal with, from the humblest slavey who brings in your coal-scuttle to the proudest nobleman who invites you to grace his drawing-room.

  Lanny was conscientious about serving his clients. When the owner of a ball-bearing plant in Ohio wrote that he wanted a good Sir Joshua for his collection, Lanny didn’t pick up the first one the fashionable dealers offered; he didn’t say: “That fellow has so much money it doesn’t matter what he pays.” No, he would consult his card-file and list all the Sir Joshuas of which he had been able to learn; he would get photographs of each, and send them to his client, with a long letter detailing the qualities of each and discussing the possible prices.

  “I advise you to let the matter rest for a few weeks,” he would write, “until word has got round about the inquiries I have made. You understand that the market for old masters is a small world, full of busy and eager traders, and they gossip among themselves like a hive of bees. They regard Americans as their proper prey, and invariably ask fifty per cent more than they would ask of an Englishman. I have succeeded in impressing them with the view that I am not an easy mark; I worry them with the idea that my client prefers some other picture, and usually in a few days they call up and invite me to dicker, and try to get me to set a price, which I refuse to do until I hear from some other dealer on some other picture. All this is very sordid, but it’s the way paintings are bought, and there’s no use letting yourself be plucked.”

  Such a letter would impress the manufacturer, for it was the way he would proceed when placing an order for steel ingots. When he got his painting at last he would appreciate it much more because he had had to worry obout it. He would say to his friends: “That chap Lanny Budd got it for me—you know, Budd Gunmakers; he’s married to Irma Barnes, the heiress, so it’s really a labor of love with him.” The arrival of the painting would be celebrated in the local newspapers, and not merely would the painting be reproduced, but also a photograph of the proud owner; so the other steel men of the district would learn that art pays, and the wife of one of them would get Lanny’s address and inquire if there was anything really first class now on the market. Lanny would get his ten per cent out of all this, and it provided him with pocket money and made an amusing sort of life.

  VIII

  After Irma had looked at several paintings she always got tired, and remembered various things which ladies have to do when they visit a great city; hairdressers, manicurists, masseuses, milliners, dressmakers, furriers, jewelers—all sorts of shrewd purveyors who are busy day and night thinking up schemes to persaude them that it is impossible to live worthily and romantically without such services. After lunch Irma said: “I want to go to So-and-so’s,” and they made an appointment for later in the afternoon to have tea and dance for a while. Lanny, having known that this would happen, had telegraphed Mr. or “Comrade” Monck at what hour he would call upon him, in a very poor neighborhood in Limehouse, near the docks. Here were rows and rows of two-story slum dwellings, laid end to end and exactly alike, each with its two chimneys emitting wisps of soft-coal smoke. With the help of hundreds of factory chimneys they formed a pall which had enveloped the district for a hundred years and brought it to the appearance of a vast dustbin.

  In such a neighborhood a fancy sport-car would be a phenomenon; so Lanny, taught by his experience in Germany, spotted the house and then drove around the corner and parked. When he knocked on the door there came a slattern old woman, in features and voice completely Cockney. When he asked for Mr. Monck she said: “Ow, yuss,” and as she led him up the narrow stairs she said it was a nice dye, sir; he was quite sure that, whatever Nazi or anti-Nazi plotting might be going on here, the lydy of the ’ouse ’ad nuffin to do wiv it. Lanny hadn’t failed to consider the possibility that he might be dealing with the Gestapo; they might have got Trudi Schultz in their clutches and be using one of her sketches as a means of trapping her friends and getting information. He had read of their kidnaping persons from Austria and Switzerland; the brother of Gregor Strasser had been one of their near-victims; but he didn’t think it likely they would go that far in London—not quite yet!

  The woman, grumbling about her rheumatism, didn’t really have to climb the stairs and knock on the door of the rear room; Lanny guessed that she was curious about her foreign lodger and the “toff” who had come to see him. A man inside answered the knock, took one glance, and said, quickly: “Bitte, keinen Namen!” Lanny said not a word, but stepped in. The lodger shut the door in the landlady’s face and carefully hung a coat over the knob so as to cover the keyhole; he sighed Lanny to the sole chair in the small and dingy room, and said, in a low voice: “Besser wirsprechen Deutsch.”

  Lanny had been imagining some sort of “intellectual,” but a single glance told him that this was an outdoor man, used to hard and tough labor. His frame was stocky and filled out like a boxer’s, and his neck went up straight and solid in the back. His face was weatherbeaten, his hands gnarled; his clothes were those of a laborer and his dark hair was cropped short in Prussian style. Lanny thought: “A sailor or perhaps a longshoreman.” He had met the type among the Socialists in Bremen as well as on the Riviera: the man who has labored by day and read at night. His education is narrow, but he has forged it into a sharp sword for his purposes. He knows what he wants, and his speech is direct. If he is middle-aged, he is probably a Socialist; if he is young, he is more likely to be a Communist.

  IX

  The stranger seated himself on the edge of the narrow bed, not more than three feet from Lanny, and, gazing straight into his face, began, in a voice with a strong North German accent: “The name I gave you is not my real name, so there is no harm in your speaking it; but I will try not to speak your name, and let us not name any of our friends or any places. There are, you understand, extremely important reasons.”

  “Have you reason to believe that you are being watched here?” inquired the visitor, speaking low, as the other had done.

  “I have to assume it always. That is the only way to survive. I sent you something in the way of credentials. Did you recognize it?”

  “I believe I did,” replied Lanny.

  “Let us refer to the woman in the case as Frau Mueller. Let that be for both speaking and writing in the future.”

  Lanny nodded. He thought: “A miller instead of a village magistrate,” that being the meaning of the name Schultz.

  The stranger continued: “Frau Mueller and I are associated with others in some work of the utmost importance, and we have one rule, we do not reveal anything about it except in case of absolute necessity. I hope that you will not question me too much, and will not take offense if I say: I cannot answer this or that. It is not merely our own lives that are at stake.”

  “I understand,” replied Lanny.

  “We do not under any circumstances name any other person. I know the names of those with whom I deal, she k
nows the names of those with whom she deals, but I do not know her associates, and so on. We keep nothing in writing, anywhere. So, if we are captured, our enemies have only us; and even if they torture us, and we should break down and wish to betray others, we cannot do much.”

  “I understand,” responded Lanny, again.

  “It is my hope that you will trust me on the basis of what you know about Frau Mueller, who gave me your name and sent me to you. She has told me about you, and assured me that you are a comrade and a man of honor; also that you have had experiences which enable you to know what our enemies are and how serious a matter it is to us if we are betrayed or even talked about in a careless way. I ask that you will not mention this meeting to anyone under any circumstances. May I count upon that?”

  “You may do so. Of course I can’t say how far I might go along with you.”

  “We need friends outside our own country, and we hope that you will help us and perhaps find others to help us. We can accomplish very important work if we can get help. We represent a people’s movement, for the deliverance of our people from a slavery which is intolerable to them and at the same time is a deadly danger to the outside world. I take it you agree with that, and do not require any proofs or discussion.”

  “Quite so, Herr Monck.”

  “You know what Frau Mueller was in the old days. I was the same and still am. Secrecy and intrigue are not of our choice; they are forced upon us by brutal tyranny. Our work is educational; we are not terrorists, and are determined not to become such under any circumstances. A great civilized people is being blindfolded, and we are trying to strip the bandages from their eyes. We take that as our duty, and are willing if need be to give our lives, and to risk torture in order to do it. What methods we are using to spread information is our secret, and we are sure you will understand that we do not speak any unnecessary word about them.”

  “I understand everything that you say.”

  “You know Frau Mueller and trust her as a comrade. There are reasons why she could not come. My position is such that I can enter and leave the country, and so I am serving as her messenger. I hope you will accept me as you would accept her.”

  Lanny had been studying the face so close to his own, weighing every tone of the voice and trying to make up his mind concerning the personality behind them. He said: “It will be necessary for us to speak with entire frankness, now and in our future dealings, if we are to have any.”

  “Quite so, Herr—what shall I say?”

  “Schmidt,” suggested Lanny—adding one more occupation to the miller and the village magistrate.

  “Einverstanden. Herr Schmidt.”

  “The woman you speak of is one I would trust without question. But I cannot forget the possibility that cunning enemies might have seized her and her papers, and might have sent one of their well-trained agents to me, knowing exactly how to pose as a member of her group.”

  “You are entirely right, and I expect you to question me and do whatever you find necessary to satisfy yourself. But if I prefer not to answer some questions, do not take it as a sign of guilt. If I were an agent of the enemy, I would answer freely.”

  Lanny couldn’t help smiling. “An enemy might be more subtle,” he remarked.

  X

  The grandson of Budd’s didn’t fail to realize that this was an important moment in his life. He had been expecting something like this ever since he had come out of Germany, and he had thought hard about how he was going to meet it. Now he said: “There are many things already known to me about Frau Mueller, and if you possess detailed knowledge about these, it will help to convince me that you really know her well and are her friend.”

  “I will tell you all that I can think of,” replied the stranger. Speaking slowly and carefully, like one searching his memory, he began: “Frau Mueller is what is called a blond Aryan. She is, I should say, under thirty, and rather tall for a woman. Her voice is deep in tone. I have only known her about a year, and do not know how she used to look, but she is now thin and pale; her features are extremely delicate and you feel that she is a consecrated person. She has a strong sense of duty, and lays more stress upon personal qualities than most Marxists do. She has fair hair, rather wavy—naturally so, for she concerns herself very little with her appearance. She draws quickly and with accuracy; since I know nothing about art, I can only wonder at it. Also I might mention that she has a strawberry mark just above her right knee.”

  “I am sorry, I do not know her well enough to confirm that.” Again Lanny couldn’t keep from smiling.

  The other replied, gravely: “Last summer her friends perceived that she was working and worrying too hard, and would persuade her to go to one of the lakes for a few days, and go in swimming; that is how I came to see the mark. She is utterly devoted to the memory of her husband and clings stubbornly to the idea that he is still alive and that she will some day help to set him free.”

  “You have not been able to find out about him?”

  “No one has heard a word since he was taken away. We are all sure that he was murdered and secretly disposed of.”

  “You might tell me about this arrest, if you can.”

  “He was arrested with the young relative of yours, the Jew who played the clarinet and who had come to the Mueller home because of sudden illness—he had eaten some food which must have poisoned him. Frau Mueller went out to do some marketing, and when she returned she found that the home had been raided and her husband and your relative had been taken away.”

  “That is in accord with what she told me. Let me ask, did she tell you about her last meeting with me?”

  “She was coming out of a tailor-shop carrying a bundle of clothing, when you came up to her and insisted on recognizing her in spite of her not wishing to be known. You told her that your relative was in Dachau and promised to try to find out whether her husband was there also. But she never heard from you.”

  “Did she tell you how she expected to communicate with me?”

  “You were to come to a certain street corner, and she went there at noon every Sunday for quite a while, but you did not appear.”

  “Did she say I gave her anything?”

  “You gave her six one-hundred-mark notes, and she wishes you to know that they were turned over to the group and used for our work.”

  “I never had any doubts about that,” replied the American. “That is all convincing, Herr Monck; and now tell me what you wish me to do.”

  “We need more of those notes, Herr Schmidt. You understand that in the old days the workers’ movements were strong because they could collect dues from millions of members; but now our group is small, and every time we make a new contact we risk our lives. It is hard for workers in our country now to earn enough to buy food, to say nothing of saving anything for literature. We must have help from comrades abroad, and it is the hope of Frau Mueller that you will consent to act as our collection agency.”

  Lanny hadn’t needed to ask his last question; he had known what was coming, and his conscience had begun to ache, as it had done many times before. People expected so much of Mr. Irma Barnes, who drove expensive cars, dressed in the height of fashion, and lived in elegant villas in the most delightful parts of the earth!

  Doubtless Comrade Monck also knew what was going on in that well-shaped and well-cared-for head. He went on quickly: “We have a cause, for which we are risking not merely death, but the most cruel torture which fiends in human form have been able to devise. It is not merely our cause, but yours; for if these fiends whom you know well are able to turn the resources of the country to armaments, you will be in just as great danger as we. Therefore we have a right to claim the support of decent and right-thinking men. I have taken a long and dangerous journey here and I do not feel embarrassed to put it up to you. I am not a beggar, I am a comrade, and I present it as a matter of honor, of duty which a man cannot refuse without shame. You have seen innocent blood shed, and the blood of your murder
ed friend calls-out to you—not for vengeance, but for justice, for the truth to be spoken, for a long and hard and dangerous job of truth-telling to be done.”

  XI

  There it was: a voice from outside Lanny Budd, speaking the same words which his inner voice had been speaking day and night, haunting him and tormenting him, not letting him rest even in the most fashionable society, even in the arms of the ardent young Juno who influenced him so deeply. It was a commanding voice, and he thought: “If this rough working-man is an agent of the Gestapo, they certainly have a first-class school of elocution and dramatics!”

  Poor Lanny! He had to begin the “spiel” which he had repeated so many times that he had got tired of hearing himself. “Genosse Monck, I don’t know whether Tru—that is, Frau Mueller realizes it or not, but my money resources are not what people think. I have to earn what I spend; and while I spend a good deal, it is because I earn my money from the rich, and there is no way to go among them unless you live as they do. I have a wealthy wife, but I do not have the spending of her money; she does not share my political beliefs, and it is a matter of pride with me to keep my independence.”

  “I accept what you say, Genosse; but I cannot have any pride, because I am a hunted man, and I have not only my own fears, but those of millions of working people, whose need is so great that no one can exaggerate it. I am not using wild words, but telling you the plain truth when I say that to take my country out of the hands of the bandits is the most important cause in all the world today. Nothing else matters; literature, art, civilization itself—everything is gone if we fail. Surely what you have been through and seen must make it impossible for you to escape that truth!”