World's End

by Upton Sinclair

  Lanny had been here before, and there was nothing new to him in a street of fashionable shops and hotels. They went to the most expensive of the latter, and Robbie engaged a suite, and sent up his card to the Turkish dignitary, whose secretary came and requested in polished French that “M. Bood” would be so kind as to return in an hour, as the pasha was “in conference.” Robbie said, certainly, and they went out to stroll in the beautiful gardens of the Casino, which have walks lined with palm trees and flowering shrubs. There was a little circle of flower beds, and as they came to it, Robbie said, in a low voice: “Here he comes.”

  “Who?” whispered Lanny; and the answer was: “The man we talked about in the boat.”

  The boy’s heart gave a jump. He looked and saw a tall, gray-haired gentleman turning onto the other side of the circle. He paid no attention to them, so Lanny could take a good look.

  Basil Zaharoff had been a vigorous man in his youth, but had grown heavy. He wore the garment of an Englishman on formal occasions, which is called a frock coat, cut large as if to hide his central bulk, and hanging down in back all the way to his knees; a smooth, black, and very ugly garment supposed to confer dignity upon its wearer. Added to it were striped trousers, shoes with spats, and on his head a tall cylinder of smooth black silk. The munitions king had a gray mustache and what was called an “imperial,” a tuft of hair starting from the front of his chin, and hanging down three or four inches below it. He walked with a cane, stooping slightly, which made his hooked nose the most prominent thing about him and gave the odd impression that he was smelling his way.

  “Having his constitutional,” said Robbie, after Zaharoff had passed. Lanny took a rear view of the man who was worth so many millions, and had got them by having other men’s papers stolen. “He comes here often,” explained the father. “He stays at the hotel with his duquesa.”

  “He is married?” asked the boy, and Robbie told the strange story of this master of Europe who could not buy the one thing he most wanted.

  Some twenty-five years ago, when the ex-fireman had got well under way as a salesman of munitions, he went to Spain on a deal, and met a seventeen-year-old duchess of that realm, owning almost as many names as Zaharoff now owned companies. Robbie, who liked to make fun of the pretensions of Europe, said that the only case he had ever heard of a person having more names was a runaway slave whom his great-uncle had rescued by way of the “underground railroad.” The Spanish lady was María del Pilar Antonia Angela Patrocino Simón de Muguiro y Berute, Duquesa de Marqueni y Villafranca de los Caballeros. Legend had it that Zaharoff had met her on a sleeping car, by rescuing her from the cruelties of her husband on her wedding night. However that may be, it was certain that the husband had become violently insane, and was confined in a cell, and for twenty-five years Zaharoff and the lady had been living together, but couldn’t marry because the Catholic Church, of which she was a devout member, does not permit divorce. It was usually possible to persuade the Church authorities to annul a marriage on some pretext, but it would have been embarrassing in this case, for the reason that the mad duke happened to be a cousin of King Alfonso.

  The couple were devoted to each other, and Robbie said that might be one of the reasons for the business success of the ex-fireman; he was proof against traps which men bait for one another with women. The former peasant boy naturally felt honored to have the love of a duquesa, and she helped him to meet the right people. “Like you and Beauty!” remarked Lanny.

  VII

  Father and son went back to the hotel, and Robbie was invited upstairs to his pasha. Lanny had one of those little Tauchnitz novels in his pocket, and was going to sit quietly in a big armchair and read. But first, being young and full of curiosity, he stood looking about the entrance hall of this imitation palace where the millionaires of Europe came to seek their pleasures both greedy and cruel. Zaharoff came with his duquesa; Turkish pashas came with their boys; English milords, Indian maharajas, Russian grand dukes—Lanny knew, because his mother had met them. Battles were fought here, part of the underground war that Robbie talked about, for the ownership of armaments, of coal and steel and oil.…

  Lanny’s eyes, sweeping the lobby, saw a man in chauffeur’s uniform come in at the front door, walk the length of the red plush carpet to the desk, and hand an envelope to the clerk. “M. Zaharoff,” he said, and turned and retraced his steps to the door.

  Zaharoff! Lanny’s eyes followed the clerk and saw him turn and put the letter into one of the many pigeonholes which covered the wall behind him. Lanny marked the spot; for even a pigeonhole is of interest when it belongs to a munitions king.

  Lanny hadn’t known that his mind could work so fast. Perhaps it was something that had already reasoned itself out in his subconsciousness. Zaharoff had stolen Robbie’s papers, including the drawings of the Budd ground-type air-cooled machine gun, essential to the making of deals. Somebody ought to punish the thief and teach him a lesson; as Robbie had put it in his playful way: “Fight the old Greek devil with his own Greek fire.”

  The clerk, who looked as if he had just been lifted out of a bandbox, was bored. He tapped his pencil on the polished mahogany top of the counter which separated him from the public; the midafternoon train had come in, and no automobiles were arriving. Two bellhops, in blue uniforms with rows of gold buttons, sat on a bench around a corner of the lobby, and poked each other in the ribs and tried to shove each other off their seats; the clerk moved over to where he could see them, and at his stern taps the bellhops straightened up and stared solemnly in front of them.

  Around this corner sat a young lady who attended to the telephone switchboard; she too was mentally unoccupied—there being no gossip over the wires. The clerk moved toward her and spoke, and she smiled at him. Lanny moved to where he could see them; it was what the French call le flirt, and promised to last for a few moments. Lanny noted that the clerk had passed the point where he could see the pigeonholes.

  The boy did not dart or do anything to reveal the excitement that had gripped him. He moved with due casualness to the far end of the counter, raised the part which was on hinges and served as a gate, and stepped behind it, just as if he belonged there. He went to the pigeonholes, took out the Zaharoff letter, and slipped it into his pocket. A bright idea occurring to him, he took a letter from another pigeonhole and slipped it into the Zaharoff hole. The clerk would think it was his own mistake. Still quietly, Lanny retraced his steps; he strolled over to one of the large overstuffed chairs of the lobby and took a seat. Le flirt continued.

  VIII

  It was Lanny Budd’s first venture into crime, and he learned at once a number of its penalties. First of all, the nervous strain involved; his heart was pounding like that of a young bird, and his head was in a whirl. No longer did he have the least interest in a Tauchnitz novel or any other. He was looking about him furtively, to see if anybody hiding behind a pillar of the lobby had been watching him.

  Second, he discovered that stealing involves lying, and that one lie requires others. What would he say if anyone had seen him? He had thought that the letter was in the pigeonhole of his own room. A mere mistake in numbers, that was all. But why had he not asked the clerk for the letter? Well, he had seen the clerk busy talking with the young lady. What were the chances that the clerk would know the name of Budd, and realize that Budd and Zaharoff were rivals for the armaments trade of the world?

  Third, the moral confusion. Lanny had always been a good little boy, and had done what his parents asked him, and so had never had any serious pangs of conscience. But now—should he have done it or not? Did one bad turn deserve another? Should you really fight the devil with fire? After all, who was going to punish Zaharoff if Lanny didn’t? The police? Robbie had said that Zaharoff could do anything with the police that he chose—was he not the richest man in France and an officer of the Legion of Honor?

  Lanny wished that his father would come and decide the matter for him. But the father didn’t com
e; he had a deal to discuss, and might be gone for a long time. If Lanny got hungry, he was to go to the restaurant of the hotel and have his supper. But Lanny didn’t think he’d ever be hungry again. He sat and tried to figure out, was he ashamed of himself or was he proud? It was the famed New England conscience at work, a long way from home.

  He tried to imagine what might be in that letter. His fancy went off on excursions wild as the Arabian Nights. The agent who had stolen Robbie’s portfolio from the ship was waiting to tell what he had found, and where it was now hidden; Robbie and Lanny would go at once to the place, and with the help of the Budd automatic would retrieve the property. The shape of the envelope suggested that the letter might be from a lady. Perhaps a woman spy—Lanny knew about them from a recent American movie.

  What might the handwriting reveal? After many cautious glances Lanny took out the letter and, keeping it covered by his book, studied the inscription. Yes, undoubtedly a woman’s. Lanny held the book and letter up to his nose; still less doubt now. The old rascal, living in this fashionable hotel with his duquesa, was receiving assignation notes from another woman! Lanny knew about such doings, not merely from movies, but from gossip of his mother’s friends. He had heard how politicians and others were trapped and plundered by blackmailers. Robbie would let Zaharoff know that he had this incriminating document in his hands, and Robbie’s property would be returned to him by a messenger who would neither ask nor answer questions.

  Persons came into the hotel, and others departed; Lanny watched them all. Some took seats and chatted, and Lanny tried to hear what they were saying; from now on he was surrounded by intrigues, and any chance phrase might reveal something. Two ladies sat near him, and talked about the races, and about a skirt cut in the new fashion, with slits on the side. They were shallow creatures, heedless of the undeclared war now going on in Europe. Lanny got up and moved to another chair.

  Presently came a sight which he had been expecting. Through the revolving glass doors of the entrance strode a large figure in a voluminous black frock coat, with a black silk tower on his head. The doorman in gorgeous uniform was revolving the doors for him, lest he have to make even that much effort with his hands. The bellhops leaped to attention, the clerk stood like a statue of gentility, the conversation in the lobby fell to whispers, the whole world was in suspense as the munitions king strode down the pathway of red velvet, smelling his way with his prominent hooked nose.

  He stopped at the desk. Lanny was too far away to hear a word that was spoken, but he could understand the pantomime just as well. The clerk turned and took a letter from a pigeonhole and handed it to the great man with a respectful bow and murmur. The great man looked at it, then handed it back to the clerk. The clerk looked at it and registered surprise. He turned hastily and began taking other letters from pigeonholes and looking at them. Finally he turned to the great man with more bows and murmurings. The great man stalked to the lift and disappeared.

  IX

  Robbie came at last; and Lanny said quickly: “Something has happened. I want to tell you about it.” They went up to the room, and Lanny looked around, to be sure they were alone. “Here’s a letter for Zaharoff,” he said, and held it out to his father.

  The other was puzzled. “How did you get it?”

  “I took it out of his box downstairs. Nobody saw me.”

  Even before the father said a word, almost before he had time to comprehend the idea, Lanny knew that he shouldn’t have done it; he wished he hadn’t done it.

  “You mean,” said Robbie, “you stole this from the hotel desk?”

  “Well, Robbie, he stole your papers, and I thought this might refer to them.”

  Robbie was looking at his son as if he couldn’t quite grasp what he was hearing. It was most uncomfortable for Lanny, and the blood began burning in his cheeks. “Whatever put that into your head, son?”

  “You did, Robbie. You said you would fight the old devil with his own Greek fire.”

  “Yes, Lanny—but to steal!”

  “You have had papers stolen for you—at least I got that idea, Robbie. You told me you had got some papers belonging to that Prince Vanya, or whoever it was, in Russia.”

  “Yes, son; but that was different.”

  A subtle point, hard for a boy to get. There were things you hired servants to do, detectives and that sort of persons, whose business it was. But you wouldn’t do these things yourself; your dignity was offended by the very thought of doing them. Lanny had stepped out of his class as a gentleman.

  Robbie stood staring at the piece of fashionable stationery, addressed in a lady’s handwriting; and the boy’s unhappiness grew. “I honestly thought I’d be helping you,” he pleaded.

  The father said: “Yes, I know, of course. But you made a mistake.”

  Another pause, and Robbie inquired: “Do you know if Zaharoff has come back to the hotel?” When Lanny answered that he had, the father said: “I think you must take this letter to him.”

  “Take it, Robbie?”

  “Tell him how you got it, and apologize.”

  “But, Robbie, how awful! What excuse can I give?”

  “Don’t give any excuse. Tell him the facts.”

  “Shall I tell him who I am?”

  “That’s a fact, isn’t it?”

  “Shall I tell him that you think he stole your papers?”

  “That’s a fact, too.”

  Lanny saw that his father was in an implacable mood; and, rattled as the boy was, he had sense enough to know what it meant. Robbie wished to teach him a lesson, so that he wouldn’t turn into a thief. “All right,” he said. “Whatever you say.”

  He took the letter and started toward the door. Then, an idea occurring to him, he turned. “Suppose he beats me?”

  “I don’t think he’ll do that,” replied the other. “You see, he’s a coward.”

  X

  Lanny went by the stairway, not wanting anybody to see him. He knew the room number. He knocked, and to a young man who came to the door he said: “I have a letter for M. Zaharoff.”

  “May I have it, please?” asked the man.

  “I have to hand it to him personally.”

  The secretary took him in with practiced professional eye. “Will you give me your name?”

  “I would rather give it to M. Zaharoff. Just tell him, please, that I have a letter which I must put into his hands. It’ll only take a moment.”

  Perhaps the secretary saw about Lanny Budd those signs which are not easy to counterfeit, and which establish even a youngster as entitled to consideration. “Will you come in, please?” he said, and the lad entered a drawing room full of gilt and plush and silk embroidery and marble and ormolu—all things which fortify the self-esteem of possessors of wealth. Lanny waited, standing. He didn’t feel at home and didn’t expect to.

  In a minute or two a door was opened, and the master of Europe came in. He had changed his ugly broadcloth coat for a smoking jacket of green flowered silk. He came about halfway and then said: “You have a message for me?” The boy was surprised by his voice, which was low and well modulated; his French was perfect.

  “M. Zaharoff,” said Lanny, with all the firmness he could summon, “this is a letter of yours which I stole. I have brought it to you with my apologies.”

  The old man was so surprised that he did not put out his hand for the letter. “You stole it?”

  “My father told me that you caused his portfolio to be stolen, so I thought I would pay you back. But my father does not approve of that, so I am bringing the letter.”

  The old spider sensed a trembling in his web. Such a trembling may be caused by something that spiders eat, or again it may be caused by something that eats spiders. The cold blue eyes narrowed. “So your father thinks that I employ thieves?”

  “He says that is your practice; but he doesn’t want it to be mine.”

  “Did he tell you to tell me that?”

  “He told me that whatever questio
ns you asked me I was to answer with the facts.”

  This, obviously, was something which might be of importance. Wariness and concentration were in every feature of Basil Zaharoff. He knew how to watch and think, and let the other person betray himself. But Lanny had said his say, and continued to hold the letter.

  So finally the munitions king took it; but he did not look at it. “May I ask your name, young man?”

  “My name is Lanning Prescott Budd.”

  “Of Budd Gunmakers Corporation?”

  “That is my family, sir.”

  “Your father is Robert Budd, then?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Another silence; Lanny had the feeling that everything that had ever been in his soul was being read and judged. He felt sure that the prominent hooked nose was smelling him. “Have a seat, please,” said the old man, at last.

  Lanny seated himself on the front half of a chair, and the Greek sat near. He examined the letter, then opened it slowly. A smile relieved the concentration on his face, and he handed the document to the boy, saying: “Oblige me, please.”

  Lanny thought it was his duty to read it. It said, in French:

  “The Marquise des Pompailles requests the pleasure of the company of M. Zaharoff and the Duquesa de Villafranca to tea at five this afternoon to meet the Prince and Princess von Glitzenstein.”

  “A little late,” said the munitions king dryly.

  “I am sorry, sir,” murmured Lanny, his face burning.

  “We should not have gone,” said the other. In all Lanny’s imaginings, it had never occurred to him that an old Greek devil might have a sense of humor; but it was now plain that he did. His lips smiled; but oddly enough, Lanny felt that the blue eyes were not smiling. They still watched.