The Eagles Gather

by Taylor Caldwell

  “France has something good also. Look at these outlines: a submarine that makes all others look like middle-aged porpoises. I am not sure this is practicable. However, we shall investigate.”

  “I hardly believed it when Kronk informed us about the battleship!” said Armand, showing single-minded interest for the first time. “Have we had reports from Russia as to whether they are open to suggestion on them, yet?”

  Emile smiled slightly. “Russia, my dear Armand, will buy nothing she can steal. You see, she has learned the lessons of the democracies too well for our profit! However, the Soviet Ambassador to England, Skorsev, gives me hope that Russia is interested. It must be handled discreetly, for France still watches Germany, and one misstep, and Berlin is occupied!”

  “Damned bolsheviks!” said Armand restlessly. His face had taken on a deeper tinge, and he moved in his seat as though something had pricked him. Emile watched him narrowly, with a curious drawing-together of all his full and florid features.

  “Nevertheless, Armand, they serve an excellent purpose.

  “We Americans have a lesson to learn. At times, we are sentimental—and patriotic. Cousin Honore suffered from periodical attacks of honor. [At this, the tinge in Armand’s face became thicker and darker, but he stared at his brother with an attempt at a derisive smile at Honore’s honor.] Too, he had a maudlin brand of patriotism. He seemed to believe that patriotism was expressed in preserving peace, or at least, in refraining from suggesting wars. Now, we are more realistic: we believe that patriotism is expressed in making our country invulnerable to attack. And we have no objections at all if other peoples are similarly patriotic! Peace, as Christopher says, is the passion of the eunuch.

  “But what I wished to say is that we have a lesson to learn, and, as usual, such lessons are to be learned only from dear old England.

  “British statesmen are unique. They are entirely without patriotism, though they are unsurpassed in the art of patriotic oratory. They know only too well that emotion is the necessity of the people, but the stupidity of governments. The Briton’s lack of patriotism enables him to operate fluidly among foreign policies, like water, surrounding them all. We can, for instance, trust the British statesman to keep hatred fuming in Europe, and to play his ancient game of treachery and hypocrisy. You say this game is obvious? Yes, my dear Armand, it IS obvious. But only the obvious is undetectable.

  “It was a good idea, but not a delicate one, of Britain to help bring about an accord between France and Russia. And then, on the other hand, to set about improving relations between Russia and Germany. Communism is going to be an ideology that will threaten the existence of the ruling classes all over the world. Did I say that Britain was playing a good game but one not delicate? I take that back at once! It is most delicate.” He clapped his hands together as though applauding, and laughed hugely. “In the meantime, Britain is lauded as peacemaker, trying to reconcile old hatreds.”

  Armand smiled a little stiffly. He said: “I have always hated the British. But what shall we do if the ideas of bolshevism spread to America?”

  “That is the easiest of all to answer, Armand. If we as a class are threatened, it will become our sacred duty to ourselves (and what duty is more sacred?) to invent an antidote. I am sure we shall find it in the churches and American patriotic societies. That should be the least of your worries. But our chief pleasure just now ought to be the spectacle of dear old Britain manipulating in Europe.

  “A weak and prostrate Germany, just now, does not appear a good omen for our industries, and our dividends. But as Christopher remarked only recently, weakness inevitably begets despairing strength. Germany will soon demand a strong government when she finally realizes her impotent condition and recovers from the shock. A strong German government (aided and planned by Britain) will emerge from a maddened, wounded and maimed Germany, hungry for vengeance. And vengeance never did the armaments industry any harm at all! A new strong Germany, conservative as only strong governments can be, will then be a fine big gun in Britain’s hands. This gun will be used to control an arrogant France and to threaten bolshevik Russia. The balance of power will again be operating in Europe.

  “You do not believe me? You think this infamy is beyond Britain? Armand, Armand! You do not believe, for instance, that Britain will castrate the League of Nations? Then you believe in honor, and you are no better than Cousin Honore himself! Surely you have not forgotten that Mussolini could not have seized Italy without, first, the connivance of Britain, and second, her assistance and encouragement and secret promises?”

  “Yes, yes!” said Armand testily. “Of course, I know.” He did not like this slightly patronizing manner of Emile’s. Was he not president of Bouchard and Sons, and Emile only vice-president? “I have not forgotten either that Robsons-Strong has supplied Mussolini with arms, and that he has passed along the good business to Hungary, too. I am not yet ready for retirement, Emile,” and he smiled, half-diffidently, half-slyly.

  Emile regarded him with affectionate seriousness. “Of course not, Armand! Though your nerves are considerably on edge lately.” He laughed. Waited. But Armand said nothing. After a few moments, Emile indicated a paper on his desk. “I have just finished making notes on this letter of Robsons-Strong which you gave me yesterday.”

  “Well? What is your opinion?” Armand moved on his chair nearer to his brother and eyed him impatiently.

  Emile pursed up his lips thoughtfully and tapped the letter with his fountain pen. Then he smiled.

  “Perhaps my opinion is partly based on the fact that Robsons-Strong, not we, own a third interest in the Japanese-Matsu Iron Works. At any rate, I do not think it advisable for Japan to attack Manchuria yet. We have not yet decided, as you know, as to whether the American people are to sympathize with Japan or with China. Without preparation of the American people it is foolish for Robsons-Strong to give the go-ahead signal to Japan.

  “I would advise (but you, of course, must give the final decision), that Robsons-Stong be informed that they must caution Japan not to make a move for at least five years. In the meantime, there can be much propaganda in America about Chinese bandits sabotaging foreign, particularly American, property in Manchuria.” He rubbed his nose thoughtfully. “But somehow it is hard these days to arouse anger in America over property. Perhaps that is the bolshevik influence—”

  “Of course it is!” exclaimed Armand.

  “Then, we must start in where we left off in 1921. We were doing quite well with anti-Communist propaganda in America at that time. Perhaps it was foolish of us to have called it off just because Schultz-Poiret and Skeda bought interests in Russian mines and shipyards.

  “We shall have to choose something else besides property to arouse the American people. Francis suggested only last week whenever a strike is called to lean heavily, in the newspapers, on the ‘alien subversive influence’ among the workers. We can begin it, tentatively, of course. But that is a question, too, that we must not decide hastily without consulting Robsons-Strong, Schultz-Poiret and Skeda. Skeda, especially, must be handled carefully, because of Czechoslovakia’s friendliness toward Russia.

  “If we could only get a moral grievance against Russia!” He frowned. “Atheism? Yes, that might be good. Then, immorality. Yes! Atheism and immorality are always good for righteous anger among the American people. Nothing can make an American mechanic madder than to tell him his neighbor doesn’t believe in God and is having a wonderful time among the wives of the other neighbors. It makes him feel both spiritually hog-tied and physically deprived, and that is always the infallible basis for national hatred.”

  Armand laughed with his brother. “But you truly believe that Americans can be aroused against Russia by telling them that Russians don’t go to church Sundays and sleep with numberless women? A little far-fetched, it seems to me.”

  “Well, let us get back to the subject. You must make the final decision, of course, but I would suggest that Robsons-Strong put pressu
re on Japan to delay attacking Manchuria for five or seven years. By that time we can decide with whom we are to sympathize. Perhaps it will be to our own advantage to sympathize with China.” He paused and added: “And in the meantime, a little judicious propaganda against Russia can be begun. Just a little, though, for we may want to switch at any time. The Catholic Church hates Russia. Suppose a few anti-bolshevik sermons delivered by Catholic priests were given newspaper space for a time?”

  “What are we paying Endicott James for?” demanded Armand in a surly voice. He made a note in a neat black book which he carried. The book was the only tidy thing about him. His wrinkled vest was spotted, his expensive but badly-fitting coat and trousers were unpressed and baggy. A faint auburn stubble was visible on his jowls. He had a valet, but was intrinsically too much of a plebeian to allow the man to do much for him. Emile, puckering his thick black brows, observed that his brother’s short reddish hands were grimy at the knuckles, and that there was a rim of black on each stubby fingernail. He glanced swiftly downwards at Armand’s thick short thighs straining at the seams of the trousers, and the dusty boots. Christopher had called Armand “the village blacksmith.” Remembering, Emile smiled, put up his hand to hide the smile.

  Armand felt, rather than saw, that swift critical glance, and became uneasy again. His expression became more pursy than ever; his tiny eyes irritably betrayed the diffidence of the shy man.

  “I don’t know what things are coming to,” he said, obscurely. Emile said nothing. Under his calm, rather dark and sympathetic exterior a deep subterranean amusement quivered.

  “We are still small fry,” Armand went on, restlessly. “Old Garrison Burns has got ahead of us again. Why, Father assured me just before he died that Sessions Steel would put The Flexible Steel Company out of business! And what have we done? Let Burns get ahead of us in the Japanese order. We get the leavings, scrap iron! What the hell is Jean doing? And Andre, that fat pink hog?”

  “Andre,” said Emile soothingly, “is a little slow. But there was pious psalm-singing Arkansas Senator Brunswick to deal with. He doesn’t like us. Our father despised him when he was a mere Representative, and used to pray on the floor. There’s nothing so vindictive as a religious man. So, when the Japanese deal began to smell, Brunswick began to raise a big stink, too. The stink was all in our direction. In the meantime, Flexible, for a consideration to the Man of God, slipped in with the orders. But you know all that.”

  “I’m not running Sessions,” said Armand angrily. “But look what equipment they have! Flexible is outmoded. We have better patents on gun forgings and armor plate and projectiles. Something should be done. That Japanese order was a crime!”

  “But Sessions is certain to get the new railroad orders here. And probably the new San Francisco Bridge. Then, look, at The United Utah orders, and the Pennsylvania State Railroad, and the Eastern States! We’ve got those orders practically on the dotted line. Five new bridges! Flexible is chewing its fingernails over the bridges, especially. And those locomotives! We can’t hog the whole market—”

  “Why not?” But Armand smiled a little, somewhat appeased. “However, all this is all very well. But we’ve got to prepare. You know that.”

  “In the meantime, we’ve got to get patents. That’s important.”

  Suddenly Armand’s big face flushed with ire. He leaned forward towards his brother, and the latter smelt the odor of perspiration. Cigar ashes fell over Armand’s bulging vest in his agitation.

  “And that reminds me! Parson’s Airplane called me not an hour ago! That Russian order which they were almost positive of: it’s being held up. And do you know why? Because of that little upstart new airplane company, Duval-Bonnet! With their mythical inventions! A little piddling company which didn’t exist five years ago! Bragging about their 300-miles-per-hour plane, and new flexible gun-mountings! Angling for that enormous Russian order for planes which are to be sold to Germany! You know very well that bombers can’t travel at that speed and carry sufficient bombs to make them effective!

  “It’s a pack of filthy Russian lies. And what have you been doing to find out who Duval-Bonnet are, anyway, except that they’ve got a few rat-sheds near Gainesville, Florida? Who is behind them? Who owns their patents? Why haven’t we gotten hold of those patents? Why, they aren’t even listed!”

  While he had been hurling these questions at Emile, the latter’s expression had grown tighter and darker, his features seeming to grow more compact. He picked up an ivory-and-gold paper-knife and was examining it minutely. He replied to Armand, still examining the knife:

  “I’ve told you all we could find out. Where they got the name of Duval-Bonnet is a mystery. I think it is some kind of practical joke. The president is Osborne Goodman, and the patents are in his name. No mystery about that.”

  “Why doesn’t Parson’s Airplane buy him out, then?”

  “You know why. He won’t be bought, and they’re skeptical about the value of the planes.”

  Armand snorted. “And in the meantime these little rats are holding up the Russian order! What’s the matter with everybody? I’m going to write a letter to Parson’s Airplane that’ll burn their eyelashes when they read it. My God, must I run everything?”

  He lit another cigar with fingers that visibly shook. Emile’s head was still bent, but under his thick black eyebrows his needles of eyes were fixed on his brother.

  “An army of flunkies, and I must do everything!” went on Armand with gathering and querulous fury. “Secretaries to secretaries and assistant secretaries to assistant secretaries, and brothers who claim to know what they’re about—!” He dropped the cigar onto a tray and turned his face full on Emile. The fury left his face, and it became sullen and uneasy again, and crafty.

  “How is Christopher these days? I rarely see him. He’s got Francis in there with him now, talking and laughing. Business must be bad! Francis has been in there nearly an hour now, and there’s a Board of Directors meeting at Kinsolving at twelve.”

  “I don’t run Kinsolving,” Emile pointed out. “Christopher is well, I believe. He works hard. That is all that can be expected of him, isn’t it?”

  Armand fumed. But he said nothing. He regarded his brother with a secretive and hunted expression. An expression of dim distress stood in his eyes.

  “I like to be friends with—with every one,” he said at last.

  Emile paused, then he exclaimed heartily, with an affectionate and winning smile: “Of course you do! No one ever denied that, Armand. Don’t worry about Christopher. You know his neurotic moods. He’ll be swarming around you all at once before you know it. Just now he seems to be amusing himself with Francis.”

  “I don’t like Francis,” muttered Armand, and his expression was more uneasy.

  He waited. But Emile said nothing further, merely smiling at his brother more affectionately than ever. Armand looked at that florid and smiling face; he saw the wolfish shine on the big white teeth, of which Emile was very vain. He sighed, and got up. Emile rose also, with courtesy. Armand went towards the door, automatically glancing with distaste at the rich furnishings of the big room.

  “The best powder in the world, and Robsons-Strong get Mussolini’s order for Hungary!” he complained. He shook his head. “We’ll be using our powder for fire-crackers one of these days unless we stir ourselves.”

  He went out.

  Emile waited. After about five minutes he yawned, got up, and slipped agilely, for all his bulk, down the carpeted halls to Christopher’s office.

  CHAPTER X

  Emile found his brother, Christopher, and Francis Bouchard, in the midst of amiable remarks and laughter. The clean and shining steel emptiness of the office was full of cigarette smoke. Christopher was sitting at his desk, a square of pale wood, glass and chromium fittings. He was leaning back in his chair, also of chromium and pale wood and ivory leather, and seemed to be in a pallidly gay mood. The angular Francis, with his long bony limbs, flat body and bitter ice
-blue eyes, seemed gay also. An air of rapprochement filled the office like the fumes of good brandy.

  Francis raised his thin sandy eyebrows when he saw Emile, and his colorless hollow cheeks filled out with a thin sharp smile. His long fingers, so like flesh-colored bones, took the cigarette from his mouth. “Hello,” he said. He raised himself from his lounging position with all the ease and effortlessness of a man twenty years his junior. His voice matched his apppearance; it had a dry hard quality with a grating undertone.

  “Come in, Emile,” said Christopher. The resemblance between himself and Francis was very marked just now. “Sit down. Have a cigarette.”

  “What? Those perfumed didoes of yours? No, thanks.” Emile smiled affectionately, however, and accepted one of Francis’ custom-made Turkish cigarettes. He bent his big round head with its high thatch of black vigorous curls, and allowed Francis to give him a light. He sat down. As he sat there, his big bulky torso gave him a massive appearance, belied when he stood up on his legs, which were similar to Armand’s.

  He looked from Christopher to Francis amicably, grinning. But his eyes, somewhat rodent-like, darted from one face to another endlessly.

  “Just had a session with Armand,” he began easily. “He’s disturbed about Locarno. Still thinks one of us ought to have been there, at least.”

  “Nonsense,” replied Christopher indifferently. “Haven’t we got Sazaroff and Bob Stressman there?”

  “Sazaroff,” said Emile meditatively. He carefully deposited cigarette ash in a chromium ashtray in the form of a flying nymph. “But events have proved that we cannot always trust Sazaroff. Talk of the phœnix and the harpy and the Gorgons! He’s all of them. Look how he blocked the sale of our machine-gun in Austria (after we had gone to such expense and trouble to steal the patent from England!) and wouldn’t lift the blocking until we gave him an enormous percentage on its sale. And that’s only one instance.