The Final Hour

by Caldwell, Taylor;

  ‘I think that covers it, Mr Regan.’

  Regan was very quiet for a long moment or two. Then he said, almost inaudibly, but with strange penetration: ‘Henri, did it ever occur to you that your family really wants Hitler to conquer the world, literally, as well as in other ways?’ Henri stared at him. His light eyes gleamed stonily. He did not move, but his hands slowly clenched. Then he said, with utmost contempt: ‘Ridiculous.’

  ‘Not so ridiculous, Henri. Let us look at the facts. Suppose Hitler not only conquered Europe, but us. He would need strong native men in America, powerful men, to keep American industry moving and growing, supplying him with what he needs. Under such a system, such men would have more power under Hitler, over the destinies of the American people, than they have under our present independent Government. Yes, they could well do business with Hitler, then! They could reduce American labour to serfdom, produce an economy of kings and slaves. Masters not only of finance and industry, but masters of men. Under Hitler domination, of course. But, that would not matter very much.’

  Henri was silent. Then he leaned forward, and said, softly: ‘You don’t speak without reason, Mr Regan. And you’ve got some evidence, haven’t you?’

  ‘I have, Henri,’ replied Regan, in a slow grave voice.

  He rose ponderously and wearily, and went to a safe concealed in the panelled wall. He brought out a thick sheaf of papers, which he laid before Henri. The younger man took them up in his hands and began to read them quickly. There was a prolonged silence in the great room, disturbed only by the swift rustling of papers. Regan watched Henri as he read. That pale and massive face showed no emotion, no rage. It remained as still as stone. It was the face of Ernest Barbour, all frozen savagery and inhuman calm.

  ‘Newspaper owners—famous “military” heroes of the last war—clergymen, women’s societies for peace, muck-raking writers, traitors, liars, fools, Senators, politicians, lunatic-fringers, plotters, spies—they’re all there, aren’t they, Henri?’ said the old man, at last, as Henri laid the papers down slowly. ‘They’ve got them all tentatively organized, haven’t they? And not for the sake of “peace.” Not just for the sake of “doing business with Hitler,” as you believed. And you’ve seen the tie-up there, haven’t you, with foreign Nazis and fascists? Not a pretty picture, eh, Henri?’

  Henri did not answer. But his face was frightful, all the more so because it expressed absolutely nothing.

  ‘They don’t see, as you see, Henri, that domination of Hitler over America means the real end of capitalism, private enterprise, industry. They forget Thyssen, for instance. That is their egotism. Henri,’ and now he beat his hands gently on the desk, ‘I’ve discovered something. Only in a democracy can capitalism flourish, serve itself, serve the people.’

  But Henri only said: ‘And so, against my orders, they are continuing to supply Hitler with our very life blood. They have defied me.’

  He stood up.

  ‘They are out to ruin you, Henri,’ said Regan, in the gentlest tones. ‘Because you won’t play with them. They’ll have your scalp, Henri. There’s nothing they won’t do. They are preparing to hand America over to Hitler, lock, stock and barrel. And you, too, most probably.’

  ‘Last month,’ said Henri, glancing at the papers on the desk, ‘they shipped a tremendous amount of Canadian nickel to Hitler. When we so desperately need nickel—’ He paused, and caught his breath in an ominous sound.

  ‘And last week,’ said Mr Regan, reflectively, ‘your brother-in-law, Christopher, had a pleasant luncheon with certain gentlemen, among whom was your brother-in-law, Emile, your relatives, Jean and Nicholas Bouchard, Herr Doktor Meissner of the Reichsbank, the German Consul General, the president of your own organization, the American Association of Industries, the son of Mr Hiram Mitchell, pious little automobile manufacturer to millions of pipsqueaks, Mr Joseph Stoessel of the Nazareth Steel Company, competitor of your own steel company, Sessions, four presidents of four of your largest American subsidiaries from various parts of the country, two resounding Senators who are on record as hating England and loving the fascists, your relative, Hugo Bouchard, Assistant to the Secretary of State, Bishop Halliday, that sonorous anti-Semitic, anti-labour, anti-Roosevelt, anti-British and anti-liberal radio bastard, Brigadier-General Gordon MacDouglass, owner of one of the most influential chains of newspapers in America, Count Luigi Pallistrino, Italian chargé d’affaires, Mr Horace Edmund, vice-president of your British associate and vassal armaments company, Robsons-Strong, Mr John Byran, my esteemed competitor on the Street, and others of more or less importance. Yes, there was also that gentleman whom we had named for the nomination on the Republican ticket next year, and a certain infamous gentleman whom we shall not name at the present time, but who was once our man, also. Incidentally, one of Mr Roosevelt’s closest associates was there, too, a fact which would surprise the President excessively, and cause him to scrutinize his Cabinet a little more closely than he seems to be doing.’

  ‘And?’ said Henri, quietly.

  Mr Regan marvelled at his equanimity. He said: ‘They discussed what I have already told you. They also discussed you. It seems that Mr Hitler doesn’t like you, Henri. Not at all. The Consul General delivered himself of some measured and poignant quotations. The consensus, finally, was that you had to be got rid of, and soon. You were an “obstructionist.” Those were Hitler’s orders.’ He smiled grimly. ‘Have you ever had a heart attack, Henri?’

  ‘Let’s not be melodramatic,’ replied Henri, seating himself with immense calm. Then he was silent, his lips compressed, his eyes staring before him with a terrible expression, his hands clenched on the arms of his chair.

  ‘I assure you I’m not in the least melodramatic, my dear boy. Do you think they’d stop at anything, to get rid of you? You are one of the most powerful men in America, and your obstructionism can be fatal to them. We’re up against the most deadly foes the world has ever known. Machiavelli, Metternich, Napoleon, Torquemada, Richelieu, et al. were mere dabblers in boudoir intrigue compared with these. They play, not only for territories and markets, Henri, but for all the peoples in the world. And—they’ve just about got what they want. Do you stand in the way? Well, a heart attack, or an assassination by some intransigent “bolshevist,” are quick ways to die.’

  Henri, with more agility than he usually displayed, stood up again, and began to pace up and down, up and down, his head bent, his arms folded tightly across his chest. So, that stony imperturbability could be shaken, and shaken to its base. That broad face had become ugly with passion, and dangerously suffused. The broad forehead was visibly damp.

  He stopped abruptly, and looked at Regan. ‘And so, because of your loans to Mussolini, and your arrangements of loans to Hitler, and the Bouchard shipments of materials, the cartels and assignments, we’ve come to this.’

  ‘We’re all guilty, I admit, Henri. But—you and I had the same idea: to build up Hitler as a buffer state between Europe and Communism, between America and Communism. It wasn’t a bad idea—then. In fact, under other circumstances, it would still be a good idea. And, there’s our State Department. It did a good job for France, at our instigation. To a certain extent, it is still our Department, though your buff-coloured relative, Hugo, is busily undermining it.’

  Henri stood before him, staring at him fixedly without really seeing him. Mr Regan shook his head. ‘It’s no use, Henri. You can’t keep them in line, now. The stakes are too big. You can’t do it alone.’

  Now Henri turned purplish red with the most violent rage he had ever felt. His egotism was mortally stricken. Before this mortification, this fury, he realized the full extent of his degradation and impotence.

  Mr Regan got up and approached him. He put his hand on his shoulder, and from his tremendous height looked down upon him, his little glittering eyes very piercing. ‘You want to stop it, don’t you, Henri? For your own sake. I do, too. For the sake of the disease that’s eating me alive.’

 
‘How about publicity?’ asked Henri, more to himself than to Regan. ‘How about laying the facts before the President?’

  Mr Regan shook his head slowly and heavily. ‘No use, I’ve an idea the President has some inkling. It can’t be exposed. There would be a revolution. Perhaps what the devils want. In the confusion, in the uproar, they could seize power.

  Moreover, they’ve got their men sprinkled thickly all through Congress, too, and in every Department. It is a scandal that dare not be betrayed, for fear of the consequences, even if it could be proved. And, Henri, we cannot expose anything, you and I, without fatally involving ourselves. Would you like Leavenworth, Henri?’

  ‘Then,’ said Henri, sombrely, ‘we are helpless before blackmail?’

  ‘Would you,’ pursued Mr Regan, ‘be willing to sacrifice yourself for your country?’

  When Henri did not reply, the older man continued: ‘Even under the best of circumstances, my lad, you would be ruined. You, an “economic royalist.” Mr Roosevelt might find in your confession the great chance of his career: to destroy the real masters of America.’

  ‘We could strike a bargain with him,’ muttered Henri, chewing his lip.

  Mr Regan laughed drearily, and pressed his hand on the other’s shoulder.

  ‘One doesn’t strike bargains with Franklin. Do you remember how we tried it, a few years ago? No, Henri, we’re between the devil and the deep blue sea.’

  They looked at each other. ‘Henri,’ said Mr Regan, ‘I think I can trust you. I know of a way out. There are a few like you, who don’t want what the Bouchards want, either. The Amalgamated Carbide Company, for instance, your competitor in the manufacture of various synthetic products. The American Motors Company. Several others I can name. And, myself. Besides, we’ve got some Congressmen of our own too, you know.’ He paused. ‘Will you have dinner with me next week, Henri? A quiet little dinner, with a few guests?’

  Henri was silent. His light brows had drawn themselves together in fierce concentration. He said, finally: ‘And, in the meantime, I’ll do what I can do.’

  Mr Regan was alarmed. ‘Henri, they’re not to know what you’re up to, you understand. If they get the smallest inkling, we’re lost.’

  The full weight of the looming catastrophe suddenly impressed itself upon Henri Bouchard. The veins in his forehead swelled. ‘God!’ he exclaimed, softly. ‘The bastards dared defy me! They dared do this to me!’

  Mr Regan gazed at him with something like surprised scorn.

  ‘So, you’re a childish egotist, too, Henri. I had hoped for something better than that. Never mind. I still have faith in your power, your personal strength. Please God, we’ll come out of this.’

  He went back to his desk and fell into his chair as if exhausted. His mighty head dropped on his chest. He gazed blindly at his desk, and sighed over and over.

  ‘You see, Henri,’ he said, ‘how it is. That is where Wendell Willkie comes in. Even under Roosevelt, we’ve got a chance to break this thing. But, under Willkie, who knows so much more about the intrigues of the masters, we’ve got a still better chance. Moreover, we’ll have the better and more intelligent people behind us, with Willkie. The smaller business men, of comparative integrity, for instance, besides the rabble. The sound middle class. Roosevelt doesn’t have them. Willkie is a realist. We can lay the whole thing before him, and he won’t leap at our throats with cries of joy, as Roosevelt would do. America will come first with Willkie. When I said he was an honest man, I meant a great many things. And all of them are complimentary to a great realist, a great American, a great man of affairs.’

  He lifted his head, and extended his hand to Henri.

  ‘Well, Henri? We’re in this together. Do we go on together?’

  Henri took his hand. He smiled, and that smile, in his congested face, was ugly to see.

  ‘We go on together,’ he said.

  They sat in silence for some time, while Mr Regan refilled the goblets with brandy. He was not surprised, and smiled only a little, darkly, when Henri drank with swift abruptness, and allowed his goblet to be filled again.

  Then, as the room became duskier as the day sloped to sunset, Mr Regan began to speak with grave slow softness:

  ‘Henri Bouchard, I’m an old man, and I’m going to die soon.’

  Henri, who had been thinking of many things, was momentarily startled at this odd change in the conversation. But he said politely enough: ‘Surely not. You aren’t in bad health, Mr Regan?’

  But Mr Regan only regarded him in a strange steadfast silence for some time. ‘No,’ he said, meditatively, ‘it would be no use. No use at all.’

  Henri was only indifferently puzzled. And then he smiled, a most disagreeable smile, and rose.

  After he had gone, Mr Regan thought to himself: Yes, you’ll go on with me, you son of a literal bitch. Yes, you’ll go on, you great-grandson of a colossal dog. But not for the reason I had sentimentally hoped. In fact, your precious relatives’ idea would have had considerable appeal for you, under other circumstances. Perhaps, if they had reverentially discussed it with you. Yes, I am sure of that.

  But, you’ll go on with me because they dared challenge your sovereignty, even if it was a challenge uttered in private. You’ll go on because they are trying to destroy you, unseat you, throw you out. And that is one thing you’ll never forgive them; one thing your monstrous egotism can’t stomach—that they dared think they could do this to you. For that, you’ll stop at nothing.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  Henri Bouchard remained in New York for several days, locked in his private suite at the Savoy-Plaza. During that time he had the ‘quiet little dinner’ with Mr Jay Regan and certain others. Had he been a true adventurer, he might have enjoyed what was said at that dinner, what plans were laid in the face of the precarious enormity of the situation, might have felt much excitement and exhilaration at the prospect, and at the thought of confounding and ruining his enemies.

  But he was no true adventurer. He was a plotter on a gigantic scale. However, like his great-grandfather, he had no audacity. He believed in force, in the attainment of power which allowed him to use force and coercion like a knotted club.

  He studied many papers. He gave especial care to the study of his brother-in-law, Christopher Bouchard. For long hours, he gnawed the nail of his index finger, and thought. Then, grimacing with disgust and cold rage, he put in a call for Christopher, who was still at Robin’s Nest.

  ‘Something has come up,’ he said, in a confidential tone, his fist curling on the table near the telephone. ‘I’d like to talk with you, privately. Right here. How soon can you come? It must be practically immediately. Incidentally, I may say that it will be of tremendous importance to you.’

  Christopher was astonished, and wary. The razor-profile sharpened keenly as he thought. Was it possible that the forbidding and stony devil had gotten wind of something? But, that was incredible. He wished to hear Henri’s voice again, to judge by its tone, to catch a hint, so he said, amiably: ‘Certainly, I’ll come at once. By plane. I’ll be there before midnight. Is that too late to see you?’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Henri, making his tone sound pleased and friendly. ‘The sooner the better. As I said, this is very important.’ With an effort, he let his voice drop, become increasingly friendly. ‘By the way, how is everything at home?’

  Christopher laughed a little. He knew Henri very well. The swine was no good at dissembling. His voice always gave him away.

  ‘Well, this isn’t going to please you, I am afraid, but Celeste packed up Peter and baggage very abruptly today, and decamped.’

  Henri’s eyes narrowed, and he smiled sombrely to himself. But he said, echoing Christopher’s laugh: ‘Not so good. Well. Where did they go, in the flight from Herod?’

  ‘I’ve let them have Endur, which Celeste always claimed she disliked. They had a time with Annette, who’s bathed in tears, with Edith comforting. Celeste explained that as Peter has now begun to write his
muck-raking, he needs complete quiet. Peter seemed somewhat surprised at this, but evidently the little fox had taken him over the coals previously about leaving, for he said nothing. They cleared out very quickly. Evidently to get away before you returned. Celeste managed everything with dispatch, and with a high hand. Never thought she had it in her. When I tried a little discreet protesting, she turned on me like a small fiend and told me to mind my business.’ He coughed, gently, ‘Incidentally, she looks like hell. Haunted, I believe the word is. Refugee from a concentration camp. She appears to be taking my mother’s death rather hard.’

  ‘Eh?’ said Henri, before he could catch himself. He had forgotten all about Adelaide. ‘Oh, I see. Yes, of course. That was bad for her.’

  He added, after a moment: ‘I’ll look for you, then, before midnight?’

  After he had finished his conversation with Christopher, he resumed his study of the papers. Sometimes he stared into space, as motionless as stone. He must be adroit, now. He must wind, and watch, play delicately: all things that he despised. Sometimes he turned white with his mounting rage against his family who had so dared plot against him. He was no sadist, like Christopher, who loved revenge for its own exquisite sake. He must revenge himself, he must crush, subdue, destroy, but only for his own protection, and the teaching, once and for all, that he was supreme, must never be plotted against, or opposed in the slightest manner. His outrage was the outrage of a Napoleon, upon learning that his mediocre and treacherous little brothers and sisters had dared dream that they might overthrow him.

  When Christopher arrived, a considerable time before midnight, Henri was as calm and contained as ever. Christopher darted a sharp glance at him, but could find nothing in that large harsh face to arouse any uneasiness in himself. Henri was quite at ease, ordered whiskey and soda for his guest, laughed, as he said: ‘I suppose this is somewhat raw, calling you in at this time of night. But it happens that I must make a certain decision tomorrow, and—I need your suggestions, and your own decision.’