The Final Hour

by Caldwell, Taylor;

  Henri Bouchard knew that Hugo’s clique formed only one segment of the State Department, and that it was ruthless, vulgar, expedient and coarse. Nevertheless, it influenced very perilously the other cliques, and, in their combined power, they could override the very Secretary himself. The Secretary could do nothing against the libel that Mr Roosevelt was dominated by the ‘Jews’ (instead of by the State Department, which was proper), or that the New Deal was composed of brigands, starry-eyed theorists, ‘bright young men from New York, of dubious ancestry,’ and Communists. The Secretary apparently thought all this very querulous and funny. He, too, was a gentleman, and he was convinced that gentlemen were not very effective.

  In the meantime, during these early days of war, the State Department was in quite an aristocratic dither. Its natural bent for England, and reverence for English politics (and the late English policy of appeasing Hitler and supporting him) caused it to feel a very natural sympathy and concern for Britain. Nevertheless, the old habit of appeasing, placating, apologizing for and supporting Hitler, was still very strong. On this see-saw, therefore, they were quite understandably sick at the stomach, bouncing affrightedly in the air, coming to earth with strong bumps, and thus disorganizing their delicate nervous systems.

  However, Hugo and his very earthy and realistic clique had no sympathy at all for Britain or for France, a fact they carefully concealed with their pallid and exquisite colleagues. They had their own designs, their own plans.

  And these designs, these plans, were very well known to Henri Bouchard.

  Henri, who had discounted many of the rumours reaching him of the frantic fury in the Hugo Bouchard household, nevertheless was now impatiently aware that many of the rumours must be true. Hugo was as genial as ever in his greetings to his kinsman. His laugh was still rollicking. But Henri saw that the buff-coloured ruddiness of Hugo’s face was somewhat less than usual, that his laugh was forced, that his handshake was damp and alarmingly tremulous, that his yellow eyes were sunken and feverish. His big body, too, was less rounded and firm, under the expensive tweeds. There was a haggard look about him, a distraught nervousness, even while he grinned and smoked, and delivered himself of a few of his choicest jokes. He had always been a prodigious drinker, but now he swallowed glass after glass in a kind of frenzy.

  One of Henri’s attributes was the ability to take cognizance of prevailing conditions and study how to take advantage of them. He could do this on an instant’s notice. Even while he talked amiably with Hugo, his mind was busily at work, plotting, conjecturing, feinting. He encouraged Hugo to drink, but kindly refused to have his own glass refilled more than once.

  Hugo burst into a loud rough laugh. ‘Always kept your feet on the ground, eh, Henri?’ he shouted. ‘Always the Iron Man! You’re a cute devil, but I know all about you. You never fooled me.’

  Henri smiled easily, and said: ‘I never cared whether I fooled anyone or not. Besides, you know very well I don’t drink much. Weren’t you the one who said my whiskey was swill, last Christmas?’

  Hugo laughed even more loudly. He reached out and slapped Henri’s thigh with affection and cunning. He’s drunk, thought Henri, but more drunk with his damned emotions than whiskey. Now Hugo lifted one index finger and wagged it archly.

  ‘What’re you up to, eh? You didn’t come down to Washington and leave a certain— Well,’ he added, with a broad wink, ‘we won’t mention that, so stop scowling, you sly rascal. I mean to say, this isn’t a casual visit, is it? You’re after something, as usual. What is it? Aren’t the boys satisfying you lately?’

  Henri smiled again, comfortably. He watched Hugo closely. Hugo, in spite of his noise and his riot, had the air of a man who listens for something at a distance. Sometimes he started nervously, cast a quick look at the massive wooden door of the library.

  Henri felt his way, his pale motionless eyes fixed on Hugo’s twitching face: ‘I do have a commission. From Annette. We’d like to have you and your family down for New Year’s. You know, you refused the invitation for Christmas, on the ground that you have a previous commitment. Now Annette won’t be satisfied until you come down to Windsor.’

  Hugo opened his big loose mouth to speak, then closed it grimly. His body appeared to tighten under his clothing. His large coarse hand tapped on the long oaken table beside him, increased in momentum while he stared at Henri. But he said, quietly enough: ‘I’ll speak to Christine. How long are you staying with us? Until tomorrow? She’ll let you know. But you know, of course, that Alice won’t be with us?’

  Henri raised his eyebrows. ‘No, I didn’t know. How should I? Where is the girl? She’s somewhat of a pet with me, you know.’

  Hugo made an uncouth sound. ‘Come off, come off! You aren’t immured down there in Windsor. You must have heard something.’

  ‘I’m not interested in family private matters,’ said Henri, with impatience. ‘They’re none of my affair. I expect the same respect for my affairs as I accord to others.’

  Hugo paused. He scrutinized Henri with suspicion. ‘Well,’ he said roughly, ‘Alice won’t be with us. She’s staying with that damned Phyllis Morse in New York for the holidays. Prefers it, it seems. Children are the god-damnedest waste of time. You ought to be thankful you haven’t any. Well. Perhaps we’ll come. Christine, Elsie and Joan, and—’ Suddenly he stopped. His face became evil with its coarse wrinkling and twisting, full of hatred and fury.

  So, thought Henri, his mind swiftly working. He lifted his glass and pretended to drink. He said, elaborately unaware of his kinsman’s expression: ‘And Hilary, of course.’ He put down the glass. ‘I’ve often thought how closely he resembles Armand’s Antoine. Haven’t you seen the resemblance, yourself?’

  Hugo uttered an involuntary oath. His tapping fingers clenched; he lifted his fist and beat it heavily once or twice on the table. Henri knew very well with what aversion, dislike and contempt Hugo regarded Antoine, and how often he had smarted under that gay young man’s dexterous thrusts and light ridicule. He hoped, devoutly, that his manœuvre had been a clever one, and had not merely served to enrage Hugo against himself.

  When Hugo spoke again, in an incoherent and thickened voice, Henri knew that the manœuvre had been very clever indeed. ‘Yes, damn it, I’ve seen the resemblance! It goes deeper than that. He’s like that swine in character too. Smirking, lying! A stinking pig. The only son I have, and he has to—he has to—’ His voice was suddenly choked off, and a purple tide ran under his ruddiness. His eyeballs glared in the lamplight

  ‘Oh, come now, Hilary’s only a boy,’ said Henri, watching him acutely. ‘It’s true he resembles Antoine remarkably. But Antoine’s no fool, you know. He’s a damned brilliant plotter. Just now,’ he added, after a pause, ‘he’s doing some very devious plotting indeed.’

  Hugo’s expression changed. It became coarsely sullen and uneasy. He lifted his big hand and plucked at his lip. He stared at Henri, and his opaque yellow eye narrowed. ‘I don’t know about that,’ he mumbled, uneasily. Now he passed his hand over his thick waves of white hair.

  So, thought Henri, it’s as I suspected. And knew.

  Henri had an aversion to intimate gestures of any kind, and never indulged in them with others. Yet now he forced himself to lean towards Hugo and pat him on the arm. ‘Hugo, you and I have always been friends. Once we acquitted ourselves with glory. Remember? Against the Armand faction; in other words, against the Jules Bouchard faction. I haven’t forgotten your help. I couldn’t have accomplished anything without it. You’ve served me; I’ve served you. That’s a big bond between men like ourselves. Especially when we serve ourselves while serving our friends.’

  Hugo, though resisting uneasily for a few minutes, could not withstand this not-so-subtle flattery. His fear of Henri, and his respect, had grown with the years. He smiled tentatively. His fist relaxed on the table.

  ‘I’ve never underestimated you, Henri, my lad. I knew whom I was helping. I’ve done as you suggested, while in the Depar
tment, and before. You can always rely upon me.’

  Henri leaned back in his chair, and allowed his large stony face to darken. ‘I believe I can, Hugo. But, it’s very serious this time. I’ve said Antoine has been plotting. Dangerous plotting. I’m not sure what it is, exactly. But I need your help.’ So great, now, were Hugo’s alarm, perturbation and suspicions, that he momentarily forgot his private tragedies. He began to sweat. He pulled out his handkerchief and passed it over his high broad forehead, the statesman’s forehead.

  ‘What is this damned “plotting”? I don’t believe it. What would he plot? I haven’t heard anything.’

  ‘I haven’t heard much, Hugo, I confess. But I am psychic, perhaps,’ and Henri smiled pleasantly. ‘I feel things, I feel something in the wind. Perhaps you can tell me.’

  But Hugo shrugged with gathering sullenness, and looked at a point a little beyond Henri’s eyes. ‘Imagination,’ he muttered at last. ‘What would that smirking idiot plot?’

  ‘Don’t underestimate Antoine,’ warned Henri. ‘He’s clever. Like your son, Hilary.’

  At this, Hugo started with quite extraordinary violence. His eyes, turned upon Henri, became full of a yellow glare. He clenched his teeth; his big coarse nostrils distended like the nostrils of an ox.

  Now Henri had quite a regard for Hilary, but he knew this was not the moment for softness. He added: ‘You’ve underestimated Hilary in the past. I’ve always known that. And I’ve always known he resembles Antoine more than just physically.

  ‘I flatter myself I understand men. That’s my business. I understand Antoine. I don’t know what he’s up to, but I have the vaguest of ideas. You see, I’m being very confidential with you, Hugo. I know I can trust you.’

  Hugo’s fists doubled on the arms of his red leather chair. He breathed audibly. The yellow glare increased in his eyes. Henri watched his agonized uncertainty with unswerving closeness.

  ‘What do you want?’ asked Hugo, in a stifled voice. ‘You always want something. You don’t fool me,’ he repeated.

  ‘Yes,’ said Henri, quietly. ‘I do want something. I want your help. I want you to use your influence to stop shipments of scrap and oil to Japan. Immediately.’

  Hugo started, again. His teeth glistened between his lips. But his voice was curiously quiet and still when he said: ‘No.’ The two men regarded each other in a profound silence. Henri seemed unperturbed. He did not stir a muscle. His expression was placid and controlled. Hugo was like a huge bull at bay, ready for the assaulting plunge towards his enemy. He waited for Henri to speak again, but Henri was silent. Then Hugo said: ‘Why?’

  ‘Because,’ said Henri, tranquilly, ‘I don’t want Japan to be made stronger. I think her ultimate victim is America. I have a regard for America, if only as a field for profitable business.’ Now Hugo grinned, very unpleasantly. ‘Claptrap. Why should Japan attack us? She’s got China on her hands. China will take her a generation to digest. If ever. What does it matter to you?’

  ‘I don’t share your optimism, Hugo. I think we are next on the agenda. Japan will turn westward. She doesn’t like us, you know. Besides, there are her commitments with Hitler. It’s very involved, I admit. But, as things go along, Hitler will become very annoyed with us. He might induce Japan to attack.’

  ‘She won’t attack!’ exclaimed Hugo, with unwarranted violence. He turned in his chair, fiddled with objects on the table, then swung around roughly to Henri. ‘That’s pure rot. Besides, she’ll have no reason. We aren’t going to help Britain. That’s certain. I can assure you of that.’

  ‘And I,’ said Henri, quietly, ‘can assure you we will. We have cash-and-carry now. We’ll have something more important soon. How do I know? I can’t tell you that. But I assure you I shall use all my influence.’

  ‘You!’ ejaculated Hugo. He burst into a raucous laugh. ‘Since when have the Bouchards been so damned patriotic? Since when have they come out on the side of “freedom, God, and the right”!’

  He waited again for Henri to speak, but Henri did not oblige him. Then Hugo lost control of himself. He began to shout. ‘Let me tell you something! We don’t want England to win, in Europe! You know that! My boys don’t want it; even England doesn’t want it! She wants a negotiated peace, and quick, too. Why should she destroy Hitler, and open herself to bolshevism from Russia? She needs a strong Germany in Europe to protect her. As always. That’s always been her game. We know it in the Department. We’ve always known it. Just as we know that France will collapse in the spring. It’s all arranged. Yet here you come, breathing sweetness and light and “in God we trust,” and want us to throw all our plans overboard. No, my boy, it won’t do, it really won’t do.’ Now Henri spoke, in a sharp penetrating voice: ‘And now, I’ll tell you something. What you say about England is true, in a measure. But only in a measure. You speak for the socalled ruling class in England. But let me tell you this: Chamberlain will soon be out. Eden or Winston Churchill will take his place. The “ruling class” will have diarrhoea very shortly, out of sheer funk and terror. Because the British people are now aroused. I’m not just prophesying when I say that England won’t sign a negotiated peace with Hitler. She’ll fight to the bitter end. It’s sink or swim, now. It’s Hitler, or us. Do you want Hitler in America?’

  Hugo stared at him, and slowly paled. He said nothing. Henri nodded grimly.

  ‘I’ve a suspicion, I really have. I really think you’ve been duped by Antoine. You’re a clever fellow, Hugo, but not as clever as Antoine. He hasn’t told you all of his plans, has he? Perhaps you think he is a very amiable chap, Hugo. Perhaps you think he is “all for one, and one for all.” I have another suspicion: I believe that Monsieur Antoine is working only for himself. He hasn’t a very high regard for you, Hugo, nor does he think much of your intelligence.’

  Hugo still was speechless. ‘I believe,’ Henri went on, grimly, ‘that Antoine has convinced you that England will cave in, sign a negotiated peace with Hitler, and that Hitler will then dominate Europe and do excellent business with us. Am I right?’

  But Hugo was silent. He started at Henri with bulging eyes.

  ‘I give you the credit of not having been completely duped by our fine manipulator, who has been using you for his own ends, Hugo. I give you the credit of keeping your own counsel. Now, am I right or wrong?’

  He knew his approach and attack had been crude, calculated to have effect only on the most brutal and exigent form of mind. His contempt for Hugo grew as he saw the wild and violent uncertainty, the stung egotism, in those fixed yellow eyes.

  He spoke very, very quietly now: ‘Hugo, how much do you trust Ignatius O’Connor, and Francis O’Malley, in the Department?’

  For a moment Henri thought that Hugo had not heard him, so unchanging was his expression. And then Hugo said, coming to himself, and speaking gruffly: ‘Why? What have you got, against Iggy and Frank?’ But a wily tight look appeared about his big loose mouth.

  Henri smiled. ‘A nice trick, answering a question with a question. But I know all about that trick; I use it myself.’ He made his face change to one of gloomy gravity, and lifted his hand for a moment, dropping it thereafter with a gesture of resignation. ‘All right, then. I see we’re getting nowhere. I must admit I’m disappointed. You and I have always been friends; better, we’ve worked together. I came to talk to you in confidence—but I see it’s no use at all.’

  He took out his cigarette case, extracted a cigarette, lit it with calm thoughtfulness, as though his mind had become occupied with another matter. Hugo watched him, truculently, one clenched fist on his desk. He sat on the edge of his chair, his big thighs spraddled; he resembled a tawny and overfed and dangerous lion, treacherous though aging.

  Then he said, belligerently: ‘We aren’t getting into this thing. I tell you! The people don’t want it. Sentiment’s against us tangling ourselves up in Europe again, Roosevelt or no Roosevelt. No politician in America is strong enough to drum up a valid reason for attacking Hitler.
Besides, Hitler’s too popular here, due to his persecution of the Jews. Do you think you can get the American mob to fight for “liberty”?’ His look now was one of grinning loathing. ‘What does the mob want with liberty, anyway? I tell you, if Hitler appeared off the coast of New York, the gutter rats would be meeting him with flowers and paeans. They love him, I tell you. Liberty’s never sat very well on the American stomach—the people have too long a memory of happy and irresponsible slavery.’

  Henri allowed himself to smile. ‘You’re quite the psychologist, aren’t you, Hugo? You know, in a way I am forced to agree with you. I don’t give a damn for the mob. But I do give a damn for myself, for Bouchard, for all our subsidiaries. Do you trust Hitler?’ Hugo’s expression changed, became more sullen, but he said nothing. However, his eyes narrowed to pinpoints of baleful yellow light.

  ‘Frankly, I don’t trust him,’ continued Henri, ruefully. ‘I’m candid enough to admit that if I thought we could, I might consider—certain things. But I know we can’t trust him. I don’t want him here, the loving and adoring American mob to the contrary. We’re powerful in America—we Bouchards. I’d like to keep that power. You know enough about what he’s done to the industrialists in Germany to get some idea what he’d do here.

  ‘I’m not interested in England, or France. Let Hitler take the British Empire apart, and the hell with it. Who cares? But I don’t want him here. And he’ll be here, inevitably, unless we stop him. How? That’s why I came to see you, to discover if we could work out some programme.’

  Hugo began to rub his chin, but he still regarded Henri watchfully.

  ‘What did you mean, asking me if I trusted O’Connor and O’Malley?’ he demanded, sullenly.

  Henri hesitated. ‘Well, frankly, it’s just what I’ve been reading in the newspapers. Weren’t they back of sending Myron Taylor to the Vatican? Aren’t they back of trying to discredit the so-called “liberals” in the Department, who’ve taken a stand against Franco, and who’ve been agitating to keep shipments of scrap and oil from goiing to Japan?’ Hugo laughed roughly. ‘So what? We aren’t in a position to annoy Hitler and Japan. We’ve no army, no arms—nothing. Call it appeasement if you like, or diplomacy. I presume you mean the inner campaign against Sumner Welles, who’s always liked Russia? You can’t blame Iggy and Frank; they’re Catholics, you know.’