‘Since when,’ said Henri, meditatively, ‘have we predicated our foreign policy on Catholic sensibilities? Do you remember your history, Hugo? Very interesting reading.’
Hugo struck his meaty fist savagely on the table. “We’re getting nowhere!’ he shouted. ‘What are you getting at, anyway? Trying subtlety for a change, eh?’
Henri made his face suddenly hard. He leaned towards Hugo. ‘All right, then. I’ve told you I care nothing about what happens in Europe. But I do care what happens here. I happen to like my position. I’ve decided to do anything to maintain it. I’m willing to risk anything.’ He paused a moment, then continued: ‘I have no real basis for my suspicions, I admit But I know a few things. I know that our dear Antoine lately met the German Chargé d’Affaires, and O’Connor and O’Malley were with him. I wonder what they discussed?’
It was a bold stroke. He watched Hugo narrowly. He had spoken in order to discover whether Hugo had known of this meeting, though he had not been present. And then he felt a sudden weakness of relief in himself. Hugo’s blank expression of shock, his falling mouth, the sudden glare in his eyes, convinced Henri that Christopher had been correct in his surmise that Hugo had not known of the meeting.
Why had he not known? Christopher had been doubtful on the point, though he had his ideas. O’Connor and O’Malley, he believed, were playing their own game, with their own Catholic clique. Hugo, in spite of his leadership, his plottings and conspiracies, his co-operation, was not really one with this clique within a clique. He had not been fully trusted; he was a Bouchard, and wealth, at the last, is almost always conservative and fearful, delicately taking alarm when danger breathes too closely.
‘I don’t believe it!’ stammered Hugo, his face swelling and suffusing. ‘They wouldn’t dare! Why should they do that, without telling me, without my knowing and—’ He stopped, abruptly. Without your being present, finished Henri, to himself.
Henri shrugged. ‘I don’t care whether you believe it or not, my dear Hugo. It happens to be a fact. May I warn you? If you speak of it, they’ll deny it; they’ll know there has been a leak. They won’t like you, Hugo. They’ll believe you have been spying on them. I have an idea they don’t trust you completely. They’ll trust you less, if you tell them. And, you’ll be outside the pale, then, and Antoine, and the others, will rule the Department, sub rosa. Do you like the thought of being glorified office boy to Antoine’s fine Italian presence in the background?’
Now all Hugo’s hatred for his kinsman, Antoine, all his subconscious loathing of him, both for himself and for Hilary’s resemblance to him, all his natural suspicion and jealousy and love of power, roared to his head. He was literally speechless, as he sat opposite Henri, swelling with insane fury and rage. But his mind worked rapidly. He remembered many things which had puzzled him, had eluded him, lately in the State Department, but he had been so engrossed with his private upheavals in this house that he had thought of them only vaguely, though his instinct had been aroused. It was the memory of these intangible things which convinced him that Henri was telling the truth.
‘So,’ he muttered, through clenched teeth, ‘they’re playing their own little game, are they?’
‘Against us,’ said Henri, gently. ‘Do you think they love the Bouchards? Do you think Antoine loves us? I can tell you this: when Armand dies, Antoine won’t be so very pertinent in Bouchard affairs. I happen to know it. Perhaps he suspects.
In revenge, and in his own desire for power, he’ll do anything, against us, against our interests.’
He looked at his cigarette, and said: ‘I don’t know why I’m tell you this. You could do me harm by repeating it. But, as I said, we’ve always been friends, working together. I thought you might work with us now.’
‘Who do you mean by “us”?’ demanded Hugo. He was breathing with obvious difficulty.
Henri eyed him blandly. ‘I suppose there’s no harm in telling you. Antoine must have been suspecting, and so he probably told you. Alex, Jean, and Emile—perhaps. And—some others, not connected, except remotely, with the Family.’
Hugo turned aside his head and stared at a photograph of his beloved daughter, Alice, which stood on the desk. Henri could see his profile, vicious and hugely violent. ‘How about Christopher?’ Hugo said, at last, in a mumbling tone.
Henri waved his hand. “Well, perhaps Christopher’s working with Antoine, too. I don’t know that, however. I’ve just my suspicions.’
Hugo swung back to him with violent swiftness. ‘All right,’ he grunted. ‘What do you want?’
Henri felt a vast relaxing in himself, an almost weakness of relief. He looked at his kinsman, felt his fury, his jealousy, his savage suspicion and hatred for those who had betrayed him, for those he now believed had been using him. When Hugo thought of Antoine doing this to him, his gorge rose to maddening heights.
Henri said, feeling his way cautiously: ‘Let me go into this further for a moment: I’ve just come on a piece of information. Some of our—less patriotic citizen-financiers have just met Dr Schacht in Switzerland. You didn’t know that? Well, among the arrangements made, the Bouchards were not included. Why? Have you any idea?’
Hugo appeared even more stunned than ever, if possible. Henri continued: ‘I thought you didn’t know. But Antoine did. I believe he arranged it. You see, he doesn’t like us at all. Incidentally, while perhaps you have misguidedly believed that the conquest of the world by Hitler might have nothing but beneficial results for the Family, Hitler doesn’t intend that in the least. You see, I happen to have a little inside information. Hitler’s far more fond of South America, with its Catholic-Falangist upper-class, than he is of America, where so many of us are of Anglo-Saxon origin. He doesn’t believe you can trust the Anglo-Saxon. Then, Franco is one of his trained seals, and Franco has already sent one hundred well-bred trained Falangist priests to South America to pave the way for an ultimate conquest of that continent by the fascist forces. The South American industrialists, who have complete control of labour, with the assistance of the Church, will make admirable servants of Hitler, and he knows that. There is much propaganda already started there, that South America’s destiny is one with the destiny of Spain, her “mother.” What will be the inevitable result, if—certain—contingencies arise which make Hitler dominant in America? I will paraphrase the old saying “Westward the course of Empire!” I will say: “Southward the course of Empire.” With everything that that means. What will become of us, then?’
Hugo gnawed his lip in acute silence, staring fixedly at his kinsman. His brow had a series of deep leonine wrinkles. It was evident he was thinking swiftly.
‘I think Antoine knows this,’ said Henri, softly. ‘He is already heavily invested in South America, and deeply interested in the Nazi cartels there.’
Hugo struck the desk again and again in fulminating silence. ‘He is playing, even now, on the strength of his “Latin” blood,’ added Henri, with an amused smile.
He waited for Hugo to speak, but Hugo maintained his silence. Henri shrugged imperceptibly.
‘I’m well informed, Hugo. You know, I never go off the deep end. For instance, do you know there is a plan afoot to produce the name of a certain fascistic newspaper owner from New York State at the coming Republican convention? I don’t like that man. I prefer another. One Regan suggested. I also suggest that you run for Vice-President. That can be arranged.’
Hugo started. He swung fully upon Henri. Now his eyes were glittering. But he said again: ‘Who is the man?’ ‘Wendell Willkie, of Commonwealth & Southern.’
Hugo shouted with sudden turbulent laughter. ‘Willkie! Who ever heard of Willkie, except on the Street? Who are you going to get to vote for him? And, why Willkie?’
‘For the peculiar reason,’ said Henri, with a smile, ‘that he is an honest man, an American, sound, wholesome and intelligent. I’ve investigated him closely; there’s nothing dirty in his career. He’s a better man than the wily Roosevelt, who turns
like a weathercock in every wind. His policies, I believe, will be conservative, realistic, and honourable. I’ve found nothing in him which leads me to believe he will betray America, and everything indicates that he will fight for America, if elected. There is nothing elusive or unpredictable about him. If America is to survive, she needs him, not only during war years, but later. I shall put up your name for his Vice-President.’
He spoke with power and authority, and Hugo’s tendency to ridicule subsided. ‘Who’s behind Willkie?’
Henri smiled again, very wryly. ‘An old man heavy with his sins, perhaps. Who wants to save America from the ruin he formerly plotted. A very, very powerful old man.’
He coughed, then resumed in a sprightlier tone: ‘Just to change the subject momentarily: isn’t Christine’s fortune heavily invested in the United States Chemical Products Company?’
Hugo blinked his eyes at this abrupt change in pace. ‘Well?’ he said.
‘Nothing very important. But I understand the American Carbide Company has some thought of buying up that company. They intend to do that to remove a competitor. All this is confidential, though.’
Hugo turned quite pale. ‘You are certain of this?’ he uttered, in a strained tone.
‘Quite certain. I thought you might be interested. Now, it’s never been my policy to interfere with other companies; enough to do at home. But I can tell you this: American Carbide has asked me to help finance the sale. They offer me a very attractive block of stock in return.’
Now the eyes of the two men locked like grim antagonists. Hugo was breathing stridently. All his ruddy colour had faded; it was replaced by a mauve and apoplectic tint. His clenched fists fell open on the desk, and he seemed to dwindle. And before his eyes Henri seemed to expand, to become more terrible and ruthless.
‘You wouldn’t do that—to us?’ he whispered hoarsely.
‘Did I say I even considered it?’ asked Henri, mildly. ‘Even though I’m interested in American Carbide, myself, not only for financial reasons. Their president happens to be a close friend of mine.’
Hugo got suddenly to his feet. He towered over Henri. His breathing became more difficult, and his eyes were violent.
‘What do you want?’ he asked.
Henri studied him for a long and penetrating moment.
‘I want—several things. I want the shipments to Japan to stop. I want a curtailment, or even a stoppage, of the huge shipments of oil, steel and food to Franco. I want supervision in Spain, for the distribution of these things, if smaller shipments are sent, by trusted Americans, who don’t like Franco. Just to see that none of the shipments go to Hitler. I want your clique to align yourselves conservatively with the liberals in the Department. Sumner Welles is very popular in South America; I want a sort of “good friend” policy to be initiated in the South American countries. For many valid reasons, South Americans don’t like their big northern neighbour. They must be made to trust us, and it can be done, if they see we are sincere. They must join with us in a continental bloc against Hitler, no matter what happens in Europe. A little later, I want investigation of those American companies who have cartel arrangements with Hitler, and who are furnishing Hitler with matériel. I want the investigation to be given wide publicity in the newspapers. I want a more friendly attitude towards Russia—’
Hugo drew a deep breath, and grinned, though he remained definitely lavender in tint. ‘Ever hear of the German-Russian pact, my fine Machiavelli?’
Henri snapped his fingers. ‘I’d like to prophesy that Hitler will soon attack Russia. In the meantime, lay the groundwork in the Department. You’ll have to withdraw from the more dangerous elements in your clique, and bring the uncertain ones with you, by hook or crook. I also want a deeply sympathetic attitude towards China.’
Hugo walked back and forth over the thick rug of the library. ‘And that’s all you want, eh?’ he said, viciously. ‘Just a few trifling little things.’
He swung back on Henri. ‘What about the European cartels in which you are personally interested.’
‘I’m blocking them from Hitler.’ Henri added: ‘If you, and some of your clique who trust you, throw in your weight with the liberals in the Department, we can do all these things.’
He stood up now and faced Hugo, all his casualness gone. His large pale face was grim and more terrible than ever, and inexorable. His pale and stony eye held Hugo in sudden fearful fascination. ‘I tell you, Hugo, I’m serious in all this. If you can’t—do—this, then I’ll move. And things will start moving, also. You won’t enjoy what will happen, personally. I’d be sorry for that, but there are bigger stakes in this than your own welfare, even though we’ve always been friends. You see, I know a great many things which you don’t suspect I know.’
‘Are you blackmailing me?’ asked Hugo, incredulously, but with terror.
‘I’m advising you,’ said Henri, quietly.
Hugo, after a moment, pressed his hands over his eyes. ‘Let me think,’ he said, almost inaudibly.
Henri waited. He said, after a moment: ‘The Department has always admired England. But lately, the admiration has cooled. I want it revived.’
Hugo dropped his hands. He looked old and haggard.
‘You’ve got me,’ he said, with exhaustion. ‘You ought to have come to me before.’
Henri smiled grimly. ‘I wanted to make sure—about certain things. And now you’ve got to move fast, Hugo. Very fast indeed.’
Hugo was silent.
‘Move cautiously,’ said Henri. ‘Don’t do anything too sudden. Talk it over with those members of your clique whom you can trust. And—you might keep me informed. You might let me know your own—opinions.’
‘You are asking me to spy on my friends?’
Henri laughed derisively. ‘Bah. Don’t be a fool. What man has “friends”? You’ve changed your mind about many of the objectives of your clique. Every man is entitled to change his mind. But don’t let your change become suspiciously abrupt. You see, I need to know a few more things before you abandon your intimates.’
‘My God,’ muttered Hugo.
Henri put his hand genially on the other’s trembling arm. ‘You have much to gain, and nothing to lose. A little later, I’ll inform the American Carbide I’m not interested in their proposition. Incidentally, I have a few tips for you, direct from the Street, and a little later I’ll discuss them with you. By the way, you haven’t said how you’d like to be Vice-President. Or, perhaps, something even more important can be arranged.’
Hugo drew a deep and strangled breath. He said, weakly: ‘What do we do now? Sing the Star-Spangled Banner?’
CHAPTER XXXIV
Peter Bouchard sat with Mr Cornell T. Hawkins in the warm and comforting seclusion of the Ritz dining-room. The last of the manuscript of The Fateful Lightning lay on the white table between them. Mr Hawkins thoughtfully sipped his cocktail and stared at the pages. Then he looked up and politely scrutinized Peter’s haggard face with its blue tint and white lips. He saw the ringed and sunken eyes, the feverish pulsing of the thin nostrils. Something of what he was thinking, in his cool compassion, must have communicated itself to Peter, for he said, with a wry smile: ‘I’m glad it’s done, Cornell. I’ve a feeling I won’t see its publication. I’ve just been to my doctor this morning, before I saw you.’
Mr Hawkins said nothing; his silence implied a concerned questioning. But Peter, with a restless movement of his head, dismissed the subject.
‘I’m working on other things, now, which will occupy all my attention. This book—you have no idea when it will be published?’
Mr Hawkins shook his head. ‘In about six weeks, perhaps, you’ll get the galleys for any corrections or deletions or additions. Then, later, the page proof. After that, we usually allow some time for the critics to read the book. Then, publication. It all depends on our list at the time. We want to make this a big thing. We’ll do our best, but there is no predicting what the public’s reaction will be.
We base our advertising on prepublication sales to the various distributing agencies. That’s all I can tell you, Peter.’
‘I’ll be willing to pay for lavish advertising,’ said Peter, eagerly. Then he flushed, for Mr Hawkins’ frosty blue eyes were twinkling. ‘Please, don’t misunderstand me. I’m not trying to log-roll. But, you see, it is so very important to me that the public read this book widely. I’ve even thought of free distribution.’
Mr Hawkins’ eyes continued to twinkle, though he did not speak. He turned his glass about in his fingers. Mr Hawkins had a deep and reserved cynicism, which he could not always control, and like all men with this particular brand of cynicism, he had a kind and sensitive perception of others, and a treacherous compassion which frequently made him uneasy and distrustful of himself. He looked steadfastly at Peter’s febrile expression and dying face, and that compassion made his heart contract very painfully.
Now Peter, with a look that begged forgiveness in advance, spoke hesitatingly: ‘My first book, The Terrible Swift Sword, was mysteriously squelched right at the height of its popularity. I’ve told you that before.’ He paused. ‘They might try to intimidate you—’
Now Mr. Hawkins’ own expression changed, became cold and tight. He said, with hard and quiet reserve: ‘No one has ever intimidated me yet.’ He added, curiously: ‘What you told me about Mr Henri Bouchard is very interesting. He was very frank with you. He knows about this book, of course?’
‘Yes.’ Peter became uneasily reserved, himself. ‘In fact, he gave me material for it that I wouldn’t have known, otherwise. He’s very hard to understand. I don’t trust him, even now. He wouldn’t be doing all this, and arranging for the radio programmes, if he wasn’t very vitally concerned, himself, and if he didn’t have a stake of his own. He believes, very firmly now, that the continued advance of capitalistic—industrial democracy is the only climate in which all the people can be safe—and America can be safe. I believed that once, myself. Now I know that we must go still further—we must have a kind of socialism in America, in which competition is eliminated, and every man serves his neighbour rather than himself.’
The Final Hour Page 39
