“You don’t think much of it?”
Before answering, Roger lit a cigarette. The flare of the match showed his lively face and squinting eyes. He shook the match, waving it back and forth in the air. “Let’s put it like this: We can’t permit Germany to get too strong, industrially.”
“Why?”
“Why? Because we want the top industrial place. And we’ll get it.”
“We can get it by producing superior goods, and at a lower price, than Germany produces them,” said Charles. “We have the resources. We have the man-power. We have the inventions. It’s only a matter of time—”
Roger said, idly: “Maybe a lot of us don’t want to take that ‘time.’”
The cold and clenching knot now so familiar to Charles these months tightened in his stomach. But he made himself shrug. “It won’t be long. We’re a new country.”
Roger tapped him on the arm, and Charles kept himself from flinching. “Look here, with the exception of a very few American concerns like yours, Charlie, most of our best machine tools come from Germany—”
“That’s something we ought to do something about,” said Jochen, with heavy humor.
But Charles and Roger ignored him. Charles studied the other man, very thoughtfully. “Yes, that’s true, we do get our best machine tools from Germany. But we can soon outstrip Germany. I repeat: it won’t be long.”
Roger said, with a smile: “It won’t be long.”
“We’ll soon be able to compete with Germany in the world markets for all goods,” said Charles. Now he faced Roger directly. “There are two ways of competition between nations. One is barter. The other is—murder.”
Roger took his cigarette from his mouth. He held it in his small fingers and looked at it. His forehead wrinkled.
There was a silence. Jochen was uneasy. The conversation had taken a turn which he could not follow. He saw Charles, standing there so obdurate, stocky, so “fixed.” He saw Roger’s inscrutable face.
Charles said: “Your new plant: What will be your largest production? Munitions?”
Roger put the cigarette back in his mouth. He was gravely alarmed. He had underestimated this bastard. How much did he know?
Roger said, smiling again: “What? Munitions? I don’t know yet. The Bouchards make munitions—”
“You wouldn’t be intending to produce them for the Bouchards, would you? You wouldn’t be a separate corporation, in Andersburg, with the Bouchards having controlling interest, would you?” Charles spoke very quietly, and he looked at Roger with his brown eyes.
Roger regarded him intently. He was too good an actor to show his sudden consternation. He knew something, this sullen Dutchman, this hard, medium-sized rock in the path of the Connington Steel Company.
“I don’t know anything about that,” said Roger. “I’m not told policy.”
“No?” said Charles.
Roger did not answer this. Charles repeated: “No? And you the superintendent. Or is your company producing superintendents on a mass-scale, too, to fit in anywhere?”
Roger ground out his cigarette on a silver ash-tray which stood on the desk. Charles watched him as if he were doing something very important and interesting. Roger began to laugh. “I’m afraid you’ve hit the nail on the head,” he remarked. “I’ll be taking orders. It’s too soon to tell what they’ll be.” He eyed Charles humorously. “There was something in your voice when you spoke of munitions which has been puzzling me. What objections have you to munitions? They’re goods, just like any other goods. They’re sold on the open market.”
“Yes, I know,” said Charles.
“Still, you haven’t explained that ‘something’ in your voice—”
“Was it there?” asked Charles. “Or did you just imagine it? Or would there be a reason for it?”
For the first time Roger became aware that Charles was implacable, that he was a force to contend with, and destroy, if possible.
Roger said: “I may have too much imagination. After all, you’re a sensible business man, and you know everything is business.” He paused. “You’re realistic. You know anyone can buy anything, if he has the price. So why not munitions, if he wants them? Or have you been reading some hysterical books lately?”
Charles rocked slowly on his feet. “I don’t read books—much. But I’ve been thinking, lately, about insanity. There was something that Nietzsche said: ‘Insanity in individuals is something rare—but in groups, parties, nations, and epochs, it is the rule.’ I’ve been wondering if the world isn’t about to do something insane—say, for profit. Perhaps you’ll call that ‘business,’ too. I’d call it the lust for power. I don’t trust men when they become too powerful, and I don’t care where they live or who they are.”
Roger hummed faintly under his breath.
“You just spoke of mass-production,” said Charles. “I suppose that’s all right, in a way. Give more people more goods. Create bigger markets for goods. Raise the standard of living; make more things accessible to more people. Let everyone ride in an identical automobile, live in an identical house, use the identical goods, wear the identical clothes, shoes, use the identical furniture. Facelessness. Destroy the individual. Turn him into a belly for goods from a monster assembly-line. That’s his function in life, isn’t it—a consumer of goods?”
“Well, why not?” demanded Jochen, belligerently.
This time Roger turned to him, and put his hand on his shoulder. “As you say, Joe, ‘Why not?’”
Still keeping his hand on Jochen’s shoulder, in a familiar way, Roger said to Charles: “I’m afraid you’re a sentimentalist after all, Charlie.”
“For believing in the individual man, and his right to remain an individual? And there’s one thing you’ve overlooked: craftsmanship. You’ll not get around that quality of integrity, in your mass-production.”
Roger shook his head, smiling. “You’re wrong, Charlie. We will.”
Charles set himself more solidly on his feet. “Do you intend to produce machine tools, in your new plant?”
There was a tightening all over Roger’s face. But he replied, easily: ‘We might. It could be a good idea.”
Then Charles saw Jochen turning red. All the hatred Charles had been feeling for him these last months was nothing to the hatred he felt now. But he said to Roger:
“Produce them if you want to, of course. But you won’t produce the tools I can produce, for all my men are craftsmen, not machines.” He did not raise his voice, or change his expression, yet Roger felt a threat in him. “I don’t talk loosely about my business, Brinkwell, but I can give you this little information: I own 30% of my best patents in my own name. You can’t get around my patents. You’ll try, but your customers, even if they buy at a lower price, will know the difference. As for the other 70% of the patents: I have three brothers. You’d have to get their consent, if you’d try to go over my head—in any way.”
He looked very slowly and carefully at Jochen, and then at Roger. “A nation can outlive its tyrants, but never its fools. However, there is a way of dealing with fools—if necessary.”
For the first time, under pressure of what had been so unexpectedly said by Charles, Roger lost his temper. “Spoken like a German,” he said. He dropped his hand from Jochen’s arm. “Be careful, Charlie. It might not be so—popular—soon, to be a German.”
Charles nodded. “Yes, I’ve been suspecting that.” He looked at Jochen. “I hope you caught these last remarks, Joe.”
“Charlie’s being ambiguous,” said Roger. He had recovered his temper.
Again Charles nodded. “Perhaps.” He turned abruptly, and began to walk out of the library. Wilhelm and Mr. Holt had disappeared. Charles wondered if Wilhelm had heard anything of this conversation. If so, it was necessary to reach him as soon as possible, to arrange a meeting. Roger and Jochen watched Charles leave the room, in silence.
Then when they were alone, Jochen said, with rage: “You see how he is. Stupid fool!”
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Roger said: “I wonder.”
“Look here, Roger, you don’t for a minute think old Charlie has any brains, do you? He’s sly, but he hasn’t an ounce of imagination, or he’d have known you were offering him something.”
“Oh, he did,” said Roger, easily. “And he refused.”
In the meantime, Charles hurried to the great drawing-room, looking for Wilhelm. But at first sight he thought the room was empty. From some distance he heard the laughter of women. The fire was dying down on the cold hearth. The mountain wind assaulted the windows. Then Charles saw Phyllis sitting alone on a settee, her back to him. He went to her at once, almost running. “Phyllis,” he said, urgently. She started. He sat down beside her, leaned towards her so he could speak in a very low voice:
“I can’t find Wilhelm. There isn’t much time, so I’ve got to talk to you, Phyllis. What’s wrong with Willie? He acts as if he hates me, or something. Have I done anything wrong?”
Phyllis’ pale face became distressed. She put her hand on Charles’ arm. “I don’t know, Charles. I’ve tried to find out. He doesn’t even talk about you very much, at home. Yes, there is something wrong. I don’t think it’s anything you’ve done, except that perhaps Jochen has been trying to turn him against you, for some purpose.”
“Yes, yes, I know the purpose.” In his fear, Charles spoke impatiently. “Phyllis, do you know anything at all about what Jochen has said to Willie?”
She shook her head. “No, Charles. Wilhelm doesn’t—talk—to me, about these things. He used to, but not now. And he’s very distant to me, too, Charles. I’m afraid he suspects that I’ve tried to help you, in the past. He behaves as if he doesn’t trust me any longer.” Trouble and pain darkened her eyes. “I don’t understand anything, Charles.”
“Phyllis, will you tell him I must talk to him, almost immediately? Tomorrow, at your house?”
“Oh, Charles, we’re having a dinner party, tomorrow, and you know how it is all day, with Wilhelm, the day of a party. He hardly leaves the kitchen.” She tried to smile, then the smile went away. “Is it very bad, Charles?”
“Very bad. I can’t tell you how bad. That’s why I must talk with Willie.”
“Oh, Charles. And day after tomorrow we’re going to Philadelphia for a week.”
Charles was silent. She saw how grim he was. Her hand tightened on his arm. “You think Wilhelm is avoiding you, don’t you, Charles?”
“I know he is. He sent for the pay-roll and the books, and didn’t come down to the office for the past three weeks, Phyllis.”
He said, desperately: “You must find some way so I can talk with him alone, Phyllis.”
She bent her head. “I don’t know what to do. I suggested you have dinner with us soon, and he was very abrupt about it—Charles, I ought not to be talking about Wilhelm this way. It’s disloyal. I only know something is wrong, but what it is I don’t know. It seems very terrible. He simply won’t talk with you. You’d have to catch him, unawares—”
“Then, you must help me. Call me when he is alone, Phyllis, and at home. Call me at the office, or at my house. Any time. I’ll come at once.”
“He’ll know, then, that I’ve told you.”
“I can’t help that. Phyllis?” She lifted her head and looked at him, and her eyes were full of tears. “Phyllis, I’m asking you to help me. You’ve got to help me. You’ve never refused before.”
She hesitated, because she could not speak for a moment. Then she whispered: “I’ll do all I can, Charles. I’ll call you.”
He put his hand over the hand she still kept on his arm. “Thank you, dear,” he said.
It was just at that moment that the ladies came back to the drawing-room through one doorway, and Wilhelm, Mr. Holt, Roger, and Jochen through the doorway leading from the hall. They all saw Charles and Phyllis on the settee together, and they saw that Phyllis’ hand, on Charles’ arm, had been covered by his.
Isabel shot one swift glance at her husband, and then at Wilhelm. Wilhelm stood very still in the doorway.
“Well, dear me!” cried Isabel, gayly. “What a conspiracy! Are you conspiring with Charles, Phyllis, about anything?”
Charles stood up, too quickly. Phyllis, with a rustle, also rose. They stood side by side, and Phyllis flushed violently. The ladies advanced into the room, and the men came forward, also.
“It looks like a conspiracy,” laughed Jochen. “Slipping away from us all, eh? Looks bad, Charlie.” And he shook his head with an air of affectionate raillery.
“I don’t blame Charles,” said Mr. Holt. “If I’d thought of it first I should have been here before him.” He left Wilhelm and the other men, approached Phyllis, and gave her a kind smile, and an innocent one.
Pauline trailed languidly towards the fireplace. She regarded Phyllis archly. “So that is why you pleaded you had a headache, you naughty girl.” She spoke in the friendliest way, and with indifference. “I wanted to show Minnie and Isabel and Phyllis the tapestry in my bedroom, Roger.”
Mrs. Holt had been loitering behind, but her eyes had been busy. She came to Phyllis, looked at her directly and accusingly. “Oh, Phyllis, you haven’t told Charlie, after all … ?”
Phyllis, who had literally been left without speech, found her voice. “No, Minnie, I didn’t. Really, I didn’t. You—you mustn’t accuse me of such things,” she faltered.
Mrs. Holt laughed loud and heartily. “Well, just don’t, that’s all. It’s to be a complete surprise for Charlie, and I’d never have forgiven you, Phyllis.”
“I don’t like mysteries,” said Charles. Something was happening in this damn room which he could not understand. He had been engrossed, in these last moments, in a dismayed study of Wilhelm’s face.
“Well, even if you don’t like mysteries, you’ll have to wait to be told this one,” said Mrs. Holt, already wondering what the “mystery” was to be. A statue for that Wittmann Park? Braydon had hundreds. There was that horror, Caesar. Braydon was attached to it, but Charlie must have it. It was just the right size.
Wilhelm said abruptly, and his voice was clear and sharp in the room. “Phyllis, we must really go.”
“So must we,” said Mrs. Holt. “It’s just too horribly late. And listen to that wind! Charlie, you don’t mind, do you?”
Charles was silent in the Holt limousine, while Mrs. Holt described, in very outspoken words, the tapestry in Mrs. Brinkwell’s bedroom. Mr. Holt chuckled from time to time. Then Mrs. Holt turned to Charles and said: “It was pretty bad, wasn’t it, Charlie?”
“Yes, Minnie.”
“I thought it would be. When Roger got you to go into the library. Charlie. If there is anything we can do.”
Charles began to speak, then closed his mouth. Mrs. Holt waited. Mr. Holt said: “You mustn’t mind Roger, Charles. He can be a little malicious, sometimes. But it is mostly in fun.”
“Such fun,” said Mrs. Holt. “Well, Charlie?”
“Minnie, I’ve not very often asked anyone to help me. When the time comes, and I’m afraid it will, I’m going to call on you.”
“Good.” She squeezed his hand under the fur robe. There was something else she wished to say but it was a delicate subject. One didn’t talk about such things to an innocent like Charles.
“I’ve got to talk with Willie,” Charles said, half to himself. “There must be a way.” He tried to see Mrs. Holt in the rushing darkness. “Joe’s been poisoning his mind against me. I don’t know what it is. But Phyllis has promised me to let me know when Willie is alone.”
The Wilcox house was not far from the home of Phyllis and Wilhelm. Wilhelm did not speak in the carriage, though Phyllis sat beside him. She felt her husband’s withdrawal, his coldness. She did not know he was also desolate. Poor Wilhelm, she thought in her misery. He thinks I have been plotting against him with Charles. If only he would confide in me, as he always did before, and I could tell him about Charles.
Aloud, she said: “Dear Wilhelm. What a dull party.” Sh
e leaned against him, nestled her cheek on his shoulder. He did not respond. It was then that she felt his desolation. “Oh, Wilhelm!” she cried, “I do love you so, darling.”
Do you, Phyllis? he thought. Do you?
He could not stand his own pain. He reached up his gloved hand and rested it against her cheek. She pressed her cheek into it. He thought: She would never deceive me. I know Phyllis.
He said: “And I love you, too, my dear. You’ll never know how much.”
No, Phyllis would never deceive him. He was certain of that. But there was Charles. Charles was a liar and a plotter, and there was no trusting him, ever.
CHAPTER XXXI
Though the early spring night was suddenly warm and full of the most exciting scents, Charles was too engrossed in his dread to be aware of it. A strong wind, but mild, blew his coat about him; he clung to his hard black hat, and bent his head. In the moonlight, the grass on lawns showed a faint wild green, and he did not see it.
But when he came to Friederich’s house he could not fail, even in his preoccupation, to notice that something had taken place here. The steps had been mended; they had been washed and swept, and were without grit. The windows shone in the arc light, and white lace curtains were stiff and clean behind them. A new brass knocker had been fastened on the door, in the shape of a wolf’s head. It appeared very savage, fangs bared, ears pricked, eyes fierce. Charles began to smile. The knocker seemed very pathetic to him, on Friederich’s door.
Friederich opened the door, and there was no gush of musty air and the smell of old rancid pork fat. The air was clean, and warm, pleasant with wax and furniture polish. Friederich, himself, had undergone a change, also. He had had his suit pressed; his collar was not wilted, but stood stiff in white splendor almost to his ears, and his black string tie was neatly tied and held by his father’s pearl pin. He had shaved well, and there was a look of pleasure about him and excitement.
“Karl,” he said, and he spoke in English. He hesitated, then offered Charles his hand, for the first time in his life. Charles accepted that hand, shook it strongly, and was deeply touched. He felt Friederich’s palm and fingers; they were dry and thin and slightly tremulous.
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