The Final Hour Page 10

  He paused. He smiled with pleasant savagery. He extended one of his broad index fingers at Peter, and continued: ‘Now, let me tell you something, Pete. You, and your kind, destroyed the Versailles Treaty. You and your kind influenced Hoover in his dangerous moratorium. You, in consequence, are the cause of Germany’s rearming and the present danger implicit in her for the world. You and your pacifist writers; you and your anti-munitions writers. You and your muck-rakers. What have we now, here in America? A sluggish and obstinate people determined on no more European entanglements, a people eyeing all munitions and armament makers with suspicion and hatred. A rash of anti-war and pacifist societies of squawking women and ink-blooded enuchs. Look at our military situation now. What real planes have we? What tanks? What army, what navy? What vital defence?’

  He paused. He dropped his pointing finger. His smile remained. The pale eyes were gleaming with amused malevolence. ‘Yes, Pete, you’ve helped to disarm America. We Bouchards can’t make a move now without the stupid masses bellowing that we’re “plotting wars.” Our public relations men tell us there is absolutely no use in our lobbying, or appealing or working. Roosevelt himself, urging rearmament, is being called a “war-monger.” If it had been left to us Bouchards, with others like us, America might not be eyeing Europe with such terror now, England might not have had a Munich, France might not be in such a foul condition of degeneracy and decadence. Say we’re after profits; we admit that. We’re in business. The business of rearming America.’

  He paused again. Peter had fallen back in his chair. He was staring at Henri unblinkingly. His eyes were blue and steadfast holes in his exhausted face. Henri inclined his head, and looked down at the sick man with that murderously cold smile of his.

  Then Peter said, very quietly: ‘You simplify things. You imply I am a fool. You see, you don’t know what I know.’ He drew a sharp and audible breath.

  Henri raised his eyebrows. ‘So, we don’t know what you know? I assure you we know a great deal, my friend. Wait. I’ve not finished. Look at America again. See us, a fat unarmed nation, clamorous with silly voices shrieking against rearmament. You’ve raised that storm of voices, Pete. You, and others like you, with your heedless and hysterical books. Now, we’re impotent. And, now you rush back home to America to cry out the “truth”! If there is a war which there won’t be, of course—and America is plunged into it, defenceless, and is conquered by Germany, you will have the satisfaction of knowing you have helped bring it about. Do you know what pacifist societies you have helped create here? You’ll have an opportunity to find out, soon. It ought to give you quite a sense of power. That’s what you were after, weren’t you?’

  Peter was silent. He was gazing at Henri with a kind of still horror, as if something in that large pale countenance fascinated him. He appeared not to have heard what the other had said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Christopher, gently. ‘It’s all quite true, Pete. You’ve helped. You’ve helped bring about the very situation which you now have galloped home to warn us about. Very, very inconsistent.’

  Peter regarded them in that frozen and immobile silence which had come upon him. There was a kind of horrified incredulity in his look. His hands clenched on the arms of his chair. These terrible men! These smooth and evil liars! He felt his heart swelling and rising in his chest so that he thought he might choke to death, there before them, to their satisfaction and amusement. Do not speak, a still voice in him urged. Do not let them know all that you know. They are trying to discover—

  But his passion would not let him keep completely silent.

  He lifted his hand and directed it towards Henri, standing with such strong ease near him. He used it partly to point, partly to keep that formidable man away.

  ‘Answer one question for me, Henri Bouchard,’ he said, in a tone almost a whisper. ‘Tell me what you were doing in Italy last December, in Germany in January, in Spain in March.’

  For the first time, Henri involuntarily stirred. Christopher looked up alertly, his fleshless body drawing together in his chair. He and Henri exchanged one of their swift looks.

  ‘Yes!’ cried Peter, raising himself a little. ‘Yes! Tell me, “Mr Britton”! That is what they called you, wasn’t it? You thought no one knew. Only a few knew. I was one of them.’

  A heavy and dangerous silence filled the sunny room. Peter sat upright in his chair, shaking violently. Henri looked down at him, and that broad and colourless face was tight and grim. But he was not disconcerted.

  He said at last: ‘I don’t suppose it occurred to your heated mind that I might have been there on a secret mission to help keep the peace, did it? To survey the situation incognito?’

  Peter, for all his knowledge of the Bouchards, was freshly aghast, freshly made frantic by a feeling of new impotence and despair. They had been trying to reduce him to foolishness, to ridiculousness. Above all, they had dared to lie so impudently to him, as if he were a fool, a moron, a contemptible and squirming little sparrow in a nest of hawks. For a moment his own vanity was outraged and infuriated. This was immediately superseded by a real and enormous terror.

  Be quiet, the still voice in him warned him sternly. You are playing into their hands. Be quiet, in the name of God.

  But he could not be quiet, and this terrified him even more.

  ‘When you were in Italy. Henri, was it possible that you visited the Associazone fra Industriali Metallurgici Mecannici ed Affini? The Fiat automobile works? Lega Industriale of Turin? Societa Ansaldo, the shipbuilders? The steel works of Venezia Giulia? Banca Commerciale of Milan, Banca Italiana di Sconto? And, when you were in Spain, is it possible you had a quiet talk with the Duke of Alba, one of the murderous possessors of Spain and Fascism? Did you see Juan March, that incredibly wealthy criminal, that assassin of the Spanish poor and helpless? Did you see Cardinal de Llano, that panderer to Franco, that destroyer of new Spanish liberty and enlightenment? And, while in Spain, did you visit the officers of Rio Tinto, the greatest mining venture in the world today?’

  Henri said nothing. He only watched Peter with alert and immobile interest. He lifted his index finger to his teeth, and abstractedly bit a hangnail. Christopher had covered his lips with his pale fingers.

  Peter was bolt upright in his chair. Again he stretched out his hand and cried: ‘And when you were in Germany, was it possible that you did not see Hitler, Goering, Thyssen, the I.G. Farbenindustrie, the president of the Reichsbank? And when Mr Claude Bowers, the American Ambassador to Spain, called upon you, did he not tell you, in the presence of the British Ambassador to Spain, that with the victory of Franco over the Spanish people Britain would find Hitler at Gibraltar, and thus would lose control of the Mediterranean? And were you not amused by the British Ambassador’s reply that “private interests in England are stronger than national interests”?’

  Christ! thought Christopher. Who told the swine this? Where was the leak?

  But Henri was very calm. He said, indifferently: ‘All this is possible. You seem to forget that we have interests all over the world, that American stockholders in our companies and subsidiaries have to be protected. It was my duty to investigate, in the interest of America, in the interest of ourselves, and our stockholders. So, why all this shining-eyed agitation?’

  Peter pressed his hands together, and literally wrung them. You are a fool, said his inner voice, sternly. What have you accomplished? These men are more powerful than you. They are reducing you to ridiculous impotence.

  Henri said, in a suddenly loud and cruel voice: ‘My only interest is in protecting America. Let me tell you this, my friend, and you may believe it or not: I am not interested in war. I shall do all I can—we shall all do all we can—to keep America out of any war which might occur in Europe.’

  That voice rang through the room, inexorable and powerful. Peter listened to it. Suddenly, a sense of fainting overwhelmed him. The room swung about him in great slow circles filled with bands of light.

  In the midst of
the chaos which surrounded him, he thought with incredulous and desperate horror: It is true. He has told me the truth at last. They do not want war, for America. An hour ago, I believed they were plotting to engulf us in such a war. Now, I believe, I know, they do not want it—for America. They will do all they can to keep us out of any conflict. They will never rest.

  Why?

  A faint glimmering of the appalling truth began to appear before him. He dared not look at it. He thought: If I could only die! I cannot live, and know. He felt his heart beating with great agony in his smothering chest.

  Henri’s voice filled his ears, very close, like a great and choking wind: ‘So, if you’ve had the idea that you would “expose” us, as you “exposed” us before, you’re wasting your time. If you’ve thought that we were “hatching wars” again—(my God, what stupidity!)—you can set your mind at rest. If you’ve thought to show that we have been intriguing or manipulating to get America into any damned mess cooked up in Europe, I can tell you quite frankly that you’re a fool.

  America won’t get in. We’ll see to that. That ought to soothe you considerably.’

  It is true, thought Peter. Why? O God, why?

  The great and crushing voice continued: ‘I’ll tell you a secret, Pete. The instant war occurs in Europe, we’ll have peace societies in America, which our money has helped to organize. Big societies, which will stamp down any attempt to foment good feeling for Britain, for France, for Spain. We shall be neutral as we’ve never been neutral before. You’ll find us openly supporting any Neutrality Act which Congress finds it necessary to pass. You see, you’ve helped stir up a lot of nasty muck against us. In the interest of self-preservation, no one will be more anti-war than ourselves.’

  Then Peter, outraged, appalled, heard his feeble voice saying: ‘America must prepare—’

  He heard a great shout of laughter about him. It seemed to come from whirling space. He could not connect it with Henri’s open mouth, in which the big teeth were glistening. Nor, to his confused senses, did it seem to come from Christopher.

  ‘My God!’ Henri was crying. ‘Is it possible that it is you who are saying this; you, the pacifist, the anti-munitions muck-raker, the brotherly-lover?’

  And then Peter knew that there was a most terrible power in the room, more terrible than had ever lived among the Bouchards before, or in the world. He gripped the arms of his chair to keep from fainting. He felt the impact of cosmic winds on his flesh, on his face. He felt the vast movement of unseen and frightful things.

  Why? one strong voice cried out in him. Why is all this?

  He dared not try to answer. He could only sit there and look at Henri. He did not know that his expression was quite deathlike.

  As in a dream of horror, in which everything moved slowly and sleepily, he saw the door opening. Celeste was entering. Christopher sprang up to draw a chair for her. She was smiling, somewhat anxiously. She looked only at Peter. She came directly to him. What she saw made all expression leave her face. She swung upon her brother and Henri.

  ‘What have you been doing to him?’ she cried. ‘He is so very ill again. His pulse is—is—’ Her fingers were clasped about her husband’s wrist, and her eyes were filled with passionate anger. Her lips, very pale now, shook.

  Henri frowned. He took a step towards her. ‘For God’s sake, Celeste, don’t be a fool. We’ve done nothing. Your husband has been up to his old accusations again—that we’re “fomenting war.” We’ve just convinced him otherwise. What is wrong with that? It ought to give him some peace of mind.’

  She regarded Henri in agitated silence, and the look in her dark-blue eyes made him frown again, a dull colour rose harshly in his cheeks. But he returned her gaze formidably, and with considerable contempt.

  Then she turned to her brother, and in a trembling voice she exclaimed: ‘Christopher, you always upset Peter so. What have you done now?’

  Christopher looked at her quizzically. ‘Now, my darling, that is absurd. We’ve thought, for the sake of Peter’s health, and peace-of-mind, that he ought to be disillusioned. Apparently the truth is too much for him.’

  Peter’s breathing filled the room with faint rasping sounds. He was struggling for self-control. He took Celeste’s hand, and his own was cold and damp with sweat. Yet he could speak so very calmly, looking up at her, with a smile.

  ‘Yes, dear, that’s quite right. They’ve just told me the truth. And, as Chris says: “it is apparently too much for me.”’ He pressed her hand, and she gazed down at him, bewildered, enormously shaken.

  ‘Don’t worry, darling. I’m quite well. I’ve—come to life. All these weeks, just sitting here. I really feel impossibly strong. I’ve got a lot of work to do, and you must help me.’ He lifted her hand and pressed his lips to the small and tremulous palm.

  Henri’s eyebrows, pale and thick, drew together as he watched this little scene, and now his eyes were pin-pricks of malignancy. Christopher, watching him acutely, saw how his fists clenched, and how his upper lip drew back from his teeth.

  Celeste said, quietly, seeing only her husband: ‘We’ll leave here, Peter dear, at once. We’ll go away. Anywhere. Tomorrow?’

  Christopher rose, smiling to himself. ‘It seems we aren’t wanted here, Henri, my lad. So, let us leave this devoted couple together.’

  They left the room. They carefully closed the door, seeing, for a last scene, Celeste kneeling beside Peter, her head on his shoulder, her arms about him. He was smoothing her bright black hair tenderly and slowly. She was weeping.

  The two men moved away. Henri was very calm. Christopher touched his arm. ‘Well?’ he said.

  Henri turned to his brother-in-law. He said, very softly: ‘He knew too much. Now, he knows much too much.’

  ‘So?’ said Christopher, gently.

  Henri shrugged, and smiled. ‘Homicide—or is it fratricide?—isn’t approved of by the police. Not even for the Bouchards. Come; what do you suggest?’

  Christopher raised his eyebrows. ‘It is apparent he can’t stand the truth. Now, huge doses of it might—’

  ‘And,’ reflected Henri, ‘he can always be kept impotent. No one would dare publish whatever the imbecile might say. There are still libel laws, you know. Not even our dear relative, Georges, would dare. By the way, his publishing business hasn’t been doing so well lately. There are other matters of his, too, which might not stand the light of day. I’ve a feeling one of us ought, to visit dear Georges.’

  Christopher whistled soundlessly. ‘Georges? What’ve you got on old Georges?’

  Henri smiled again. ‘I’ve overlooked no contingencies. Georges, who doesn’t like us much, might easily be induced to publish any insanity. So, I’ve done a little investigating. Never mind. I may never need to use it. By the way, didn’t he recently publish a little pamphlet about “doing business with Hitler”? Called, I believe: “The Madman and the Industrialist”? All about the impossibility of carrying on normal commercial relationships with the paper-hanger? It had quite a sale, I believe. Even though it was noo technical for the average American-cow mind. It was read almost exclusively by our more Christian, but smaller, competitors. Not important. No harm done. But Pete’s insanity might be important. Never mind. I can nip all that before it gets dangerous.’

  In the room they had left, Peter was saying to Celeste: ‘They don’t want war! They will try to keep us out Why? Celeste, can you tell me why? My God, why?’ He continued chokingly: ‘They secretly helped Germany rearm. They furnished the money, through American, French and British banks. But they don’t want us in the war. Why? Why?’

  CHAPTER X

  Henri went to see his wife, Annette.

  She was dressing for dinner, having just bathed and rested. Her frail health necessitated prolonged periods of rest and sleep. During the first year of her married life, instinctively understanding that sickliness and weakness of body were repugnant to her husband, she had attempted to dispense with these periods, and had pathetical
ly assumed a sprightliness and activity whioh had later prostrated her and had confined her to her bed for nearly three months. Thereafter, there was no question of afternoon engagements. She retired almost invariably at ten at night, not rising until almost nine the next morning. It was not that she was an invalid, but a congenital infirmity and fragility of physique compelled her to live a quiet and semi-convalescent life.

  Her great agony of mind was that her physician had warned her that any attempt to have children would probably result in her death, and that in any event she might not live long after the birth of a child. At the best, she could expect invalidism. She had been willing to chance these desperate contingencies, but Henri would not allow it. He had been very ‘noble’ about the situation, she had tearfully confided to Celeste. No one could have been more considerate, more understanding, more gentle. He would not allow her even to talk about the matter to him. ‘No, my dear,’ he had said, ‘we can’t discuss it. Your life is more valuable to me than the possibility of any children. I can’t afford to lose you, you know.’

  He had smiled a little when he had said this, not in a jocular fashion, but somewhat grimly. Annette had not understood this smile in the least. Her heart had ached with passionate gratitude, and with joy. The subsequent years of her marriage had been illuminated with happiness. She had loved Henri with overwhelming rapture before she had married him. She had discerned that he had had for her no such passion and absorption, but only an indifferent affection, if even that. Why he had married her under these circumstances she did not quite know. It had been enough for her that he had. There had been a few times when she had caught his glance fixed upon her, and it had terrified her, during their engagement. Her naïveté, her innocence, her unfamiliarity with human emotions and reactions, had protected her from seeing the full meaning of his glance, implicit with disgust, repulsion, and contemptuous pity. Only the vague leaping of her heart, rather than her reason, caused her terror. And then, seeing her face, her fear, her dread, he would become suddenly solicitous, considerate and even tender. He betrayed an almost extravagant concern for her, which, rather than arousing her suspicions, allayed them.