Only about a thousand persons could be admitted to witness the ceremony, and Lanny Budd was not among the chosen ones. If he had cared very much he might have been able to wangle a ticket from his Crillon friends, whom he still met at Mrs. Emily's and other places. But he told himself that he had witnessed a sufficiency of ceremonies to last the rest of his days. No longer had he the least pleasure in gazing upon important elderly gentlemen, each brushed and polished by his valet from the tips of his shoes to the roof of his topper. The colonel from Texas wore this symbol of honorificabilitudinitas on occasions where etiquette required it, but he carried along his comfortable Texas sombrero in a paper bag, and exchanged head-coverings as soon as the ceremony was completed. Nothing so amusing had happened in Paris since Dr. Franklin had gone about town without a wig.
The important thing now was that the much-debated document would be signed and peace returned to the world. Or would it? On the table in his hotel room lay newspapers in which he could read that the treaty to be signed that day left France helpless before the invading foe; and others which insisted that it was a document of class repression, designed to prepare the exploitation of the workers of both Germany and France. Lanny had read both, and wished there was some authority that would really tell a young fellow what to believe!
VI
The telephone rang: the office of the hotel announcing "Monsieur Zhessie Bloc-less" - accent on the last syllable. Lanny didn't want to have his uncle come up, because that would look like intimacy, so displeasing to Robbie if he should happen to return. "I'll be down at once," he said.
In the lobby of the marble-walled Hotel Vendфme he sat and exchanged family news with his relative who didn't fit the surroundings, but looked like a down-at-heels artist lacking the excuse of youth. Uncle Jesse wanted to know, first, what the devil was Beauty doing in Spain? When Lanny answered vaguely, he said: "You don't have to hide things from me. I can guess it's a man."
But Lanny said: "She will tell you when she gets ready," and that was that.
More urgently the painter was interested to know what had become of that mysterious personage who had paid him three silent midnight visits. At the risk of seeming uncordial, Lanny could only say again that his lips were sealed. "But I fear he won't visit you any more," he said. "You know about the public event which is to happen today."
"Yes, but that isn't going to make any difference," insisted the other. "It doesn't mean a thing." They were speaking with caution,
and the painter kept glancing about to be sure no one was overhearing. "Your friends are still going to be in trouble. They are going to have to struggle - for a long, long time."
"Maybe so," said Lanny; "and it may be they'll call on you again. But as matters stand, I'm not in a position to inquire about it, and that's all I can say."
The uncle was disappointed and a trifle vexed. He said that when the owners of hunting forests put out fodder for the deer in winter, the creatures got the habit of coming to the place and thereafter didn't scuffle so hard for themselves. Lanny smiled and said he had observed it in the forests of Silesia; but when it was a question of scuffling or starving, doubtless they would resume scuffling.
"Well," said the painter, "if you happen to meet your friend, give him these." He took a little roll of papers from the breast pocket of his coat. "These are samples of the leaflets we have printed. I've marked on each one the number of copies distributed, so he can see that none of his fodder has been wasted."
"All right," said Lanny. "I'll give them to him if I see him." He put the papers into his own pocket, and sought for another topic of conversation. He told of visiting Stef and how Stef had a cold. He repeated some of the muckraker's stories about espionage on the Reds.
"I, too, have tried the plan of chatting with the flics," said the painter. "But I've found no idealism in their souls."
Lanny repeated the question he had asked of Stef. "How do you recognize a flic?"
"I wouldn't know how to describe them," replied the other. "But when you've seen a few you know the type. They are always stupid, and when they try to talk like one of us it's pathetic."
There was a pause. "Well, I'll get along," said Jesse. "Robbie may be coming and I don't want to annoy him. No need to tell him that I called."
"I won't unless he asks me," replied the nephew.
"And put those papers where he won't see them. Of course you can read them if you wish, but the point is, I'm not giving them to you for that purpose."
"I get you," said Lanny, with a smile.
VII
The youth saw his visitor part way to the door and then went to the apparatus you called a "lift" when you were talking to an Englishman, an "elevator" to an American. At the same moment a man who had been sitting just across the lobby, supposedly reading a newspaper but in reality watching over the top of it, arose from his seat and followed. Another man, who had been standing in the street looking through the window, came in at the door. Lanny entered the elevator and the first man followed him and said to the operator: "Attendez." The second man arrived and entered and they went up.
When they reached Lanny’s floor he stepped out, and so did the other two. As soon as the operator had closed the door, one man stepped to Lanny's right and the other to his left and said in French: "Pardon, Monsieur. We are agents of the Sыretй."
Lanny's heart gave a mighty thump; he stopped, and so almost did the heart. "Well?" he said.
"It will be necessary for you to accompany us to the Prйfecture." The man drew back the lapel of his coat and showed his shield.
"What is the matter?" demanded the youth.
"I am sorry, Monsieur, it is not permitted to discuss the subject. You will be told by the commissaire."
So, they were after him! And maybe they had him! Wild ideas of resistance or flight surged into his mind; it was the first time he had ever been arrested and he had no habit pattern. But they were determined-looking men, and doubtless were armed. He decided to preserve his position as a member of the privileged classes. "You are making a very silly mistake," he said, "and it will get you into trouble."
"If so, Monsieur will pardon us, I trust," said the elder of the two. "Monsieur resides in this hotel?"
"I do."
"Then Monsieur will kindly escort us to his room."
Lanny hesitated. His father's business papers were in that room and Robbie certainly wouldn't like to have them examined by strangers. "Suppose I refuse?" he inquired.
"Then it will be necessary for us to take you."
Lanny had the roomkey in his pocket, and of course the two men could take it from him. He knew that they could summon whatever help they needed. "All right," he said, and led them to the room and unlocked the door.
The spokesman preceded him and the other followed, closed the door, and fastened it; then the former said: "Monsieur will kindly give me the papers which he has in his pocket."
Ah, so they had been watching him and Uncle Jesse! Lanny had read detective novels, and knew that it was up to him to find some way to chew up these papers and swallow them. But a dozen printed leaflets would make quite a meal, and he lacked both appetite and opportunity. He took them out and handed them to the flic, who put them into his own pocket without looking at them. "You will pardon me, Monsieur" - they were always polite to well-dressed persons, Lanny had been told. Very deftly, and as inoffensively as possible, the second man made certain that Lanny didn't have any weapon on him. In so doing he discovered some letters in the youth's coat pocket, and these also were transferred to the pockets of the elder detective. Lanny ran over quickly in his mind what was in the letters: one from his mother - fortunately she had been warned, and wrote with extreme reserve. One from Rosemary, an old one, long-cherished - how fortunate the English habit of reticence! One from his eleven-year-old half-sister - that was the only real love letter.
Lanny was invited to sit down, and the younger flic stood by, never moving his eyes from him. Evidently they must be thinking they had made an important capture. The elder man set to work to search the suite; the escritoire, the bureau drawers, the suitcases - he laid the latter on the bed and went through them, putting everything of significance into one of them. This included a thirty-eight automatic and a box of cartridges - which of course would seem more significant to a French detective than to an American.
If Lanny had been in possession of a clear conscience, he might have derived enjoyment from this opportunity to watch the French police chez eux, as it were. But having a very uneasy conscience indeed, he thought he would stop this bad joke if he could. "You are likely to find a number of guns in my father's luggage," he remarked. "That is not because he shoots people, but because he sells guns."
"Ah! Votre pиre est un marchand d'armes!" One had to hear it in French to get a full sense of the flic's surprise.
"Mon pиre est un fabricant d'armes" replied Lanny, still more impressively. "He has made for the French government a hundred million francs' worth of arms in the past five years. If he had not done so, the boches would be in Paris now, and you would be under the sod, perhaps."
"Vraiment, Monsieur!" exclaimed the other, and stood irresolute, as if he hadn't the nerve to touch another object belonging to a person who might possibly be of such importance. "What is it that is the name of your father?" he inquired, at last.
"His name is Robert Budd."
The other wrote it down, with Lanny spelling the letters in French. "And Monsieur's name?"
The youth spelled the name of Lanning, which a Frenchman does not pronounce without considerable practice. Then he remarked: "If you examine that gun, you will see that it has my father's name as the fabricant."
"Ah, vraiment?" exclaimed the detective, and took the gun to the window to verify this extraordinary statement. Evidently he didn't know what to do next, and Lanny thought that his little dodge had worked. But when the detective took the bundle of leaflets from his pockets and began to examine them; and so of course Lanny knew that the jig was up. He hadn't looked at the papers, but he knew what would be in them. "Workingmen of all countries, unite! You have nothing to lose but your chains; you have a world to gain!" The flic put the papers back into his pocket, and went on piling Robbie's papers into a suitcase. "It is a matter which the commissaire will have to determine, Monsieur."
38
Battle of the Stags
I
RIDING in a taxi to the Prйfecture de Police, Lanny thought as hard as he had ever done in his life. Had these agents been following him because they had learned about his connections with a German spy? Or had they been following the notorious Jesse Blackless and seen him hand papers to Lanny? Everything seemed to indicate the latter; but doubtless at the Prйfecture they would have Lanny listed in connection with Lincoln Steffens, and with Herron, and Alston - who could guess where these trails might lead? Lanny decided that he had talked enough and would take refuge in the fact that he was not yet of age. Even in wartime they could hardly shoot you for refusing to answer questions; and, besides, the war was coming to an end this very afternoon! Many, many times in five years he had heard Frenchmen exclaim: "C'est la guerre!" Now, for once, he would be able to answer: "C'est la paix!” The Prйfecture is on the Оle de la Citй, the oldest part of Paris, having as much history to the square meter as any other place in the world. Like most old buildings it had a vague musty odor. They booked him, and took away his billfold, his watch, his keys; then they put him in a small room with a barred window high up, and an odor of ammonia, the source of which was obvious. The younger of the two detectives sat and watched him, but did not speak. In half an hour or so he was escorted to an office, where he found no less than three officials waiting to question him. All three were polite, grave, and determined. The eldest, the commissaire, was dressed as if he were going to have tea at Mrs. Emily's. At a second desk sat a clerk, ready to begin writing vigorously - the so-called procиs verbal.
"Messieurs," said Lanny, "please believe that I intend no discourtesy; but I consider this arrest an indignity and I intend to stand upon my rights. I am a minor and it is my father who is legally responsible for me. I demand that he be summoned, and I refuse to answer any questions whatsoever until that has been done."
You would have thought that the three officials had never before in their lives heard of anyone refusing to answer questions. They were shocked, they were hurt, they were everything they could think of that might make an impression upon a sensitive youth. They demanded to know: was it the natural course for an innocent man not to tell frankly what was necessary to secure his liberty? They wished him no harm; they were greatly embarrassed to have to detain him for a moment; the simple and obvious thing would be for him to tell them for what innocent reason he had come into possession of documents inciting to the overthrow of la rйpublique franзaise, the murder of its citizens, the confiscation of their property, and the burning of their homes. The three officials had the incendiary documents spread out before them, and passed them from hand to hand with exclamations of dismay.
Was all that really in the documents? Lanny didn't know; but he knew that if he asked the question, he would be answering a very important one for the officials - he would be telling them that he didn't know, or at least claimed not to know, their contents. So he said again and again: "Messieurs, be so kind as to send word to my father."
Never had courteous French officials had their patience put to a severer test. They took turns arguing and pleading. The oldest, the commissaire, was paternal; he pleaded with the young gentleman not to subject himself to being held behind bars like a common felon. It was really unkind of him to inflict upon them the necessity of inflicting this embarrassment upon a visitor from the land to which France owed such a debt of gratitude. In this the commissaire, for all his lifetime training, was letting slip something of importance. They took him for a tourist; they had not connected him with Juan-les-Pins, and probably not with Madame Detaze, veuve, and her German lover now traveling in Spain!
