Atlantis and Other Places (47 page)

No ivory-tower egghead he! He wasted no time on ideology. Every man has one, but how many care about it? It is like the spleen, necessary but undramatic. Theoreticians always fail to grasp this. Not Doriot! “We can make the Boche’s life hell,” he said with a wicked grin, “and I’ll show you just how to do it. Listen! Whenever you do something for those damned stiff-necked sons of bitches, do it wrong! If you drive a cab, let them off at the wrong address and drive away before they notice. If you wait tables, bring them something they didn’t order, then be very sorry—and bring them something else they didn’t ask for. If you work in a factory, let your machine get out of order and stand around like an idiot till it’s fixed. If it’s not working, what can you do? Not a thing, of course. If you’re in a foundry . . . But you’re all clever fellows. You get the picture, eh?”

He grinned again. So did the Frenchmen listening to him. They got the picture, all right. The picture was treason and rebellion, pure and simple. I had plenty to arrest him right there for spouting such tripe, and them for listening to it. But I waited. I wanted more.

And Doriot gave it to me. He went on, “The workers’ revolution almost came off in Russia after the war, but the forces of reaction, the forces of oppression, were too strong. It can come here. With councils of workers and peasants in the saddle, I tell you France can be a great nation once more. France will be a great nation once more!

“And when she is”—theatrically, he lowered his voice—“when she is, I say, then we truly pay back the Boches. Then we don’t have to play stupid games with them any more. Then we rebuild our army, we rebuild our navy, we send swarms of airplanes into the sky, and we put revolution on the march all through Europe!
Vive la France!”

“Vive la France!”
the audience cried.

“Vive la révolution!”
Doriot shouted.

“Vive la révolution!”
they echoed.

“Vive la drapeau rouge!”
he yelled.

They called out for the red flag, too. They sprang to their feet. They beat their palms together. They were in a perfect frenzy of excitement. I also sprang to my feet. I also beat my palms together. I too was in a perfect frenzy of excitement. I drew forth my pistol and fired a shot into the ceiling.

Men to either side of me sprang aside. There was no one behind me. I had made sure of that. To make sure no one could get behind me, I put my back against the wall, meanwhile pointing the pistol at Doriot. He has courage, I say so much for him. “Here, my friend, my comrade, what does this mean?” he asked me.

I clicked my heels. “This means you are under arrest. This means I am the forces of reaction, the forces of oppression. À votre service, monsieur.” I gave him a bow a Parisian headwaiter would have envied, but the pistol never wavered from his chest.

Indeed, Doriot has very considerable courage. I watched him thinking about whether to rush me, whether to order his fellow traitors to rush me. As I watched, I waited for the men of the Lille Feldgendarmerie post to break down the doors and storm in to seize those Frenchmen. My pistol shot should have brought them on the run. It should have, but where were they, the lazy swine?

So I wondered. And I could see Doriot nerving himself to order that charge. I gestured with the pistol, saying, “You think, monsieur, this is an ordinary Luger, and that, if you tell your men to rush me, I can shoot at the most eight—seven, now—and the rest will drag me down and slay me. I regret to inform you, that is a mistake. I have here a Luger Parabellum, Artilleriemodel 08. It has a thirty-two-round drum. I may not get all of you, but it will be more than seven, I promise. And I will enjoy every bit of it—I promise you that, too.” I shifted the pistol’s barrel, just by a hair. “So—who will be first?”

And, my sweet, do you want to hear the most delicious thing of all? I was lying! I held only an ordinary Luger. There is such a thing as the Artilleriemodel; it was developed after the war to give artillerymen a little extra fire-power if by some mischance they should find they had to defend themselves at close quarters against infantry. I have seen the weapon. The drum below the butt is quite prominent—as it must be, to accommodate thirty-two rounds of pistol ammunition.

A close look—even a cursory look—would have shown the Frenchmen I was lying. But they stood frozen like mammoths in the ice of Russia, believing every word I said. Why? I will tell you why. The great masses of the people will more easily fall victim to a big lie than to a small one, that is why. And I told the biggest lie I could possibly tell just then.

Nevertheless, I was beginning to wonder if more lies—or more gunshots—would be necessary when at last I heard the so-welcome sound of doors crashing down at the front and rear of Madame Léa’s establishment. In swarmed the Feldgendarmerie men! Now, now that I had done all the work, faced all the danger, they were as fierce as tigers. Their Alsatians bayed like the hounds of hell. They took the French criminals and plotters out into the night.

That fat, arrogant Feldwebel stayed behind. His jowls jiggled like calves’-foot jelly as he asked me, “How did you know this? How did you hold them all, you alone, until we came?”

“A man of iron will can do anything,” I declared, and he did not dare argue with me, for the result had proved me right. He walked away instead, shaking his stupid, empty head.

And, when I return to Munich, I will show you exactly what a man with iron in his will—and elsewhere! oh, yes, and elsewhere!—can do. In the meantime, I remain, most fondly, your loving—

 

 

Hello, my darling. I wonder whether this letter will get to Munich ahead of me, for I have earned leave following the end of duty today. Nevertheless I must write, so full of triumph am I.

Today I saw Brigadier Engelhardt once more. I wondered if I would. In fact, he made a point of summoning me to his office. He proved himself a true gentleman, I must admit.

When I came in, he made a production of lighting up his pipe. Only after he has it going to his satisfaction does he say, “Well, Ade, you were right all along.” A true gentleman, as I told you!

“Yes, sir,” I reply. “I knew it from the start.”

He blows out a cloud of smoke, then sighs. “Well, I will certainly write you a letter of commendation, for you’ve earned it. But I want to say one thing to you, man to man, under four eyes and no more.”

“Yes, sir,” I say again. When dealing with officers, least said is always safest.

He sighs again. “One of these days, Ade, that damned arrogance of yours will trip you up and let you down as badly as it’s helped you up till now. I don’t know where and I don’t know how, but it will. You’d do best to be more careful. Do you understand what I’m telling you? Do you understand even one word?”

“No, sir,” I say, with all the truth in my heart.

Yet another sigh from him. “Well, I didn’t think you would, but I knew I ought to make the effort. Today you’re a hero, no doubt about it. Enjoy the moment. But, as the slave used to whisper at a Roman triumph, ‘Remember, thou art mortal.’ Dismissed, Ade.”

I saluted. I went out. I sat down to write this letter. I will be home soon. Wear a skirt that flips up easily, for I intend to show you just what a hero, just what a conqueror, is your iron-hard—

 

THE SCARLET BAND

Astormy November on the North Atlantic. Even a great liner like the
Victoria Augusta
rolled and pitched in the swells sweeping down from the direction of Iceland. The motion of her deck was not dissimilar to that of a restive horse, though the most restive horse rested at last, while the
Victoria Augusta
seemed likely to go on jouncing on the sea forever.

Most of the big ship’s passengers stayed in their cabins. Nor was that sure proof against seasickness; the sharp stink of vomit filled the passageways, and was liable to nauseate even passengers who might have withstood the motion alone.

A pair of men, though, paced the promenade deck as if it were July on the Mediterranean. Passing sailors sent them curious looks. “ ’Ere, now,” one of the men in blue said, touching a deferential forefinger to his cap. “Shouldn’t you toffs go below? It’ll be easier to take, like, if you do.”

“I find the weather salubrious enough, thank you,” the taller and leaner of the pair replied. “I am glad to discern that we shall soon come into port.”

“Good heavens, Helms—how can you know that?” his companion ejaculated in surprise.

Athelstan Helms puffed on his pipe. “Nothing simpler, Doctor. Have you not noted that the waves discommoding our motion are sharper and more closely spaced than they were when we sailed the broad bosom of the Atlantic? That can only mean a shallow bottom beneath us, and a shallow bottom surely presages the coastline of Atlantis.”

“Right you are, sir. Sure as can be, you’ve got your sea legs under you, to feel something like that.” The sailor’s voice held real respect now. “Wasn’t more than fifteen minutes ago I ’eard the chief engineer say we was two, maybe three, hours out of ’Anover.”

“Upon my soul,” Dr. James Walton murmured. “It all seems plain enough when you set it out, Helms.”

“I’m glad you think so,” Helms replied. “You do commonly seem to.”

Walton chuckled, a little self-consciously. “By now I ought not to be surprised at your constantly surprising me, what?” He laughed again, louder this time. “A bit of a paradox, that, don’t you think?”

“A bit,” Athelstan Helms agreed, an unaccustomed note of indulgence in his voice.

The sailor stared at him, then aimed a stubby forefinger in the general direction of his sternum. “I know who you are, sir,” he said. “You’re that detective feller!”

“Only an amateur,” Helms replied.

He might as well have left the words unsaid. As if he had, the sailor rounded on Dr. Walton. “And you must be the bloke ’oo writes up ’is adventures. I’ve read a great plenty of ’em, I ’ave.”

“You’re far too kind, my good man.” Walton, delighted to trumpet Athelstan Helms’ achievements to the skies, was modest about his own.

“But what brings the two of you to Atlantis?” the sailor asked. “I thought you stayed in England, where it’s civilized, like.”

“As a matter of fact—” Dr. Walton began.

Helms smoothly cut in: “As a matter of fact, that is a matter we really should not discuss before conferring with the authorities in Hanover.”

“I get you, sir.” The sailor winked and laid a finger by the side of his nose. “Mum’s the word. Not a soul will hear from me.” Away he went, almost bursting with self-importance.

“It will be all over the ship before we dock,” Dr. Walton said dolefully.

Athelstan Helms nodded. “Of course it will. But it can’t get off the ship before we dock, so that is a matter of small consequence.”

“Why didn’t you want me to mention the House of Universal Devotion, then?” Dr. Walton asked. “For I saw that you prevented my doing so.”

“Indeed.” Helms nodded. “I believe the sailor may well be a member of that curious sect.”

“Him? Good heavens, Helms! He’s as English as Yorkshire pudding.”

“No doubt. And yet the House, though Atlantean in origin, has its devotees in our land as well, and in the Terranovan republics and principalities. If the case with which we shall be concerned in the United States of Atlantis did not have ties to our England, you may rest assured I should not have embarked on the
Victoria Augusta
, excellent though she may be.” Helms paused as another sailor walked past. When the man was out of earshot, the detective continued, “Did you note nothing unusual about the manner in which our recent acquaintance expressed himself?”