Delicate Ape (10 page)

“I don’t,” Piers said.

Evanhurst tapped Brecklein’s arm. “Ernst, you don’t know Piers Hunt?”

The big head turned slowly. He didn’t put on the broad smile for a silent space. There was surprise in his narrowed eyes, surprise that almost hid the cold hostility beneath it. And then the smile cut through but the eyes weren’t smiling, they were appraising this slight, unimportant-looking man in the gray suit. “I have not had the pleasure,” he bowed.

“You know of each other certainly,” Evanhurst pattered. “Mr. Brecklein, Mr. Hunt. Piers is an old, old friend of mine. I knew his grandmother well. Mr. Brecklein is acting as Germany’s chief envoy to our present Conclave, Piers.” He waved a fine hand to the small man who had slid beside Brecklein, who was now shaking hands with Gordon. A man who when he was young might have been brother to Johann Schmidt. He was dried out now, all but the wolf lift of his lips from his teeth. His hands had been scrubbed white, how many scrubbings to wash away the blood of the innocents which had eaten into the flesh?

“Schern, you know Piers Hunt?” Evanhurst insisted. “No? An old friend of mine.” Piers bowed, his hands at his side. “I knew him when … ”

The pointed tails, the richness of smoke and drink, the gloss of the host couldn’t take away the smell of blood and burning. In his grandmother’s parlors.

The girl on the terrace beyond, the girl with the pale gold hair cupped over her shoulders and the pale gold silk molding her young body was Bianca Anstruther. He couldn’t see her face; it was lifted to Hugo von Eynar. Piers knew then as he’d known last night that he must meet Hugo face to face. He said without disturbance, “There is someone I know,” even as Gordon, tired of Piers and his grandmother, cried, “There’s Bibi. I didn’t know she was coming.”

Evanhurst cackled, “She dropped in. I believe she has a message for you.” He lowered his lip. “Hasn’t Anstruther come out of hiding yet?”

Piers followed Gordon’s extrication to the terrace. Gordon was holding Bibi’s hand, reprimanding her. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming here?”

Piers said, “Hello, Hugo.”

Hugo von Eynar’s yellow eyes were insolent. He inserted his eyeglass to cover one. Only Piers knew the woman shape of that face. “Hello, Piers.” The voice was more insolent. “I scarcely expected to see you here.”

“I scarcely expected to be here.”

The rope of hostility was stretched tight as it had been in the past, as it always was to be. Womb enemies.

Gordon said, “You haven’t met Bibi, Piers. Bianca Anstruther, Piers Hunt. Our Secretary’s daughter, you know. And my fiancée.”

“Yes. I used to wrap dolls to send her from Switzerland.” The girl’s eyes, blue purple eyes, violent eyes, were silent on his. He tried to smile. Gordon’s fiancée. Another knot tied in success.

“You met last night,” Hugo stated.

“No. I picked up Mr. Hunt, Hugo.” Bianca spoke clearly.

Hugo shrugged. Gordon frowned at her.

She continued, a faint smile on her small mouth and none in her eyes, “Of course I’ve known of him since I was a child. As he says, he used to wrap the dolls my father collected for me all over Europe.”

Gordon remarked as if he couldn’t forget it, “This once was Hunt’s grandmother’s apartment.”

“It wasn’t this splendid,” Piers said. “It was old-fashioned.” He broke off, turning to Hugo. “What brings you to New York at this time? I understood you were at the Embassy. Refugee from Washington’s climate?”

“I am accredited to the Embassy.” The yellow eyes were blank. “I am the ambassadorial representative to the Conclave.”

Piers eyed him steadily. “The expert on the border incidents perhaps?”

Hugo’s mouth was small and bland. “You seem to know. Perhaps you also know that our friends blame you for not keeping the peace in Africa. That too will be brought before the Conclave.”

Piers shook himself out of thought. “There is peace in Africa, Hugo.” He spoke lightly. “You surely don’t think the border incidents are important, do you?”

Gordon turned his head as if he hadn’t heard aright. “But they are important, Piers, rather disturbingly so. A threat—”

Piers laughed. “I’ve just come from there, old man. We don’t consider them important. Fabian hasn’t even appealed to the Peace Commission for investigation, they are that unimportant to him.”

“But you told me, he wired Anstruther—”

Piers laughed again, at Gordon’s protestant face, at Hugo’s leashed anger, at Bianca’s hostile young mouth. “I talked with one of Fabian’s leaders last night. Fabian didn’t send the wire; he was in Tibet at the time. Evidently some undersecretary—” The laughter froze on his face. “Or some interested party who wants trouble there.”

Hugo put up the eyeglass against Piers’ accusation. Gordon’s doubt was worn openly. Piers stood, his hands in his pockets, relishing their enforced silence. Gordon could not ask questions, not and guard the secret of state. Von Eynar couldn’t admit his prescience of the Fabian wire. Piers was certain it was German-instigated, even as he was certain that Germany was the coil behind the border agitation. Bianca was silent too, her hands clenched against the folds of her golden dress. Her eyes turned suddenly on Piers; it was too sudden for him to hide the triumph which was flowing through him. He couldn’t explain, not here and not yet. He could but accept the sting of her hatred.

Piers said, “Perhaps we should join the others? Private conferences aren’t exactly cricket at this time.”

He walked away as if the rooted enmity back of his back was without importance. And Hugo spoke behind him. “Perhaps you don’t know that we visited Africa this year. Fabian was kind enough to invite us to his territory.”

Piers didn’t turn but the words had smote him as they were meant. That long ago the seed had been sown? Fabian in connivance with the Germans, with Brecklein’s beefy assurance, Schern’s guile? An understanding between Germany and the races of color? The idea was too evil to consider. For the colored races had the numbers, the resources. Under German organization and German wickedness, they could plunge the world again into a war whose ending must be the total annihilation of known civilization.

It was impossible that Fabian would be party to such a hideous debacle. Not Fabian, who was developing one of the great modern states out of primitive tribes, out of exploited peoples. Not Fabian, who had dreamed this native African state as important, as democratic, as modern as that of any white nation, who had in twelve years made giant strides towards its fulfillment. It couldn’t be that he was consumed with ambition to the point that he would deal with Germany for continental conquest. It was anathema to that for which the name Fabian stood, not only in Africa but throughout the world.

Anstruther had believed in Fabian above all of the peace leaders. It was this belief coupled with his love for the African which had hastened him to the Lake of the Crocodiles following the wire from Fabian. To his death. His death of which only the Africans and Piers knew. And how many others?

Piers stepped into the lighted drawing room. The three followed from the terrace quickly now as if they feared to allow him to move alone. Distrust of him within hadn’t vanished. None of the Germans had expected his presence tonight; none wanted it. None of the Germans wanted Piers here or anywhere. That was more of their superb espionage. They knew a man threatened even before he expressed his threat.

Evanhurst was greeting newcomers in the archway. Dessaye and Mancianargo. The dainty Frenchman, a shell, filled and emptied at Evanhurst’s wish. Mancianargo, the bent Italian peasant, somber-faced, his gnarled wrists protruding from the sleeves of his old-fashioned dress coat.

Schern said, “Poor André! Shows his age badly.” There was no pity on his tongue.

Brecklein’s scorn gritted. “Who is the Italian?”

Piers answered him. “Humbert was too old to come. Mancianargo was Anstruther’s choice. He believes in peace.”

“Who doesn’t?” Schern asked insolently. The smile of Satan was an arrow splitting his drawn face. “We in Germany above all hold to peace.”

“I believed that Anstruther would be here tonight,” Brecklein said. He said it to Piers and there was challenge in the twist of his smoldering cigar.

Gordon answered, “The Secretary was unable to make it. He seldom attends social functions.”

Evanhurst, bright, birdlike in his age, was propelling the newcomers forward. He hadn’t missed Brecklein’s question. He said, “I hoped Bibi would join us in her father’s stead. But she has more lively matters to attend, yes, dear?” His hand touched her hair.

“I must run along. Until later?” She divided the question between Gordon and Hugo but it was to the German her eyes turned adulation.

Piers’ mouth tightened. He’d seen other eyes lift to the god. Hugo should not be allowed to corrupt Anstruther’s young daughter. She moved to the door, lifted her hand in farewell.

Lord Evanhurst spoke with ancient courtesy. “Shall we repair to the dining room, gentlemen?”

The tapers, the heavy linen cloth, the bowl of white roses laid nostalgia on the table. Lack of honesty barred the spirit of Cornelia Piers. The secret currents seasoning the fine food, hatred and malice and wile, wouldn’t have been permitted in her presence. This wasn’t a table of peace. Not even when Evanhurst proposed the customary toast, “Peace be among you,” was the devil’s laughter silenced. There was no one here, save perhaps Mancianargo, who would fight for peace. And the Italian was without power, a minor pawn, representative of a nation almost destroyed in the Last War. Italy no less than France was dependent on Evanhurst.

“I too propose a toast,” Brecklein said. “To Secretary Anstruther, who has done more than any other man for peace.”

Piers’ hand clenched the wine stem. He lifted the glass but he didn’t taste. It was his laugh, and it wasn’t a laugh, that broke the separate thought and knowledge seething in the silence. “It seems incredible that nations once planned for war as we plan for peace. Unbelievable that there once was a man named Hitler.”

“He was mad, quite mad,” Evanhurst nodded.

“Quite mad,” Schern agreed thinly. “A strange genius. But then aren’t all geniuses mad? Obsessed by the single idea.”

Von Eynar said, “He put up a good show while it lasted.”

“You knew him?” Gordon asked.

“Slightly, I’m afraid. I spoke with him only twice.”

Piers stated, “Schern knew him well, Gordon. He headed the Berlin secret service, didn’t you, Herr Schern?”

Schern’s voice was colorless. “There were things necessary in wartime. As you know.” He inclined his head towards Gordon. “You evidently are alone here in fortune to know nothing of such things. Lord Evanhurst sat in Churchill’s council.”

“I served with Darlan,” Dessaye boasted.

“Piers, too, was in Berlin,” Hugo smiled.

He stilled memory. “Yes. I hoped to come face to face with Hitler. Certain events canceled that.”

Mancianargo hadn’t understood much. His eyes had remained without light as the others spoke. Perhaps the name of the war-crazed leader of the Germans who had impelled the Last War, Hitler the Destroyer, awakened him. He said now, “There must be no war.” Passion licked his tired face. “There must be no war again.”

Evanhurst spoke to him gently in Italian. He repeated to the others in English. “It is the New World. We go forward with peace to security and prosperity.” He lifted his glass.

Brecklein beamed and Schern relaxed. If Dessaye looked worried he would not speak. Gordon and Hugo nodded, well pleased. Piers alone sat sick in heart. Evanhurst was won to trust of Germany, to furthering her security and prosperity at the cost of threatening war again. His fists tightened under the table. Something must be done. The blind must be made to see. He was as silent as the Italian peasant while the others moved gambits of conversation through the dessert and liqueurs.

They returned to the gold and white room. He listened until he was stifled with the politeness, the commonplaces, the intrigue. Without apology he moved again to the terrace hung above the glade of Central Park. The black-green of trees flecked with golden bulbs of light, the pale luminosity of the tall buildings framing the border, the hum of the city rose to him. A wave of remembered beauty engulfed him. He had known true peace the first time he stood here. He heard the step and he swung about expecting von Eynar. Gordon stood there. Gordon asked, “Why did you refuse the toast to Anstruther?”

“You expected me to drink?”

Gordon walked to the parapet. He spoke out to the night. “Is he dead?”

Piers followed softly. He didn’t answer until he pressed behind the man’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t say that aloud here. I wouldn’t think it.”

Gordon made a slow turn. “Is he?”

Hard anger thrust Piers. “That’s what
they
want to know. That’s what they’re wondering behind the smokescreen of their fat cigars and their platitudes of prosperity and peace.” He took a breath. “If they could know … ”

“You’re referring to Brecklein’s commission?”

“To the Germans, yes.”

“You’re mistaken, Piers.” Gordon was reasonable. “Germany wants only the freedom of the just.”

He laughed the laughter of desiccation. He said, “You’ve listened to the siren song. Who sang it, the industrialist Brecklein, or the aristocrat Hugo? It doesn’t matter who. The composer was Schern. I’ve known Schern a long time, Gordon.”

“You’re wrong, Piers. You’re obsessed with the single idea. Your insinuation to Hugo on the African business showed that. You persist in seeing Germany as she was before the Last War. You don’t recognize the aspirations of the new Germany.” Echo words instigated by those within.

“I take it you are for withdrawal then.”

“Definitely. I am for a great expanding world.”

“And our Secretary?”

The doubt came into Gordon’s eyes. “I don’t know for certain. He went to Europe to see for himself before deciding. Breck believes he favored them, he was well pleased with what he saw.”

He would be shown only the greenest branches, not what roiled below.

Piers stated flatly, coldly, drawing the sword without fear between himself and the man, “I am for the letter of the protectorate. I believe that Germany must remain a dependency for the prescribed fifty years.” He didn’t fear while he spoke the words, because he was right and Gordon was wrong. He couldn’t hope to convince Gordon in these few days against the long-studied blandishments of the Germans. He could only have faith that his truth would be conviction. But before the words faded, a chill of apprehension was laid on his back. He turned and he saw Hugo motionless in the doorway. Gordon called, “Come on out. We’re catching a breath of air.”