House of All Nations (56 page)

‘Yes, Henri. I'm too tired. I came here for a rest.'

‘All right, my boy. Fine, swell. Tuesday. And then you'll come to England with me.' But Alphendéry was not finished with the memorandum. Henri Léon took him out to dinner only to bounce up and down, answer telephone calls, send the waiters scuttling for telegraph boys, command writing blocks of the headwaiter, shout inspirations to Alphendéry in a Napoleonic style, and in every way behave like a lion in a fit, till Alphendéry's complexion was chalk-blue, and he threw down the block in a temper. Léon flushed, suddenly cooled off, and became extremely sweet. The waiters, like a band of dyspeptic gorillas, stood in a half-circle in the shadows of the nearly empty restaurant and looked at their tormentor.

‘How can you behave like that, Léon?' asked Alphendéry when he had his coffee before him. His voice was acid-sweet and evidently Léon's roughhouse still rankled in his mind.

‘What's that? Behave like?—'

‘Léon, you know you only hustle these poor fellows and create a rumpus, because they know you're so much richer than they are. You dribble humility when you yourself are with somebody you can't buy out. Aren't you ashamed to be so grossly economic?'

Léon dropped his eyes and flushed; he grumbled gently, ‘No, Michel, no; you've got me wrong—I wouldn't do that. I didn't think. I was a poor boy. Michel, does it look like that? I didn't know. Pardon me, my boy.' His immense murmur went on for a few minutes, and then Michel forgave him and the air was perfumed with the flowers of innocence for a while. But in a quarter of an hour Léon had become distrait and was blowing to himself, drumming on the table, looking at Alphendéry with cross eyes, silently humming and hawing. Presently he got up abruptly from the café table where they were sitting and said briskly, ‘Come on, let's walk, my boy—good for you.'

After five minutes' walk, Léon as suddenly declared for bed. Alphendéry had been in his room one minute when he heard Léon's door softly open and, opening his, he observed Léon, in war paint, fresh and perfumed for the fray, rush out into the night and the streets, hot for women.

He sat down in his room and knotted his handkerchief. ‘Which is better, the quicksands or the—quicksands or the—quicksands, the quicksands or the volcano: the volcano? Jules is the quicksands, Léon the volcano. Can I stand—why don't I strike out for myself—Jean said, Jean said, “It's time you cut the painter and—”cut the painter and—“cast off and—joined us. Too much wedded to luxury.” And what luxury? The luxury of being hounded to death by madmen. Mad egotists. His political secretary. Ghost! My life's a ghost's life. My tombstone. Here lies Heinrich Heine, poet and freeman. Here lies Michel Alphendéry, twenty-five per cent capital levy. R.I.P. Or, Michel Alphendéry: he sold short. R.I.P. Unwept, unhonored, and unsung. No. Professional lion tamer. No. “Political, literary, social”—h'm, social amenities. Running electors in Léon's car to the polls—to the polls—fat chance, chance. No.' He took out of his pockets the notes Léon had shouted to him in the restaurant.
‘
“
We are in a vicious circle: how can we cut the Gordian knot? Despite the fact that the—
”
' He murmured,
‘
“A vicious circle,” I should say, I should say—ha. No more. I must have peace before I die …'

* * *

Scene Fifty-one: All About the Lord

W
hen Alphendéry got back from coffee, Jacques Manray hailed him, ‘Mr. Schicklgrüber's here and is looking for you. He's in Mr. Bertillon's office.'

Alphendéry's face lightened. He became jovial and hurried upstairs.

But Jules had not seen Schicklgrüber. Alphendéry went round the doors and inside Comte Jean de Guipatin's room he heard a warm, callow drawl, ‘Well, it's all over London that Jules and Carrière have a big sterling contract and that's you're betting on sterling staying on the level. Do you know that's what I call crazy? I don't care, but he ought to. I heard it and the Lord heard it too.'

The young comte answered dubiously, ‘Jules says no, but Carrière is bragging. It's his idea of a modern duel. The duel's old-fashioned and he's carrying it out with modern weapons—honorably and by subterfuge! That was the story he told me. Carrière's an old school friend of mine, as is Jules.'

‘Well—sterling's going off for sure: that's my guess,' said Schicklgrüber airily.

Alphendéry opened the door, with a broad grin. ‘Hullo, Davigdor!' He began with a full throat, ‘What bloody reactions are you and the Lord promoting this week?'

Schicklgrüber didn't heed this remark which touched on universes far beyond his poor brain. He leapt up and towered grotesquely over Alphendéry. ‘By jing!' He grinned widely and said to Jean de Guipatin, ‘It sounds like the Bull of Bashan, it smells like Araby, it smiles like a Cheshire Cat, it can explain everything like a
Chedar
boy: it must be Alphendéry. Well, I hear you been inspecting the banks in Antwerp and Amsterdam with a view to taking over same. What's the result?'

‘Marble is used for tombs and by a simple analogy for the places we keep our jack in,' said Michel.

Davigdor lowered his voice, looked obscenely at them both, his way of expressing intimacy. ‘I hear there's a Dutch group wants to buy Jules out. Why don't he sell? He's only got to get a couple of first-class accountants in: I know a good firm.'

They both laughed at his naïve and buffoon inquisitiveness. He leered joyously. ‘How's that new feller of yours getting on? That hard-luck feller that was in the Claude smash?'

‘The market rose and Aristide ran, not even waiting to pick up his dignity,' said Jean de Guipatin simply.

For a moment there was silence. Both the bank men looked at Davigdor with undisguised speculation. He smiled knowingly at them. Davigdor Schicklgrüber, a Rhineland Jew, in many respects resembled the ideal Aryan although he was not, as the saying goes, as blond as Hitler, as athletic as Goebbels, as manly as Roehm, or as refined as Goering. Instead, he was blond, blue-eyed, tall, muscular, and given to physical exercises. After picking up a living loafing in Rhineland towns, selling novelties, furs, and ladies' shirtwaists, he came, through an uncle in the Hebrew community, into stockbroking, thence into England and thus into a familiar's job with Lord Zinovraud, the great Scottish peer and multimillionaire. As anti-Semitism was Lord Zinovraud's public policy, or rather one of the tricks he kept up his wide sleeve, for his private commissions he used the great lout Davigdor, who talked as if he had adenoids and so seemed stupid, and asserted that he had nothing on his mind but petticoats. Davigdor had a vocabulary of two or three hundred words at the most and a lot of those were primitive Anglo-Saxon, also common in low German. Davigdor's exclusive trick was professional Boeotianism: everyone loved him for a fool and no one suspected him. Everyone immediately said, ‘Now this great man, Lord Zinovraud, like all great men from time out of mind, keeps his jester, chuckle-headed Schicklgrüber,' and they concluded, ‘No use trying to pry Schicklgrüber out of his job: I couldn't be as idiotic as Schicklgrüber if I tried—he was born for the job.'

Thus the professional clod ran round Europe with the name of ‘the Lord' on his lips and the open secret of his connection with ‘the Lord' in everyone's heart: and yet no one suspected his missions or really asked why such a nitwit was forever taking de luxe expresses from Berlin to Paris and Paris to Lisbon and Lisbon to Rome. He did it for women, they said, taking their cue from Schicklgrüber himself. In fact, most businessmen had a sort of commiseration for Schicklgrüber who stood so close to the old childless millionaire and yet did not know how to make the best of such an opportunity.

Davigdor was, as usual, dressed in shabby clothes and had a seedy appearance, bloodshot eyes, and a jaundiced complexion. ‘I say, that was a wonderful tip you gave me, Michel,' said Schicklgrüber. ‘I buy the
Inprecor
every week now, and I tell the Lord the news out of it: he thinks my political sense has gone up one thousand per cent. He dreams of the Reds at night. He thinks they have long ears and he doesn't know they can really put two sentences together. He's a pest … he's always ringing me up to find out what I know of the situation. You know me, Michel, I'm a fool: I don't know Mussolini from Hoover. But he's beginning to think I'm a politician. Can you beat it? He said to me, “Go to Paris and nose out the situation.” What can I do? I tell you, it's not a blessing exactly. Day before yesterday, I'd been up with a girl all night. I only got to bed at six o'clock. I was lying on the couch, she on the bed: clothes—everywhere. Suddenly the phone rings. I take it in my sleep. “Whazzat?” “Jew, aren't you up yet?” he yells. He calls me “Jew”: a joke of his. “Lemme lone,” I say, “I just got to bed.” “Whaddye think of Insull?” he says. “Can't think, Lord,” says I, “too tired.” “Try sleeping alone,” he yells and jams down the telephone. In a quarter of an hour it rings again. “Jew!” “What?” “Get down to my country place. Quick! My car'lll be there in five minutes.” “O.K., Lord.” I left the girl there. Maybe, she's still there. I haven't been home since. He's like that. What did he want me for? Ask me about this house painter Hitler. A nobody. Getting me out of bed for that.'

‘Where did you come from?'

‘Oh, I don't know. I was all over the place last week. Germany, I think. The Lord had some message to send to Berlin. No idea what it was. He never trusts me: I'm too stupid. I met a wonderful blonde on the station and she started to flirt right away. I shied off her … you know how I am.'

‘Yes. I know.'

‘Sure. But she kept right after me. I slept with her in Berlin, two or three days: nice girl. Say! I hope I gave the feller the Lord's message. Did I? Gave me her address: Frau Florry Weiler, Poste Restante. I think I'll write. She said she'd come to London. I gave her my address. J. Davies, Poste Restante, Ipswich. Never had time to do anything else in Berlin. They say it's miserable now. Is it?'

‘What are things like in Germany?'

‘Oh, bad, good … do I know? Had no time to see. I was in bed all the time. Oh, I saw another girl, too. A Hungarian, too. Jing, what a girl! Blonde, too. She was married to an officer. Say! I couldn't get anywhere with the Lord if you hadn't told me about that paper: what's the name? Prinkor? I say; how you doing here? Bad, eh?'

‘What makes you say that, Davigdor?'

‘Oh, I hear in London. Don't know where I heard. Some ass journalist, someone in the office. Don't know. It's just instinct. But Bertillon is selling in London. Why? Only seems one thing. When the gold flies out of the coalscuttle, the bailiff is drinking a beer round the corner. Worth anything? Purely as sniffing, I mean, Michel.'

‘You interest me, Davigdor. Where are you lunching?'

‘Oh, lessee! Ten o'clock seeing a blonde. Eleven o'clock. Don't know what I'm doing. Oh: eleven o'clock seeing a blonde. Twelve? Maybe some date with a girl. One I'll have lunch with you, Michel; You tell me all the dirt. He, he. Eh? 'Safternoon, can't see you—sleeping with someone.'

‘Well, wait a minute.'

Alphendéry went to Jules. ‘I say, Jules, the “fool for the Lord's sake” is here. Do you want to see him? He says there are tales about you in London: selling gold and so on. See what you can get out of him.'

‘Certainly: where is he?'

Schicklgrüber, a boorish flibbertigibbet, was by now in the midst of a tale of his sexual prowess, to William. When Jules entered, Schicklgrüber sprang up, held out his hand with pleasure. His interest in rich men was so instinctive that it was robbed of servility: he had a manly style with them which came from the sympathy he felt for them.

‘Bertillon! Why don't you send Carrière to a sanatarium for life.'

‘Why? Do they talk about it in London?'

‘Sure, sure! They know everything in London. Why, everyone knows that brewery deal never went through and that he's just pulling your leg. Why, he had all the dope, Jules. He knew the pound was slipping. And he's tightening the noose round your neck every quarterday. What a
machaia
for him. Why don't you get him for grand larceny or whatever you Frenchmen have? You don't have that, do you?'

‘Go to the devil,' said Jules.

‘Jules,' Davigdor implored, ‘your credit is no good in London, no good at all. Because you haven't got the stomach to dish Carrière. You know he's going about saying he'll get you? Why don't you bump him off? Say, give the boys a show.'

William intervened, ‘We don't owe him anything, Schicklgrüber; we don't have to pay him.'

‘No? And the billet-doux from Jules he's showing all over London and Amsterdam and everywhere. Say, you're dumb, Jules. Why don't you bump him off?'

William said, ‘What billet-doux? Then there is a contract.'

‘Oh, sure, just a little bit of a private letter: that's all.'

‘You lie, Jules,' said Davigdor cheerfully. ‘It's a contract. I saw it. Everyone saw it. He says he's going to publish it in Sournois' paper if you don't come through.'

‘Does the Lord own newspapers?' inquired Alphendéry.

‘The Lord? Oh, no, no, no. He wants to influence cabinets. He says, “Look at Hearst, Rothermere, Beaverbrook, and Coty. They own newspapers and they're about as effectual as a dead leech.”'

Schicklgrüber, seeing Bertillon sit down, sat down again. ‘Jules, go the right way about it. For instance, you're going to have trouble with this louse Carrière. This self-decorated Christmas tree Carrière has got the first infirmity of feeble minds. He's telling it round that he's going to buy a newspaper. Now, you keep away from all that and you'll win hands down. Never own a newspaper; own journalists: never buy the news-services. Just pay a whisper: never involve a politician—he'll let you down or be let out. And compromise: don't fight.'