Delicate Ape (13 page)

Piers spoke out in desperation. “Have you noticed what is behind these incidents?”

“I know,” Evanhurst stated, omnipotent. “Those niggers ain’t content with their Equatorial State. I knew they wouldn’t be, I warned Anstruther. They want all of Africa. Africa for Africans. You’ve heard it? It strikes the memory, doesn’t it? Years ago it was Asia for Asiatics. Do you remember or were you too young, my boy?”

“I was a combatant in the Last War.”

“You do remember. They’re driving now. These incidents, episodes if you like. Driving against South Africa. Infiltration can’t work; you can spot a nigger. A war—that’s better. There’s more of them. The white birth rate falls, the niggers breed like germs, and since we’ve given them our medical science, nature doesn’t take care of it the way it used to. Lebensraum. That’s what they’re after, the whole damn black continent.” He fixed a wily eye. “We’re too strong in the north for them, so they’re heading south. But after they take the south—” He believed it. His brain had been diseased by Schern. It wasn’t a man for a man; it was three men for Evanhurst, titular leader of peace if Anstruther were gone. And Anstruther was gone.

“The Germans are gentlemen like ourselves.” That was Hugo von Eynar. Schern to whisper the poison, “After they take the south, the north. What price British prestige then?” Brecklein for vested interest. “We can build the planes you want if allowed, better planes. We have the knowledge, the material. We can assemble them, ship them, and they’ll cost you less. There is money to be made.” Three men for Evanhurst, none needed for Gordon, the woman had him. With Anstruther gone, no one else was important. The Germans knew that Anstruther was dead.

Piers said, without hope, “Have you noticed the names of those against whom the incidents have been said to occur? German all, Boer if you like or they claim Belgium, Holland. But German source.”

A smile narrowed Evanhurst’s mouth. “You saw that. Yes, it hasn’t escaped me. Didn’t think the International would care if they carved up a few Germans. Sly devils.”

Even that contingency had been figured. The double cross doubled. The redouble. And what matter if a few German farm colonists were, as Evanhurst expressed it, carved up? The human sacrifice for the Fatherland. The old, old glory. Without knowledge or permission of the sacrificed, the end without consideration of the means. The evil wisdom of Schern again rampant.

“They’ll learn,” the London secretary said and there was no humor on his face. “They’ll learn, by Gad, a white man is a white man. No matter what his name.”

“There is no color problem in International Peace,” Piers quoted.

“If those bloody blacks choose to make one, they’ll learn.”

With lost hope, Piers asked, “Have you talked with Fabian?”

Evanhurst put the reed between his lips. “I’ve read his lying report. That’s enough.”

Piers said it then. “Secretary Anstruther has believed in Fabian.”

Evanhurst’s lips were tight over the cigarette. When he spoke it was as if he spoke of a man quite dead. “Anstruther wanted to believe in lasting peace. Belief tempered his judgment, Piers. You understand? A good man, Anstruther, perhaps too good for our realities.”

Piers cried out, “Will you talk with Fabian?”

Evanhurst did not smile. “There is no reason to talk with Fabian.”

Piers looked long at the old man, the ape. Determined that apedom should not be threatened. How could he be blind to Germany? She hadn’t even bothered to change tactics in the years, the same scheme schemed over and again. She had not changed the names of these leaders. Schern, Brecklein, von Eynar. What good would it do to point out that Brecklein had been a high official in German production before and during the Last War? That Schern had been one of Nicolai’s key men, of the inner secret circle? That Hugo von Eynar had commanded an air force over England, that Morgen von Eynar had been a spy?

They had answered this long ago to Evanhurst’s complete satisfaction. Brecklein had worked with the Nazis, certainly; it was his only way to hold a segment of the capital class intact while awaiting deliverance from revolution. Schern had been a leader in espionage, yes; he had paid, five years’ imprisonment. The book he wrote in prison,
The Blind Shall See
, the story of his regeneration, had been swallowed by wiser than this gullible ape. Von Eynar, who could deny any youth of those days being filled with patriotism for the defense of his country? A man who did not fight for his country then was less than a man. It was the Fatherland for which he had fought, not National Socialism. It was easy to forgive Hugo. Furthermore he was so gentleman, so tall, so fair, so charming.

And Morgen? Who would bother in peace to find excuses for Morgen after once looking upon her? Only a fool. Who knew she had been a spy save Piers Hunt? The others who had known were dead. Those who kissed did not live to tell. Accident alone that Piers lived.

Even if Evanhurst did not in his skeptical soul believe the disavowals of these men, he did not fear. This time Britain could handle Germany before she got out of hand. Piers asked, a young man deferring to an old, an undersecretary deferring to the second most important man in the Conclave; asked humbly knowing the answer, “What will be your vote, Lord Evanhurst? On the German matter.”

The old man could smile now, on a protégé, on the grandson of an old and equal friend. “I shall vote for withdrawal. With a recommendation that the militia be sent into Equatorial Africa to observe matters there.”

There was no need to remain longer. It was said. Piers left the apartment and returned to his room. He looked out at the city without seeing the towers, the spring burgeoning. He ticked them off. Anstruther, Gordon, Evanhurst. Germany was certain. She could afford arrogance to an undersecretary who dared raise his piping against entrenched power. The hopelessness in him was a goad. There could still be hope. If he could reach Fabian. He knew now he must reach Fabian. The black man must be made to see his personal peril, the peril to his land and race, if not the peril in which the world lay. No matter what lies Germany had fed Fabian, he, Piers, could expose them. Because he had Hugo’s letters to back up his personal knowledge of the incidents.

He sat at the desk and he scrawled words, crossing out, emending. He read the satisfactory text: “David. Imperative. Will tell all of desert. Come again. Same place.” He put no signature to it. A signature would give away what the salutation and message would not. If David saw it, or Fabian, they would understand. He copied it legibly in duplicate, addressed one envelope to
The New York Times
, another to the
Herald Tribune
. He enclosed money and a note. The personal was to run until Sunday. He signed his name, George Thompson. He took then the Hugo letters. They must not be risked until Fabian had seen them. He sealed them within an envelope, addressed it to safe-keeping. He dropped the envelopes into the mail chute before descending to the lobby.

He didn’t notice Cassidy until he was outside the hotel, his hand lifted for a cab. He beckoned, “You might as well join me.”

“Might as well,” Cassidy said. He followed Piers into the cab, spoke, “Fifty-fourth street precinct house, Bud.”

Piers said, “I’m on my way to the Peace offices.”

“Captain Devlin wants to talk to you.”

Piers put a cigarette in his mouth. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered in this moment of bitterness, nothing but reaching Fabian in time. He could give Devlin some story, it wasn’t important. He struck a match. “Did Captain Devlin put you on me?”

Cassidy rested his shapeless hat against the seat.

Piers vented some of his anger. “Don’t tell me you’re still keeping up the old gag that I’m not being tailed.”

“You’re being tailed all right,” Cassidy agreed. “But Devlin would never have heard of it if that numbskull hadn’t lost you last night. He was supposed to report to me but he got so rattled he went to his own precinct.” He sighed heavily. “Then they get me out of bed and drag me down and we sort of get together on that briefcase. The one you lost.”

The cab drew up at headquarters. Cassidy climbed out. “Do I pay for my own Maria?” Piers asked.

“Your cab, isn’t it?”

Piers paid. None of this was Cassidy’s fault. The guy hadn’t even had his twenty-four hours’ rest. Piers said, “For the record, your man didn’t lose me. I stayed all night at the Plaza.”

“With Lord Evanhurst?”

“Yeah,” Piers said. Let him have the honor. Everything went back to Evanhurst, even Cassidy’s lost sleep. He walked on past the old sergeant into the office. Devlin’s face wasn’t pleasant today. Piers sat down without suggestion. He started it, he himself wasn’t pleasant, not now. “What do you want with me?”

“Just a little talk.” The captain’s heavy irony wasn’t amusing. Devlin didn’t know how unamusing he could be after Evanhurst. That was the amusing boy. Like that Italian in the long forgotten war Italy had waged on Ethiopia, giggling while he dropped his bombs. They were only niggers to him, too; funny how they scattered when destruction dived out of the sky. Funny, yes.

“About that briefcase you lost when you were Mr.—Henderson, wasn’t it?” Devlin had the report under his hand, referred to it without need.

“What about it?” Piers demanded.

“Made of the best alligator—about so big, wasn’t it? With play manuscripts in it.” His voice was heavy. “Play manuscripts, yet.” He spoke out hard now, “Where did you get that briefcase?”

Piers was patient, slowly patient. “I had it made for me at the Lake of the Crocodiles. That’s in Africa, in case you aren’t familiar with it. It was a good briefcase, the best. I’ll admit it didn’t have manuscripts in it. I wouldn’t be at liberty to tell you what was in it. As for giving you the name Henderson, we of the Peace Commission must be careful not to receive publicity”—he waited long enough—“when on secret mission.”

Devlin looked at Cassidy. Cassidy’s lip stuck out. He said, “Could be.”

“Could be, yes,” Piers smiled. “Who put you on my tail, Cassidy?”

Cassidy rolled the words. “That I am not at liberty to dee-vulge, Mr. Hunt. Like you and your secret mission, maybe?”

“You prove different,” Piers suggested. He turned on Devlin. “And now am I and my pet bulldog allowed to depart? De Witt Gordon is waiting for me at the Peace offices.”

Devlin said, “What do you know of John Smith?”

“To which John Smith do you refer? The English adventurer or the—”

“You know damn well which John Smith I’m asking about.” The man’s face was discolored. “The guy that got bumped off by a taxicab when you lost your briefcase.”

Piers didn’t hesitate. “He was a little rat-toothed individual who traveled in the chair car up from Washington night before last. He was following me. He was following me to get his hands on a briefcase, made to order of the best alligator skin from the Lake of the Crocodiles. He thought it was Secretary Anstruther’s case.” He could go into truth now. “I presented the Secretary with one some years ago. I don’t think you need ask why that Smith wanted the Secretary’s briefcase. He was, as you doubtless know, a German.”

If he told the whole truth, that his loss was but an invention to facilitate inquiries about John Smith—better this way. Better that he was on record as losing a case which no one, not even these cops, believed was his. It might call off the dogs long enough for David to come to him.

“Why would you be having Secretary Anstruther’s case?” Cassidy asked.

Piers laughed a little. “The Secretary never parts with his. Evidently John Smith didn’t know that. He must have believed that I, as the Foreign Undersecretary, carried it.”

Devlin asked, “How did you know this guy was a German?”

Piers met his eye. “I didn’t until I came here that day to report my loss. The officer outside mentioned John Smith might well have been Johann Schmidt. The uncle’s accent.” He leaned to the captain. “Do you have the uncle’s name and address?”

Devlin put a tooth over the corner of his lip. “Phonies. We’re looking for him.” He asked gruffly but his voice begged reassurance, “We aren’t going to have trouble with Germany again, are we? Some of the newspapers seem to think so. I was in the Last War. I don’t ever want—”

“We are not going to have war again,” Piers said somberly. He came to his feet. “May I go now? And must Cassidy come with me?”

Cassidy put his feet on the floor, pushed up heavily. “I got my orders, Hunt. I told you they weren’t from Captain Devlin.” But he wasn’t unfriendly now. He didn’t want war.

“And you can’t tell me who or why?”

“I don’t know, Hunt.” He rubbed his cheek. “I don’t know nothing about this case. You’re to be followed. Maybe it’s to be sure you don’t get hurt. All I know is my orders come straight from the Commissioner himself. Follow you. That’s all.”

“And you’re looking for the briefcase, too.”

Cassidy said, “I already told you that.”

Piers moved slowly. He said aloud, “I wonder what the Commissioner of Police would want with Anstruther’s briefcase.”

There had been traitors in the Last War, in high places, men who played the enemy’s game. This was peace. And how many without fear of stigma in time of peace, how many other than Evanhurst, were playing the German hand?

“Maybe he’s wondering what you’d want with it,” Cassidy said slowly.

Piers said, “That’s the part I don’t understand.”

The girl at the desk had hair by Gauguin and the manners of royalty. Her black satin was Chatin-Roux. She said, “You wish to see Secretary Gordon?” Her nose implied his inaccessibility.

“If you don’t mind.” Piers gave her equal hauteur. He could tell it didn’t go over. “The name is Piers Hunt.” His name wasn’t known to her.

She spoke into a box on her desk. He walked away to a chair twisted of aluminum and cafe-au-lait leather. It was more comfortable than it appeared. The elegant young woman raised her voice one cultured notch. “His secretary will be out at once, Mr. Hunt.” She seemed a little proud and not a little surprised at her prowess in obtaining the secretary. He didn’t protest. He might as well go through Gordon’s hoops as long as he was here.