“You mean that you don't trust your uncle?” A silence. “Or is it that the gentleman is not your uncle?”
“It would be such a very simple matter to telephone to my father's hotel, Monsieur!”
“We have already done that; but your father is not there.”
“He is quite certain to arrive before long.”
“You mean you intend to force us to keep you in this uncomfortable position until we can find your father?”
“No, Monsieur, I haven't the least desire to do that. I am willing for you to release me at any time.”
There was a long silence. Lanny kept his eyes on the commissaire, whose face wore a stern frown. The prisoner wouldn't have been entirely surprised if the man had said: “Take him out and shoot him now!” He was really surprised when he perceived a slow smile spreading over the features of the elderly official. “Eh blen, mon garçon” he said, finally. “If I let you have your way, will you promise to harbor no ill feelings?”
“Yes, sir,” said Lanny, as quickly as he was able to take in the meaning.
“Don't think that we are naive, M. Bloc-less,” said the commissaire to the painter. “We have investigated your story. We knew most of it before you came.”
“I was quite sure that would be the case,” replied Uncle Jesse, with one of his twisted smiles. “Otherwise I might not have come.”
“You are playing a dangerous game,” continued the other. “I don't suppose you wish any advice from me; but if we are forced to ask you to leave the country, it will not be without fair warning — now repeated for the second time.”
“If that misfortune befalls me, Monsieur, I shall be extremely sorry, for France has been my home for the greater part of my life. I shall be sorrier still for the sake of the republic, whose reputation as a shelter for the politically persecuted is the fairest jewel in her crown.”
“You are a shrewd man, M. Blocless. You know the language of liberty and idealism, and you use it in the service of tyranny and hate.”
“That is a subject about which we might argue for a long while, Monsieur le Commissaire. I don't think it would be proper for me to dispute with you in your professional capacity; but if at any time you care to meet me socially, I'll be most happy to explain my ideas.”
There was a twinkle in the elderly Frenchman's eye. Esprit is their specialty, and he knew a good answer when he heard it. He turned to Lanny. “As for you, mon garçon” — taking Lanny into the family — “it appears that you have been the victim of persons older and less scrupulous than yourself. Next time I would advise you to look at papers before you put them into your pocket.”
“I assure you, Monsieur,” said the youth, respectfully, “I intended to do it as soon as I got to my room.” This too had the light play of humor in which the French delight; so the commissaire said he hoped his guest hadn't minded his misadventure. Lanny replied that he had found the experience educational, and that stories of crime and detection would be far more vivid to him in future. The suitcase containing Robbie's papers was restored to Robbie's son, and the three officials shook hands with him — but not with Uncle Jesse, he noticed. “M. Bloc-less” was one of the “older and less scrupulous persons.”
IV
Nephew and uncle stepped out into the twilight; and it seemed to Lanny the most delightful moment he had spent in Paris. Very certainly the Île de la Cité with its bridges and its great cathedral had never appeared more beautiful than in the summer twilight. Flags were out, and the holiday atmosphere prevailed. To everybody else it was because of the signing of the treaty, but there was nothing to prevent Lanny Budd's applying it to his emergence from the Préfecture.
The moment was made perfect when a taxi came whirling up the Boulevard du Palais, and there was Robbie Budd peering forth. “Well, what the devil is this?” he cried.
“You got my note?” inquired Jesse, as Robbie jumped out. “That — and your telegram.”
“I wanted to be sure of reaching you. I was afraid they might hold me, too.”
“But what is it all about?”
“Get back into the cab,” said Uncle Jesse. “We can't talk about it here.”
The two got in, and Lanny handed in the suitcase, and followed it. When the Préfecture was behind them, the painter said: “Now, Robbie, I'll tell you the story I just told the commissaire. You remember how, several months back, Professor Alston sent Lanny to me to arrange for a conference between Colonel House and some of the Russian agents in Paris?”
“I was told about it,” said Robbie, with no cordiality in his tone. “Don't forget that it was United States government business. Lanny did it because it was his job, and I did it because his chief urged me to. I have made it a matter of honor never to force myself upon your son. I have done that out of regard for my sister. Lanny will tell you that it is so.”
“It really is, Robbie,” put in the youth. “Go on,” said Robbie, between his clenched teeth. “Well, this morning a French labor leader came to me. You know the blockade of Germany is still going on, the war on the Soviet government is still going on — and both are products of French government policy.”
“You may assume that I have read the newspapers,” replied the father. “Kindly tell me what the police wanted with Lanny.”
“This labor man of course would like to have American support for a policy more liberal and humane. He brought me a bundle of leaflets presenting the arguments of the French workers, and asked if it wouldn't be possible for my nephew at the Crillon to get these into the hands of Colonel House, so that he might know how the workers felt. I said: 'My nephew has broken with the Crillon, because he doesn't approve its policies.' The answer was: 'Well, he may be in touch with some of the staff there and might be able to get the documents to Colonel House.' So I said: 'All right, I'll take them to him and ask him to try.' I took them, and advised Lanny not to read them himself, but to get them to the right person if he had a chance.”
Lanny sat rigid in his seat, his mind torn between dismay and admiration. Oh, what a beautiful story! It brought him to realize how ill equipped he was for the career of an intriguer, a secret agent; all those hours he had spent in the silence of his cell — and never once had he thought of that absolutely perfect story!
“My friend told me how many of these leaflets had been printed and distributed in Paris, and I jotted down the figures on each one, thinking it might help to impress Colonel House. It appears the Préfecture found those figures highly suspicious.”
“Tell me how it happened,” persisted Robbie.
“When I left the hotel I got a glimpse of a man strolling past the window and looking into the lobby. He happened to be one of the flics who had picked me up several months back. I saw him enter the hotel, and I looked through the window and saw him and another man go into the elevator with Lanny. I waited until they came down and put him into a taxi. Then I set out to find you. I was afraid to go into the hotel, so I used the telephone. When I failed to find you, I sent you a note by messenger, and also a telegram, and then I decided to go to the Préfecture and try my luck. It was a risk, of course, because Lanny might have talked, and I couldn't know what he had said.”
“You might have guessed that he would have told the truth,” said the father.
“I wasn't that clever. What I did was to fish around, until they told me Lanny had confessed that he was a Red — ”