House of All Nations (85 page)

(Wilhelm Meister was the name used by Davigdor in his German love affairs. The young lady's address was Frau Florenz, Poste Restante, in a Berlin postal section.)

After Alphendéry and William and Davigdor had grubbed around for some fifteen minutes they produced between them the above linguistic and amorous masterpiece and Alphendéry set to work to copy it out in a fair hand, Davigdor never wrote to any girl in his own handwriting … In return for this favor, Davigdor gave them a few pointers, while protesting that he was practically a born idiot and could never understand anything: that there would be a prolongation of the accord on German frozen credits and that the politics of Social Democracy in Germany was all the capitalists of the world were hanging by, until they had determined on a policy for themselves. They could only now depend on the errors of a Bruning, the coat-turning of a MacDonald, and the ultimate though not now apparent wealth of the U.S.A. to save them till they tried out some expedient—possibly an extension of fascism … Davigdor laughed at those who still pinned their hopes of Germany's paying her debts and returning to ‘sanity.' ‘She's between the devil and the deep sea, between a moratorium and an inflation: bet on which you will …'

‘And the Lord?'

‘Ah, ah, the Lord is getting old but he's not so weak-minded yet as to tell me his business.'

‘What about Deterding: he is really cuckoo? Is he going bankrupt? Is he going to ruin himself in silver?'

The speculations followed. Davigdor let fall some of his idiocies, to amuse them: ‘They say in London that you're working for Ivar Kreuger now.'

‘Don't joke, Davigdor: what do they say about Kreuger?'

Davigdor wouldn't be drawn: ‘Oh, Kreuger's got a couple of old communists working for him, I thought maybe he'd bought you in too. I hear you went to the Rothschilds, Alphendéry, with a scheme for selling Royal Dutch short.'

‘Yes.'

‘More fool you,' said Davigdor rudely. ‘A peasant takes his daughter to the landlord to taste and then expects him to marry her … no, no … oh, oh. No one knows the boys but me; no one but me has seen them skin a flint … you boys,' he said cavorting, ‘will all be ruined, all … Hey, Alphendéry, I hear you're sleeping out.'

For it was a fact that nothing went on in Paris, Amsterdam, Brussels, or Berlin in their circles, which was not immediately communicated to the other centers; and Alphendéry, ‘Bertillon's mystery man,' was one of the minor beasts in their fables.

‘Well,' said Schicklgrüber, preparing to go, ‘excuse me: promised to sleep with a sweetie this afternoon … What currency are you boys going to make a fortune on next? …'

Alphendéry threw out his hands. ‘Sound money's no good, bad money's no good, high interest is no good, cheap money is no good: it requires the leaven of the U.S.A.'s dough before they do any good here, and when will that come? The only thing that would save Europe is socialism, higher wages, higher productivity … tell that to the capitalists … I predict a crash in all European markets within three months: there's no hope anywhere …'

‘Thanks,' said Davigdor, ‘I'll write that to the Lord.'

When he had gone, William smirked, ‘What's he up to in Berlin?'

Alphendéry pondered, ‘I've a hunch that the Lord is thinking of punting on Hitler. He's making a mistake, Hitler will never convince them; they've had too much socialist training since the war … what has he got to sell?'

William ripped out his usual cranky speech. ‘You can sell anything to the Boches: they're regimented … goose-step heroes with tin medals, like kids. Say, you don't know them, you're too sentimental; you can't change a Heinie overnight with a few speeches about sharing the wealth or whatever it is. For all they know, this Hitler can really change things, turn the big ones into little ones for their sake: they invented fairy tales, didn't they? They still believe them.'

Alphendéry was irritated beyond endurance by William's crabbed stupidity. ‘I know them better than you, I'm an Alsatian.'

William laughed bitterly: ‘You're too open-minded, Michel: intern your mind, shut it up; don't be so fair-minded. This isn't a fair world; this is a lousy world since the war, and it's going to get worse. You can start a society for the prevention of cruelty to tigers but that doesn't stop even the kitchen cat from chewing your leg off, if it's hungry and you can't shoo it … Say, Michel, if you hadn't been living off rich men all your life, selling yourself with your sweet line, would you be so soft? You would have had to bring down a few birds yourself before this if you hadn't struck it lucky. It's too late now: you mark my words. And if your bunch of Red friends don't get tough too, they'll go down before even a Tardieu or a real ironsides, another Poincaré.'

Instead of answering, Alphendéry got up and moved through the door; he walked up and down outside in the corridor. William was getting beyond endurance. Inside William shrugged his shoulders to himself and sulkily went to look through the card index. Thirty-five clients undermargined: he was going to call them for margins this very day. Alphendéry being kind to the clients and he, William, had to face a half-empty cashbox! For this secret, the inroads made by Carrière's campaign, on their reserves, William had never revealed even to the observant and experienced Alphendéry. No one but Jules's eldest brother would ever know Jules's danger.

The telephone rang; William called, ‘Michel, Davigdor on the wire for you.'

Davigdor said, ‘Michel, there are rumors all over London that you're looking for a job elsewhere,' and laughing with a certain emphasis, Davigdor put down the telephone. A girl was laughing beside him. Michel knew that this was a warning.

‘What do you want to see the Lord for?' queried William suspiciously, leadenly. ‘Are you trying to land a job with him?'

‘Not at all; but I don't see what harm there is in getting to know one of the richest thieves in the world. It will be a great help to me later on, if I write.'

William's voice held a bitter note: ‘You wouldn't use your own name when writing for them?'

‘No, perhaps not …' said Michel dubiously.

William cried with one of Jules's pets, ‘I think you're getting us into a lot of trouble: Plowman says everyone says the bank has Reds in it; you know what these mugs are where their money's concerned. How do I know that that isn't behind these …' He nearly said ‘withdrawals.' He changed it to, ‘cases that are being hurried through the courts against us at breakneck speed …' He laughed, somewhat ashamed.

While Jules was away and Alphendéry absorbed, Aristide Raccamond was taking the subordinate chiefs of the staff into his confidence: Henri Martin, one of the chief cashiers, a brilliant, close-keeping fellow, well knit, solid, giving an impression of manliness, was one to watch out for. Aristide had it on good authority that Martin was a retired war spy and had sent seventeen men to their death in Alsace. Why was he in Bertillon's bank? A friend of Bertillon, it was said, picked up during the war. But why? Was he set to watch Bertillon? Was he watching Alphendéry? Was he simply doing nothing, earning his living? Did ex-war spies ever simply earn their living? At any rate, Mme. Raccamond, consulted, warned Aristide to have nothing whatever to do with Henri Martin.

Jean de Guipatin, really Aristide's friend, was loyal to Jules before all others. This left Urbain Voulou and the customers' men upon whom he would not call, and Jacques Manray, manager of the ground floor, a loyal and ready fellow, sensible, experienced, and cheerful, who had confidence in everyone … Raccamond, concurring with Marianne, his wife, had therefore cultivated Jacques Manray's acquaintance, and the two had begun to visit each other's homes. But Jacques was cautious. Nevertheless, in his honesty, he talked over some of the troubles of the bank with Aristide. Marianne, after their second visit, smiled to Aristide, ‘He is a man for you. Count on him.'

Carrière found that Aristide was not bringing him enough information now: he expected Aristide, he told him, during Jules's absence, to get on the inside of the bank, learn its secrets, and take the opportunity to make his grip felt, to announce himself as director pretty generally, make Alphendéry take a back seat. He invited Aristide to his home to a private lunch with his secretary and then, confidentially, showed not only that Jules had cheated him on a plain exchange contract but that Jules was bankrupt: if he had the money, why didn't he pay and get rid of the counterpublicity?

* * *

Scene Seventy-one: Aristide in a Stew

C
arri
é
re attacked Jules and the bank every day in the widespread press of his friend, the Deputy Sournois, and the more he attacked, the more Jules absented himself from the bank and filled in his time swimming, yachting, riding, gaming on the Mediterranean and Channel coasts. The mess of lawsuits, clients' demands, rumors, and blackmail petitions became the daily meat of William Bertillon, Michel Alphendéry, Adam Constant, and Jacques Manray. All of these four were haggard and harassed. The customers' men as well as the cashiers began to lose confidence in the bank. William tried to be even more thick-skinned, Michel even merrier, to make the place more lively. Clients clustered downstairs but there was an unhealthy plaguy atmosphere in the bank: the Carrière-Bertillon duel was the subject of all conversations. The clients became suspicious and touchy; the workers in the bank foresaw the ruin of the bank and their unemployment. The luster was turned on every day in Jules's room, and William and Michel entertained visitors there to warm the place up, but Jules was not to be seen and the spirit of the bank was missing: the bank seemed to have gone soggy like a house of cardboard left out in the rain.

Michel and William had now taken counsel and secretly sent several emissaries to Carrière suggesting settlements, variously of seventy-five thousand dollars and eighty-five thousand dollars, but Carrière had refused even to parley. His close friend, Comte Jean de Guipatin, found it impossible to influence him. He was honestly out for Bertillon's blood.

Raccamond saw not only ruin but conspiracy ahead of him. He got to the bank early in the morning and as soon as Mouradzian arrived took him aside trembling and said to him, ‘Have you heard all the rumors about the bank?'

Parisians, women, South Americans, who came into the bank and saw little Mouradzian, a desiccated man with crafty face and brilliant eyes, in the gangways, immediately thought him a crook and white slaver, a blackmailer, a danger to the house, perhaps a sell-out too; clever and dishonest. But it was not so. He was a great admirer of Bertillon, in his moments of genius, and of Alphendéry. And as for the ‘rumors': an Armenian after two thousand years of buffetings, would he bend before a storm in a teacup such as this quarrel between two rich young upstarts? Whenever the bank and its troubles were mentioned on the Bourse or else round the cafés, Mouradzian listened, picking up all the information he could for his own sake; but he gravely declined to take any part in the discussion or to give any opinion. He was an Easterner, a deep one; not a monkey or a parrot like most of his compeers.

‘I'm fifty years old and I've heard a wash of rumors in that time …'

‘What are we to do? We can't get accounts now! Everyone throws the Carrière quarrel in our teeth.'

‘People must put their money somewhere,' murmured Mouradzian.

Aristide became more and more restless. ‘Do you think it is not your duty as a respectable customers' man, to withdraw your accounts from a bank with this reputation? Do you think it right to risk them? I am terribly worried; I have so many fine names.' He bent closer to Mouradzian, ‘Besides, I have firsthand information Carrière is really being swindled; he has a contract with Bertillon. Dr. Carrière told me himself.'

‘Of course,' said Mouradzian. ‘Otherwise, why would Bertillon pay a sou?'

‘I thought it was a question of honor between two
gentlemen
, two
clubmen
.' Aristide used the English words, to give his idea more distinction. Mouradzian watched him with dark, unspeaking eyes. Aristide hastened to say what he had come to say, ‘Mouradzian, I regard you as an important figure in the bank. You have excellent clients. I confide in you this information which I have directly from Dr. Carrière. Dr. Carrière is sure to win his suit on the exchange contract and he intends to ruin Bertillon. If you and I consort, withdraw our clients together, we can make a very impressive entry into some other bank. We can control the situation so to speak! If you wish to team up with me—'

‘Thank you,
confrère
. I will think of it. You have begun relations with another bank?'

‘I have always done a little business with the Crédit. I always keep a door open. We all do—'

Mouradzian nodded his head. ‘Good: I will think of it.' Aristide was taken aback. ‘You are leaving your clients in danger!'

Mouradzian rose politely, ‘Pardon me,
confrère
; I have my reasons.'

‘Wait, wait! What do you make of the rumors proceeding from the Parouart case and others, that the bank takes a position against its stock-exchange clients?'

Mouradzian sat down. ‘I hope it is true.'

Aristide paled. ‘Why?'

‘The client is always wrong,' said Mouradzian. ‘The bank is sure to be liquid if it has taken a position against its clients.' Aristide began to tremble. His chops fell, his eyes started. ‘But Mouradzian, they are betting on our clients' ruin; where is our living to come from?'

Mouradzian's eyes darkened, but he said amiably, ‘
Confrère
, I go to a big capitalist and I say, “
This Bertillon Bank is a famous contrepartie (offset) house
.” I do not know if it is true. That is my selling talk! I say to the personage, “
This bank cannot fail
.”'