The Secret War (2 page)

Lovelace began to fill his pipe with deliberation. “I don't think you have any real justification for saying that. We've all the territory we need without trying to grab this last chunk of Africa.”

“Still, the fact remains that the League has world opinion solidly behind it, and if only Britain and France would act together, with real determination, they could stop this war, and make a new landmark in the history of humanity.”

“You don't think it might be in the interest of—er—humanity if the Italians were allowed to occupy Abyssinia?” There was just the suggestion of a twinkle in Lovelace's brown eyes.

“What!” Cassel sat up with a jerk. “You can't be speaking seriously?”

“Not altogether, but the place is a bit of a mess. The Emperor is quite enlightened, I believe, and probably he does his best, but he's almost single-handed, and conditions there are—well—quite mediæval.”

“They're building schools, you know, now, hospitals and modern prisons as well.”

“Perhaps, but that's only since Italy threatened to take the country over and it became vital that Abyssinia should win the sympathy of civilised nations by showing that she meant to mend her manners. They only abolished slavery as the price of admission to the League, and nine-tenths of the population are still completely barbarous savages.”

Van Der Meer grinned. “Is it true that if a chap wants to marry a girl there he has to show her proof that he's bumped off another fellow before she'll have him?”

“Yes, among certain of the tribes.”

“Golly I Did you see anything of that sort when you were out there?”

“A number of old warriors I met had pretty gruesome necklaces, and in some parts it's still extremely risky to travel without a big escort. You see, there's practically no law outside the principal towns, and unless you pay your way with constant presents you stand a good chance of being murdered for your rifle or a couple of dozen rounds of ammunition.”

“You're right, then. The place should be taken over by somebody.”

“I disagree entirely,” Cassel cut in. “Under the present Emperor conditions will improve very rapidly and, if once a white race were allowed to get a grip on
the country, it'd be the end of the blacks. They'd be exploited in the interests of capitalism and become wage slaves in two generations. The only hope for the Abyssinians is to keep the white man out. It's their country and they have the right to do so.”

Lovelace had filled his pipe and applied a match. Little imps of laughter were dancing in his eyes as he looked over the flame at the aggressive pacifist. “I'm afraid you're wrong there. The greater part of Abyssinia doesn't really belong to the Abyssinians. They only took it over with fire and sword themselves less than half a century ago. It's still peopled by completely alien races.”

For a moment Cassel chewed morosely on the butt of his cigar. “It's easy to see you're a hundred per cent. pro-Italian,” he burst out.

“No, I'm not, but, if I cared to, I could make a pretty good case for Italy.” Lovelace's sherry arrived at that moment, and as he raised the glass he added: “Well, here's fun. Aren't you joining me?”

Cassel stood up and shook his grey head. “No. If you'll forgive me, I'm afraid I must be moving now. I fear we'd never agree, Sir Anthony, but all the same, it's a pleasure to have met you.”

“Same here.” Van Der Meer rose beside him. “I'm with Sir Anthony, though. Let Italy have the place, and anyhow, the League's a washout.”

Christopher Penn had sat quite silent listening intently to the discussion. Now, as the other two moved off, he spoke for the first time since Lovelace had joined his table.

“What a tragedy it is that the League should have failed! Wilson intended it to embrace every nation on the globe, and now it has shrunk to little more than the old
Triple Entente
—Britain, France and Russia in alliance under another name. When Germany and Japan left it they put the clock back to 1914, and if they joined Italy the three would form a block every bit as
strong as the old Triple Alliance—stronger, in fact, since Japan would prove a far more powerful ally than was the case with Austria-Hungary.”

Lovelace nodded. “That's so. Half the people in Europe refuse to face the fact that the nations are divided into two great camps. In the event of a blow-up some of the smaller states would come in with us, of course, just as they did in the last Great War, but others would remain neutral, and others, again, would be forced to join the anti-League block, because of their geographical position. As things are, neither Britain nor France can possibly afford to back the League to the limit. If they did, either of them might get let in for a war on account of some trivial sideshow, which would give the nations outside the League an excuse to combine against them. Whatever happens, we mustn't risk another wholesale slaughter.”

“You think Van Der Meer is right, then, and that as there always has been war in the world there always will be?”

“God knows I hope not, but it looks like it.”

For a moment Christopher Penn did not speak. He was staring across the room with a far-away look in his eyes. “There will be,” he said softly, “as long as there are people like the man who is coming to speak to me now. I've been waiting for him.”

Lovelace followed his glance with quick interest. “Who is he?”

“Sergius Benyon. They say he's made another couple of million out of this war already.”

Benyon was a big, jolly-faced fellow with little twinkling eyes. He paused at the table and nodded cheerfully. “They told me outside that you wanted a word with me, Penn.”

“I do. Sit down a moment. This is Sir Anthony Lovelace.”

“Glad to know you.” Benyon drew up a chair. “Well, Penn, how's the lovely Valerie? I see she broke
another record with that plane of hers the other day.”

“She's fine, thanks.”

“That's good. Now what's the worry?”

“It's yours, not mine, I think.” The grave dark eyes of the younger man's pale face held the other. “I suppose you're doing pretty well out of this Abyssinian trouble?”

“Sure thing! Long may the battle rage, my boy—not that I wish the poor devils any harm, of course, but we'll pay a dividend this year it'll be grand to handle. You'd better get your broker to nail you a wad of our shares before the mob get in. They'll go a lot higher yet.”

“Thanks. You'd really like to see this war go on, then, and maybe spread to other countries?”

“Well, war certainly is a terrible thing, but it happens to suit my business. It's not our affair if they want to go cutting each others' throats on the other side. We're neutral and we'll keep neutral, so no harm's coming to us. Think what it means to our people! Employment for thousands of extra hands! Big bonuses for all the regular workers! Why, it's the best break my company's had in years. But—what are you driving at?”

“I was wondering if you really felt that way: so, well—so completely detached. Able to enjoy your profits without a thought that they're the product of human suffering.”

A frown creased the big man's jolly face. “What the hell's bitten you, Penn?” he asked in a puzzled voice. “I'm just an ordinary business man, aren't I? Where d'you get these fool ideas, anyway?”

“From something that happened to-day.” Penn spoke very quietly. “Have you ever heard of the
Millers of God?
”

“What!” Benyon clutched at the arms of his chair and half rose out of it. His face showed sudden intense anger and, Lovelace thought, just a trace of fear. He hunched himself forward and glared into Penn's pale
face. “What the devil do
you
know of this bunch of thugs who call themselves the
Millers of God?
”

“Nothing, but it seems that you
have
heard of them before.”

“By God I have! Rumours, that's all, but nasty rumours. One or two friends of mine have been—well, never mind.” Benyon suddenly banged his fist upon the table. “Look here, Penn, you've
got
to tell me what you know of this devilish organisation.”

“I know nothing,” Christopher Penn repeated evenly.

“Then why the hell should you mention it after leaving word that you wanted to have a talk with me?”

“Because I was stopped by a stranger in the street to-day. He just said: ‘You know Sergius Benyon. For his own sake give him this message: “The
Millers of God
are watching his activities. If, during the next month, the export figures of his companies exceed last year's for the same period by more than 10 per cent, it will be taken as proof that he is amassing riches by supplying material used for the furtherance of mass-murder. As an accessory to murder, before the fact, Sergius Benyon will then be formally condemned to death by the
Millers of God.
”'”

“Hell!” Benyon slumped back in his chair. A faint perspiration had broken out on his forehead. He fumbled for a silk handkerchief and began to mop at his face, then he muttered: “So they threaten
me
with death now, do they? What else did he say, Penn, what else did he say?”

“That's all. Word for word as near as I can remember. And before I had a chance to open my mouth, he'd disappeared in the crowd.”

“But I can't go and cancel all my contracts and—” Benyon suddenly seemed to recover his nerve. “I'm damned if I would if I could, either. I'm not going to be scared into ruining myself to please a bunch of half-baked pacifists. If it comes to a showdown I'll bet they haven't got the guts to try and do me in.”

Lovelace's eyes were on Penn's face. It was grave and impassive as he answered. “The chap who sent you this message looked as though he meant it.”

“Did he? You could describe him, of course?”

“Yes. The whole episode was so astounding that I should recognise him again anywhere.”

“Good!” The big man jumped to his feet. “I'm going down to Police Headquarters right away. ‘Fraid they'll want to bother you for your story later, but I'm not taking any chances, and the sooner these
Millers of God
people are chased out of town the better. It may be some bughouse religious organisation, still—you never know. I've heard some queer things lately. So long.”

As Benyon swung easily away Lovelace raised his eyebrows. “This sounds like a secret society which is out to kill off war profiteers. Seems a bit drastic, doesn't it? Although, of course, they're a rotten lot of blighters.”

“They are,” agreed Penn, “as a whole. Benyon's a decent enough fellow really, and I'd be sorry if anything happened to him. However, I've passed on this mysterious warning, so let's hope he'll take notice of it. You were saying just now, by the way, that you could make a case for Italy, if you wanted to. I'd be interested to hear it.”

Lovelace looked up in surprise. He would have liked to speculate further on the possible activities of the
Millers of God
, but Penn was obviously determined to change the conversation. “All right,” he said, “but you mustn't take this as my own view. I'm neutral. Most English people are at heart, I think. We hate to see the poor little Emperor done down because, believe it or not, we're a sentimental lot, and our sympathies usually go to the weaker party. On the other hand, we do know that the Emperor isn't strong enough to cope with the terrible abuses which still go on in his country. Of course what it needs is a real good spring-cleaning.
On the other hand, we admire Mussolini for pulling Italy together after the war, and we've always had a genuine liking for the Italians.”

While Penn listened attentively, the Englishman then outlined the amazing changes which had taken place in Italy since the Great War. He laid particular stress upon the fact that she had not sufficient arable land to support her population. “And, after all,” he finished, “Mussolini is only proposing to do what Britain and France have done on innumerable occasions in the past. What's more, he gave many months' notice of his intention.”

Penn nodded. “That's a very able argument, but, d'you realise you are admitting that Britain is as much to blame as anyone else for this wretched muddle? You say Mussolini gave many months' notice of his intention. If Britain had made it clear then that she meant to support the League, the presumption is that there wouldn't have been any war.”

“Perhaps, but I'd rather you didn't father it entirely on us. Britain has voiced the feeling of the smaller nations, but she couldn't do that before she knew it. This is the League's business, and we had to wait for the League's decision.”

“You mean you never fancied the idea of having the italians in Abyssinia, because you feared they might prove awkward neighbours for you in Egypt. But you preferred to wait before making your protest until you could appear as the champion of the League.”

Lovelace grinned. “You're a pretty shrewd young man, aren't you?”

“Not particularly. I've studied these questions rather carefully, that's all. Another thing: that argument about surplus population is a complete fallacy. Did you know that although the Germans had a very considerable colonial Empire before the war, there were actually a greater number of their nationals in Paris, the enemy capital, on the outbreak of hostilities, than in the whole of their overseas territory? It's been proved time and
again that colonies are not essential to the expansion of a people. Look at the number of Italians and Germans we have here in the States!”

“There's a certain amount of truth in that.”

“There is, and ingenious as your case for Italy appears on the surface, if I were Cassel, I should tell you it's just the sort of argument that Britain can be guaranteed to put up when she wishes to justify her own annexations. A delightful essay in hypocrisy!”