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Lanny, being of an imaginative temperament, asked the same questions of himself; he lived in

those dingy and squalid sheds and felt on his back the lash of those whips which he had not

seen.

Then his busy mind began inventing a little story. He went to see the tough Nazi

Kommandant, and invited him to see the show, and after that to take a ride. When they were

well out in the country Lanny addressed him as follows:

"Herr Kommandant, one of the Jews whom you are providing with plenty of hard work

happens to be a sort of relative of mine. He is a harmless young fellow, and if I should take him

to my home in France he would be content to play the clarinet for the rest of his life and

never do any harm to your glorious movement. It happens that I have just sold some

paintings and have cash in a Munich bank. Suppose I were to pay you, say twenty-five thousand

marks, in any form and by any method you direct, and you in turn would find some way to let

me pick up that prisoner in my car and whisk him up into the mountains and across the

Austrian border-would that appeal to you as a good night's work?"

Lanny's fancy created several denouements for that story. He knew that the Nazi machine

was pretty well riddled with graft; Johannes Robin had told many tales of pure Aryan business

men who were getting what they wanted by such methods, old as the first despotism. On the

other hand, this particular toughie might be a sincere fanatic—it was impossible to tell them

apart. Lanny was sure that if Hugo Behr had been in charge of the camp, he would have taken

the money; on the other hand, Heinrich Jung would probably have reported him to the grim

Gestapo.

And what would happen then? They couldn't very well do worse than escort him to the

frontier, as Generalissimo Balbo's men had done in Rome nearly ten years ago. But here was the

thing to give Lanny pause: if the Kommandant was a really virtuous Nazi, he might go back to

his camp and make it impossible for Lanny to corrupt any weakling among his men, by the

simple method of taking Freddi Robin and beating him to death and cremating the body.

"I must think of something better," said the grown-up playboy.

BOOK SIX

Blood Hath Been Shed

25

Grasping at air

I

CHRISTMAS was coming; and Irma had been away from her darling for more than three

months. It was unthinkable to stay longer. What was Lanny accomplishing? What was he

hoping to accomplish? Göring was just playing with him. He was trying to get something out of

them, and for nothing. He was keeping them quiet, sealing their lips. Not that Irma minded so

very much having her husband's lips sealed. If only he wouldn't worry, and fill his mind with

horrors so that he started in his sleep!

The Detaze show was over, and a happy development had come. One of the great museums

in Dresden had asked to have the paintings for a while; they would treat them in a

distinguished way, putting them in a separate room. The art lovers of that Luxusstadt would

come and admire them, inquiries would be made, and it would be a good thing both from the

point of view of art and of money. Zoltan would be coming and going, and inquiring

purchasers could be referred to him. Much better than having the pictures stuck away in a

storeroom on a private estate!

Beauty and Parsifal were going to London, on account of the strangest development you

could imagine. Lady Caillard had sent a dear friend of hers all the way to Munich to persuade

the American couple to come again as her guests, on account of a presentiment which had

seized her; she was going very soon to rejoin her beloved "Vinnie" in the spirit world, and she

wanted Beauty's dear man of love to be in her home at that time to close her eyes and take

charge of her funeral which was to be like none other in modern times, a thing of joy and not of

mourning. The guests were to wear white, and there would be happy music and feasting, all

under the sign of "V.B.X"—Vinnie, Birdie, and a Kiss. "Perhaps she will send us some word about

Freddi," said Beauty; and then—a horrid thought: "Perhaps she will leave us some of her

money."

The museum in Dresden was attending to the pictures, so Jerry Pendleton was free. Irma and

Lanny took him with them through a pass in those snow-covered mountains which make for

Munich a setting like a drop curtain. They crossed the narrow belt which the Versailles Diktat

had left to Austria, and through the Brenner pass which had been included in Italy's share of

the loot. There Mussolini's Blackshirts were busily engaged in making Aryans into

Mediterraneans by the agency of rubber truncheons and dogwhips. It made bad blood between

Fascismo and its newborn offspring in the north. Dr. Goebbels's well-subsidized agitators were

working everywhere in Austria, and not a few of them were in Italian dungeons. Optimistic

young Pinks looked forward to seeing the Fascists and the Nazis devour each other like the two

Kilkenny cats.

Home sweet home seemed ever so humble when you had been dwelling and visiting in