WORLD'S END

Lanny was invited to sit down, and the younger flic stood by, never moving his eyes from him. Evidently they must be thinking they had made an important capture. The elder man set to work to search the suite; the escritoire, the bureau drawers, the suitcases - he laid the latter on the bed and went through them, putting everything of significance into one of them. This included a thirty-eight automatic and a box of cartridges - which of course would seem more significant to a French detective than to an American.

If Lanny had been in possession of a clear conscience, he might have derived enjoyment from this opportunity to watch the French police chez eux, as it were. But having a very uneasy conscience indeed, he thought he would stop this bad joke if he could. "You are likely to find a number of guns in my father's luggage," he remarked. "That is not because he shoots people, but because he sells guns."

"Ah! Votre pиre est un marchand d'armes!" One had to hear it in French to get a full sense of the flic's surprise.

"Mon pиre est un fabricant d'armes" replied Lanny, still more impressively. "He has made for the French government a hundred million francs' worth of arms in the past five years. If he had not done so, the boches would be in Paris now, and you would be under the sod, perhaps."

"Vraiment, Monsieur!" exclaimed the other, and stood irresolute, as if he hadn't the nerve to touch another object belonging to a person who might possibly be of such importance. "What is it that is the name of your father?" he inquired, at last.

"His name is Robert Budd."

The other wrote it down, with Lanny spelling the letters in French. "And Monsieur's name?"

The youth spelled the name of Lanning, which a Frenchman does not pronounce without considerable practice. Then he remarked: "If you examine that gun, you will see that it has my father's name as the fabricant."

"Ah, vraiment?" exclaimed the detective, and took the gun to the window to verify this extraordinary statement. Evidently he didn't know what to do next, and Lanny thought that his little dodge had worked. But when the detective took the bundle of leaflets from his pockets and began to examine them; and so of course Lanny knew that the jig was up. He hadn't looked at the papers, but he knew what would be in them. "Workingmen of all countries, unite! You have nothing to lose but your chains; you have a world to gain!" The flic put the papers back into his pocket, and went on piling Robbie's papers into a suitcase. "It is a matter which the commissaire will have to determine, Monsieur."

38

Battle of the Stags

I

RIDING in a taxi to the Prйfecture de Police, Lanny thought as hard as he had ever done in his life. Had these agents been following him because they had learned about his connections with a German spy? Or had they been following the notorious Jesse Blackless and seen him hand papers to Lanny? Everything seemed to indicate the latter; but doubtless at the Prйfecture they would have Lanny listed in connection with Lincoln Steffens, and with Herron, and Alston - who could guess where these trails might lead? Lanny decided that he had talked enough and would take refuge in the fact that he was not yet of age. Even in wartime they could hardly shoot you for refusing to answer questions; and, besides, the war was coming to an end this very afternoon! Many, many times in five years he had heard Frenchmen exclaim: "C'est la guerre!" Now, for once, he would be able to answer: "C'est la paix!” The Prйfecture is on the Оle de la Citй, the oldest part of Paris, having as much history to the square meter as any other place in the world. Like most old buildings it had a vague musty odor. They booked him, and took away his billfold, his watch, his keys; then they put him in a small room with a barred window high up, and an odor of ammonia, the source of which was obvious. The younger of the two detectives sat and watched him, but did not speak. In half an hour or so he was escorted to an office, where he found no less than three officials waiting to question him. All three were polite, grave, and determined. The eldest, the commissaire, was dressed as if he were going to have tea at Mrs. Emily's. At a second desk sat a clerk, ready to begin writing vigorously - the so-called procиs verbal.

"Messieurs," said Lanny, "please believe that I intend no discourtesy; but I consider this arrest an indignity and I intend to stand upon my rights. I am a minor and it is my father who is legally responsible for me. I demand that he be summoned, and I refuse to answer any questions whatsoever until that has been done."