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the thought: "Why not take a chance, Exzellenz, and turn loose my Jewish Schieber-sohn?"

VII

Herr Reichsminister Joseph Goebbels was so gracious as to indicate his opinion that the work

of Marcel Detaze was suitable for showing in Germany; quite harmless, although not especially

distinguished. Lanny understood that he could expect no more for a painter from a nation

which the Führer had described as "Negroid." It was enough, and he wired Zoltan to come to

Berlin.

What did one do to obtain publicity with a gleichgeschaltete Presse? Lanny found out, even

before his friend arrived. A youngish, very businesslike gentleman called; one of those Berliners

who wear a derby hat, and on a hot day a vest-clip on which they may hang the hat, thus

preserving comfort and respectability at the same time. His card made him known as Herr

Privatdozent Doktor der Philosophie Aloysius Winckler zu Sturmschatten. In a polite

philosophical voice he informed Lanny that he was in position to promote the reputation of

Detaze—or otherwise. The Privatdozent spoke as one having both authority and

determination; he didn't evade or drop his eyes, but said: "Sie sind ein Weltmann, Herr

Budd. You know that a great deal of money can be made from the sale of these paintings if

properly presented; and it happens that I am a Parteigenosse from the early days, the

intimate friend of persons of great influence. In past times I have rendered them services and

they have done the same for me. You understand how such things go."

Lanny said that he understood; but that this was not entirely a commercial undertaking, he

was interested in making known the work of a man whom he had loved in life and admired

still.

"Yes, yes, of course," said the stranger, his voice as smooth and purring as that of a high-priced

motor-car. "I understand what you want, and I am in position to give it to you. For the sum of

twenty thousand marks I can make Marcel Detaze a celebrated painter, and for the sum of fifty

thousand marks I can make him the initiator of a new era in representational art."

"Well, that would be fine," said Lanny. "But how can I know that you are able to do these

things?"

"For the sum of two thousand marks I will cause the publication of an excellent critical

account of Detaze, with reproductions of a couple of his works, in any daily newspaper of Berlin

which you may select. This, you understand, will be a test, and you do not have to pay until

the article appears. But it must be part of the understanding that if I produce such an

article, you agree to go ahead on one of the larger projects I have suggested. I am not a cheap

person, and am not interested in what you Americans call kleine Kartoffeln. You may write the

article yourself, but it would be wiser for you to provide me with the material and let me

prepare it, for, knowing the Berlin public, I can produce something which will serve your

purposes more surely."

So it came about that the morning on which Zoltan Kertezsi arrived at the hotel, Lanny put

into his hands a fresh newspaper containing an account of Detaze at once critically competent

and journalistically lively. Zoltan ran his eyes over it and exclaimed: "How on earth did you

do that?"

"Oh, I found a competent press agent," said the other. He knew that Zoltan had scruples,

whereas Zoltan's partner had left his in the Austrian town whence he had crossed into

Naziland.

Later that morning the Herr Privatdozent called and took Lanny for a drive. The stepson of

Detaze said that he wanted his stepfather to become the initiator of a new era in

representational painting, and offered to pay the sum of ten thousand marks per week for one

week preceding the show and two weeks during it, conditioned upon the producing of publicity

in abundant quantities and of a standard up to that of the sample. The Herr Privatdozent

accepted, and they came back to the hotel, where Zoltan, possibly not so innocent as he

appeared, sat down with them to map out a plan of campaign.

VIII

Suitable showrooms were engaged, and the ever dependable Jerry Pendleton saw to the

packing of the pictures at Bienvenu. He hired a camion, and took turns with the driver,

sleeping inside and coming straight through with that precious cargo. Beauty and her husband

came by train—there could have been no keeping her away, and anyhow, she was worth the

expenses of the journey as an auxiliary show. She was in her middle fifties, and with Lanny at

her side couldn't deny it, but she was still a blooming rose, and if you questioned what she had

once been, there were two most beautiful paintings to prove it. Nothing intrigued the crowd

more than to have her standing near so that they could make comparisons. The widow of this

initiator of a new era, and her son—but not the painter's son —no, these Negroid races run to

promiscuity, and as for the Americans, their divorces are a joke, they have a special town in

the wild and woolly West where the broken-hearted ladies of fashion stay for a few weeks in

order to get them, and meantime are consoled by cowboys and Indians.

For the "professional beauty" it was a sort of public reception, afternoons and evenings for

two weeks, and she did not miss a minute of it. A delightfully distinguished thing to be able to

invite your friends to an exhibition of which you were so unique a part: hostess, biographer,

and historian, counselor and guide—and in case of need assistant saleslady! Always she was

genial and gracious, an intimate of the great, yet not spurning one lowly lover of die schonen

Kunste. Zoltan paid her a memorable compliment, saying: "My dear Beauty Budd, I should

have asked you to marry me and travel about the world promoting pictures." Beauty, with her

best dimpled smile, replied: "Why didn't you?" (Mr. Dingle was off visiting one of his

mediums, trying to get something about Freddi, but instead getting long messages from his

father, who was so happy in the spirit world, and morally much improved over what he had

been—so he assured his son.)

There were still rich men in Germany. The steelmasters of the Ruhr, the makers of electrical

power, the owners of plants which could turn out the means of defense—all these were sitting

on the top of the Fatherland. Having wiped out the labor unions, they could pay low wages

without fear of strikes, and thus count upon profits in ever-increasing floods. They looked about

them for sound investments, and had learned ten years ago that one inflation-proof material was

diamonds and another was old masters. As a rule the moneylords didn't possess much culture,

but they knew how to read, and when they saw in one newspaper after another that a new

school of representational art had come to the front, they decided that they ought to have at

least one sample of this style in their collections. If they were elderly and retired they came to

the show; if they were middle-aged and busy they sent their wives or daugh ters. Twenty or

thirty thousand marks for a landscape did not shock them, on the contrary it made a Detaze

something to brag about. So it was that the profits of Lanny, his mother, and his half-sister —less

the ten per cent commission of Zoltan—covered twenty times over what they had paid to the

efficient Herr Privatdozent, and Zoltan suggested that they should pay this able promoter and

continue the splurge of glory for another week. Even Irma was impressed, and began to look at