IV
'In Xanadu did Kubla Khan a sacred pleasure-dome decree…'
The words were written in incandescent bulbs over the doors of the Casino.
Gilberte had learned Coleridge off by heart in her English class. It was supposed to be a
stately pleasure-dome.
The foyer was lined with peculiar contraptions. Patrons fed them with coins, yanked a crank-handle, and peered through a window as wheels whirred, then ground to a halt displaying miniature playing cards. If the centime-stuffer was fortunate enough to get a winning hand, the machine spat out tokens redeemable only at the bar in the Casino. The machines made a horrid, grinding, clanking sound. Their devotees had an impatient, haggard look she found quite disturbing.
'In America, they automate everything,' she mused.
'Not everything,' said Elizabeth. 'There will always be a place for the human touch.'
Interspersed with the gaming machines were Mutoscopes, which worked on a similar principle. Coins unlocked a mechanism, and working the handle ran a strip of pictures past a peep-hole. The Dance of the Nile. The Execution of Marie Antoinette. Madame at her Bath. Facing the Firing Squad. A Maiden Surprised by a Satyr. Gentlemen cranked vigorously, and peered at the tiny, flickering action. Live women could stroll past
au naturel without distracting these addicts from their chemically graven images.
As Irma Vep and Edda Van Heemstra, Gilberte and Elizabeth wore black and white evening dresses with matching domino masks.
Riolama was back in the suite, taking one of her bird-naps.
In the main salon of the Casino, fortunes were won and lost the old-fashioned way at baccarat or roulette tables. A hall the size of a railway station was lit by a multi-faceted globe, which was studded with electric bulbs and mirrors. This interior sun revolved slowly, wavering lights over tiers of gambling concourses, probably to the fury of people trying to concentrate on their cards or the wheel. Gilberte trusted the sphere was fixed more securely to the ceiling than the famous chandelier at the Paris Opéra.
They passed through the busy hall to the inner sanctum. A brass-bound door, emblazoned with the most elaborate K yet, was guarded by a big-browed, jut-jawed giant in evening dress. He was covered in the flip-book. Edda was supposed to know him from a previous exploit.
'Voltaire,' Gilberte whispered to Elizabeth. 'Strong-arm man for hire. You shot him in the head in New Orleans. He's had metal teeth put in since then.'
'Daa-hling,' said Elizabeth, very loudly, 'you've done something marvellous with your mouth.'
Voltaire grinned, showing sharpened steel.
'Most ferocious,' Elizabeth commented. 'And this, of course, is, ah, Irma Vep …'
Elizabeth presented their special board, and the giant – who obviously thought less of being shot in the head than many folks of Gilberte's acquaintance – opened the door to the private salon.
It was theatrically gloomy. Kane had stripped hangings, murals, frescoes and candle-sconces from an abandoned Transylvanian castle and reassembled the décor in this conference room.
A huge oak table, suitable for a Viking feast, already accommodated many masked or veiled men and women. A Neolithic altar, grooved and stained by centuries of ritual murder, was set at the head of the table, like a lectern.
Elizabeth and Gilberte took the seats allotted to Edda and Irma. Masks nodded at them. Some of the veiled ladies wore enormously feathered hats. A few villains laid daggers, pistols or exotic devices on their place-settings.
An oversized hairy hand waved at them from the end of the table. Bennett must be pleased to be included in the inner circle. They were near the top of the table. Elizabeth had a corner seat, across from a leonine fellow in a papier-mâché Guignol mask. To Gilberte's left was a ramrod-straight, severe young woman sewn into a tight-fitting gown composed of metallic plates. She wore a metal mask studded with rivets.
A chubby balding fellow with largs hands stood by the altar. Henry F. Potter, a banker, was associated with Kane in usury and union-busting throughout the American Mid-West. He had a reputation for dispossessing widows – which, since her bereavement, Gilberte took exception to. In vaudeville parlance, Potter was the 'warm-up' act.
'Friends,' coughed Potter, 'now we are all present, I suggest we take off our masks. There should be no need for disguise in this company.'
To emphasise the point, the banker slipped off a bandit domino which was useless for concealing his identity. She had thought he was just wearing thick spectacles.
Up and down the table, veils were lifted, hats removed and masks slipped off.
Most of the names Bennett had dropped and more were present: Madame Sara, Dunston Gryme, Dr Quartz, Simon Carne, Dr. Materialismus. Gilberte recognised others from the flip-book: William Boltyn, an American patron of science who claimed to be wealthier even than Kane, along with his pet engineer Hattison; Gurn, promising mercenary and murderer; General Guy Sternwood, hero of the Spanish-American War according to the Kane papers but 'the Blundering Butcher of Las Guasimas' in every other record of the conflict; sleek young Senator Joseph Harrison Paine, the tycoon's bought-and-paid-for voice in Washington; and Julian Karswell, the English diabolist.
Kane's company took in vastly disparate political interests. The woman in the metal dress was Natasha Natasaevna di Murska, sworn enemy of kings and capital. Her father, the mysterious Natas, was mastermind of an international organisation called (unsubtly) The Terrorists. Natasha glared fierce hatred at the plutocrats, robber barons and aristocrats who formed the greater part of Kane's company. Her group had threatened the world with an airship. They were not exactly Robur the Conqueror or Captain Mors but were more unpredictable. Gilberte trusted the Princess of the Revolution hadn't been allowed to bring any of the bombs she famously liked to throw at oppressors of the people into this room.
The fellow opposite Elizabeth took off his Guignol guise to reveal a second mask underneath – a tight-fitting, rough-stitched leather hood with slashes to show his teeth and eyes. He was the Face, whose page in the Agency's flip-book of notable fiends, mercenaries and masterminds was mostly blank. His true features were seen less frequently even than the baleful skull of Monsieur Erik. He put it about that he was so transcendently handsome that normal life was impossible – women and men, equally besotted, would abase themselves in his path wherever he went. Gilberte had heard some good stories in her time, but that one took the madeleine. He claimed to have recently defeated his foe Adam Adamant. This left him unopposed and thus dangerous.
Potter rapped the altar with knobby knuckles.
Voltaire wound up a phonograph and that dratted 'Oh, Mr Kane' tune sounded out, played as pompous fanfare. The already dim room-lights lowered and bright spots flared on the altar. Charles Foster Kane himself appeared, arms outstretched, in a dazzling white suit, grinning like an imbecile, enjoying himself immensely. He swept off his straw hat and waved it. He was at once a politician, a pastor, a song-and-dance man and chairman of the board. Gilberte wondered if they were supposed to applaud.
A glance up and down the table showed most of the company were also sceptical. But they stayed. Kane clearly had a species of magnetism. Money, ignorance and energy were a potent combination and – if what she had seen at Royale-les-Eaux was anything to go on – might soon surge around the world.
'Hiya, fellers – and, especially, feller-esses,' said Kane. 'Welcome to the Inner Circle of the Most High Order of Xanadu. I just made that up, you know. Most of you folks are used to secret societies and such, stretching back hundreds of years. I reckoned it'd be a comfort to have a new one to sign up to. I'll have X buttons made up…'
Gilberte suspected there'd be a K on the pommel of the X.
'We've a whole pile of doings to get through today, so I'll try – against my natural instincts – to be brief. I'm a newspaperman, so I ought to know not to waste words gussying up the message with flowery language. We want a war, right?'
A few mumbles, and a little bark of excitement from General Sternwood.
Kane made an exaggerated show of disappointment.
'Come on, Inner Circle, I know you can do better than that! We want a war, right?'
'Right,' shouted all the Americans at the table, in enthusiastic unison.
'I suppose so,' conceded the English Carne.
'It is inevitable,' decreed the Hungarian Natasha.
'That's more like it,' said Kane. 'I knew you had it in you. Whoo, this is a tough room. Do you like the room, by the way? The late Count had cobwebs and bats and rats – I even found a dead armadillo behind a sideboard – but I've spruced the old rags and stones up. Anyway, to the point, this war… I know you all take the New York Inquirer, so I'll hurry through the setup. Last year, we ran a serial in thirty-two breathless instalments, thrilling our readers with "The European War of the Future". It was a lulu! Wore out three writers. I had them run around interviewing experts in politics, munitions, naval warfare, airships, finance and all manner of things you wouldn't even think of – like military cuisine and fashions in uniform boots, ladies – then doled out their findings in an exciting, rapidly paced tale. We presented the serial as if they were reports from an actual, live war. Nations fell under the savage lance, dashing cavalrymen charged at each other like total lunatics, nuns were violated by heathen grenadiers – always a popular line – and the crowned heads of half-a-dozen countries wound up rolling together in a wicker basket…'
Natasha Natasaevna di Murska allowed herself half a smile at the thought.
'Our story covering the Spanish-American War was overshadowed and out sold by the Martian Invasion of Britain. No papers ran, that's where we came in. No news meant we could make our own and our readers lapped it up. It was such a big hit we made up our own war. I don't know why we didn't think of it before! We found readers cared more about this made-up war than real ones in Africa and South America. We had better illustrations and more heart-rending quotes. And white people being massacred. Naturally, the boys and girls in the drug-stores and on the street-cars are clamouring for a sequel. What, I hear you ask, could be bigger and better and more popular than an invented European War of the Future? That's right, mes amis and amigos… a real-life, actual European War of Right Now. Which is what we are going to deliver.'
General Sternwood – who, of course, wouldn't have to fight in this war – applauded. Perry Bennett flapped his normal hand against his clutching one.
'I'm just a sawdust-on-the-floor kind of fellow who misses the spittoon as often as he gets a bull's eye,' continued Kane, 'but I've learned the value of buying the best help there is on the market. I did that with my serial, and I'm doing that with my war. So, I'd like those of you who have already contributed to Plan Thunderbolt to stand up, introduce yourselves and shoot us the low-down on how we're going to pull it off. In case you were worried, I will be back later – talking about something I know you'll all be much more interested in than strategic details – the money. So long, now.'
Kane sat down, and the spotlights – hung from a rail in the ceiling – wandered around the room. A small, monkey-like fellow up in the rigging pulled levers and ropes to get the effect. 'Evil' Emeric Belasco, a young man with an especially vile reputation. He had two pages in the flip-book, just listing the variety of his crimes.
The light came to rest on Elizabeth.
Gilberte found it hard to breathe, but her companion was perfectly prepared.
She stood up and announced her alias. 'You know my record,' she said, offhandedly. 'The Lavender Hill Gold Caper. The Larrabee Inheritance Swindle. The Tiffany Early Morning Diamond Snatch. The Charles Bonnet Art Forgeries.'
Heads nodded. Among murmurs of admiration were a few mutters. Some of these folk only now discovered Edda Van Heemstra had bested them in previous dealings. The Rembrandt in Boltyn's collection had been scarcely dry when sold to him – dashed off by the talented Bonnet, one of Edda's several 'fathers'.
Elizabeth let the grumbles die, and got to business. 'Through the strategic seductions of two junior clerks and one senior forward-planner in the British Ministry of War, I have obtained these documents.'
She laid a folder on the table.
'These are photographic copies, of course. But excellent.'
The folder was passed to Madame Sara, the designated specialist in forgery of government papers. She also did teeth, Gilberte understood. That would explain why the suspiciously golden-haired Italian-Indian adventuress set up shop in London's Strand. The English were notorious for their teeth. The Madame paged through the documents.
'I have the authentic seals,' Elizabeth continued. 'And the proper ribbons. The British are, as we know, obsessed with ribbons.'
Madame Sara nodded, satisfied.
'Thank you, Edda,' said Kane. 'You're a living doll.' Elizabeth sat down. 'Now,' continued Kane, 'our expert on the big game of politics, Senator Paine, will explain the
significance of these purloined papers.'
The light fell on the prematurely white-haired American dignitary. He was sitting next to the Sorceress of the Strand.
'In all nations, Ministries of War sit around during periods of prolonged peace, irritably finding projects to justify their existence,' began the windy Paine, as if addressing his Senate. 'Great Britain, possessed of an Empire, rarely has periods of prolonged peace…'
Gurn grunted. He had begun his murdering in the South African conflict.
'However, when the British Ministry of War has a spare moment, their armchair generals like nothing more than the drawing-up of contingency plans, which is to say imagining what wonderful new wars might be embarked upon. For reasons few can explain, it costs as much to compile a folder such as the one we have here as it does to make a battleship. Thus are military budgets rubber-stamped cheerfully by parliaments and despots alike. Sometimes, as with the Boer War, a conflict might be a long time coming. Plans can be framed well before the outbreak of hostilities. But, there are also nasty surprises. Martian invasions. Sudden diplomatic rows get out of hand. An unkind word about an ambassador's wife's hat and the Balkans goes up in flames. From Cleopatra's nose to Jenkins' ear, wars have sprung up from trifles. So, ministries play games of "let's pretend" and plan what they would do under certain contingencies.
Let's pretend… resurgent Viking hordes ravage Scotland! Which regiments would be mobilised, what lines of transport must be kept open, where would artillery be deployed?'
Paine tapped the folder.
'This contingency plan is founded upon the "let's pretend" supposition that France makes a sudden, aggressive move against the British in Egypt, to wrest control of the Suez Canal. Furthermore, the French Navy occupies the Channel Islands while building up the fleet – an armada, if you will – in la Manche. An army is landed on the South Coast of England. Jean-François strikes towards London and King and Parliament. Of course, France has no such intent, so far as we or the British Ministry of War know. Germany, Russia, Portugal, Switzerland, Japan, Pago-Pago, the planet Mars and the Lost City of Kôr had no thought of waging war on the British Empire – but plans exist to be put in action in the event of attacks by all of them.'
General Sternwood lifted a corner of the folder, took a look at a paragraph, and spat. 'Limey crocks couldn't defend a whorehouse from a flock of sheep – look at how they intend to fortify Andover! And no general in his right mind would set counter-invasion troops ashore on the beaches of goddamn Normandy. They'd be cut to pieces! No, Cherbourg – that's your Frog weak spot!'
The General caught himself ranting and shut up. Paine gave him a stern look.
'If my colleague, Mr… ah… Mr the Face… would take over.'
Paine sat down, and the spotlight fell on the Face.
'Senator, thank you,' said the masked man, who had a rich, persuasive, unaccented voice. Beneath the leather he might be Quasimodo with the measles, but he was as beautifully spoken as any of the well-mannered gentlemen Grandmama warned Gilberte to be wary of. 'The importance of the papers Miss Van Heemstra has obtained lies not in details, General Sternwood, but in their shape and form. Much of the text can carry over into the documents Madame Sara will prepare. It is a simple matter of editing, of slanting the material, so that a contingency plan of defence will be transformed into a definite plan of attack. When the folder is passed to the French Ministry of War, it will be stained with the blood of many agents. The British will have made, or seem to have made, desperate attempts to get these plans back. Concurrently, strategic explosions will stir up activity in Portsmouth. An astute observer will believe His Majesty's Armed Forces are hurriedly preparing an invasion. Furthermore, barracks in the South of England will receive shipments of pamphlets to be issued to private soldiers…'
The Face laid a specimen on the table, which was passed around. Stamped as a British Armed Services publication, it was an English–French phrase-book. Flicking through, Gilberte found such useful sentiments as 'We are delighted to accept your surrender, Mayor', 'How long ago did your officers flee in terror, Private?' and 'Kindly tell your daughter not to put garlic in the breakfast we have requisitioned.' She could imagine the outrage in the French press when – inevitably – a copy fell into their hands.
'When the British war plans are delivered to the French government,' said the Face, white spittle flecking the corners of his mouth-slit, 'they will be convinced the Coldstream Guards are on the point of marching up the Champs-Élysées. They must believe they have no time for diplomacy, and mobilise at once against perfidious Albion.'
'Then,' said Natasha, taking over the narrative, 'bombs shall fall from the skies. Our air-destroyer Ariel, presently moored on the Scots isle of Drumcraig, will strike against targets in England and France, chosen for sentimental or patriotic associations. The White Cliffs of Dover. The Ariel shall be dressed as an airship of a different country in each attack. The square in Rouen where the English burned Joan of Arc. Where the Ariel does not reach, we Terrorists shall employ agents willing to sacrifice themselves for the cause. Waterloo Station shall be blown up! The vineyards of Champagne shall burn! There must be war!'
Gilberte thought Natasha might be unhappy in love. The armoured insurrectionist fairly squirmed with delight at the thought of carnage on a global scale as other girls her age warmed at the prospect of an extravagant new hat with ostrich feathers or a small but exquisitely stylish diamond pendant.
'Now,' said Kane, reclaiming the spotlight, pausing a moment so that Evil Emeric could fix him in the intersection of two beams, 'the small matter of the big bucks. Those of you who are professionals do not come cheap, and those of you who are zealots are in need of operating costs. Miss di Murska, I know to the last gear and strut how much gelt it takes to launch an air-destroyer. Well, I am not complaining. I'm here to buy a war. My friend Mr Boltyn has thrown in with me, so we can afford all the toys we want. His associate Mr Hattison is an inventin' fool. Thanks to his ingenuity with electrical wires and levers and trickinesses well beyond my brain-pan, each of you will leave this casino a winner, to the tune of better than a half-million dollars.'
Irma Vep herself couldn't have thrilled as much at the sound of that as Gilberte did.
'Personally, I'd like nothing better than to hand the money over in sacks right here in this room… but there are official bodies to be placated. My accountants have to fill in their forms and justify all my expenditures. I'm known for spending freely, but even I can't just say I've bought a job-lot of statues and paintings and hope not to answer any more questions. So, you will legitimately win your war chests. I have leased the baccarat, chemin-de-fer and roulette tables from the Bath Water Society. For this season, I am the bank. Tomorrow night, you will collectively break me. You may find this shocking, but every game of chance in this town is rigged. Our good friend Mr Hattison has made sure of that. Anyone in the gaming business knows you can't run the racket without letting some mug win large from time to time, to keep the rest of the suckers playing. Tomorrow night, my friends, you can't lose. Oh, it won't be obvious – there'll be reversals, early losses to build up the pot, to keep other players in the game. But, at the end of the evening, you'll walk off with your pockets full of chips.'
Around the table were happy faces. Even the Face's leather mask seemed to smirk. Only Natasha kept frowning.
'I've laid out bait enough to attract all the high-rollers and big operators in the so-called "professional gambler" line,' said Kane, 'and it's my hope the pack will sense blood in the water and bet against you. That smug bastard Charles Wells is here, and you know what he's like, with his "independent air" and his "mass of money, linen, silk and starch". The Man Who Broke the Bank at Monte Carlo, hah! I'm happy to give you good money for services rendered, but I'll be additionally tickled puce if you take what you can from parasites like Wells. Not to mention Gaylord Ravenal, A. Pike Clerk and half a dozen other gussied-up sharks in frilly shirts. Take their rolls as well as mine, and go with my blessing. A superfluity of Fatty Feasts, Meaty Morsels and Vril Grills are about to be express-delivered from the Burgher Kane in the lobby, so anyone who cares to join me in dining heartily is welcome to get their faces in the trough.'
Like almost everyone in Kane's company who wasn't American, Gilberte and Elizabeth professed to have dined earlier. They withdrew and tactfully had to detach themselves from Natasha – by telling her an especially oppressive archduke was playing whist in a private room with a bloated factory-owner, a corrupt cardinal and a brutal chieftain of Cossacks. The Queen of Terror trotted off to investigate, regretting she had not worn a bandolier of dynamite sticks to offset her metal-plate dress.
'That girl needs more fun in her life,' Gilberte observed.
It was as Erik had guessed. The casino was the pump of Kane's machine.
Tomorrow night, however things panned out, would be exciting.
