The visitors would depart; and while the next lot cooled their heels in the lobby, the salesman would take off the heavy alligator-skin belt which he always wore, slip a catch, and draw out several long strips of parchment with fine writing on them. He would sit at his portable typewriter, the newest contraption created by Yankee ingenuity, and would study the parchment strips and proceed to type out a cablegram in code.
That secret code had been one of the thrills of Lanny's life for several years. It was changed every time Robbie made a trip, and there were only two copies of it in existence; the other was in the possession of Robbie's father. The one other person who knew about it was the confidential clerk who devised it, and who did the decoding for the president of the company. The belt in which Robbie kept his own copy was never off his person except when he was in the bathtub or in swimming; usually he swam from a boat, and before he sank down among the fishes he would make sure there were no agents of foreign governments near by.
Robbie had talked quite a lot about ciphers and codes. Any cipher could be “broken” by an expert; but a code was safe, because it gave purely arbitrary meanings to words. The smartest expert could hardly find out that “Agamemnon” meant Turkey, or that “hippo-griff” meant the premier of Rumania. Robbie would use the cable company's code-book for the ordinary phrases of his message: “I have promised immediate delivery,” or “I advise acceptance,” and so on; but crucial words, such as names of countries, of individuals he was dealing with and the goods they were ordering, were in the private code. These precautions had been adopted after a deal had been lost because Zaharoff had a man in the office of Budd Gun-makers and was getting copies of Robbie's messages.
Seeing how overwhelmed his father was, Lanny asked if he could help; and the father said: “It's too bad you don't know how to type.”
“I can find the letters on the keyboard,” replied the boy, “and you don't hit 'em so fast yourself.”
“You'll find it's pretty poor fun.”
“If I'm really helping you, I'll think it's the best fun there is.”
So Robbie wrote his cablegram in English, and showed the boy how to look up phrases in the regular code-book, and underlined those words which would be in his own list. While Robbie interviewed a friend of Captain Bragescu, just arrived from Rumania, Lanny worked patiently by the “hunt and peck” method, producing a long string of ten-letter words: “California Independed Hilarioust Scorpionly Necessands,” and so on. Lanny's grandfather, who had tried hard not to let him be born, and who so far had refused to recognize the failure of that effort, would learn from this painstaking service that the government of Holland was anxious over the possibility of invasion, and would pay thirty percent premium for delivery of twenty thousand carbines during the month of August.
By the time Robbie's interview was concluded, the message was ready, and he went over it and found only two or three errors, and said it was a great help; which of course made the boy as proud as Punch. Robbie burned the original message, and let the ashes drop into the toilet bowl. Then Lanny asked: “Do you ever add anything out of code?”
“Sometimes,” replied the father. “Why?”
“Just say: 'Lanny coded this.'”
Robbie chuckled, but he said: “Wait till he sells the guns and gets the money!”
IV
The cablegram dispatched, the pair went for a stroll, to get some fresh air into their lungs before lunch. The other delegations could wait, said Robbie; no sense in killing yourself — anyhow, Budd's was loaded up with orders; in the past couple of weeks they had accumulated a “backlog” for six months. For years Robbie had been urging the family to expand the plant; Robbie's eldest brother, Lawford, who was in charge of production, had opposed it, but finally their father had adopted Robbie's program. Now he wouldn't have to worry any more.
“What's he worrying about?” asked Lanny, and Robbie answered: “Bankers! Once you let Wall Street get its claws into you, you cease to be a family institution.”
It was Friday, the last day of July. Newsboys were shouting la guerre again. Germany had declared martial law. She was going to war with somebody, and it could only be with France's ally. People appeared to have lost interest in the ordinary tasks; they stopped on street corners, or in front of bistros, kiosks, and tobacco shops, to talk about the meaning of events. People spoke to you who wouldn't ordinarily have done so. “They're scared,” said Robbie. “That brings human beings together.”
There came the sound of drums; a regiment marching — toward the east, of course. The soldiers sweated under a load of equipment; rifle and bayonet, knapsack, a big blanket roll, a canteen, even a little spade. Their blue coats were long and heavy, their red trousers big and baggy. The crowds came running, but they didn't cheer. Neither- the soldiers nor the people looked happy. “Is France mobilizing?” asked Lanny, and his father replied: “Troops would be moving toward the frontier in any case.”
They returned to the Crillon, and while they were at lunch a cablegram was brought to Robbie. “From Newcastle,” he said. It was in code, of course, and Lanny exclaimed eagerly: “Oh, let me try it!” The father said: “O.K.”
When they went upstairs Robbie took off the magic belt, and Lanny shut himself in his bedroom with cablegram and code-book, leaving the father free for more interviews. The cablegram conveyed the information that Turkey was twenty-four hours overdue upon the first payment for ground-type air-cooled machine guns ordered. Might it not be wise to cancel the deal and dispose of the guns to the British army? Robbie was to advise immediately what increased price he thought the British would pay.
It sounded so important that Lanny took the decoded message to his father, and Robbie cut short his interview and got busy on the telephone to locate a member of the British military mission then holding consultations with the French Ministry of War. Lanny went back to put into code the words: “Advise cancellation Turkey am making inquiries Britain.”
A man like Robbie Budd would normally have a secretary with him; but Robbie was active, and had always preferred to handle his own affairs and write his own letters to his father. Now he was caught in a sudden hurricane, and less willing than ever to trust anybody. So there was a chance for a fourteen-year-old boy to step into a secretary's job — for which he was not without some preparation.
Robbie checked the message and found it all right. He put on his magic belt and went down to take a taxi for an appointment with the British officer. Lanny filed the cablegram, and then went to the street and bought the latest newspaper. When he came back he found there was a letter for his mother — in the familiar handwriting of Marcel Detaze, and postmarked Juan-Ies-Pins. It was an unusually thick letter, and Lanny didn't have to guess that Marcel would be pouring out his soul. He took it up to his mother's suite. He would rest for a while from being a code expert, and resume his role as consultant upon affairs of the heart.
V
Beauty had been to lunch with her friend Emily Chattersworth, and was loaded up with “sensible” advice on the problem which was exercising her. But when she saw that letter, all the labors of her friend were undone. She paled and caught her breath, and her hands trembled while she read. When she had finished the long letter, she sat staring in front of her, biting her lip as if enduring pain.