"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
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
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
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
