posse.
“More and more, these days,” the author admitted. “America’s where the money is—and impending war isn’t.”
“Don’t listen to the doomsayers. Politics always takes a backseat to money. You probably don’t realize you’re talkin’ to a card-carryin’ Nazi.”
“Really?”
“Joined May first three, no, four years ago. Party card number 3075295.”
Charteris had finished his first Scotch; it was clearly time to begin his second. “If you don’t mind my saying so, George, you don’t seem the, uh, Nazi type.”
Hirschfeld lifted his glass to Charteris. “And I take that as a compliment. See, back in thirty-three these little men in the Nazi party demanded seats on the Cotton Exchange and on the Board of Trade. You know the expression—if you can’t beat ’em?”
“Join them.”
Hirschfeld grinned and nodded. “I outfoxed the bastards—protected my seat by signin’ up.”
“I see.”
“Do you? Let me ask you this—do you know what a bale of cotton is?”
“You mean what it sells for?”
“Hell, price is always in a state of flux. What I mean is, ask any showgirl and she’ll tell ya: cotton and money, they’re the same damn thing. Interchangeable. A few bales of cotton—a Mercedes, a box at Longchamps, a gold ring the size of an onion. And that’s an exchange that can be made regardless of who holds political power, irrespective of political ideas and economic theories.”
“Well, no matter one’s politics, one does need cotton.”
“Damn tootin’. You wear it, pants, shirt, underwear, ties, socks, your wife even serves the evening meal on it, and as for war? You know what war means to me? Tents and uniforms and parachutes and rags to clean your goddamn guns with.”
“And to sop up blood.”
“Now, now, Leslie, you think I’m coldhearted, cold-blooded? No. I’m a businessman. What the fools of the world want to do with themselves is their concern—I just know, whatever they do, whatever they decide, they’ll still need me.”
“Is cotton trading so difficult a business to master?”
“Cotton trading isn’t just a business, Leslie—it’s an art. You see, my poppa was a cotton broker, and when I was twenty-three, he put me to work on our cotton plantation on the Brazos River. This was born and bred into me.”
“Ah.”
“A true trader can tell between good cotton and poor cotton, between rain in Mississippi and Minnesota. Right now I’m in the middle of the biggest cotton deal of my career—fifty thousand tons in one fell swoop.”
“This is American cotton?”
“That’s right. Last deal like this that came along, Washington wouldn’t sell cotton to Germany without us takin’ some surplus U.S. lard. Imagine that? Cotton dunked in lard! Not this ol’ boy. Because I talk their language. Because they know I’m an American at heart.”
An American Nazi.
“I take it you’re not Jewish, George?”
“No. My partner is.”
“And you’re not worried for him?”
“No. Economics will prevail over petty prejudices.”
“For your partner’s sake, I hope you’re right.”
“Have I offended you, Leslie?”
“No. Not at all.”
“I’m a party member because those are the waters I have to swim in.”
That was becoming a familiar refrain.
“That’s fine, George—as long as you know to keep a keen eye out for sharks.” Speaking of which. “Have you by any chance met my cabin mate, Eric Knoecher?”
“Why, yes! Charming man. I haven’t seen him today.”
If Hirschfeld was lying, he was very smooth; Charteris saw nothing in the man’s eyes, heard not a hesitation or quaver in the man’s voice, to indicate a murderer hiding his tracks. On the other hand, this was a man big enough to pitch another man out a window.
“Poor Eric’s picked up a cold,” Charteris said. “I suggested he stay in our cabin, under the sheets, and apparently he’s taken my advice.”
“Good advice. You give him one of your books to read, Leslie, to pass the time?”
“No, but perhaps I should. I’ve sometimes been told that my immortal works have brought cheer and comfort to the bedridden—but I have to admit that certain other readers have indicated I make them sick.”
Hirschfeld chuckled, draining the last of his beer. “I don’t know Knoecher very well—your cabin mate? He just came up and introduced himself to me, here in the smoking room.”
“Really? When was that?”
“Fairly late last night. Maybe one, two in the morning. Wasn’t keeping any closer track of time than I was the number of beers I was putting away…. And you know, I could use another right now, and you seem to have drained both your drinks. Shall we risk havin’ our ears pop to go out and order up some more?”
“No thank you, George.” Charteris stood. “I’m