The Laughter of Carthage

EIGHTEEN

IF I AM A MARTYR brought low by my beliefs, then I am in excellent company and should not complain. Certain contemporaries have suffered far worse than I. They were reviled, imprisoned, tortured, hanged or burned alive. No single individual betrayed me in my fight. I am history’s victim, but I have had many exquisite moments, seen the world in all her beauty, made love to delightful women, enjoyed lasting friendships and the warmth of public acclaim. I am not one to whine over misfortunes, or blame others for my failures. I stand by my actions. What if I no longer receive the general respect which perhaps is my due? I have at least been true to myself. The Sultans sail from the City of Dogs. They come out of Carthage on a black and bloody tide. Their ships ride at anchor in harbours blocked with corpses. Scarecrow boys hang in the yards, grinning at the ruined cities of the West. Only the Slav remains ready to resist them and the Slav is still in chains. The Steel Tsar died, forgetting to tell where he hid the key. Those girls are so lovely with their pale hair and blue eyes, picking at my clothes, looking for silk stockings and satin drawers like the ones Esmé might have worn. I cannot help myself. I give it away.

The West is on her last legs and I shall not live forever. The Sultans strut from their gloomy men-o’-war onto a festering shore already conquered by its own degeneracy. They who ruled only a few yards of Buchenwald or Auschwitz now claim mastery of the world. But the Sultans are liars if they claim me as their subject. I am not of their blut. Ich habe langen geschlafen. Jesus erweckte die Toten. I refused to become a Mussulman. I lost my mother. I wrote several times but nobody knew what had happened to her. Then, after the War, in London in 1948, I met Brodmann. He was already old and probably had TB. He told me he had been in Kiev when the SS came. He had worked for them in an office and had recognised her name from the list, had seen her as she went down to the trench. All this he could have said just to wound. Why was she on a list? Why was he not in the gorge? It was in the gorge I worked, he said. I was captured, too. I have no reason to trust Brodmann. He lied even then, trying to placate me. Why did you pursue me? I asked. I did not, he said. I never got out until ‘46. I was sent to Czechoslovakia. It was distasteful, my mother’s name on Brodmann’s sickly lips. I guessed he was out of favour but still a Chekist, hoping to redeem himself by luring me back. I was too old a hand for him. Anyone might have learned my mother’s name, which was doubtless in my file, together with our old address. That was not, of course, the name I use. I at least am willing to show responsibility and protect those relatives still alive in Russia. Somebody told me Brodmann had died in Spain in 1950. Doubtless he was by then claiming to be a Sephardim Don! The Catholic pseudo-Fascist Franco must have welcomed him as a brother! I wonder how he explained what happened at the Tempelhof Airfield in 1939! They are all the same. They, too, would have been Sultans, given the opportunity. Maybe Brodmann was exactly that, living by betraying the likes of my mother. The black ships are the size of towns, prows throwing up yellow mud as they invade the land. They are implacable. They fly a dozen cryptic standards, but I have always recognised the banners of Carthage. That is why they hate me so. Yet certain of us, all of whom have this gift, recognise each other, frequently without having to exchange words. So it was between myself and Major Sinclair and later with Eddy Clarke and Mrs Bessy Mawgan.

It is a form of telepathy, I think, or something spiritual revealed in the eyes; an instant rapport. We are a brotherhood secret even to our own kind! I was never, however, to be granted an opportunity as miraculous as that offered to me by the Imperial Wizard: to speak to an entire nation! Nothing like it could have happened to me in Russia. Indeed, Mr Clarke had many recent reports of worsening terror as some assassin bungled the killing of Lenin, giving Trotski and the rest an excuse to pound the Bolshevik hammer with still greater ferocity on the wretched remains of one of the world’s noblest nations. I became incensed at dinner that first night, finally uttering a tirade against Russia’s murderers which, to my astonishment, had my hosts and Major Sinclair on their feet and clapping. Even the negro servants were impressed.

I remained a guest at Klankrest for over a week. Major Sinclair returned to the Delta (‘on unfinished business’) leaving me to discuss the strategy and logistics of my proposed tour with Mr Clarke, Mrs Mawgan and several prominent Klan officials. Eddy Clarke confided he had opposition within the organisation itself. ‘They resent my closeness to Colonel Simmons and believe I’m somehow feathering my own nest. Nothing could be further from reality. There’ll always be a few, I suppose, who see another’s altruism and believe it to be a reflection of their own greed. We shall have to teach them a lesson soon.’

I asked, by the way, where the great founder was. My ambition, naturally, was to be able to meet him one day.

‘He devoted himself body and soul to the Klan, Max. He’s no longer a spring chicken. He’s worn himself out and will be going for a rest in Florida. When he returns he’ll scotch those damn’ fool rumours. He knows what we’ve done for him. Three years ago they were glad of nickels and dimes. Today there’s a turnover in millions.’

Under these circumstances I greatly appreciated the time he allowed me. Mrs Mawgan herself assumed chief responsibility for coaching me, providing structure and detail to my proposed speeches and warning me where to be diplomatic, when I could be as forceful as I pleased. My basic text was taken directly from Griffith (whom I knew by heart) and Mrs Mawgan helped me amplify it. The first tour would begin in Portland, Oregon and encompass some fifty cities in the South and West. Mrs Mawgan thought I should be ‘broken in’ before I assaulted the North-Eastern citadels of Carthage’s greatest power. So busy were we I saw nothing of Atlanta itself and had time only to telephone Mr Cadwallader. Perhaps he had read the Paris newspapers for he seemed distant. He said vaguely he would call me at the house to arrange a luncheon. My social life consisted finally of two large parties held by my hosts to entertain wealthier and more influential sympathisers.

This was how, in a vaulted ballroom to rival Versailles, I met at Klankrest many of America’s leading citizens. Under the strictest secrecy came judges, senators, bankers, union bosses, industrialists and financiers, some of them already committed to our cause, others curious to discover what the Klan actually meant to do for them. A few, I suspect, watched the social wind, wondering how profit might be made by association with this new political force. Mr Clarke impressed them as an educated gentleman of the old tradition, while no one could fail to be charmed by Bessy Mawgan. My attendance, I was told, showed how unprejudiced in actuality the Klan was. ‘We don’t attack individuals. Only those who declare themselves our enemies are our enemies,’ Mr Clarke explained to a puffy-featured individual called Samuel Ralston, an Indian politician, I gather (though he did not look it). Klan votes sent him as a Senator to Washington the following year. I wonder how many liberals would have voted Sitting Bull into the House of Representatives! Ralston was not in my view anything more than an opportunist. He was openly rude when I tried to interest him in my methods of raising crops under massive glass roofs in permanently controlled weather conditions. Anyone who genuinely had his people’s interests at heart would have known what I meant. However, I had been overheard by a huge, shambling individual, some six foot four inches tall, bulky and wearing one of those loosely fitting dinner suits often favoured by the elephantine (who seem to believe they must wear clothes they can grow into). About thirty-five, with mild, boyish features, he beamed at me a little vaguely and, smoothing back his untidy blond hair, asked if I were an engineer.

‘An experimental scientist.’ I smiled back up at him. ‘My business is inventions.’

He was eager to talk. ‘I’m no good here.’ He apologised for himself. ‘These brawls give me the eagers, I’m afraid.’ His huge hand enfolded mine. He was John ‘Mucker’ Hever, he said, living mainly on the West Coast these days. He specialised in oil technology but as we talked it quickly emerged his enthusiasm was for the cinema, ‘I love everything about the movies, don’t you?’ For over an hour we discussed the charms of Mary Pickford and Lillian Gish, our mutual liking for Griffith’s films, our fury at the people who had plotted the failure of Intolerance. I found his company far more enjoyable than that of the mainly pompous, self-important individuals attracted to Klankrest by ‘the powerful smell of cabbage’, as Mrs Mawgan put it. Hever knew nothing at all of politics, he said. His interest in the Klan seemed simply romantic and he had contributed, I suspect, in order to obtain the robes and pretend he was ‘the little Colonel’ of the movie. Unusually for an American he was familiar with many European directors, including Grune and Murnau. In fact his taste was rather broader than my own. At last Mrs Mawgan drew me away from ‘Mucker’ Hever to introduce me to Judge O’Grady of somewhere called Tarheel (possibly Tower Hill) which to this day I am unable to find on any map. It seems to me now that he was an imposter, one of many agents, private and Federal, then making it their business to spy on the Klan. Evidently he had succeeded in ingratiating himself with Eddy Clarke, for they were on very friendly terms. If Eddy Clarke had a weakness it was a tendency to trust too many people. Of a naturally agreeable disposition, he was perhaps a little over-confident, unable to accept with real conviction the meanness and cunning of some who surrounded him.

The final part of my evening was perhaps the most interesting, spent with an important newspaperman, originally born in Sacramento but presently on a North Carolina paper, who had written a book conclusively proving Abraham Lincoln was shot on the direct orders of the Pope. Thanks to Griffith I had seen John Wilkes Boothe kill the President then make his wild leap from the Ford’s Theater box to the stage, hobbling to freedom on a broken leg. ’Sic semper tyrannis!’ he had cried in expert Latin. That alone was proof of the enormous power over human minds wielded by Rome. The journalist spoke of the Secret Treaty of Verona, the determination of the Black Pope, General of the Jesuit Order, and the White Pope of the Vatican, to crush democracy. Five presidents assassinated, he said, and all on the orders of the two popes. The Papacy was heavily indebted to the Rothschilds. Roman Catholics were infiltrating Japan, steadily gaining power with the intention of turning a yellow tide against the United States. Already Californians were feeling the effects of a Japanese invasion. These secretive and baleful little people multiplied rapidly. They were the advance guard of the Jesuits’ Oriental armada. ‘The tools sometimes change,’ he told me, ‘but the tactics never do. Will we have our Sir Francis Drake ready when our turn comes?’ His arguments, backed by his evident erudition, made sense of apparently inexplicable events, especially the large number of US presidents who met violent deaths. Many involved in the Lincoln plot were never brought to book. The instigators of course remained in Rome, continuing to send everything needed for further disruption, including guns and ammunition-belts inscribed with the Papal Arms, personal gifts to the so-called Knights of Columbus, the Knights of the Golden Cross. I was to find these facts of great use on my tour.

At dawn, March 15th 1922, Mrs Mawgan and myself took a closed car to the suburb of Smyrna, quietly boarding a royal blue Pullman and thus avoiding unwelcome publicity or revealing my connection with Klankrest. We were on our way to Portland, via Kansas City, Denver and Salt Lake City, almost 2,700 miles from East to West and by far the longest single journey I had ever undertaken. I was excited, thoughtful, and grateful for the luxury, thoroughly enjoying the Escape of Railway Travel in the amusing company of Mrs Mawgan. With the build and general appearance of the Baroness von Ruckstühl she combined something of the disposition of Mrs Cornelius. Mrs Mawgan taught me her native Music Hall songs, also, but could not render them in the lively fashion of my Cockney thrush. In the Club Car we joined other passengers to sing Meet Me In St Louis, Louis, Shine On Harvest Moon, Sweet Adeline and Hello, Central, Give Me Heaven. I still greatly miss the comfort and good fellowship of those old American Club Cars where strangers met and chatted or entertained one another, just as in Imperial Russia, while the huge articulated 2-6-6-2 locomotives dragged us over deserts, prairies, mountains and swamps, through endless forests and down deep tunnels, steady, relentless and confident. They are all gone now. The grey forces have nationalised American passenger trains, I hear. Just as in England, they have become dirty, without character, unromantic and unreliable. They do not even have a Pullman for private rent any longer. Thousands of Indians and pioneers died, millions of labourers sweated, and scores of financiers risked their all to ensure the progress of the great Iron Horse. Now their sacrifice is meaningless. I often wonder if matters might have been different had Russia succeeded in her hopes of colonising America. San Francisco would still be St Petersburg. Instead St Petersburg is a miserable town in Florida where Jewish matrons eat blintzes and herring and sweat poison into the humid air. Why did they drain one swamp merely to create another? I still dream of America as the New Byzantium. Slavic bastion of our Orthodoxy. If Slavs had made a nation only in the West and North, with their own Tsar and their old Law, neither Hitler nor Hirohito would have dared go to war.

Mrs Mawgan was glad to be away from the ‘in-fighting’ as she called it. She had been working for Mr Clarke and his partners in a Georgia advertising company when Colonel Simmons had asked them to help him save the ailing Klan. Now it was gaining momentum she felt she could gladly give it up and return to a more sedate life. ‘The trouble is, Eddy’s grown so hopped on it. It’s more than food and drink to him.’ She sat in the Club Car, her legs crossed under a ravishing dark green frock. I understood her womanly desire to be free of the burden of politics but sympathised with Mr Clarke. Women rarely understand matters of principle. To Mrs Mawgan her task had been to build finances and membership. ‘Now it’s getting too dangerous. I’m sometimes afraid a few of them hate me so bad they’d cheerfully kill me.’ She laughed at her own fancies. I said she was plainly exhausted. I hoped this trip would be something of a vacation. She agreed, but as we neared Oregon gradually became more businesslike. ‘First we make you an official Kilgrapp in the Royal Riders of the Red Robe. That’s an affiliate group of foreign-born One Hundred Percent Americans. It’s the main reason we’re going to Portland initially. They have the most influential chapter. You’ll speak there, but Seattle will be your real debut.’ Her warmth and her perfume as we sat close together in the padded velvet of the corner made me swell with lust. I think she noticed this, but did not seem offended. It would be after Seattle, however, that we became lovers.

These were to be happy months for me. In Portland the ceremony of induction was so moving I could scarcely hold back my tears. I swore to support all things Truly American and Defend the Honour of the United States above all other considerations. The public meeting, as Mrs Mawgan had predicted, was a limited success. Two days later in Seattle, however, I had a massive audience for my oration. I was taken back to that wonderful moment in St Petersburg when the entire college applauded my diploma discourse on the ontological approach to Science. I began with a quote from Birth of a Nation: ‘The former enemies of North and South are united together in common defence of their Aryan birthright.’ I spoke of the envy other races felt for the White Protestant, of our duty to counter the enduring threat in all its guises. I closed with another quotation from the Griffith masterpiece, where Lynch the power-mad mulatto proposes marriage to Lillian Gish. It must stand as an example to us all: ‘My people fill the streets. With them I shall build a Black Empire and you as Queen shall sit by my side!’ Lynch’s ambitions are the ambitions of those jealous of what we have won for ourselves, I said. I reminded them of the flag bearing ‘the red stain of life of a Southern woman, a priceless sacrifice on the altar of civilisation’, how ‘the little Colonel’ had raised the ‘ancient symbol of an unconquered race of men, the fiery cross of old Scotland’s hills’ and quenched ‘its flames in the sweetest blood that ever stained the sands of Time!’ That flag had borne a slogan, I said. A slogan we might do worse than make our own today. ‘Conquer We Must For Our Cause Is Just! Victory or Death! Victory or Death!’

The audience was still cheering and stamping its feet when I left the hall on time to catch the night express to Chicago. It was later, as the great engine pounded through the North Western darkness, that Mrs Mawgan stretched her large, greedy body on mine, dragging back the blankets from my bunk. With unhesitating lechery she positioned herself upon my stiffening penis and fucked me, her gusto proving her as lustful as she was intelligent. When halfway through the night I began to flag, she produced a small box of what she called ‘wings’. It was pure cocaine. She was to become my best source, a free supply. In return for this she received the use of my willing body. The tour progressed. I grew to know her well. It even occurred to me she had been ‘kingmaker’ of the Klan. With Eddy Clarke experiencing difficulties, trying to control rival factions, she might be preparing me to be the next. But I would not have betrayed my friend. I would betray Bessy first, if I was forced to. My honour would allow me no other action. Having given up most Klan duties, she was devoting the greater part of her time to me, occasionally disappearing on mysterious visits when we had a day or two to spare (I think she had a child somewhere). Otherwise she was concerned in what was essentially her own pleasure. Sometimes she would contact a woman friend in a certain city and all three of us would frolic until the hotel’s sheets were soaked with our juices. Everywhere we went I was greeted with enthusiasm. I always made it clear I spoke from conscience, that I was paid via an agency called the South Eastern Speakers’ Association and had no connection with any political group. I was first and foremost a scientist. I gave press interviews, even made a few radio speeches, something of a novelty then, and Klan recruitment improved wherever I went. I was ‘doing my bit’ for the cause of freedom. And naturally there were those who would have stopped me if they could.

At first I was frightened by the threatening letters in which mad people offered to kill or maim me in a hundred ways, but Mrs Mawgan laughed at them. This was, she said, ‘par for the course’, a sure sign I was ‘putting it across’. When a gun was fired from the back of a hall in Baltimore, the bullet chipping moulding in one of the stage’s pillars, covering my suit with plaster, she assured me it was for the publicity. The gun had been fired by a Klansman, to make sure the newspapers had a good story and thus reported my speech. I was hugely relieved. We laughed about the incident a great deal. When a similar shooting took place in Wichita, Kansas, I was able to brush it off easily, with a smile and a joke, and thus impress my audience with my cool nerve, even though the plan went slightly askew and the local woman who was introducing me received a minor shoulder wound.

This unfortunate event, however, in comparison to the other fly in our otherwise idyllic ointment, was nothing. As well as malevolent fanatics, Bolsheviks and foreign born agitators who tried to disrupt certain meetings and were handled firmly by Mrs Mawgan’s people, I had to contend with Brodmann. I saw him the first time at Union Station in Chicago while I was changing trains, bound for Cincinnati. His hands in the pockets of a leather coat, his broad-brimmed hat hiding his eyes, he stood in the shadows of a stone archway, next to a tobacco kiosk. He stared at me but made no attempt to follow. I suppose it had been easy enough for him to pick up my trail from Paris. The Chekist seemed to be playing his own game. I was never to determine the exact rules. Perhaps he hoped to unnerve me. I did in fact become edgy, wondering how many agents he might have on the train. Happily Bessy Mawgan was always conscious of security and only staff entered our compartment. The second time I saw Brodmann was as we waited at a St Louis intersection. Suddenly his hatless, malevolent face was glaring from the window of a passing trolley car. Thereafter he kept himself better hidden or possibly lost the pursuit. Nonetheless I continued to feel I was being spied upon. At last I accepted the fact without letting it affect me too badly. My mission was more important than Brodmann’s ridiculous personal vendetta. We warned them and many heeded, but America as a whole had fallen asleep. By refusing to admit her interdependence with Europe she became euphoric. She ignored her role in international affairs; abstractions proliferated. The result was a disaster. America had taken me to herself, I shall not deny. She was generous in those days before the Zionist coup of ‘29. I did everything I could for her.

I spoke in towns called Athens, Cairo, Rome and Sparta. I spoke in St Petersburg, Sevastopol and Odessa while behind me came efficient Klan recruiters, signing new members wherever I passed. I still wrote regular letters and postcards to Esmé and Kolya, but only Mrs Cornelius responded to my notes. She was in a successful theatre troupe. What they called ‘concert parties’, she said. She worked chiefly in the chorus, with the occasional chance to do little solos. The manager was a dear. He thought they should try American where English shows were catching on. There wasn’t much chance of that, but you never knew. She might yet be looking me up wherever I was. I wrote to say how pleased I was for her and asked if she would do what she could to trace Kolya and Esmé. I said my own ‘stage career’ was going well. In those months of 1922 it was easy to believe Chaos had been successfully contained. Everywhere the Klan flourished. Washington listened to us. President Harding extended the immigration restriction act. In Italy Mussolini gained prominence, standing firm against the Pope. But I suppose the signs were there to be read if I had wished to see them. Socialist Germany hobnobbed with Bolshevik Russia and Turks defeated Greeks at Smyrna, allowing Mustafa Kemal to declare himself ‘President’. Rome seemed to have the upper hand in the Irish Civil War. Harding, weak from poison, tried to make railroad strikes illegal and was ignored. Carthage came seeping in, for the dam had rotten foundations. Mrs Mawgan told me miners had beaten, shot and hanged twenty-nine strikebreakers in Illinois. This at least provided fuel for my oratory proving my prophecies. Still the Klan gathered strength, ever ready, with all its courage, to stem the flood. Klan-endorsed candidates won in the Texas primaries. Thousands of hooded members pledged allegiance at mass klonvocations, under fiery crosses a hundred feet high! Labour racketeers controlled Chicago. The Klan worked tirelessly, night and day, to destroy them. It struck decisively at bootleggers and vice-tsars. All evidence showed the battle was to be ours. In Major Sinclair’s airship I flew from Houston to Charleston, incognito because it was still thought unwise publicly to identify myself with the Klan. I flew in a variety of other machines, but never stopped planning for the day when my own gigantic passenger aircraft would mount the skies. Daily it seemed my opportunity drew nearer. Newspapers reported me nationwide. British Prof Predicts Great American Tomorrow, they would say, or Air Ace Warns Bolsheviks Imperil USA. With this recognition I had every reason to be optimistic. Soon I should have unlimited resources at my disposal. This great political power I would use for the common good. In New Mexico I became the target for an anarchist’s bullet as I rode to an outdoor meeting. The shot went hopelessly wide, killing some youth. In Texas came the privilege of a nightride with the Klan to a secret valley. Here, beneath a flaming cross, more than two thousand Klansmen applauded me. Wearing my splendid red robes, I was introduced as ‘our first and finest ambassador at large’. Then came the trial of two men. The white was accused of adultery. His sentence: KKK branded on his back, according to Klan Law. A negro who had insulted a white woman was whipped to death at the feet of the lady he had offended. (These were not the actions of cruel, mindless men. It was a display of the Klan’s remorseless justice. The papers, of course, blew the incidents out of proportion. I experienced far worse in Russia. Yet the reporters who defended Trotski were the same who accused the Klan. I need say no more.)

I was glad to keep active. I was troubled at receiving no news from Esmé. A busy man does not brood. I despise this fashion for self-analysis. It goes hand in hand with narcissism. If one keeps one’s mind busy it becomes impossible to harbour a grudge or hold on to pain for long. Real pain, a friend once said, never lasts more than five minutes. The rest is picked scabs. In useless speculation lies hysteria and mental illness. Ideas are useless unless they can be acted upon. But I do not ignore reality. The incident of Mr Roffy is a case in point. In Warsaw, Indiana, where I had already lectured once, I had been asked to speak again. The State was ‘solid Klan’ and must soon elect a governor. As usual, Mrs Mawgan and I were wined and dined handsomely by local members and we returned late to Paxton’s Hotel to our own more private and lustier celebration. I was awakened next morning by a porter. Closing the door on the bedroom and the still sleeping Mrs Mawgan, I asked what he wanted. ‘The gentleman says, sir, that it’s mighty urgent. He’s downstairs now.’ He handed me a note.

Clarence Roffy had written it. He had news of immediate interest to me. Assuming this to be Charlie’s brother I was only too pleased to ask him up, thinking he might have news of Roffy’s wish to revive our aerodrome scheme. I told the porter to give us half an hour, then have breakfast served when the gentleman arrived. Mrs Mawgan was ill-tempered, blinking as she sat up. I explained what was happening and sent her back to her own room, suggesting she reappear at breakfast and meet Roffy’s brother.

I was groomed and ready by the time Clarence Roffy knocked. When he entered my first response was to utter a good-humoured laugh. I thought myself the victim of a mild joke. It was Charlie Roffy, of course, looking rather down at heel, carrying a soft felt hat and wearing a pin-stripe suit which had seen better days. His florid features were swollen, his skin lacked its old glow of health. He took the seat I offered him and said he would be glad of a bite of breakfast. I shook him warmly by the hand, anxious to show I bore him no ill will. His hand was limp, clammy. The poor devil was ill. ‘Why are you calling yourself Clarence?’ I asked. ‘It’s not much of an alias!’

He frowned. ‘I meant Charlie,’ he said.

‘I’m so glad to see you. I feel badly about letting you down. If you hadn’t left Memphis so quickly everything would have been all right. I suppose Boss Crump’s murderous thugs were too much of a threat, eh? Was it borrowing got you into the scrape? How’s Mr Gilpin? And Jimmy Rembrandt? Have you heard anything of Major Mortimer?’

He had lost touch with them. His tone was strained. Nothing I could say put him at his ease. Eventually he pulled from his pocket some hand-copied papers bearing translations from the French journals which had attacked me. He also showed me my dog-eared note of hand for $150,000. ‘You’ve seen all this stuff before, I know. I have the originals.’

‘Jimmy told me that. Have you come to warn me? Am I in some kind of danger?’

His eyes widened at this. His manner grew more hysterical. ‘Mr Pyatnitski, it would ruin you if the public learned you’re a Russian Jew whose only familiarity with science was a highly scientific gum-game in Paris a year ago.’

‘If they believed such a thing, I agree. Captain Rembrandt expressed the same fears in Memphis. It’s not true, of course, so I’m not greatly worried.’ I placed a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. ‘What are you trying to tell me? Have my political enemies found the stories?’

Roffy cleared his throat, scarcely able to speak. He nodded emphatically. ‘There’s some danger of that happening, sir.’ He drew a breath, squared his shoulders and looked curiously into my face. ‘Because of you, sir, I’m destitute and on the fly. I can’t go back to Washington where I’ve worked for years. Now everyone knows I’m a paper layer. You owe me something, my friend. So I’m prepared to sell you all this stuff and call it quits. What do you say?’

I was horrified a gentleman of his stock could fall so low. I spoke with compassion. ‘You don’t need to sell me anything, Mr Roffy. I have always respected your reputation. You have only to ask for help. I was, as you say, in part responsible. How much do you need?’

‘Ten grand.’ He shrugged and looked towards the window. I smiled sadly.

‘You still have an exaggerated notion of my wealth. Mr Roffy, for old time’s sake, I can let you have a single grand.’

He was considering this when Mrs Mawgan, fresh and blooming in red velvet, walked in. She frowned as I made the introductions. Evidently my visitor’s shabby appearance offended her. She asked him sharply if she had met him somewhere before. I explained Roffy was an old business colleague in need of help.

He rose nervously, speaking swiftly and softly to me. ‘Okay,’ he said. ’I’ll settle for the thousand.’

‘You’re hungry. You should stay for breakfast.’ But I was embarrassing him. I wrote out the cheque. He handed me the envelope.

‘You’re a blackmailer, then, Mr Roffy?’ Mrs Mawgan was her most devastatingly sweet. I recognised her humour, but she angered Roffy.

‘That’s none of your damned business.’ He picked up his hat and pushed past the waiter entering with our breakfast trolley.

Mrs Mawgan frowned. ‘You’d better put me in the picture.’ We sat down to eat. ‘And don’t be afraid to spill it all. You know I won’t tip you up. The Klan already has the goods on you, more than you know.’

So I retailed the whole sorry story from beginning to end, explaining how I could not condemn Roffy. The least I could do was let him have a little money. Mrs Mawgan sat over untasted bacon shaking her head and sighing. Then she got up quickly, put down her napkin and said she was going down to the lobby. She had to make a phone call. I would be okay. When the Klan said it looked after its friends, it meant just that. She was back within ten minutes. With an expression of satisfaction she bent to pat my face. ‘Scandal around you is bad for everybody. I already know what it’s like to suffer from the press. Cancel that cheque as soon as you like.’

‘The Klan is paying Mr Roffy?’

Her smile confirmed my guess. This was generosity indeed!

That evening, as I stepped upon the stage to give a packed house Bolsheviks, Bloodshed and the Coming Battle for America, I was never more confident in the security of my future. With my debt to Mr Roffy cleared, I also forgot that pernicious doppelgänger. Brodmann had longed for my soul ever since he witnessed my humiliation at the hands of Grishenko.

In the American wilderness I experienced too many memories. Her plains took me back to the steppe; her great forests to the forests of the Russian heartland. In the Rockies and the Blue Ridge Mountains I could frequently be free of Brodmann, Yermeloff and Esmé. Those massive peaks brought me unexpected tranquillity whenever our crossing and recrossing of the country took us into them. In the big modern, most typically American, cities I was released from memory, from the agony of my last months in Russia. They had raped you. They stole your soul and your heart. Your very identity was taken from you. In Akron, Pittsburgh, Cleveland and Kansas City the grids could swallow me; they offered anonymity. In New Orleans and San Francisco too much was familiar; there certain warrens, configurations of wrought-iron, arrangements of brick and plaster brought my mother with them. Only a fool submits to pain. Pain has no justification, brings no benefits, whatever the Catholic tells you. For a while I found Chicago the most beautiful city in America, her massive, elegant towers glittering monuments to human skill and optimism. America in 1922 sought restlessly for new paths to the future. If her enthusiasm was sometimes excessive it remained a healthy contrast to Europe’s drained cynicism, Russia’s grim decline, the Orient’s chaotic decadence. Emerging from small-town complacency the American citizen was realising his power. Perhaps naturally he balked in those days at his international responsibilities. I was reminded of the Falstaff story in which Henry resists his divine role, rallying only at the last possible moment to defeat the weight of French chivalry as it gallops down upon his ‘happy few’. Of course he did not have the Jews to contend with.

Short skirts, wine, certain drugs and most things offensive to the majority of my audiences were not to me obvious signs of degeneration or imminent social revolt. Those who spent their lives pursuing prostitutes, bootleggers and gamblers might have served their country better by attacking the ‘big wheels’ exploiting and controlling their ordinary daily needs, their food, clothing, housing and transportation. By making pleasures into crimes puritans place power directly into criminal hands. The puritan cries ‘It should not exist, therefore it does not exist!’ They allow the vice-king to say ‘It does exist therefore someone might as well make a profit’. Moderation is not achieved by Law, but by example. If supply becomes unreliable a commodity gains higher value in the marketplace. This was once true of travel, of trains, ships, aircraft, even cars. It was in Detroit, at a party given by Major Sinclair for people in the aviation business, that I met, as it happened, young Lindbergh and fired him with the notion of flying the Atlantic single-handed. A plane should be almost all fuel tank, I told him, using every possible area, even the wings. But he was still obsessed with the South American routes. He never joined the Klan, though in later years he took my role, using his aeronautical reputation to back the fight against alienism. Many engineers, scientists, soldiers and aviators share an understanding of the world. We can break down social complexities, describing them with a clarity denied philosophers and artists. Thus we are able to solve the problems. The running of America should have been left to Henry Ford and Colonel Lindbergh. We might be looking at a very different country today.

All that year the power of the Klan grew. My tours became increasingly elaborate and well publicised. Entering town in an open car I might be accompanied by a marching band, my head and shoulders covered in streamers and confetti. Preachers gave sermons, choirs would sing before I spoke. Local politicians were photographed with me. I lent my name to advertisements and newspaper columns. While I never let them or myself forget I was primarily a scientist - it did no harm to promote my real interests in this way. I had learned to value the American art of the ‘bally-hoo’. Thus, ironically, despite the temporary dashing of my technological hopes, I became a celebratory. It is hard to say exactly how much I influenced the social and scientific thinking of my own and future generations. Ideas which I threw off quite casually were later claimed by others: the nuclear power plant, the television and the rocket ship. Important magazines such as Popular Mechanics, Radio World and Air Aces seized on my prophecies while the imitators of Verne and Wells translated them into fiction. Sometimes whole books of factual speculation appeared between 1925 and 1940 which were borrowed from me in their entirety! I did not care, then, how my visions were disseminated. I had a profusion of them and readily shared them with the whole human race. Even today I do not regret my generosity, but I feel a little wounded when I receive no recognition. I should have been glad of a small place in history. Perhaps it was a mistake to come to England. She always looked with suspicion upon the new and strange. Lately, to her own wretched tomb, with complacency and self-congratulation as always, her Union Jack the standard of broken promises, rejected ideals, she conducts herself, as if she has something to be proud of. The tourists come from May to September, staring at the beefeaters, the old stones, the royal carriages, utterly deceived by the British illusion. But in Notting Hill and Brixton, in Mill Wall and Tottenham, the houses collapse inwards, the jerry-built towers lean and tremble in the lightest wind, the pavements crack, the alleys fill with sinister shadows: for this desolation is what maintains the imperial facade. We are the victims of a wicked lie. The English have lost their pride, forgotten their honour, refused self-knowledge. In a rich nation, these would not necessarily be vices; in a poor one, they are a ludicrous disaster.

Mrs Cornelius seems to think it has always been the same. I tell her it only looks that way. England is a painted corpse; the flesh rots beneath a shell of delusion. ‘Live an’ let live, Ivan,’ she says. But what was once decent tolerance now becomes moral turpitude. I could have saved them. When my flying cities were stolen, they cut off my means of escape. Is there any reason I should not hate them? Jene Leute sind verarmt.

At last I visited Los Angeles. Mrs Mawgan’s friends took us on a tour of the movie studios. I shook hands with Douglas Fairbanks and was kissed on the cheek by Clara Bow! Fairbanks stood for all the American virtues, though his original name was Ullman. I have his signed photograph, dressed for Robin Hood. I stayed only overnight in Hollywood, for I was lecturing in Anaheim, but I was impressed. There was much in the way of civilised beauty; an ideal combination of wealth, taste, security and good weather. I spoke to several people on the technical side about my proposed innovations in filming. They said I was ahead of my time. (When I arrived in England I mentioned I had been instrumental in developing talking pictures. I offered my services to Korda, but as usual came up against the old familiar wall.) I longed to return to Los Angeles and asked Mrs Mawgan to arrange another engagement as soon as possible. She said she would do what she could, but they were not exactly desperate for entertainment.

We decided not to visit Klankrest for Christmas, since Mrs Mawgan no longer cared to see Mr Clarke. Clarke was obsessed with the ambitions of what he was calling the ‘Evans gang’. This group wanted Colonel Simmons to discharge him and nominate a Texas dentist in his place. If I could have helped my friend, I would have done so gladly. Mrs Mawgan said my presence would only complicate an already difficult situation. The best we could accomplish was to stay clear of internal politics and continue to do what we could in the world at large. This made sense to me, so we broke tour in Michigan to stay at a wonderful country hotel which had been privately rented for the Season by a senator friend of Mrs Mawgan’s. He called himself ‘Uncle Roscoe’. I never learned his real name, though I believe he was from Illinois. The hotel was like a fantasy of Switzerland, surrounded with snow-laden pines, protected by hills. This was a true American Christmas; everything a Christmas should be. In the middle of the dance floor a huge tree was hung with tinsel and coloured cellophane, with brightly wrapped gifts and glass baubles. Our senator, disguised as Santa Claus, personally distributed presents to his guests. I ate far too much turkey, mince pie and other gorgeously rich traditional foods. Dressed as angels, the little local children sang carols: O, Little Town of Bethlehem and Silent Night. All I missed was my Esmé. Mrs Mawgan sang The White Sheet of Winter Lies Cold Upon the Land while I offered a rendering of Any Old Iron. A group of young flappers, hired by the senator to bring extra femininity to what was primarily a male party, added their own particular talents to the festivities. Mrs Mawgan and I left with a girl called Janey. But of course sexual pleasure is one thing, and sentiment is quite another.

Two more talks, in Sioux City, Iowa and Springfield, Indiana, and then we took the train for Wilmington, Delaware. This delightful town, founded in the seventeenth century, was associated with some of America’s greatest modern painters, such as Howard Pyle, then at the height of his realistic power. We were the guests of Mr and Mrs Van der Kleer, the mine owners, to celebrate New Year’s Eve and incidentally my birthday (which I insisted be on January 1st) in typical American good-hearted ceremonial style. The next day, however, was an anti-climax. Indeed, it proved embarrassing for all concerned and revived many of the fears I had been able to forget.

I had just finished lunch in the beautiful glass domed conservatory (through which winter sunshine poured) when Mr Van der Kleer’s butler announced someone to see the master. Apologising, our host left. Within five minutes, the butler returned to ask me to join Mr Van der Kleer and his visitor in the library. I entered the peaceful room and closed the double doors behind me. The stranger wore an expensive tweed top coat over an ordinary grey suit. He was short, with that paleness common only to policemen, and his head was almost completely bald. His glasses slightly magnified already large blue eyes. He looked like a Chekist but he showed me a badge declaring him to be an agent of the Federal Justice Department. Mr Van der Kleer said he would rejoin his wife and Mrs Mawgan. I must be sure to summon his help if I required it.

The Federal man was called Harris. His questions were so oblique I could scarcely follow him. It had something to do with my ‘ex-partner’ who had been mixed up on the fringes. Harris claimed, of a North Dakota land swindle. My answers were, it appeared, satisfactory, for Harris soon relaxed. ‘One of them’s dead now. Could have been suicide. They all dropped him like a hot potato when the Memphis sting collapsed. Have you any connection with the Ku Klux Klan, Mr Peterson?’

I think the question was supposed to trick an answer from me. Instead I wanted to know who was dead. ‘You didn’t tell me his name, Mr Harris.’

‘How about Roffy?’ he said.

‘Of course I knew him. Has the poor fellow killed himself? Surely he wasn’t mixed up in anything illegal?’

Harris answered off-handedly. ‘You should wish, Mr Peterson. Anyhow, I’m satisfied with your story. I think you were goofed, too.’ He shook my hand, but his parting words upset me. ‘We’ll talk about the Klan another time, maybe.’

This encounter left me uneasy. I felt Brodmann’s presence again. The Federals could deport me if they wished. My visa had been extended ‘indefinitely’ but it might be revoked at any time. As soon as I returned to the rest of the party, telling them I had satisfactorily settled a minor immigration problem, I signalled to Mrs Mawgan. I wished to speak to her alone. An hour later we strolled in the grounds, our boots breaking a crust of snow. Harris’s final words, she reassured me, were simply meant to faze. He wanted to see how I would react and was perhaps curious to see what I would do next. ‘We carry on the same as always. Your money’s going into the lecture agency and from there to our banks. The agency pays the expenses from its profits. It’s all on the level. They can’t throw you out for warning America about her enemies! And you have your own accounts, so you’re okay there, too. Relax, Max.’ She kissed my frozen cheek. ‘Most people keep away from shit. Feds like to sniff until they find some. But you’re clean. You’re sitting tighter than a nun’s ass in a monastery.’ I allowed her to calm me. I could not, however, completely free myself of a suspicion that someone was waiting for me to make a mistake. Perhaps, when I was no longer under the Klan’s protection, they would strike. Other than Brodmann, I had no obvious enemies but of course had spoken boldly against malevolent forces threatening the nation. Any one of a score of interests, any combination of them, might have embarked upon a vendetta. I could be attacked without ever discovering who my antagonist was or what he represented.

The following weeks proved if anything more successful than before. As a tribute to my powers of oratory, Mrs Mawgan told me, several halls had actually cancelled bookings, doubtless under pressure from what we privately called the AMOCK: African, Mediterranean, Oriental and Catholic Klonspiracy. Mrs Mawgan was undeterred. After this tour, due to end in early spring, I should consider a rest, she said. There was plenty of cabbage in the pie dish. Against her advice I already had all my money in bank accounts and refused even the most tempting investments. I realised I was still naive in financial matters. If ever I became involved in another company it would be after considerable coaching from experts. I still intended to return to France to clear my name and if necessary discover the whereabouts of Kolya and Esmé. I now worried that they had become victims of the Cheka, that they were imprisoned, kidnapped back to Russia or possibly already dead. Once my chief mission was satisfactorily accomplished I hoped to visit Italy again. My affection for that country remained as strong as ever. I was following Mussolini’s career with excitement and I was eager to see what was happening for myself, since American papers were unreliable reporters of European news.

By the time we reached Kansas City I had begun to recover my usual happy spirits. My popularity was never greater. We took the entire upper floor of a small hotel in a residential street near the river, then went out to dine at an excellent restaurant specialising in local dishes. When we returned by cab, Mrs Mawgan was told she had a telegram at the desk. It was from Eddy Clarke in Atlanta. She read it carefully, since it appeared to be partly in code. Then she squared her shoulders, drawing a deep sigh. ‘Is it bad news?’ I asked. She tilted her head on one side and winked at me. ‘Well, it ain’t the greatest, Max.’ We went back upstairs to bed. In the morning, before we got up, she admitted Clarke’s telegram had disturbed her. Its content was gloomy but worse was the fact he felt any need to send it. If he wanted her back as an ally he was losing his battle against the Evans faction. She feared they might turn their next attack upon her. ‘It means he’s jittery,’ she said. ‘Once his spunk goes, it’s all over for him.’

I said we must return to Atlanta immediately, but she shook her head. ‘Stay out of it now and you stand a chance of helping him later. As far as Evans and company know you’re hired by the organisation, not by Eddy. They might be reluctant to keep you on the payroll, but they won’t think you’re a real threat.’

‘They must know we’re travelling together.’

‘If we’re asked, Eddy was furious when I ran off with you. Get it?’

I understood, but I felt miserable. It was a singularly petty deception, given that Clarke, my benefactor and her ex-lover, was threatened from all sides.

‘You should always remember. Max,’ she insisted, ‘the Klan is whoever has most power at the moment. If it’s Evans, then Evans has real muscle. All he has to do is holler “traitor” and you know damn’ well what would happen to us. Nobody’s going to put me on the spot if I can help it. We’ve both got too much to lose. Eddy will take his own chances. The very least would be the papers getting the blow up. They’d love to put me on the front page in nothing but my underwear. There’s a lot of laundry don’t need washing in Dow-Lee’s window. Max.’

If she was sure this was the only way to remain free and help Eddy Clarke should he need us, I accepted her arguments. Determinedly, we continued the tour but we were both in a nervous frame of mind. In Denver we had a mixed public reception and the local Klan people seemed awkward around us, but otherwise friendly. We cut short the rest of our Colorado tour, heading instead for the friendlier waters of Idaho and Oregon where I enjoyed my usual enormous audiences. Oregon always has a special place in my heart. No one could say she had any immediate race problem of her own, yet she remained thoroughly alert to all potential danger, boasting one of the highest Klan memberships in the country. From Eugene we were due to go on to Redding, California, but at the last moment heard the booking had been cancelled.

Mrs Mawgan became thoughtful after receiving the news. Later she made two or three telephone calls and sent a couple of wires. Eventually, in our bedroom, she was able to tell me our next engagement, ‘It’s in Walker, Nevada,’ she said. ‘The local Kleagle’s agreed to cover our expenses and arrange a hall. After that we’ve still got a couple of big ones in Fresno and Bakersfield.’ She was vaguer than usual. I asked what was wrong.

She admitted she was not sure. ‘It’s an instinct. Max. The smell of fish.’

‘Are we in danger?’

‘I wouldn’t pitch it that strong. But we’d better be ready to lie low after Fresno and see which way the wind blows. You can come with me to New York if you like.’

‘It would be pleasant to spend some time there. Thank you, Bessy.’

‘Don’t mention it.’ She grinned suddenly and kissed me. But her eyes were alert, like a deer at the waterhole.

Matters became immediately worse next morning as we checked out. I heard Mrs Mawgan at the cash desk shout, ‘What the hell do you mean, not certified? I’ve had my fill of this. Since when have I had to give a hotel a certified check? The room should have been paid for ahead of time. No I don’t have the damned cash. Get the manager. Call what’s his name, Mr Ainsfield. Here. I’ll give you the number. Our checks are always guaranteed locally. It’s in the contract.’

I put down my bag and went to where, red with anger, she trembled against the desk. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘The dumb bastards who organised your talk, colonel, have forgotten to pay the hotel or give them a letter of guarantee, that’s all.’

Usually the Klan was responsible, under various different names, for all our booking and travel details. This was the first time there had been a problem. I had always been impressed by the courtesy and efficiency of local chapters. Mr Ainsfield was reached at his store. He was the Kleagle responsible for organising my talk. I heard Mrs Mawgan say sweetly, as she continued to glare balefully at the embarrassed woman clerk two feet away, ‘Well, perhaps you would come over right away, Mr Ainsfield, and reassure them?’ She listened furiously to his reply. ‘No, Mr Ainsfield, we have a train to catch. How about right now? Don’t you think it would be a shame if we had to come there and found you hiding under a sheet, ha, ha.’

Her threat succeeded and Freddy Ainsfield arrived in a taxi ten minutes later. He apologised to us both and paid the clerk in cash, even tipping the porter who took our luggage to the same taxi. ‘We had no instructions,’ he said. ‘We don’t know what’s going on, Mrs Mawgan. Everybody’s confused. I heard Mr Clarke had his contract cancelled. Mr Evans is supposed to have accused him of immorality. Is that true? Are the Feds gunning for him? Is that a rumour, ma’am?’

‘We wouldn’t know, Mr Ainsfield,’ she said coldly. ‘We have no connection with the Klan, though of course we are frequently invited to speak by you fine people. You should get in touch with Atlanta.’

‘We’ve been trying. All lines are busy. Someone said Colonel Simmons was shot by Roman Catholics.’

‘It’s news to me, Mr Ainsfield.’ She ducked into the taxi and I followed, relieved to escape the embarrassment. I said I thought she handled it well. She shook her head. ‘That smell of fish is getting stronger. Max.’

We just had time to buy our tickets in the marble foyer. With our porter, a running mound of baggage, ahead of us, we barely made the platform. The train was a regular coach class with no Pullmans, but we were glad to be on our way. We should have to change at Reno. Panting, I leaned out of the window to catch my breath and saw one other passenger who had given himself even less margin than we. He came running through the steam to swing aboard the caboose as we pulled away from Eugene into her featureless suburbs. I sat back down again. Mrs Mawgan was sorting through some letters of invitation. Soon craggy forested hills appeared and rivers rushed through little gorges. Walker was on the edge of the desert. The barren State of Nevada had never previously invited me to speak. I suspected it was because people lived so far apart. A Kloncave must be a rarity, I thought. As she put her papers back into their case I asked Mrs Mawgan what she thought, ‘It’s just luck, I guess,’ she said. ‘They needed someone to speak in a couple of days and we were suddenly available. Don’t expect a lot from Walker, Max. We’ll be lucky to cover expenses on this one. If a hundred people pay fifty cents to see you it will be a miracle.’

Adjusting his dark brown suit, the man who had caught the train via the caboose sat down with a thump in the seat across the aisle from us. His long face looked unsmilingly at me as I passed a friendly word. ‘Just made it, eh?’ I said. ‘I saw your magnificent dash. Bravo!’

He began to fumble at an inner pocket. In a gentle brogue, he asked, ‘You’d be the gentleman known as Colonel Peterson?’ His badge appeared in his hand. Another ‘Fed’. ‘That’s my name, sir.’ I concealed my anxiety.

‘This is going to need a damn’ good explanation,’ said Mrs Mawgan. ‘What the hell d’you mean tailing us as if we were crooks? What do you want -’ she peered at the badge ‘- Mr George H. Callahan?’

‘Don’t get this out of proportion, ma’am.’ He was conciliatory, ‘I tried to catch you at the hotel. They told me you were taking this train. That’s the whole of it. I’ve been instructed to ask Colonel Peterson some questions. Routine stuff.’

The rest of the car was taking an enormous interest in the proceedings. We might as well have been actors for their free entertainment. ‘Let’s go back a ways, if you prefer,’ said Callahan. We followed him down the length of three cars, arriving at last at the small observation platform which was draughty and noisy but free from other eyes and ears. As the day grew warmer and sun shone on the silver rails behind us, Mr Callahan raised his voice above the clattering to ask if I could say who organised my tours. He made notes of my replies. ‘The South Eastern Speakers’ Association,’ I said.

‘And what’s that exactly, sir?’

Mrs Mawgan explained the nature of a speech circuit agency.

‘And who runs that, sir?’

She again replied. ‘I do, officer. It’s my business. What’s the mystery?’

He noted this, then asked to see my passport and visa. I gave him the documents, explaining Peterson was a professional name, easier on Anglo-Saxon ears. ‘I’m not here to embarrass you, sir.’ He spoke as if I had offended him. ‘There’s nothing illegal in changing your name as far as I know. Unless it’s in pursuit of a fraud, of course.’ He chuckled. He suspected me of nothing. He was, after all, merely making a routine check on a foreigner in the public eye. ‘We had an idea the Ku Klux might be staking your tours,’ he said. ‘Why should we think that, do you know, sir?’

‘The Klan frequently hires the halls and issues the tickets to Colonel Peterson’s talks.’ Mrs Mawgan never believed in telling lies which could be easily checked. ‘Our agency merely handles what requests it receives. Obviously, not a few are from different Klan groups.’

‘And you’ve no direct connection with the Ku Klux, ma’am?’

‘None.’

‘None now?’

‘If you like. Jesus Christ, officer, it’s no damn’ secret me and Eddy Clarke put that show on the road, but I resigned a long time ago. They don’t like me, never have.’

‘Well enough to use your agency,’ he said.

‘My agency is completely independent. We take the work which comes in, whether it’s from the Boston Ladies’ Sewing Circle or the Knights of Columbus.’ This, too, was noted. ‘But Mr Ainsfield, for instance, is a member of an entirely different organisation.’

‘He’s a prominent Klansman, ma’am. Weren’t you aware of that?’

‘We were engaged by the Protestant Defence League, Mr Callahan. I have the contract in my bag. It’s on the rack over my seat.’

‘I wonder if you could give me an idea of the fees, ma’am.’

‘They vary considerably between as little as fifty dollars to as much as five hundred.’

‘That’s a tidy sum your agency’s turning over, ma’am.’

‘We’re a successful business. We know what we’re doing.’

‘I’m sure you do, ma’am. We’ve been checking on those two who tried to swindle you in Memphis, colonel.’ He had changed tack suddenly once again. ‘One has eluded us completely. The other called himself Roffy. Have you seen him, at all, sir?’

‘That’s not good enough, Callahan.’ Mrs Mawgan was contemptuous now, as if she witnessed a bad pass at football. ‘Roffy’s dead. One of your own boys told us that nearly three months ago. And yes we’ve seen nothing of the other one.’

‘Roffy was unstable,’ I offered. I felt she took too much of a risk by offending him. ‘A friend warned me last year he was suicidal, but I couldn’t believe it.’

‘Sure,’ said Mr Callahan, closing his book. ‘I thank you for your time, sir. Can I ask where you’re bound for?’

‘This is the Reno train,’ snarled Mrs Mawgan. ‘I thought you knew that.’

He smiled quietly.

‘Walker,’ I said. ‘I’m speaking there in a couple of days.’

‘Walker,’ he repeated slowly. ‘I don’t know the town. And who is it has invited you this time?’

‘The Bolshevik Revolutionary Party.’ Mrs Mawgan began to move back down the train. ‘The Society for the Assassination of the President. The Vatican City Veterans’ League. The damned mick, Catholic bloodhound. Don’t help him, Max. He hasn’t the right.’ I looked from her to Callahan and he shook his head, as if to dismiss me. I began to follow her. Callahan remained on the observation car, calmly writing in his notebook while we returned to our places. From the window we now saw a wide, tranquil lake. ‘He’s going after the Klan, Max, not you.’ Mrs Mawgan was curious and agitated, seeming almost to relish the encounter. ‘He’s just hoping you’re sap enough to blab something useful. We’re okay. The IRS can’t touch us. We’re filing and paying regularly. The books are air tight. Everything’s kosher. But all this is a good reason for never seeing Atlanta again.’ She smiled to herself. ‘We can’t admit to a thing, although he knows what’s going on. He’d have a hard time proving criminal intent. My hunch is he hopes to flush us somehow. I’m not sure why. We’d better duck our nuts for a while, change our names and live in New York till this blows over.’

I did not care for her solution, but it would have been pointless saying anything then. I think Mr Callahan got off at the next stop, though I suspect other agents were still aboard.

We had to wait an hour on Reno’s unremarkable railroad station until the train for Walker came shunting in at twilight. Aside from a group of Indians on their way back to the reservation, we were the only ones to board. It was night by the time the train moved out. Our car was hideously new, vivid yellow and black upholstery, like the carcass of a gigantic bee. We moved slowly into a land which grew increasingly featureless. By the time we stepped off at Walker, the station was deserted. It was dark, poorly lit and there was a chill in the air. We found no porter, so dragged our luggage to the exit gate. The ticket collector had gone off duty. The street outside was empty of traffic. A few lights and a couple of small electric signs enlivened the town at the far end. It was not much of a monument to the high-living, hell-raising scout and Indian fighter Jim Walker. I guessed the place had seen better days. I became uneasy. This was not at all what we were used to. Normally we were met by elaborate bands, by the mayor and other prominent citizens, by church groups or women’s guilds. Even at this time of night there were usually three or four local Klan officers to welcome us. Tonight, in the cool breeze. I felt puzzled, vaguely threatened. Brodmann could have turned everyone against us. The methods of his kind were often very subtle. The logical explanation was that all Klan chapters were temporarily disrupted because of the power struggle currently going on in Atlanta. But this would not completely ease my mind. In the bleak street outside the station I heard a car engine. Then headlamps glowed as a Ford Model T turned at an intersection and advanced towards us. The Ford drew up at the kerb. ‘Colonel Peterson?’ A nervous face peered through the gloom.

‘I’m Peterson.’

A youth of eighteen or so climbed from his car and introduced himself as Freddy Poulson. ‘Sorry I’m late, sir, ma’am. My Dad couldn’t make it. A special meeting he wasn’t expecting. Some of the Reno boys should have been here, too, but they can’t get over till tomorrow, either.’

I relaxed at once. My reasoned guess had been accurate. ‘Can you help us with our luggage?’ We shook hands. I had only one suitcase, but Mrs Mawgan had several. He was eager to do whatever he could. He had red cheeks, blond hair and the wholesome looks of the better Russian steppe-born peasant. He was not in the least sinister and drove us to a building only a few minutes from the station. Brick, with a fancy false front, it bore the legend Philadelphia Grand Hotel. This also appeared to be locked up for the night. There were no lights. Mrs Mawgan was beginning to lose her temper even as, oil lamp in hand, dressing gown wrapped round him, an old man unbolted the doors. We entered an inhospitable lobby and, at his insistence, signed the book before going to our rooms. The place reminded me of a large private house converted to a hostelry. It was clean. The orange carpeting and yellow and white fleur-de-lys wallpaper was recent, yet the place seemed indefinably shabby; not what we had come to expect. But then neither was Walker. Freddy Poulson said he would drop by in the morning.

When I joined her in her room, Mrs Mawgan remained downcast. Her bad mood had not lifted. ‘I was stupid,’ she said. ‘I’ve let myself get spooked. If Eugene was the frying pan, this dump’s one hell of a fire.’

‘We can cancel.’ I consoled her. ‘And leave in the morning.’

She considered this. ‘I don’t know, Max. Looked at another way Walker’s not exactly in the limelight.’ She sighed. ‘But if that’s what I was looking for I could have picked any one-horse town. I can’t get over the notion it was us who were picked by Walker, or at least by Reno. See, I don’t know Hiram Evans well and I couldn’t tell you who owes him, who’s in his pocket, what kind of troops he can call out and from where. Also, I don’t know how much he has it in for Eddy or how hard he wants to hit Eddy’s friends.’

‘You can’t be expected to know all that, Bessy.’

‘It was my job. I guess I thought I could keep taking a percentage without getting my hands dirty. Well, here’s the pay-off. Walker, Nevada, at two in the morning. I think they’re trying to tell us something, Max.’

‘Who,’ I said, ‘and what?’

‘That’s what I think.’ She drew me down to her warmth and her delicious scents. ‘Better make this a good one.’ She tugged at my belt.

Next morning we joined Freddy Poulson in the lobby. Hard sunlight pierced the windows, creating dramatic shadows. Outside was the sleepy main street of a small Western town. Its low buildings were so widely spread its texture seemed faded, its detail unclear, like a photograph blown up too large. The whole town might have been improved by reduction. We ate breakfast at the New California Café. Everything in Nevada was named after another State, as if nobody was really sure they wanted to be there. From boredom Mrs Mawgan arranged cutlery against the red and white oilcloth squares. A fine dust, possibly sand, covered the white enamel sugar can and cream-pitcher. ‘Maybe you could put us in the picture, Mr Poulson. What’s the programme for tonight?’

His attitude apologised for the town and everything in it. He knew, as Mrs Mawgan said, we were getting a ‘bum deal’. ‘I’m a little misty myself. They’re putting you on at the Opera House. Eight o’clock, I think.’

‘And what sort of publicity do we get, Mr Poulson?’ she asked.

‘I gather this is just for, you know, the lodge?’

She frowned. ‘Have you heard what’s coming down from Atlanta, Mr Poulson?’

‘Only that Mr Clarke’s contract was cancelled. A new man’s taken over. Seems a good enough egg from what I hear.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I’m really not who you should ask.’ He got up to pay the bill.

Looking at him dragging his wallet from his back pocket and smiling awkwardly at the woman behind the cash register, Mrs Mawgan said, ‘He knows he’s out of his league.’ Pensively she sipped her coffee, staring through the glass at the placid street. A few horses and cars went by, sharply outlined in the harsh light. I should not have been surprised if a herd of cattle had wandered through. ‘My guess is his father’s one of the only Klansmen in town. They’re banking on Reno for support. In which case why give them the word to set the thing up here?’ She became decisive. ‘You wait and go back to the hotel with Poulson. Tell him I’ve a few things to buy.’

‘Where will you be?’

‘Western Union, maybe. Or Wells Fargo. Whatever I can find.’ She intended to send more telegrams.

By noon conversation between myself and Mr Poulson, as we sat in the empty hotel bar drinking Coca Cola and sarsaparilla, had dwindled to nothing. I did my best on the subject of aviation, ship building, engineering in general. All he knew was cattle and mining, and not a great deal about those. When Mrs Mawgan returned she was brisker; her old, positive self. I felt more confident. She suggested, since we had time to kill, we meet the Press. Mr Poulson actually blushed at this. ‘Bill Straker, who was going to cover the story for the Informant? Well, he had to go out of town on another assignment.’

We went to the movie. The theatre was the same Opera House at which I was due to speak that night. I was surprised no bills were posted, then remembered it was supposed to be a ‘members-only’ affair. The Opera House was an ornate mixture of brick and carved wood outside and neo-Roman plaster inside. All the mouldings had once been gilded. Now the gilt was peeling. We watched an episode of The Purple Mask, a newsreel, a short Fairbanks comedy, a ludicrous sex melodrama with Gloria Swanson called Male and Female and two Bronco Billy adventures which seemed virtually identical. I think the whole town had come to the performance; the air was virtually unbreathable. For all that, the show was better value than anything you get today. The triple features at the Essoldo across the road from my shop are trash. Monsters have taken over from people.

It was growing dark as we returned to the Philadelphia Grand. Mrs Mawgan had seemed girlish and romantic after the picture show, but became practical again once I dressed myself in my usual tuxedo. She took an intense interest in my appearance, combing my hair for me, adjusting my tie. ‘The worse the crowd the better you should look,’ she said. We returned downstairs to meet a nervous Mr Poulson who took us to a restaurant two blocks down the street. It was called The Lucky Indian. We ate hamburgers. ‘Evidently the Indian ran out of luck,’ said Mrs Mawgan, leaving hers unfinished. ‘Listen,’ she said, ‘I know how to get there. You boys run along. I have something to do . . .’And she glanced towards the washroom door. This brought another blush from Poulson. She reached her hand under the table. In it was a little paper packet. I took the cocaine from her, though I had no opportunity to use it. I guessed she had a plan, perhaps something to do with the telegrams she had sent, so I assured Poulson she would be all right and we drove to the Opera House. No lights burned in the front at all. Possibly this was to be a secret meeting of the kind I had attended on the steamboat. I hoped I would learn the fate of Eddy Clarke, at very least. The stage door lamp was on in the alley as we went inside. It was gloomy and silent and smelled of rats. ‘They said to go straight onto the stage.’ Poulson was sweating. I remember feeling sorry for him.

There were dazzling footlights smoking on the stage itself and dim electrics in the auditorium. The silvered expanse of the movie screen was still in place and my shadow spread across it, just as if I were in a German expressionist film. I was experiencing a rare attack of stage fright. My stomach was audibly gurgling and churning. When the footlights were suddenly switched off I peered, baffled, at the ranks of empty seats before me. In the middle aisle, where the stalls divided front and back, I eventually made out a dozen silent Klansmen, in hoods and gowns. With folded arms, their attitude was threatening and baleful. I was reminded of Birth of a Nation when the negro renegade Gus is sentenced to death. ‘I’m so glad to see you,’ I said. ‘I was beginning to feel I was on my own!’

‘We’re all set now, jew-boy.’ The voice had a deep, almost Russian timbre. ‘Go ahead. Let’s hear you whistle Dixie.’

It was only then I realised that these were not, of course, true Klansmen at all!