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 anticlimax. 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 naïve 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 tel
l 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.’
The Laughter of Carthage: The Second Volume of the Colonel Pyat Quartet (Colonel Pyat Quartet Series Book 2) Page 62
