The Laughter of Carthage (12 page)

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.