Our surroundings were those of a lower-middle-class suburb. The gables and turrets of an earlier prosperity mingled with the present’s tract houses while the only high wall was the far one separating park from office building.
Roy Belgrade remained in the plane, fiddling with some instruments. As we approached, he switched off the ignition, folded his arms and grinned at us. ‘Well, gentlemen. This is a pretty rare situation, eh?’ He got to his feet and sprang from cockpit to wing and from wing to ground. ‘Sorry about the mess. Naturally, we’ll pay the city back. We’re from the movies.’
‘Then it’s the Du Ponts you’ll be wanting to see.’ From the rear a portly youth, sweating in his unseasonable serge, offered this with a certain pride. ‘This park belongs to them.’
‘Well, I guess we haven’t put them too much out of pocket!’ Belgrade responded almost with hostility. ‘Okay boys. Can you lend us a hand? Where are we, by the way? This can’t be Brandywine Park.’
‘It would be a little small for that, mister.’
Strolling round the plane the sergeant ran his hand over the canvas and admired the lines. ‘I never saw one of these close up, you know. Even in the War. I sure admire you fellows. We’d better get some kind of truck or maybe we can give you a tow with our car. There’s an airfield out there, now. You might as well use her. Why the devil didn’t you head for that?’
‘It happened too quick.’ Roy Belgrade was relaxed charm again. He slapped the youngest policeman on the shoulder. ‘Why, boys, I don’t know what we’d do without you!’
My anxiety was retreating but I could not help associating the city with the Justice Department’s keen interest in my old Klan connections. They did not know the Klan was now also after my blood.
Yet I had probably convinced Callahan of my innocence. He had, anyway, turned a blind eye to my unorthodox papers. Surely the DH4’s problems could not be very serious? Within two hours, I guessed, we would be on our way again. As his men debated the problem, I confided to Sergeant Finch that I would be especially grateful for anything he could do. ‘I’m currently engaged on top-secret work,’ I told him. ‘If I am not back in California within two days, the consequences for the country could be alarming.’
He greeted this information with considerable gravity. ‘Sir, it’s no more than a couple of hours to Washington, on the train. We can get you back and on your way again in no time.’
While there was nothing to be gained by telling him we had not come from Washington, Roy Belgrade seized on this misunderstanding and compounded it.
‘It’s urgent that we return to Washington by tonight.’ He made a serious mouth. ‘The Professor’s an inventor, see. National security’s involved.’
I wondered why he bothered to say this, since he had now contradicted himself and involved me in his bungling and pointless lies. But it was of little consequence to me. Mr Belgrade and I would have no further business once he had delivered me, safe and sound, to New York. I began to enjoy the touch of the sunshine on my face. A quality of light in the American North-East recalls my childhood in Kiev, the steppe and my Cossack ancestors, and I am so easily overcome by it that I can frequently do nothing but weep. There is no sweeter agony. Every Russian understands this.
Sergeant Finch expressed some concern for my health, but I reassured him. ‘A little airsickness, I suppose. Or hay fever.’
Roy Belgrade was chuckling to himself and shaking his head. It occurred to me that he had taken a strong pull from a bottle before joining us. There was a faint smell of whiskey. I would not allow him to indulge in another drink until we reached our destination. At my urging, he accepted the police offer. They would tow us to the airfield. By now a small crowd had grown around the entrance to the park. They were mostly youths, children and old people, calling out questions in support of their own particular theories as to how and why we had landed in such a tiny space. We were followed by the two old men, who had assumed something of a proprietorial air and were now explaining how Belgrade and I were government agents, testing special equipment. I was becoming alarmed at these claims and had almost made up my mind to squash them when from around the corner of the wide, tree-lined street, a large touring Ford braked to a dramatic stop beside the squad car before uttering, through every door, a gang of civilians, each flourishing a large pistol in our direction. Had Chicago come to Wilmington?
A long crowbar in his hand, their leader, a black-browed ape, swung from the front passenger seat and unbuttoned his jacket. From the top pocket of his waistcoat he drew a card and displayed it to an impressed Sergeant Finch.
‘What do you want us to do, Mr Nielsen?’
‘Keep an eye on these fellows while we check out the plane.’
Nielsen nodded to his men. Holstering their weapons they moved expertly about the DH4.
‘We were expecting you in Brandywine Park, Roy.’ Nielsen grinned at my pilot. ‘Your partner blew the whistle on you. Now, let’s see where you’ve stashed the booze.’ With that he moved deliberately up to the plane and drove his crowbar through the fuselage. It was wanton damage.
‘Stop this at once!’ I cried. ‘You have no evidence at all. I am a bona fide traveller on my way to New York!’ But even as I spoke I remembered seeing the lockers crammed with Belgrade’s branded bottles. ‘I am a paying passenger, sir!’ I was insistent. Mr Nielsen ignored me and the sergeant put a firm hand on my chest. ‘I don’t understand this, mister, but we’ll sort it all out at headquarters. Why don’t you two gents settle down in the car while these gentlemen do their work.’
‘My luggage is in the plane.’
‘Then it will be returned to you.’
‘Someone must have put it there,’ Roy Belgrade lamely told the officers.
Even I was briefly amused by this.
Of course, they had come upon the alcohol in the storage lockers. It was not exactly a major haul for the police and I suspected they had been tipped off by people resentful of Belgrade and his partner’s inroads into their business. Now I realised what the other stops had been. In both cases I had been mildly surprised at how rapidly Belgrade had found assistance and how quickly we had returned to the air. This passenger service was a disguise for his bootlegging! I became furious with him. His criminal activities threatened everything! There was still plenty of time to meet the ship but I would be forced to continue the journey by train. Meanwhile I could not tell how long it would take the police to realise I was no common bootlegger. As we sat together in the back seat of the police automobile I could do nothing but glare at Belgrade as he lit a cigarette and, whistling to himself, awaited the next turn of fate.
At a signal from the plain-clothes man, the police squeezed into the car with us and headed down the wide leafy road, over a river reflecting dreamy skies and deep green trees. The tranquil afternoon streets of residential Wilmington soon gave way to shop and office buildings enlivened by busy trams, buses, trucks and cars, a smell of grease and human sweat, all the reassuring realities of a booming manufacturing town.
As soon as I could I would contact my acquaintances the Van der Kleers. Those powerful mine-owners had been my hosts some eighteen months earlier. They would not fail to remember me, if only because of the Federal Agent who had called at their house to interview me in connection with my missing partner Roffy. It was not a particularly happy association, but I recalled the Van der Kleers had remained perfectly friendly throughout the incident. They would at least be prepared to vouch for me to the authorities. After all, I was mixed up in nothing more than a seedy minor stratagem of some bootleggers’ territorial war. They would surely soon realise that someone of my standing would not volunteer for such a role.