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.