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.’