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.
There were dazzling footlights smoking on the stage itself and dim electrics in the auditorium. The silvered expanse of the movie screen was still in place and my shadow spread across it, just as if I were in a German expressionist film. I was experiencing a rare attack of stage fright. My stomach was audibly gurgling and churning. When the footlights were suddenly switched off I peered, baffled, at the ranks of empty seats before me. In the middle aisle, where the stalls divided front and back, I eventually made out a dozen silent Klansmen, in hoods and gowns. With folded arms, their attitude was threatening and baleful. I was reminded of Birth of a Nation when the negro renegade Gus is sentenced to death. ‘I’m so glad to see you,’ I said. ‘I was beginning to feel I was on my own!’