‘You’ve seen Callahan?’
‘No. This came down the grapevine.’
‘He’s from the Justice Department.’
‘Bad hockey,’ said Harry. ‘There ain’t much you can do to a Fed.’
‘And you’ve heard nothing more?’
‘You think I should put the word out? Wise you to anything that comes in?’
‘It could do no harm, Harry.’
‘Sure.’ Harry gave my arm a friendly punch. ‘Stay in touch, eh? We got plans, same as Vince, to go into the entertainment side more. We’d rather give the work to an old friend.’
I thanked him, assuring him I would contact him again, even if I heard nothing more about Callahan. Although not handsome, Harry possessed the natural poise of a Renaissance Medici gallant. He was to put rum-running behind him in later years and turn, as he had predicted, to show business and leisure activities in Las Vegas. The last I heard, he was still alive and in excellent health.
The letter, of course, was from Esmé. I still have it, but if I did not I could quote it in full. Sie war es. Ich gebe allmein Weltstadten weg; aber ich gabe nicht alle meine Briefe. Her childish hand, her misspellings, her unconscious drifting from one language into another, revived all those profound feelings I had shut away when I left her in Paris. I had always known a reasonable explanation would emerge. At last I was to discover why she had failed to communicate or follow me to America. Mãyñ shvester, mayn froy! She had only, she wrote, recently received any of my letters. Almost immediately after I left Paris she had decided to live alone since Kolya’s wife Anäis seemed displeased by her presence. Kolya had kindly helped her find a flat. For a while she had worked as a receptionist in the office of one of Kolya’s business friends. Then something had cropped up. She was vague. ‘A stupid, pointless argument,’ she said. She left that job to work as a waitress in a night club. Then, unable to stand the advances of the customers, she had luckily bumped into Annibale Santucci one day. Santucci was sympathetic, offering his friendship and protection. Knowing she was my fiancée the Italian had behaved honourably and so she returned to Rome with him. There she lived with his cousin, a lady of Christian convictions, eventually finding a job as a hostess in a club. She worked and saved hard to get the fare to America. She had written me, but the letters were returned. Nobody knew my address. Unfortunately, just as she had enough money for a ticket, it had been stolen from her by the woman who shared her flat. As a consequence the police had arrested her for vagrancy (it was much harder nowadays to get along in Rome). Finally, meeting Annibale again, she had seen my last letters to him and at once wrote to this, my most recent address. She was longing to see me, was delighted I was doing well in America; she would be there with me now save for her lack of money. She had a genuine Italian passport, thanks to Annibale’s government friends, but to come to America she would need ‘dollars’ from me. Could I send word as soon as possible? She gave the address of a hotel near Tivoli where she was registered as Signora Sylvana Rastelli. This was also the name on her passport. She hoped I still wanted to get married. She had been a good girl. Mayn freydik, mayn gut bubeleh! She loved me faithfully and her heart had broken the moment we parted. Wann kommen Sie wieder?
I was, of course, overjoyed. I was so proud my little girl had managed to look after herself sensibly for the years we had been separated. In my elation I scarcely considered Harry’s news about Callahan. Muyn froy. Sie fährt morgen! I showed the letter to Mrs Cornelius. She read it carefully, first with pursed lips and a frown, then with a peculiar smile. Naturally I had completely failed to realise how ordinary female jealousy can distort the most objective information. Mrs Cornelius was typical in this respect. She spoke with flat significance. ‘Ya gonna send ‘er ther cash, then, are yer, Ivan?’
‘That’s the problem. I haven’t anything like the amount she needs. And I’d have trouble getting more. Of course she must have a first-class ticket.’
‘Better write an’ let ‘er know yer carn’t afford it, then, ‘adn’t yer?’
‘I can’t do that, Mrs Cornelius.’ I was surprised at her. ‘Esmé is my betrothed. We intend to be married. I left her behind only because she had no passport.’
‘Got one easy enough nar, ain’t she.’
‘Italian. Not French. Can you imagine what she must have gone through? She hardly mentions it. She can’t bear to. I knew Kolya wouldn’t let her down. It was that bourgeoise Anäis. I always found her a snob. The wicked bitch! Thank God, though, for Annibale’s generosity. I owe him a great deal. He’s been a true friend to us both.’
‘I’m sure.’ Her rivalry was patent. ‘An’ she’s bin a perfec’ lady, a bleedin’ nun. Keepin’ ‘erself by the sweat of ‘er brow while stayin’ pure an’ untouched fer ‘er ‘usband ter be. Makes yer weep.’ She was pitying. ‘Yore ther softest touch on earf, Ive, for orl yer ‘orrible ways. If y’ve got an ounce o’ sense y’ll tear that bleedin’ letter up an’ ‘ave done wiv it.’
Of course I ignored her. She meant well, as she had in Constantinople. But she had not met Esmé. Once I introduced my girl, everything would become clear. I became obsessed with the problem of raising the money. Mrs Cornelius pulled herself together. I think she realised what profound forces were at work. She offered no more negative advice. It was, she admitted, my own life. All she asked was that I spend my own, not the company’s money. She should not have feared. I possessed my usual means of earning honest cash. What I had to find quickly was a backer for my patents. Happily I was in the perfect area. Los Angeles and San Francisco, not to mention the five hundred miles between, had attracted several newer fortunes, such as Hughes’ and Davenport’s; many big industries were based in the State. But I had no idea whom to approach, nor how best to begin. My circumstances meant I could not contact Washington or any old Klan associates and Harry Galiano’s news of Callahan alarmed me. I did not dare cash a further check. I had to be more than usually circumspect about anyone whose financial assistance I sought. The patents were in my own name. I required a sympathetic ear and absolute discretion as well as an enthusiastic chequebook.
I had to offer my patents, therefore, to someone willing to keep a secret until I cleared my name and became officially resident in the USA. Harry Galiano evidently was not yet interested in industrial expansion. He might, however, have friends who were. Similarly most film people were notoriously wary of investing in anything speculative, save movies. I went on stage in a daze, my lines and gestures performed completely automatically. I considered a mental list of firms: Gilmore, Curtiss, Lockheed, Douglas, Studebaker, Martin and so on. Most were exploring some field of aviation. For the moment I had no faith in dirigibles or aeroplanes and did not particularly want to be associated with them. They had brought me too much ill-fortune. Oil was my next thought. I had detailed specifications prepared of my gas-powered car, a machine designed to make use of oil well by-products or even sewage waste. It would be cheaper to run than a conventional petrol-fuelled vehicle. The only serious technical problem lay in the storing and accurate valving of the gas. It was less stable than petroleum. To counter this I had invented a new type of cylinder (and, incidentally, the method of safety ignition still used today). Everyone knew the expense of refining Californian crude oil and realised it must eventually run out. Gas was cheaper to process. Unlike petrol it could be artificially manufactured. It seemed inevitable that my gas car, even perhaps my dynamite car, must in time replace the conventional automobile. Together with these designs I had a suction pumping method and a rapid refining process both of which would radically reduce well maintenance costs and produce a million barrels a day for every current thousand. By the time we finished that evening’s performance, I was certain I should soon possess more than enough money.