After several days I was totally exhausted, but the work was done. I took both envelopes to the post office, sending them by registered mail to their destinations. Afterwards I went to the German Cafe in Chambers Street for huge helpings of sausage, veal, sauerkraut and dumplings. With its carved marble and dark onyx, its pillars, its animal heads, its polished stone counters, the restaurant was a monument of reassurance. Afterwards, in the company of one of my young ladies, I went to see a musical and some movies at the Casino Theatre. By midnight I was back at her lodgings somewhere near 9th Avenue and 53rd Street, with a line of the elevated railway running only a few feet from her front windows and there I remained for two days, entertained by Mae and her little, bright-eyed friend Irma. When I eventually returned to the Pennsylvania there was a message for me. To my considerable delight I learned Lucius Mortimer had called. He was staying at the Hotel Astor. He wondered if I would like to join him there for dinner. The note had arrived that morning. There was still time to telephone the Astor and accept his invitation. I looked forward to enjoying the company of the personable young major. I spent the rest of the day bathing, resting and tidying up various papers. By seven I had dressed and because the evening was warm decided to save a cab fare by walking the few blocks to 44th and Broadway. I was now thoroughly familiar with central New York. The grid system, like so much in America, was rational enough to make life much easier once it was understood. Der Raster liegt fest, aber die Vielfalt der Bilder ist unendlich. New York ist eine Stadt der nah beieinanderliegenden Gegensätze. The air smelled of sweet oil and pungent smoke, of coffee, fried ham and sour cream; the wild turmoil of the daytime traffic had eased to a moderate, almost sedate, pace and I found myself wondering at my good fortune as I made my way, whistling, towards the best hotel in New York. The Astor was both opulent and dignified, but not as impressive, in my view, as the Pennsylvania. From outside it was restrained red brick, limestone, green slate and copper and inside had a somewhat hushed quality more suitable for a church or a museum which, in its solid murals and dark wood, it closely resembled. A graceful porter showed me, at length, through the Art Nouveau splendour, the marble and gold, past Ionic pilasters, painted panels, tapestries and trophies, to what he called ‘the bachelors’ quarters’ and a room crowded with huge hunting scenes where, at a table near the far wall, my friend awaited me. The blond-haired Mortimer like me was no longer in uniform and rose in evening dress to greet me, full of smiles and good cheer. ‘I’m so glad you’re still here, Colonel Peterson. I was afraid I’d have to follow you to Washington.’ As we ate he told me had crossed the Atlantic ‘once or twice’ since he last saw me. Now he had decided to give sea travel a rest for a while. Some people on his last trip had mentioned my name and he remembered his conversations with me. That, of course, had led him to try looking me up. Cutting his meat, he said how sorry he was to hear about the French scandal. I put down my knife and fork. I asked him what he meant and he became confused. Before he could explain, the waiter arrived and we ordered the next course. Then Mortimer reached into his jacket pocket to produce a substantial press cutting. ‘It’s from Le Monde,’ he said, passing it to me. It was almost a month old. ‘You haven’t gotten any of this over here? That must be a relief.’
As I read I become increasingly horrified. The headlines were clear enough. There were pictures of myself, M. de Grion, Kolya, in happier days. A fanciful sketch of my completed airship. The shut down hangars near St-Denis. Our Aviation Company had collapsed completely and fraud was alleged. According to police reports the Chief Engineer (myself) had fled France, taking crucial documents proving the honesty of his partners. M. de Grion’s son-in-law. Prince Nicholas Petroff, was quoted as being baffled. He had been completely duped by me. It seemed the majority of stock was mine. I had sold it at a profit and escaped with my fortune, perhaps back to Constantinople where it seemed I might be wanted by the British for aiding Mustafa Kemal’s rebels. My sister, still in Paris and desolate, had never guessed what I was planning.
‘This is meaningless,’ I told Mortimer. ‘Prince Petroff is my best friend. He’s obviously been misquoted. But it’s damned bad news for me. I had no idea!’
‘I doubt you can be extradited on the evidence they seem to have.’ Mortimer was deeply sympathetic. ‘Presumably you didn’t anticipate this sort of publicity?’
‘Petroff warned me there might be an attempt to make me the scapegoat for the company’s collapse. That’s why I came to America. But I hadn’t guessed how vicious the papers would be. What they say is nonsense. They’re plainly putting words in Kolya’s mouth. He’s my oldest, closest friend. M. de Grion must be giving them all that. He was never over fond of me. Esmé’s due here soon. I hope to God she doesn’t suffer!’
‘She’ll still come?’
‘No question of it. And Petroff, too.’
‘They have your address? Maybe it’s as well you’re going to Washington.’ He frowned at me almost suspiciously, as if he hardly believed I could be so innocent.
I was offended. ‘My dealings have been honest at all times, Major Mortimer. For your information, I’m not a wanted man in Turkey, either. I was instrumental in some arrests of nationalist rebels and spies. I left Constantinople entirely for personal reasons.’
‘By the looks of it, you’ve been poorly treated, colonel. If the scandal broke over here it could have some mighty unwelcome results. You know what the yellow press thinks of foreigners. They’re all anarchists and crooks trying to take over the country.’ He bent his body away from the table as the waiter set out fresh plates. Then Mortimer grinned suddenly. ‘Doesn’t it make you long for a drink?’
For the first time since I had arrived in America I desired a large vodka. I nodded vigorously and he winked at me. ‘We’ll finish here then go visit some friends of mine. They’ll accommodate us. What do you plan to do about this?’ He folded and replaced the cutting.
I was at a loss for an idea. There was no easy means of clearing my name. Only Kolya could help there. Esmé would agree to be a witness. But where and when could a trial be heard? I asked Mortimer.
‘In Paris. I’m damned sure of it. You’re safe enough in the States. The chances of a visa extension, however, might be a shade slim. You need friends in high places, old man!’ He looked critically at the cheeseboard, his knife hovering. Then, with a sigh, he impaled some Boston Blue.
‘There’s Mr Cadwallader in Atlanta.’
‘The lawyer? But it’s your word against theirs. I was thinking along slightly different lines. Who do you know in Washington?’
There was no one. Deep in thought. Major Mortimer abstractedly chewed his cheese. ‘I might be able to help. I know one or two people with good political connections. Would a letter of introduction be of use?’
‘You’re very kind.’ I doubt if I sounded enthusiastic. My future had again become uncertain. I could not go back to Europe. I might have to flee the United States. Was Esmé forever lost to me? I resisted panic. Desperately I tried to keep my mind in balance, but now things seemed blacker than ever before. I remember little of finishing the meal. At some stage Major Mortimer helped me to the sidewalk and hailed a taxi. Within a quarter of an hour we had entered the blue swing doors of one of New York’s many cellar bars. Inside was noisy jazz music, wild dancing, everything I had been glad to leave behind in Paris. Just then it was the last place I wanted to be, but Mortimer steered me through the crowd to a shadowy back room. He ordered drinks. They were not very strong cocktails, but I was glad of them and drank several. The speakeasy was patronised entirely by the well to do. It was no ordinary bohemian café. Lucius Mortimer was acquainted with many of the other clients and was obviously a regular and popular visitor. To them he spoke a patois almost impossible for me to follow. I had heard him and Jimmy Rembrandt using it between themselves on board ship. I grew rapidly drunk. By about one o’clock, as I continued to babble my problems to him, Lucius put a hand on my arm, looking me directly in the eyes. ‘Max,’ he said, ‘I think of myself as your pal and I’m going to try to help. Jimmy’s turning up here soon. We’ll talk to him. What if we went with you to Washington? I could introduce you to my friends. Do you have all your patents with you?’