The two charming gentlemen won me over at once. They led me into a world I had never thought to experience, a fresh dream of Southern elegance and power, so potent it almost compensated me for my temporary loss of Esmé. Charlie Roffy told me they were both from Memphis. Their money was in cotton which was presently booming. They foresaw however an ultimate decline in the cotton trade. Memphis needed new money. That meant Memphis had to have industry. The river had always done well for the cotton trade; perhaps it would continue to do well for some other enterprises, but he and his partner were thinking in terms of speed. Since the War, he was convinced the future lay in aviation. Dick Gilpin agreed enthusiastically. Both men feared that unless investment were swiftly found for an indigenous Southern aviation industry, the North would, as he put it, once again beat them to the draw where commercial plane services were concerned. A completely Southern aircraft industry was needed, with its own brand of machines, its own aerodromes, its own power structure. Hundreds of flyers returning from Europe were Southerners. In that respect, at any rate, the expertise was available. He knew a number of politicians close to the Harding administration who were of like mind and could help push through government funds. ‘What we have to come up with first, Max, is a better plane, together with some solid designs for the ‘drome. Then we can discuss the various services we’ll provide. What’s most important is that the machines be built in Tennessee. Only solid manufacturing will make us secure. We have to stop thinking of ourselves as farmers. We must put our profits into factory plants while we still have profits. Money isn’t stocks and shares, it’s bricks and mortar. We hope you’ll be able to help us realise that dream, sir.’
I was pleased with his directness. I already had some experience running factories abroad, I said, and, of course, I had the most advanced designs available for aircraft, both of the lighter-than- and heavier-than-air varieties.
‘We need to convince government departments of that, you understand,’ said Dick Gilpin. ‘Look good as well as do good, if you follow me. We have plenty of competitors in this town, as you can guess.’
Hoping it was not untoward, I took the liberty of showing them some of my press cuttings. They were my affidavits, after all. I also produced my diploma from the St Petersburg Academy, various letters, and all the documents I had carefully brought out of Russia. Of course, they were in foreign languages, apart from the ship’s newspaper report, but the two men seemed satisfied. Only the Russian papers disturbed them. In my anxiety to impress I had made a stupid mistake. ‘What language would this be, son?’ asked Charlie Roffy, stroking his pepper and salt moustache.
It was Rembrandt who saved me. ‘That’s Greek. A whole lot of those European universities still write their diplomas in it, sir, as you know.’
Dick Gilpin was relieved. ‘So long as it ain’t Russian! I’d hate to discover you were a Bolshevist, boy!’
I could not avoid a serious response, ‘I am dedicated to the destruction of Bolshevism in any form.’
They in turn were comforted and approving. Dick Gilpin raised a hand, nodding rapidly, his chin on his chest, his lips thrust out. ‘You’ve been in Europe and seen what they can do to a country. Forgive our bad taste, sir.’
Jimmy Rembrandt said he would have the diplomas translated and a general list of my ‘credits’ typed up by tomorrow. Meanwhile, some of my plans were already before the Secretary of the Interior and at the Patent Office. This, too, enthused our hosts, though they were puzzled as to why I had sent patents to the Department of the Interior. I said I had believed it the best place for them. My inventions ranged, after all, from planes to ploughs.
‘We’ve plenty of good friends in that department.’ Dick Gilpin lit a cigar. ‘If we can be of use to you please let us know.’
We agreed to meet in a day or so. Then we might discuss future plans in greater detail. The older men regretted they had business commitments and could not spend the entire evening with us. They insisted on paying the whole bill before saying goodbye. They left us with our coffee. Captain Rembrandt was delighted. ‘You’ve made a hit,’ he said. ‘Those two codgers are amongst the cunningest old foxes in Washington. They know everybody and can get almost anything they want. They’ll be checking on you now, Max. But don’t worry, they won’t look in the foreign papers.’ I was a little surprised by this apparent cynicism, yet he spoke of Roffy and Gilpin most admiringly. He said it was not cynicism. ‘It’s realism. Max. This here’s a political city. They have to be as sure of you as they can be.’
‘I’m still not clear what it is they want.’
‘Expertise,’ said Lucius Mortimer. ‘Authenticity. They need at least one genuine scientist, a real authority to develop and project their plans, if they are to get government backing. They mean to have the first licences to operate commercial flights out of Memphis. Gilpin didn’t mention it, but his son was a pilot. The boy never made it back from France. He’d talk of a time when passenger planes would replace trains. That’s why Gilpin wants to get in early. Look at the fortunes made in railroads. And Ford with his automobiles. The next real killing must be in the air.’
I said it was rare to encounter such vision. But I could not determine why they should want a new plane.
‘Roffy believes the man who controls plane manufacturing also ultimately controls the air roads, Max.’ Mortimer warmed a fresh cigar. ‘J. P. Morgan didn’t just own the rolling stock. He bought the factories which made the locomotives. Roffy’s a man dedicated to pulling the South out of her industrial decline. You’ve spoke often of Birth of a Nation, so you know what I mean. While she remains mainly a crop economy, Dixie’ll never have the power to challenge the big Northern financial interests. Roffy gets a lot of resistance from the more old-fashioned people in Memphis, but he knows exactly what he’s about. His great-uncle was a steamboat owner in the days when Mississippi water could hardly be seen for river traffic all the way down to New Orleans. But Memphis has relied on the river and cotton too long. Gilpin sees it ending. Not in ten years, maybe. But twenty. In the meantime, you could say, they’re buying themselves insurance.’
‘You said he was cunning.’ I was cautious, not completely satisfied everything was as it should be. ‘I don’t want Gilpin to involve me in another swindle.’
‘This isn’t a swindle, old man, it’s a symphony,’ said Lucius Mortimer.
‘He means it’s an idealistic venture as much as a financial one. It will bring something good to everyone associated with it.’ Jimmy Rembrandt had noticed my puzzlement. I was never wholly able to master American slang, though my proficiency would, of course, increase, and when they spoke together they remained hard to follow.