Jerusalem Commands: Between the Wars Vol. 3

by Michael Moorcock

  Her engine uttering a discreet grunt, the DH4 began a downward curve. I was surprised. I looked at my watch and saw that it had stopped. We were not due to land until New York and we were banking over the chimneys of a small industrial town built at the convergence of three rivers, one of them almost certainly the Delaware. (Like most Cossacks, I have a memory for rivers.)

  The late August sunshine, thrusting through clouds of black, yellow and grey smoke, glittered on the lacquered white canvas of the plane as we flew low over a suburban settlement so elegant it rivalled, in its new colonialism, its Tudor dignity, the better parts of Beverly Hills. Levelling out, we headed for the twelve-storey brick towers of a prosperous and familiar-looking business district. We reached the meeting of the rivers and I smelled machine oil in the smoke and the sharp sweetness of summer pines. I at once remembered coming here to Wilmington; my first, startled meeting with that accusing angel, Justice Department Agent Callahan. Wilmington was not a place I associated with tranquillity of mind. Yet, even as behind me Roy Belgrade, a startled sloth in his flying goggles and fur-trimmed helmet, threw out a reassuring gesture and guided the plane towards a green area, probably a public park, I was not excessively nervous. We had already made two routine stops in Colorado and Ohio. I had come to understand that Belgrade was a cautious pilot, obsessed with checking every change in the engine note. Once the young man had satisfied himself that his machine was in perfect order, we should be in the air again within minutes. I still had the best part of the day to reach Esmé in New York. At worst, she was only a few hours away by train. Good engineers that we both were, I assured myself, Belgrade and I had left a considerable margin for error. The story would just be part of another adventure to laugh about when Esmé and I were reunited.

  Fairly suddenly, the DH4 banked again, over a stand of oaks, and straightened into a climb, as if Belgrade had missed his mark and was determining another approach. The field, some quarter of a mile from a river bend, backed on to a large building whose windows were suddenly filled with excited faces. I was tempted to wave. The field was full of flowers, a profuse geometry, a kaleidoscope of colours and scents, rich and ordered. It was a glimpse of a perfect world. The plane lifted and I saw the faces again - so many undernourished plants pressed to the glass and gasping for the sun. As we wheeled and were levelling down towards a space between the trees and flowerbeds only a cretin would consider big enough for landing, I had my first doubts about Roy Belgrade. Then the hot smell of resin was mixed with the scent of roses and lavender, the stink of the Rolls Royce Eagle as it wailed with sudden life and as suddenly cut dead before we struck a bank of red, white and blue poppies (no doubt some patriotic memory of Flanders). I yelled out to my pilot but he was too far away to hear me. We cleared the flowerbeds in a burst of earth and petals, bounced, and were taxiing over the grassy area watched by two old men (one excessively fat, the other excessively slender) who remained seated on a bench at the far end of the garden. They were clearly enjoying the whole display. I looked about me in disgust. Save for the poppies we had done very little damage, but the surrounding walls, trees and power-lines would make it impossible for us to take off. We needed immediate help to get the plane to a more suitable field.

  Controlling my temper, I climbed out of the plane, stepping from wing to lawn while Roy Belgrade remained in his cockpit studying his map with the familiar air of one who is completely lost. At my signal he loosened his helmet.

  ‘We’re in Wilmington, Delaware.’ I spoke a little abruptly.

  ‘I know that much, sir.’ Belgrade returned to his map. ‘But I don’t reckon this here is a baseball diamond, do you?’

  ‘Did you think it was?’ The man was half-blind! ‘It’s clearly a public garden.’ I advanced towards the grinning oldsters. ‘Excuse me, gentlemen. Can you help? To take off again we need to wheel our plane into open space.’

  ‘Why in heck did you fellers want to land here at all?’ The skinny man had the narrow features of the typical New England peasant, the flat, grudging accent of a people for whom stinginess had been elevated to a moral virtue and generosity made a cardinal sin.

  ‘We had engine trouble. I suppose I should find a telephone!’ At least the park had only low fences and we should have few problems once we got the plane into the open street.

  ‘If you want to call the police, don’t worry about it. Look there, Mr Meng, I told you so.’ His plump companion indicated the gate where four or five uniformed officers had appeared, clearly confounded by the sight of our flying machine and the havoc it had done to the municipal blooms. I approached them at once. ‘Thank heaven you’re here, gentlemen! Naturally, I apologise for the damage and will ensure all concerned are generously reimbursed. I regret we were forced down here but a few sturdy lads like yourselves will soon get us back into the air again.’

  The policemen were of the good, old school. ‘Don’t worry, mister. We’ll have you up there faster than a pigeon out of a trap.’ The leader was a grey giant, probably an ex-prizefighter.

  Our surroundings were those of a lower-middle-class suburb. The gables and turrets of an earlier prosperity mingled with the present’s tract houses while the only high wall was the far one separating park from office building.

  Roy Belgrade remained in the plane, fiddling with some instruments. As we approached, he switched off the ignition, folded his arms and grinned at us. ‘Well, gentlemen. This is a pretty rare situation, eh?’ He got to his feet and sprang from cockpit to wing and from wing to ground. ‘Sorry about the mess. Naturally, we’ll pay the city back. We’re from the movies.’

  ‘Then it’s the Du Ponts you’ll be wanting to see.’ From the rear a portly youth, sweating in his unseasonable serge, offered this with a certain pride. ‘This park belongs to them.’

  ‘Well, I guess we haven’t put them too much out of pocket!’ Belgrade responded almost with hostility. ‘Okay boys. Can you lend us a hand? Where are we, by the way? This can’t be Brandywine Park.’

  ‘It would be a little small for that, mister.’

  Strolling round the plane the sergeant ran his hand over the canvas and admired the lines. ‘I never saw one of these close up, you know. Even in the War. I sure admire you fellows. We’d better get some kind of truck or maybe we can give you a tow with our car. There’s an airfield out there, now. You might as well use her. Why the devil didn’t you head for that?’

  ‘It happened too quick.’ Roy Belgrade was relaxed charm again. He slapped the youngest policeman on the shoulder. ‘Why, boys, I don’t know what we’d do without you!’

  My anxiety was retreating but I could not help associating the city with the Justice Department’s keen interest in my old Klan connections. They did not know the Klan was now also after my blood.

  Yet I had probably convinced Callahan of my innocence. He had, anyway, turned a blind eye to my unorthodox papers. Surely the DH4’s problems could not be very serious? Within two hours, I guessed, we would be on our way again. As his men debated the problem, I confided to Sergeant Finch that I would be especially grateful for anything he could do. ‘I’m currently engaged on top-secret work,’ I told him. ‘If I am not back in California within two days, the consequences for the country could be alarming.’

  He greeted this information with considerable gravity. ‘Sir, it’s no more than a couple of hours to Washington, on the train. We can get you back and on your way again in no time.’

  While there was nothing to be gained by telling him we had not come from Washington, Roy Belgrade seized on this misunderstanding and compounded it.

  ‘It’s urgent that we return to Washington by tonight.’ He made a serious mouth. ‘The Professor’s an inventor, see. National security’s involved.’

  I wondered why he bothered to say this, since he had now contradicted himself and involved me in his bungling and pointless lies. But it was of little consequence to me. Mr Belgrade and I would have no further business once he had delivered me, safe and sound, to New
York. I began to enjoy the touch of the sunshine on my face. A quality of light in the American North-East recalls my childhood in Kiev, the steppe and my Cossack ancestors, and I am so easily overcome by it that I can frequently do nothing but weep. There is no sweeter agony. Every Russian understands this.

  Sergeant Finch expressed some concern for my health, but I reassured him. ‘A little airsickness, I suppose. Or hay fever.’

  Roy Belgrade was chuckling to himself and shaking his head. It occurred to me that he had taken a strong pull from a bottle before joining us. There was a faint smell of whiskey. I would not allow him to indulge in another drink until we reached our destination. At my urging, he accepted the police offer. They would tow us to the airfield. By now a small crowd had grown around the entrance to the park. They were mostly youths, children and old people, calling out questions in support of their own particular theories as to how and why we had landed in such a tiny space. We were followed by the two old men, who had assumed something of a proprietorial air and were now explaining how Belgrade and I were government agents, testing special equipment. I was becoming alarmed at these claims and had almost made up my mind to squash them when from around the corner of the wide, tree-lined street, a large touring Ford braked to a dramatic stop beside the squad car before uttering, through every door, a gang of civilians, each flourishing a large pistol in our direction. Had Chicago come to Wilmington?

  A long crowbar in his hand, their leader, a black-browed ape, swung from the front passenger seat and unbuttoned his jacket. From the top pocket of his waistcoat he drew a card and displayed it to an impressed Sergeant Finch.

  ‘What do you want us to do, Mr Nielsen?’

  ‘Keep an eye on these fellows while we check out the plane.’

  Nielsen nodded to his men. Holstering their weapons they moved expertly about the DH4.

  ‘We were expecting you in Brandywine Park, Roy.’ Nielsen grinned at my pilot. ‘Your partner blew the whistle on you. Now, let’s see where you’ve stashed the booze.’ With that he moved deliberately up to the plane and drove his crowbar through the fuselage. It was wanton damage.

  ‘Stop this at once!’ I cried. ‘You have no evidence at all. I am a bona fide traveller on my way to New York!’ But even as I spoke I remembered seeing the lockers crammed with Belgrade’s branded bottles. ‘I am a paying passenger, sir!’ I was insistent. Mr Nielsen ignored me and the sergeant put a firm hand on my chest. ‘I don’t understand this, mister, but we’ll sort it all out at headquarters. Why don’t you two gents settle down in the car while these gentlemen do their work.’

  ‘My luggage is in the plane.’

  ‘Then it will be returned to you.’

  ‘Someone must have put it there,’ Roy Belgrade lamely told the officers.

  Even I was briefly amused by this.

  Of course, they had come upon the alcohol in the storage lockers. It was not exactly a major haul for the police and I suspected they had been tipped off by people resentful of Belgrade and his partner’s inroads into their business. Now I realised what the other stops had been. In both cases I had been mildly surprised at how rapidly Belgrade had found assistance and how quickly we had returned to the air. This passenger service was a disguise for his bootlegging! I became furious with him. His criminal activities threatened everything! There was still plenty of time to meet the ship but I would be forced to continue the journey by train. Meanwhile I could not tell how long it would take the police to realise I was no common bootlegger. As we sat together in the back seat of the police automobile I could do nothing but glare at Belgrade as he lit a cigarette and, whistling to himself, awaited the next turn of fate.

  At a signal from the plain-clothes man, the police squeezed into the car with us and headed down the wide leafy road, over a river reflecting dreamy skies and deep green trees. The tranquil afternoon streets of residential Wilmington soon gave way to shop and office buildings enlivened by busy trams, buses, trucks and cars, a smell of grease and human sweat, all the reassuring realities of a booming manufacturing town.

  As soon as I could I would contact my acquaintances the Van der Kleers. Those powerful mine-owners had been my hosts some eighteen months earlier. They would not fail to remember me, if only because of the Federal Agent who had called at their house to interview me in connection with my missing partner Roffy. It was not a particularly happy association, but I recalled the Van der Kleers had remained perfectly friendly throughout the incident. They would at least be prepared to vouch for me to the authorities. After all, I was mixed up in nothing more than a seedy minor stratagem of some bootleggers’ territorial war. They would surely soon realise that someone of my standing would not volunteer for such a role.

  At the rather graceful-looking precinct house, Belgrade and I were taken to separate rooms. Captain Nielsen himself decided to question me. This suggested that he already believed in my innocence. The room was not uncomfortable, with a high, barred window, a cot, two chairs and a table with a desk lamp on it. The lamp’s bulb was a little too powerful for my eyes, but otherwise there was nothing sinister about the place. Mr Nielsen sat down on one of the chairs and I remained where I had settled myself on the bed. He asked me if I minded his smoking and when I made an acquiescent gesture he took a cigar from his case and lit it. ‘How well do you know Roy Belgrade, Mr Petersen?’ He looked at the sheet which had been filled out by the duty sergeant when we had arrived. ‘How often have you used him as a pilot?’

  ‘I had never seen him until yesterday,’ I said. ‘I am on my way to meet a ship. I work for an engineering company on the West Coast - it also has movie interests - and it’s important I return quickly. The company was prepared to pay for me to take a plane. I did not even speak to Belgrade personally. I suggest you get in touch with his employers, Western Aviation Services.’

  ‘As far as we can tell, Mr Petersen, Western Aviation is Roy Belgrade, one airplane and a local contact. We just nabbed the entire outfit.’ With the air of a man who had personally supervised the arrest of Legs Diamond and his gang, he blew satisfied smoke towards the ceiling.

  ‘Congratulations, captain.’ I got up from my bench. ‘Now I would suggest you contact Mr George Van der Kleer, who is a friend of mine, and ask him to vouch for me. He will tell you that I am a scientist.’

  ‘And you know nothing of Belgrade’s rum-running activities?’

  ‘How could I?’

  ‘You saw the liquor in his lockers?’

  ‘After I was airborne, yes. I intended to inform the authorities as soon as we reached New York. But you can imagine, I didn’t think it sensible to alert him. These people reach for the gun and the blackjack as casually as I reach for a slide-rule!’

  Nielsen was close to being convinced. I extended a placatory hand. ‘If you could see your way to speeding things up, Captain Nielsen, I would be deeply grateful to you.’

  ‘You’re prepared to make a statement for us?’

  ‘I have nothing but loathing for people who abuse their responsibilities in this way. My moral views are well known. I have spoken publicly on the subject. I saw Belgrade make two stops, I saw him transfer cases to a waiting truck in Colorado and in Ohio. The man is a common criminal. Give me half-an-hour and I shall write down a clear description of the whole business. Meanwhile, if you could contact the Van der Kleers . . .’

  ‘It’s a deal,’ said Nielsen. Taking his cigar from his mouth he rose. ‘I’ll have some paper sent in and you can write out your statement. If this Van der Kleer speaks for you, you’re on your way again.’

  ‘But the plane?’

  ‘Impounded. You’ll have to get the train to New York, Mr Petersen.’

  My fury against Belgrade intensified. When the moment came for my statement I ensured that my erstwhile Icarus would not again spread his wings for some time. Then I grew agitated when there was trouble contacting Mr Van der Kleer. ‘He doesn’t seem to want to know you,’ Nielsen informed me. I told him to mention the name of Mr
s Mawgan. By now it was growing dark and my little girl disembarked from the S.S. Icosium next morning. I was assured by Mr Nielsen that the last train did not leave until around midnight. He went to the telephone and returned after a while with something of a frown on his face. ‘You’re okay. Van der Kleer says he’ll stand guarantee. He also told me to say that while in other circumstances he would be delighted to see you again he regrets,’ and Nielsen smiled at me, ‘that he can’t see you personally and wishes you a speedy journey to New York.’

  ‘He was always a gentleman.’ I sighed with relief. I had over an hour to get to the station. My bag was brought to me and I confirmed that its contents were all intact. I was relieved that I had taken the precaution of keeping my usual supply of ‘sneg’ on my person. ‘I wonder if you’d be good enough to find me a taxi.’

  ‘We’ll do better than that. We’ll personally make sure you get on the train.’

  Their attitude had changed now they realised my powerful connections in the State, but I was too well-bred to take advantage of our reversed positions. As we waited for the car, I chatted about the city and its problems and assured them that I was working on plans which would one day revolutionise the manufacturing industries and rid the world of smoke and filth. ‘Sanitary working conditions ennoble the worker and advertise the humanity of the employer,’ I said. ‘A clean worker is a happier worker.’