I MEET SCOTLAND YARD
77
placard over the top of it,
Schweppes Soda Water.
I was in England.
The names remembered an·d the places.
As
we were towed through the locks to the pier, the customs and im–
migration men came on board. The ship had been freshly painted and
the immigration man got some of the wet paint on his gloves. He swore
and muttered under his breath. He didn't forget those paint stained gloves
all afternoon. I went to my cabin and opened my baggage. It was one
of those formal examinations and it was soon over. I had passed the
customs. I went back to the salon to see the Immigration man. On the
way I passed one of the English women. She was in a rage. "Oh, the
bahstards! They're so damnably rude."
While I waited with the other Americans for the English citizens to
get their landing permits, I was uneasy. The card I held read "Aliens
Entry Permit" and the associations that have been pounded into our
heads here in America in relation to the word, alien, made me feel self-con–
scious as a man standing under klieg lights.
The turn of the Americans came. One by one they were subjected
to a painstaking and thorough examination.
A
natty young man from Scot–
land Yard, so unlilce the heavy, red-necked bulls of New York, sat beside
the immigration man. He l.:ept looking through a little red book as each
new passenger came forward for the interview. That book, a steward told
me, was Scotland Yard's blacklist, and held the names of all "fugitives
from justice." No immigration man could clear passengers, the steward
said, unless a Scotland Yard man was present and passed on them.
When my turn came I showed the immigration man my credentials
from the New York: motion picture trade paper.
"Have you any other letters"? the immigration man asked.
"I've no other letters," I said. "I'm travelling on assignment from
my paper. British films have been attracting attention in the American
market and I have been asked to write a survey."
"So you've come here to spy on our films"
I
bellowed the young man
from Scotland Yard. Why was he trying to provoke me?
"Not quite," I said. "Twickenham and Shepherds Bush still import
their artists and technicians from Hollywood to show them how to make
films."
"Bring in your baggage," the Immigration man said. What could
they have on me, I wondered. I couldn't possibly be on the blacklist.
I dragged in my trunk. Among my books they found some typewritten
manuscripts and the letters.
"I thought this was the only letter you had," said Scotland Yard.
"These are personal papers, letters to friends of mine. They have
