‘You’re just a bag of scum, aren’t you, Maxwell,’ he said coldly, his voice a monotone. ‘You’re a right, low-down, son-of-a-bitch bag of scum,’ and he walked out of the tent.

Chuck Maxwell watched him go with a sense of surprise. A Texan who’s a nigger lover, he thought, well now that’s something new.

Chuck wasn’t unduly perturbed by the congressman’s animosity, nor by the interest displayed in Anthony Hill, but he decided to have a word with Strut Stowers nevertheless. If by any chance Stowers were to be interviewed, best they re-rehearse their respective stories so there were no discrepancies.

After leaving Kelso, Lyndon went directly to the Officers’ Club, where he booked into the hotel room reserved for him. He changed from his dress uniform into his khaki fatigues with the insignia of rank on the epaulettes. He preferred the smarter appearance of his navy jacket, white shirt and tie, but khaki was less likely to call attention. The whole town appeared to be khaki, and given the fact he was about to make contact with civilians and invite discussion ‘off the record’, he decided it was wiser to remain low key.

He didn’t bother with lunch. And he dismissed his driver. Upon receiving directions, he decided to walk to The Brown’s instead.

Walking’s probably quicker anyway, he thought as he marched up the hill, passing the heavy military traffic that was all but at a standstill. Townsville sure was a busy place.

The bar was closed when he arrived. Men hadn’t even started queuing up in the street, as they did each late afternoon. The Brown’s wouldn’t be open to drinkers for a couple of hours yet.

The main doors to the hotel were unlocked, however, and Lyndon stepped inside to the reception area, where standing behind the counter was a fair-haired young woman. Her head buried in the paperwork before her, she didn’t hear his approach.

‘Excuse me, Miss …’

‘Oh.’ Betty’s head jerked up. She hadn’t really been seeing the items of supplies and the figures listed beside them, she hadn’t been seeing or hearing anything. Her mind was floating somewhere else altogether, somewhere numb and painless. She painted on the automatic smile that was always there at her beck and call.

‘Hello, soldier, what can I do for you?’ She noted the insignia on his shoulder, a fairly high ranking Yankee naval officer; she was quite adept at reading rank. Perhaps he wanted to book a room.

Lyndon Johnson was not accustomed to being addressed in such a familiar fashion and by one so young, but he returned her smile nonetheless. Of course, he thought, she would know nothing of rank, and besides, how could one possibly take exception to such an extraordinarily pretty girl?

‘I wanted to see the publican,’ he said, ‘a Mrs Val Callahan by name, am I correct?’

‘Yep.’

‘Is she here?’

‘Yep. In her office.’ Betty indicated the stairs. ‘Want me to take you up?’