by Anne Rice
No, she couldn't imagine what had happened to him. In fact, she became quite instantly and visibly distressed at the possibility that he had met with foul play.
Yes, he was staying at the St. Charles Hotel, he mentioned that to her, and why on earth would he lie about such a thing? She began to cry. Oh, she hoped nothing had happened to him. In fact, she became so upset that the police almost terminated the interview. But she held them there asking questions. Had they talked to the people at the Court of Two Sisters? She'd taken Stuart there, and he'd liked it. Maybe he had been back. And there was a speakeasy on Bourbon Street where they had talked early the following morning, after some more respectable place--dreadful hole!--had kicked them out.
The police covered these establishments. Everyone knew Stella. Yes, Stella could have been there with a man. Stella was always there with a man. But nobody had any particular recollection of Stuart Townsend.
Other hotels in town were canvassed. No belongings of Stuart Townsend were found. Cabbies were questioned but with the same dismal lack of result.
At last the Talamasca decided to take the investigation into its own hands. Arthur Langtry sailed from London to discover what had happened to Stuart. He was conscience-stricken that he had ever agreed to let Stuart undertake this assignment alone.
THE STORY OF STELLA CONTINUES
Arthur Langtry's Report
Arthur Langtry was certainly one of the most able investigators whom the Talamasca ever produced. The study of several great "witch families" was his lifelong work. The story of his fifty-year career with the Talamasca is one of the most interesting and amazing histories contained in our archives, and his detailed studies of the witch families with whom he became involved are some of the most valuable documents we possess.
It is a great sadness to those of us who have been obsessed all our lives with the Mayfair Witches that Langtry was never able to devote his time to their history. And in the years before Stuart Townsend became involved, Langtry expressed his own regrets regarding the whole affair.
But Langtry owed no one an apology for not having time or life enough for every witch family in our files.
Nevertheless, when Stuart Townsend disappeared, Langtry felt responsible, and nothing could have kept him from sailing to Louisiana in August Of 1929. As already mentioned, he blamed himself for Stuart's disappearance, because he had not opposed Stuart's assignment; and he had known in his heart that Stuart should not go.
"I was so eager for someone to go there," he confessed before he left London. "I was so eager for something to happen. And of course I felt I couldn't go. And so I thought, well, maybe that strange young Texan will crack through that wall."
Langtry was nearing seventy-four years of age at this time, a tall, gaunt man with iron gray hair, a rectangular face, and sunken eyes. He had an extremely pleasant speaking voice and meticulous manners. He had the usual minor infirmities of old age, but, all things considered, he was in good health.
He had seen "everything" during his years of service. He was a powerful psychic or medium; and he was absolutely fearless when it came to any manifestation of the supernatural. But he was never rash or careless. He never underestimated any sort of phenomena. He was, as his own investigations show, extremely confident and extremely strong.
As soon as he heard of Stuart's disappearance, he became convinced that Stuart was dead. Quickly rereading the Mayfair material, he saw the error which the order had made.
He arrived in New Orleans on August 28, 1929, at once registering at the St. Charles Hotel and dispatching a letter home as Stuart had done. He gave his name, address, and London phone number to several people at the hotel desk so that there could be no question later that he had been there. He made a long distance call to the Motherhouse from his room, reporting the room number and several other particulars about his arrival.
Then he met with one of our investigators--the most competent of the private detectives--in the hotel bar, charging all of the drinks to the room.
He confirmed for himself everything that the order had already been told. He was also informed that Stella was no longer cooperating with the investigation, such as it was. Insisting that she didn't know anything and couldn't help anyone, she had at last become impatient and refused to talk to the investigators anymore.
"As I said good-bye to this gentleman," he wrote in his report, "I knew for certain that I was being watched. It was no more than a feeling, yet it was a profound one. And I sensed that it was connected to Stuart's disappearance, though I myself had made no inquiry regarding Stuart of any person at the hotel.
"At this point I was sorely tempted to roam the premises, seeking to detect some latent indication of Stuart's having been in this or that room. But I was also deeply convinced that Stuart had not met with foul play in this hotel. On the contrary, the people who were watching me, indeed, taking note of my movements and what I did, were doing so only because someone had paid them to do it. I decided to contact Stella Mayfair at once."
Langtry rang Stella from his room. Though it was past four o'clock, she had obviously only just awakened when she answered her private phone. Only reluctantly did she allow the subject to be reopened. And it soon became obvious that she was genuinely upset.
"Look, I don't know what happened to him!" she said, and again began to cry. "I liked him. I really did. He was such a strange man. We went to bed, you know."
Langtry couldn't think of a thing to say to such a frank admission. Even her disembodied voice proved somewhat charming. And he was convinced that her tears were real.
"Well, we did," she continued, undaunted. "I took him to some awful little place in the Quarter. I told the police about it. Anyway, I liked him, very very much! I told him not to come around this family. I told him! He had the most peculiar ideas about things. He didn't know anything. I told him to go away. Maybe he did go away. That is what I thought happened, you know, that he simply took my advice and went away."
Langtry implored her to help him discover what had happened. He explained that he was a colleague of Townsend's, that they had known each other very well.
"Colleague? You mean you're part of that group."
"Yes, if you mean the Talamasca ... "
"Shhh, listen to me. Whoever you are, you can come on up here if you like. But do it tomorrow night. I'm giving a party, you see. You can just well, sort of blend in. If anyone asks you who you are, which they probably won't, just say Stella invited you. Ask to speak to me. But for God's sakes don't say anything about Townsend and don't say the name of your ... whatever you call it ... "
"Talamasca ... "
"Yes! Now please listen to what I'm saying. There'll be hundreds of people there, white tie to rags, you know, and do be discreet. Just come up to me, and when you kiss me, whisper your name in my ear. What is it again?"
"Langtry. Arthur."
"Hmmmm. Unhuh. Right. That's simple enough to remember, isn't it? Now, do be careful. I can't stay on any longer. You will come, won't you? Look, you must come!"
Langtry averred that nothing could keep him away. He asked her if she remembered the photograph on which she'd written "To the Talamasca, with love, Stella! P.S. There are others who watch, too."
"Of course I remember it. Look, I can't talk to you about this right now. It was years and years ago, when I wrote that note. My mother was alive then. Look, you can't imagine how bad things are for me now. I've never been in a worse jam. And I don't know what happened to Stuart, really I don't. Look, will you please come tomorrow night?"
"Yes, I shall," said Langtry, struggling silently to determine whether or not he was being lured into some sort of trap. "But why must we be so circumspect about the whole arrangement, I don't ... "
"Darling, look," she said, dropping her voice, "it's all very nice about your organization, and your library and all your marvelous psychic investigations. But don't be a perfect fool. Ours is not a world of seances and mediums and dead relatives telling you
to look between the pages of the Bible for the deed to the property on Eighth Street or whatever. As for the voodoo nonsense, that was a perfect scream. And by the way, we do not have any Scottish ancestors. We were all French. My Uncle Julien made up something about a Scottish castle he bought when he went to Europe. So do forget about all that, if you please. But there are things I can tell you! That's just the point. Look, come early. Come around eight o'clock, will you? But whatever you do, don't be the first one to arrive. Now, I've got to get off, you really cannot imagine how dreadful everything is just now. I'll tell you frankly. I never asked to be born into this mad family! Really! There are three hundred people invited tomorrow night, and I haven't a single friend in the world."
She rang off.
Langtry, who had taken down the entire conversation in shorthand, immediately copied it out in longhand, with a carbon, and posted one copy to London, going directly to the post office to do it, for he no longer trusted the situation at the hotel.
Then he went to rent a tailcoat and boiled shirt for the party the following night.
"I am thoroughly confused," he had written in his letter. "I had been certain she had a hand in getting rid of poor Stuart. Now I don't know what to think. She wasn't lying to me, I am sure of it. But why is she frightened? Of course I cannot make an intelligent appraisal of her until I see her."
Late that afternoon, he called Irwin Dandrich, the socialite spy for hire, and asked him to have dinner at a fashionable French Quarter restaurant blocks from the hotel.
Though Dandrich had nothing to say about Townsend's disappearance, he appeared to enjoy the meal thoroughly, gossiping nonstop about Stella. People said Stella was burning out.
"You can't drink a fifth of French brandy every day of your life and live forever," said Dandrich with weary, mocking gestures, as if to suggest the subject bored him, when in fact, he loved it. "And the affair with Pierce is outrageous. Why, the boy is scarcely eighteen. It really is so perfectly stupid of Stella to do this. Why, Cortland was her chief ally against Carlotta, and now she's gone and seduced Cortland's favorite son! I don't think Barclay or Garland much approves of the situation either. And God only knows how Lionel stands it. Lionel is a monomaniac and the name of his monomania is Stella, of course."
Was Dandrich going to the party?
"Wouldn't miss it for anything in this world. Bound to be some interesting pyrotechnics. Stella's forbidden Carlotta to take Antha out of the house during these affairs. Carlotta is simmering. Threatening to call the police if the rowdies get out of hand."
"What is Carlotta like?" asked Langtry.
"She's Mary Beth with vinegar in her veins instead of vintage wine. She's brilliant but she has no imagination. She's rich but there's nothing she wants. She's endlessly practical and meticulous and hardworking, and an absolutely insufferable bore. Of course she does take care of absolutely everything. Millie Dear, Belle, little Nancy, and Antha. And they have a couple of old servants up there who don't know who they are or what they're doing anymore, and she takes care of them, right along with everyone else. Stella has herself to blame for all this, really. She always did let Carlotta do the hiring and the firing, the check writing, and the shouting. And what with Lionel and Cortland turning against her, well, what can she do? No, I wouldn't miss this party, if I were you. It may be the last one for quite some time."
Langtry spent the following day exploring the speakeasies and the small French Quarter hotel (a dump) where Stella had taken Stuart. He was plagued continuously with the strong feeling that Stuart had been in these places, that Stella's account of their wanderings had been the complete truth.
At seven o'clock, dressed and ready for the evening, he wrote another very short letter to the Motherhouse, which he mailed on the way to the party from the post office at Lafayette Square:
"The more I think about our phone conversation, the more I'm troubled. Of what is this lady so afraid? I find it hard to believe that her sister Carlotta can really inflict harm upon her. Why can't someone hire a nurse for the troubled child? I tell you, I find myself being drawn into this head over heels. Surely that is how Stuart felt."
Langtry had the cab drop him at Jackson and Chestnut so that he might walk the remaining two blocks to the house, approaching it from the rear.
"The streets were completely blocked with automobiles. People were piling in through the back garden gate, and every window in the place was lighted. I could hear the shrill screams of the saxophone long before I reached the front steps.
"There was no one on the front door, as far as I ever saw, and I simply went in, pushing through a regular jam of young persons in the hallway, who were all smoking and laughing and greeting each other, and took no notice of me at all."
The party did include every manner of dress, exactly as Stella had promised. There were even quite a few elderly people there. And Langtry found himself comfortably anonymous as he made his way to the bar in the living room where he was served a glass of extremely good champagne.
"There were more and more people streaming in every minute. A crowd was dancing in the front portion of the room. In fact, there were so many persons everywhere I looked, all chattering and laughing and drinking amid a thick bluish cloud of cigarette smoke, that I could hardly gain a fair impression of the furnishings of the room. Rather lavish, I suppose, and rather like the salon of a great liner, actually, with the potted palms, and the tortured art deco lamps, and the delicate, vaguely Grecian chairs.
"The band, stationed on the side porch just behind a pair of floor-length windows, was deafening. How people managed to talk over it, I cannot imagine. I could not sustain a coherent train of thought.
"I was about to make my way out of all this when my eyes fastened on the dancers before the front windows, and I soon realized I was gazing directly at Stella--far more dramatic than any picture of her could possibly be. She was clad in gold silk--a skimpy little dress, no more than a remnant of a chemise layered with fringe, it seemed, and barely covering her shapely knees. Tiny gold sequins covered her gossamer stockings, and indeed the dress itself, and there was a gold satin band of yellow flowers in her short wavy black hair. Around her wrists were delicate glittering gold bracelets, and at her throat the Mayfair emerald, looking quite absurdly old-fashioned, yet stunning in its old filigree, as it rested against her naked flesh.
"A child-woman, she appeared, slim, breastless, yet entirely feminine, her lips brazenly rouged, and her enormous black eyes literally flashing like gems as she took in the crowd gazing at her in adoration, without ever missing a beat of dance. Her little feet in their flimsy high-heel shoes came down mercilessly on the polished floor, and throwing back her head, she laughed delightedly as she made a little circle, swishing her tiny hips, her arms flung out.
" 'That's it, Stella!' someone roared, and yet another, 'Yeeeah, Stella!' and all of this with the rhythm, if you can imagine, and Stella managing somehow to be lovingly responsive to her worshipers, while at the same time giving herself over, limply and exquisitely, to the dance.
"If I have ever seen a person enjoy music and attention with such innocent abandon. I did not recall it then and I do not recall now. There was nothing cynical or vain in her exhibition. On the contrary, she seemed to have soared past all such self-conscious nonsense, and to belong both to those who admired her, and to her self.
"As for her partner, I only came to see him by and by, though in any other setting I'm sure I would have noticed him immediately, given that he was very young and indeed resembled her remarkably, having the same fair skin, black eyes, and black hair. But he was scarcely more than a boy. And his face still had a porcelain purity to it, and his height seemed to have gotten the better of his weight.
"He was bursting with the same careless vitality as Stella. And as the dance came to a finish, she threw up her hands, and let herself fall, with perfect trust, straight backwards into his waiting arms. He embraced her with shameless intimacy, letting his hands run over
her boyish little torso and then kissing her tenderly on the mouth. But this was done without a particle of theatricality. Indeed, I don't think he saw anyone in the room save for her.
"The crowd closed about them. Someone was pouring champagne into Stella's mouth, and she was draping herself over the boy, as it were, and the music was starting up again. Other couples--all quite modern and very gay--began to dance.
"This was no time to approach her, I reasoned. It was only ten past eight, and I wanted to take a few moments to look about. Also I was for the moment entirely disarmed by her appearance. A great blank had been filled in. I felt certain she had not harmed Stuart. And so, hearing her laughter ringing over the fresh onslaught of the band, I resumed my journey towards the hall doors.
"Now, let me say here that this house is possessed of an exceptionally long hallway and a particularly long and straight stairs. I would say, offhand, there were some thirty steps to it. (There are in fact twenty-seven.) The second floor appeared to be completely dark and the staircase was deserted, but dozens of people were squeezing past this stairway towards a brightly lighted room at the end of the first-floor hall.
"I meant to follow suit, and thereby make a little exploration of the place, but as I placed my hand on the newel post I saw someone at the top of the stairs. Quite suddenly I realized it was Stuart. My shock was so great I almost called out to him. But then I realized that something was very wrong.
"He appeared absolutely real, you must understand. Indeed the way that the light struck him from below was altogether realistic. But his expression alerted me at once to the fact that I was seeing something that couldn't be real. For though he was looking straight at me and obviously knew me, there was no urgency in his face, only a profound sadness, a great and weary distress.
"It seemed he took his time even acknowledging that I had seen him, and then he gave a very weary and forbidding shake of his head. I continued to stare at him, pushed and shoved by God knows how many individuals, the noise a perfect din around me, and once again, he shook his head in this forbidding way. Then he lifted his right hand and made a definite gesture for me to go away.