Curtain Call

by Anthony Quinn

  Druce nodded, with an air of concession rather than pride. ‘It’s not among his most famous, but the subject is typical at least – love, and death.’

  ‘Where did you find it? I didn’t even know –’

  ‘Oh, a dealer I know came by it in Amsterdam. Quite a tricky negotiation, as you can imagine.’ He turned away from it to consider Stephen. ‘I fear that mural of yours at the Nines is to be scrapped. No one’s prepared to finish the job. Serves them right – they ought to have stuck by you.’

  Stephen shrugged, because it didn’t bother him any more. ‘I’m sorry I had to cancel our arrangement the other week. A friend’s funeral rather set me back.’

  ‘Of course. Thank you for the note.’

  At that moment a maid, different from the one who answered the door, came in bearing a coffee pot and cakes. She gave a little bob and withdrew. Druce invited his guest to be seated, and poured the coffee himself. He glanced at the black-portfolio case whose ribbon ties Stephen was unloosing.

  ‘So – how do we proceed?’

  ‘Well, I’ll make a few sketches of you first. Once I’ve studied them you can come to the studio and I’ll begin on the canvas. D’you mind if I pull this curtain back – catch what remains of the daylight?’

  Having had his offer to help with the furniture declined, Stephen waited while Druce supervised two more of his endless staff in the repositioning of various chairs and screens. He surmised that the stuff was too valuable for him to handle. He wandered around for a closer inspection of the paintings, among them a Monet, a Caillebotte, a Sisley, two early watercolours by Braque. They seemed to glow the brighter for their domestic setting, as though they were all on holiday from a national gallery. He had seen some decent private collections in his time, but this surpassed them all.

  Eventually they were settled, Stephen on a bottle-green chesterfield, Druce in an armchair with the light at his back. Laying out his charcoal sticks and loose-leaf pad, he gave an abrupt laugh and shook his head.

  ‘I must confess, I feel rather diminished in this company,’ he said with a vague wave around the room. ‘When did you start collecting?’

  ‘Oh, just after the war. I was in Paris a while, for the firm. There were always bargains to be had, if one knew where to look.’ As he reminisced a little on those bargain-hunting days, Stephen, half listening, made rough sketches of his sitter’s face, one after the other, until he was satisfied with the contours and the shape of the head. He supposed he ought to feel flattered, really, given that the man could have afforded far more renowned portraitists than himself.

  Some minutes later he felt his attention snag on something Druce had just said.

  ‘Sorry, where did you say you studied?’

  ‘Here in London,’ Druce replied. ‘Why?’

  ‘Oh. I felt sure I knew you from Oxford . . . The first time we met at the Nines your face seemed very familiar.’

  Druce tipped his head musingly. ‘Can’t think from where, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I must be mistaken.’ Stephen shrugged, refocusing on the charcoal as he moved it across the paper. They continued in desultory chat for another hour, until Stephen sensed a restlessness in his sitter. He suspected Druce was not much inclined to stay still when there was always money to make.

  ‘That should be enough to go on with,’ he said, and sensed Druce’s relief. ‘Before I go, may I –?’

  Druce gave him directions to the lavatory, and mentioned a couple of paintings that Stephen should look out for on the way down. So he was half prepared for the Modigliani at the turn of the stairs, and the Seurat at the foot. It was clear he would have to cultivate this man as a patron – perhaps he had a whole circle of friends out there eager to commission portraits of themselves. His career might not be dead after all.

  On returning to the drawing room he found Druce leafing absently through the portrait sketchbook he had left on the sofa.

  ‘Oh, d’you mind –?’

  ‘Please, be my guest,’ said Stephen casually. He must not seem to be begging for work. ‘Most of those are either friends or family.’

  Druce nodded, and held up a study of a girl’s head. ‘Daughter, perhaps?’

  Stephen smiled. ‘Freya. She’s twelve.’

  He riffled back through the loose pages, as though in search of something. He stopped, appearing to have found it. ‘That’s very pretty. Who’s she?’

  ‘That is – oh – a young woman I met recently. I think she’s going to be my new housekeeper. Madeleine Farewell.’

  Druce’s gaze glittered. ‘Farewell? That’s an odd name.’

  Stephen nodded. ‘Though not to her, I suppose. We met at – um, I have a studio in chaos, she needed the work. So we came to an arrangement.’

  Druce dragged his gaze away to study him. ‘She needs work? Well, I’m always looking for good staff.’

  ‘You seem to have a full complement here,’ said Stephen with a doubtful half-laugh. ‘I’ve never seen such a well-run household.’

  Druce shook his head, and said with an expansive shrug, ‘I keep other properties, here and abroad. They all require looking after.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Stephen, feeling slightly dazed by the vertiginous perspectives of wealth the remark opened up. He could only stand by and hope to catch a sprinkling of it. ‘Well, I’ll certainly ask Madeleine if she’s available for, um –’

  ‘Hire? Please do!’

  They shook hands, and with a wistful glance this way and that at the paintings he passed on the stair Stephen was shown out.

  Later that evening he sat in his study, listening to carol singers on the street below. His portfolio was open on his desk, its loose leaves scattered about like a mathematical problem he was trying to solve. Something – something he had forgotten, perhaps – nagged at him, but he couldn’t work out what it was. Probably Cora would be able to tell him; he heard her footsteps now outside the door.

  ‘Why are you sitting in the dark?’ she said, entering and making a beeline for one of the side lamps. She had brought in a tumbler of Scotch for him, and picked up the soda siphon from the trolley. ‘Say when.’

  She aimed a hissing jet into the glass, and he raised his finger. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Who was that on the telephone?’

  ‘Hm? Oh, it was Druce. He was asking for Madeleine Farewell’s number – I’d recommended her as a char.’

  ‘That was nice of you!’

  He took a swig of the Scotch. ‘Cora, I have a maddening idea of something amiss. Can you tell me what it is?’

  ‘You mean, like a mind-reader?’

  He laughed, and shook his head. She was studying his afternoon’s handiwork. She picked up a finished sketch of the new client. ‘So this is Mr Druce.’ Her eyes widened in mock reverence. ‘Did you ask him about Oxford?’

  ‘I got that wrong – he wasn’t there. I could have sworn I’d met him before –’

  From below came a rat-tat at the door. Their looks met. ‘Here’s half a crown for them,’ he said, as Cora made to leave. ‘Perhaps you’d ask them to have a go at “Hark, the Herald”.’

  When she had gone Stephen reordered the sketches; under the dim glow of the desk lamp he examined them one by one. Druce’s narrow face, the dark, deep-set eyes, the fullish lips. This was the thing bothering him. He squinted, dredging his brain for the elusive detail, the one that would remind him where they’d first met. Or else . . . Had he seen the man in a photograph, and then persuaded himself they’d met, when they had not? In a newspaper, possibly. The face he had drawn stared back at him, the eyes boring into his. And suddenly he knew. He had thought the face familiar without knowing whose it was – because he had sketched it himself once before. He reached down and opened a drawer in his desk. He felt his heart start to gallop as he pulled out an old copy of the Chronicle and riffled its pages till he found it.

  AN ARTIST’S IMPRESSION OF THE SUSPECT

  There was his own drawing, the face of the ‘Tiepin Killer’
, as described to him by Nina. Was he going mad? He looked at the newspaper’s reproduced sketch, and then at the one he had done of Druce today. It was the same man. He knew it – knew it with a certainty that only intuition could endow. And now he thought of the glint in Druce’s eye when he had identified the drawing of Madeleine – She’s available for hire. Oh God oh God oh God. The girl he had tried to strangle in the hotel room. He had recognised her.

  Stephen jumped up from his chair as if he had just been scalded. Druce’s face stared back from the paper. This was the man who had telephoned him twenty minutes ago, the man he had given Madeleine’s number. By now he would know where she lived.

  The dining room at the Strand Palace Hotel was already in a roar by the time Jimmy arrived. It was the night of Lord Swaim’s annual Christmas bash for the Chronicle and other satellites of his news empire. The hotel’s sleek and beautiful interiors usually put him in a good mood – Jimmy adored art deco – but tonight he felt ominous stirrings of unease. The day had begun badly when he was visited at Princess Louise Mansions by the police. His instant thought was that they had come to arrest him, but it transpired that the young constable, Dawes, was merely pursuing an inquiry. He wanted to know if Mr Erskine was the owner of a 1928 Bentley Vanden Plas in racing green. Yes, yes, he was indeed. So, the constable continued, was he aware that the car had been stolen?

  ‘Stolen? Surely not.’

  ‘Do you know a Mr Jolyon Fairweather?’

  ‘Of course. My own driver is indisposed at present, so I’ve loaned the motor to Mr Fairweather while he’s recovering.’ Jolyon was one of his coterie of boys, and a frequent dinner guest at the flat. ‘Is there something the matter?’

  PC Dawes hesitated a moment, then consulted his notepad. ‘We discovered Mr Fairweather at the wheel of the car in a state of extreme inebriation –’

  ‘Well, boys will be boys,’ said Jimmy with a weak laugh.

  ‘I’m afraid that’s not all, sir. There was another man in the car. He and Mr Fairweather were, um, engaged in an act of a lewd nature.’

  Jimmy blinked hard. ‘An act of . . . How shocking.’

  ‘Yes, disgusting. When I interrupted them the other man was very put out – turned round and gave me a mouthful.’

  Even in his anxiety Jimmy had to stop himself laughing. The policeman stared at him. ‘Did you know that Mr Fairweather is a homosexual?’

  ‘I did not,’ Jimmy said, feigning puzzlement. ‘What will happen to them?’

  ‘They’ve been detained at Bow Street, pending charges.’

  ‘I see. And the motor?’

  ‘That can be collected at our depot,’ said Dawes. ‘In the meantime, sir, I’d be very careful about the company you keep. It’s not your fault, but queers will always try and take advantage of you. It’s in their nature.’

  ‘Quite,’ said Jimmy in his most most responsible tone. The constable gave him a nod, and was gone.

  Jolyon – the silly tart! The cheek of using the Bentley for his furtive assignations . . . Then he felt a little quiver of erotic excitement as the image of two men in the car together flickered across his mind’s eye. He’d give the boy a proper ticking-off next time they met. Which might not be for a while if they sent him to prison. He would have to be more cautious – that drag-ball fiasco was the warning. They were getting too close. Pretty soon some policeman would put two and two together and realise that James Erskine was not the model of respectable bachelorhood he seemed.

  He was still preoccupied with PC Dawes’s visit when he took his seat between Gilbert and Barry at dinner. Most at the table were in high spirits, and under the steady replenishment of his wine glass Jimmy felt himself being coaxed in the same direction. It seemed that the King’s abdication, while leaving his people in a state of shock, had given the newspaper its best circulation figures since the end of the war. Toasts were raised to this renewed prosperity during dinner, and when Jimmy saw from the menu card that pudding was to be a hot chocolate soufflé he let out a notch on his belt and lit a cigar.

  Even the supercilious arts editor Lambert appeared to have entered the convivial mood, though the way he kept smiling in Jimmy’s direction was far from reassuring. The man was seldom known to smile for any reason unless it involved another’s personal misfortune. Dropping his voice, Jimmy leaned over to Barry.

  ‘Have you any idea why Lambert keeps grinning at me?’

  Barry protruded his lower lip. ‘Could be he’s sweet on you.’

  ‘I doubt that very much.’

  He didn’t have to wait long for an explanation. Lambert, lighting another of his Woodbines, had narrowed his gaze on Jimmy.

  ‘I was wondering if we’d recognise you tonight, James.’

  Jimmy frowned his incomprehension. ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Well, I gather you’re more likely to be seen around town these days in a ball gown and gloves up to here.’

  He felt a warmth spring to his cheeks. ‘Moss Bros suits me fine, as you can see.’

  ‘Oh, shame. I was hoping for flounces, frills, the works,’ said Lambert.

  ‘Then I recommend you find the name of a good dressmaker.’ Barry and Gilbert sniggered at that, but Lambert was not to be thrown off the scent.

  ‘So you wouldn’t know anything about a drag ball up at Highgate, few weeks back? They say half the theatre folk in London were there when the police raided the house.’

  ‘I must belong to the other half, then,’ sniffed Jimmy. ‘I find very little occasion to go to Highgate.’

  But the smirk wouldn’t budge from Lambert’s face, and Jimmy, refusing him further satisfaction, decided to take a walk. He needed a pee in any case before the speeches began. Navigating a path through the gossiping throng of diners he muttered under his breath, still somewhat nettled by Lambert’s mocking insinuations. What a ghastly little shit . . . It was only on account of his being close to the throne that he was allowed such . . . such impudence. And then his step faltered as he considered how much of what Lambert knew got passed onto the mob upstairs – the management, the proprietor Lord Swaim. He already knew the latter couldn’t stand him.

  The hotel Gents was sparsely peopled, just a couple of punters standing at the urinals. He had to curb his instinct to join them and have a quick peek. Instead he locked himself in a stall and sat down. A minute or so later his ears pricked up at the arrival of a voice he knew; it was the Chronicle’s editor, Bostock, talking to someone in a vaguely appeasing manner.

  ‘I think it would come better from you,’ he was saying.

  His interlocutor demurred: ‘. . . rather not . . . most objectionable fellow . . . He’s been doing that column far too long in any case.’

  ‘It’s been said. But he deserves the courtesy at least . . .’

  Jimmy, his curiosity fired, soundlessly cracked open his stall door – and froze. Side by side at the urinals with Bostock was Lord Swaim himself. And plainly the subject under discussion was Swaim’s bête noire, one J. Erskine Esq. Their confidential tone indicated an awkwardness, and Jimmy had an instinctive notion what it meant.

  He strained his ears to catch their receding phrases. ‘Let’s get it over with . . . I understand your . . . after dinner . . .’ The voices drifted away, and they were gone. He emerged from his hiding place, and felt himself shaking. What dreadful serendipity, to overhear the boss and the editor lining him up for the firing squad. Let’s get it over with. It was coming.

  On returning to his table Jimmy found he had no appetite left, even for the hot chocolate soufflé. Now he understood Lambert’s sardonic allusions to the drag ball; Jimmy’s night of shame was out, and had handed Lord Swaim his excuse at last. He looked around the company and wondered who else had heard. Gilbert and Barry? Rumour whipped through the paper at such speed it was practically impossible they didn’t know, and yet neither of them had tipped him the wink – the blighters. Or were they simply too embarrassed to mention it? Gilbert was looking rather oddly at him.

  ‘E
verything all right, Jimmy?’

  ‘I hardly know,’ Jimmy replied. ‘Is it?’

  Gilbert shrugged. ‘You just seem a bit quiet, that’s all.’

  Jimmy switched his gaze to Barry. ‘So much for friends . . . One of you might at least have told me.’

  Barry said, ‘What are you talking about?’

  He looked over to make sure Lambert wasn’t earwigging, and said, sotto voce, ‘I’m a dead man. I just overheard Bostock and Swaim discussing it in the lav – they’re getting rid of me. You didn’t know?’

  He could tell from their shocked faces that they did not. Barry shook his head. ‘It doesn’t make sense. Bostock has always defended you – for one thing he knows how many readers you bring in.’

  ‘But it’s Swaim’s paper,’ said Jimmy sadly. ‘I’m as good as buried.’

  The lights in the room dimmed of a sudden, cutting short further opportunity for speculation. The speeches were beginning. Jimmy hunkered down in his chair, feeling like some ancient Roman who’d just cut his veins in the bath and was waiting to bleed out. He had envisaged his departure from the paper quite differently: a gracious signing-off to his readers, many years hence, with some wry reference to having strutted and fretted his hour upon the page (rather good, that). His last word? ‘Curtain.’ This would be soon followed by a dam burst of lamentation from those very same readers, besieging the editor with letters imploring their beloved critic to reconsider, which in turn would prompt the paper’s management to ask their beloved theatre critic to reconsider. And Jimmy, while professing his delight at this public show of support, would turn down their plea, quoting that grand old stage motto (it had the right air of regret), ‘Best to leave ’em wanting more.’

  But it wasn’t going to happen like that, and realities had to be addressed. Cast out by the Chronicle, how would he get by? Vacancies for a theatre critic rarely came up, and whenever one did there would be someone keener – younger – waiting to snap it up. In any case, he had offended too many people to feel sure that another paper would want him. He could survive on bits and bobs from other outlets, but not for long, not with his extravagance. He imagined the dwindling commissions, the telephone’s long silences, the slow fade into obscurity. And penury. Where would he go? He wondered if there might be some retirement home for distressed theatre folk. Even if there was, he could hardly expect a welcome there – the critic was the mongrel dog that whined and cocked its leg against the purebreds. No, he would slink away, unwanted, and lay himself down to die. My God, the pity of it –