“That’s Leach—or was Leach… he may have a new name now.”
Rowland turned to look at the photographer. A wiry young man in a brown suit, with precisely parted and heavily slicked hair. The photographer smiled a crooked smile and stuck out the hand that was not holding a camera.
“J.C. Henry—my friends call me J.C.,” he said, changing the bulb on his flash with one hand as he spoke.
“Rowland Sinclair.” Rowland shook his hand.
“You’re English—a friend of Leach’s then?” Henry asked, continuing to snap pictures.
“Australian actually,” Rowland corrected. “Never heard of Leach. Is he English?”
Henry nodded. “They have a way with the ladies, Englishmen.” He grinned as Leach took Edna’s hand. “Of course Leach is an actor—that’d help, I guess.” He looked Rowland up and down suddenly. “Say, you’re not in the business are you?” He lifted his camera.
“God, no! Put that thing down.”
Henry smiled disarmingly. “Sorry, professional habit… Newspaper business you know.”
“You’re a newspaper photographer?”
The American nodded. “Marion sells papers.” He winked and aimed his camera back into the crowd. “Being Mr. Hearst’s girl makes her very photogenic.”
Rowland glanced towards the newspaper magnate. He stood in the shadow of his glamorous mistress, but his manner was confident. A man aware of his own power and certain of Davies. Cartwright had briefed his guests on the unconventional relationship between Randolph Hearst and Marion Davies to ensure there would be no accidental gaffes.
“So what line of work are you in, Sinclair?”
“I’m an artist.”
“Living the dream then? Marion’s parties are full of dreamers.”
“I suppose so,” Rowland replied, not entirely sure what he was admitting to.
“Here, hold this.” Henry handed him the camera, and taking a comb from his pocket, proceeded to regroom his immaculate hair. He winked at Rowland. “Have you ever seen so many dolls, Sinclair?”
“Miss Davies certainly keeps some attractive company.”
Henry retrieved his camera and turned the lens towards a pair of statuesque women.
“So,” he said. “Do you think the world is ready for another Austrian artist?”
“Australian,” Rowland corrected patiently, but firmly. He had become accustomed to the apparent obscurity of his country. “There’s quite a difference.”
Henry laughed. “No kidding—get us some drinks, Sinclair, and you can tell me about the dames in your part of the world.”
Rowland signalled a waiter and relieved him of two vodka martinis. J.C. Henry continued to talk, juggling the camera, flashbulbs and cocktail with extraordinary dexterity. The newspaperman was a personable, forthcoming sort of chap. He seemed to be well versed in what he termed “scuttlebutt”, and shared this insight quite generously.
“I say, who’s that?” Rowland asked, pointing out a large woman in a shapeless gown of flowing purple. She wore a turban rather than a hat, and was talking earnestly to Milton.
“That’s Madame Milatsky—she’s a medium, quite celebrated I’m told. She was very big in the Theosophical movement once, but she broke ties with them when all the scandal broke.”
“What scandal?”
“Years ago now—I was just a kid.” Henry changed his flashbulb yet again. “Nearly destroyed the Society, I’m told.”
“Go on.”
Henry shrugged. “Some kid—supposed to be a prophet of some sort—accused that Leadbeater character of indecency.”
“Christ. Was it true?”
Henry shrugged again. “Leadbeater was supposed to be a bit queer, but he was cleared. Misunderstanding apparently. The Society backed him in any case.”
Rowland stared at his glass. Charles Leadbeater, of whom Annie Besant spoke so highly.
J.C. Henry pointed his lens at the parquetry dance floor where Edna was now dancing with Leach. He let out a low whistle. “She’s a new one—Leach does well, but she’s outstanding.” The flash exploded again.
Daniel Cartwright threw a paper onto a table laden with platters of bacon, eggs cooked in every conceivable manner and a vast array of pastries. His house guests were at breakfast.
“Edna, my dear,” he exclaimed. “Barely a day in New York, and already you grace the society pages.”
“Really?” Edna opened the paper without bothering to mask her excitement.
Cartwright helped her find the appropriate page, which was dominated by a picture of the sculptress dancing with Leach. The caption declared the actor to be in love with the mystery woman in his arms.
Milton laughed. “Notice he’s looking at the camera rather than Ed.”
“Archie’s so handsome,” Edna murmured, gazing at the photograph. “He’s in films you know—he’s going to be a star.”
Rowland raised his brow as he sipped his coffee, Clyde sighed audibly and Milton rolled his eyes. Edna’s loves were hardly rare.
“Flash in the pan, Ed.” Milton dismissed Leach as he reached for a croissant. “In a year or two no one will have heard of Archie Leach—he’s giving you a line.”
“He’s invited me to dine with him tonight,” Edna smiled, ignoring Milton, as was her habit.
They finished breakfast and embarked into the streets of New York, again staggered by the towering size of the city. Cartwright headed the expedition, drawing somewhat far-fetched comparisons between the modern commercial structures and the classical buildings of European antiquity. They listened with amused indulgence, though Milton laughed out loud when he referred to the Chrysler Building as the “Parthenon of the New World”.
They took the elevator from the marble-lined foyer of the Empire State Building, to the observatory on the 102nd floor. From there, Cartwright pointed out the landmarks of Manhattan.
When they descended again to street level, Milton dragged them all into a cinema, on sight of the playbill. All Quiet On the Western Front was still showing, although it was now a few years since its original release. The film had been banned in Australia despite critical acclaim, making Milton all the more determined to see it. Very quickly Rowland became thankful for the darkness of the theatre. He had lost a brother to the war, images of which were now flickering on screen. Unconsciously he leant forward, drawn into the film.
Aubrey Sinclair had fallen in France when Rowland was just eleven. He and William Dowd had been summoned by the headmaster together that day. They had both lost brothers. They had never spoken to each other again.
Rowland still did not know how exactly Aubrey died—children didn’t ask such things. Instead he had fashioned an image of a quick and painless death, a single bullet, body and dignity intact. A heroic boyhood fancy he had come to believe in.
The film contradicted that notion with unflinching, graphic realism. Soldiers died screaming in no-man’s-land, caught on barbed wire, drowning in mud and blood, in terror. He was unprepared for how much it hurt him to watch it.
He felt Edna grab his hand. Clyde pressed his shoulder briefly. Apparently, the darkness had not afforded him as much privacy as he thought.
Milton leaned into him as they left the cinema. “I’m sorry, mate, I didn’t think.”
Rowland shook off the apology. “It was a good film, Milt—bloody stupid to ban it.”
Daniel Cartwright insisted they take luncheon at the Waldorf-Astoria. The hotel’s chef was, according to their host, one of the city’s greatest attractions.
“Where to now?” Edna asked, as she played with what she considered a bizarre combination of walnuts and apples, presented as a salad. She had ordered it on Cartwright’s recommendation, but she remained unsure.
“I thought we might go see Annie,” Rowland replied, also approaching the Waldorf’s namesake dish with caution. J.C. Henry’s revelations played on his mind. He wondered about Jiddu Krishnamurti and Charles Leadbeater.
“Capital idea!” Milton
agreed.
Both Clyde and Edna were more than willing, and Cartwright intrigued to meet the renowned Annie Besant, so they finished the meal and climbed back into two of their host’s white Cadillacs for the short drive to the Plaza.
Jiddu Krishnamurti and Mrs. Waterman, whom they had met on the Aquitania, were also visiting Annie Besant.
“Oh, how delightful.” Annie was pleased to see them. “Jiddu dear, send the boy for more tea.”
“How are you, Annie?” Rowland asked after the customary introductions and greetings.
“Much better, thank you, Rowland,” she replied patting the place beside her for him to sit. “I see you are too,” she added quietly, as she rubbed his knee. “You’re barely limping at all.”
“Solid ground quite suits me, I think.” Rowland smiled.
Mrs. Waterman glared at the scandalous placement of Annie Besant’s hand, her lips pulled into a tight line. Rowland had become quite used to the old lady’s fondness for his leg. It was unusual, but then, so was Annie.
He tried to break the tension with a pleasant enquiry.
“Will you be staying long in New York, Mrs. Waterman?”
Mrs. Waterman sniffed. “Not long, we’ll be taking the Aquitania back to Sydney when she sails.”
“Then we will be fellow passengers again,” said Edna warmly from where she sat beside Krishnamurti. “I’m just sorry Jiddu and Annie won’t be coming too.”
Mrs. Waterman looked at her coldly. “Yes, quite.”
Edna shrank back.
Jiddu Krishnamurti put an arm protectively around the sculptress. “Yes, we will miss our new Australian friends—what do you say, Amma?”
“I more than you, Jiddu,” Annie replied. “You at least are young enough to hope you may cross paths with our friends again. At my age, every farewell has a permanent ring.”
Rowland watched carefully as Mrs. Waterman sniffed again. She was clearly disgruntled. He observed her closely for the first time—she had never really caught his attention on board. She was a tall, broad-shouldered woman, her size and posture quite manly. She hunched as she sat, as if self-conscious of her solid frame. Her face was long, her teeth large and her skin looked as though it might once have been freckled. His painter’s eye looked for her point of beauty—the feature he would bring out if he were painting her. There was perhaps a regal arch to her brow… but not much more. He wondered where her husband was.
The conversation moved to the crime spree currently preoccupying the American media. Clyde Barrow and Bonnie Parker had been shooting their way to notoriety for the past several months. Milton countered with stories of bushrangers in a patriotic claim that Australian criminals were… well, more criminal. Daniel Cartwright offered the misdeeds of the American underworld in response and good-natured argument ensued. Jiddu Krishnamurti stood to make a phone call. Rowland saw his chance to speak with him alone while the others were distracted. Excusing himself, he followed the disavowed prophet to the next room. He was surprised to find Krishnamurti sitting behind the room’s large desk, waiting for him. He motioned for Rowland to close the door.
“Were you wanting to speak with me, Rowly?” he asked. “I got the impression that there was something on your mind.”
Rowland nodded.
“Is it a question of faith?” the holy man enquired encouragingly. “You know, if you open your mind it is not necessary to reject your old beliefs in order to entertain new ideas.”
“Oh… sorry… it’s not that I’m afraid…” Rowland ran his hand through his hair as he regarded Krishnamurti awkwardly. “I wanted to ask you about Charles Leadbeater.”
Krishnamurti’s smile vanished. His dark eyes shifted nervously.
“Why do you ask?”
Rowland dishevelled his hair again. This was difficult.
“Annie’s given me a letter of introduction. She thinks highly of him…”
“Amma’s judgement is usually impeccable.”
“In this case?”
“She is not infallible.”
“Look Jiddu, you’ve known Leadbeater for many years. Tell me, man to man—do I want to know him?”
Krishnamurti shrugged, and then he said very slowly, “I think Charles Leadbeater is evil. If I were you I would destroy Amma’s letter of introduction.” He looked intently at Rowland. “Amma genuinely believes he is innocent, you know.”
For a moment Rowland held his gaze and then looked away, regretting that he had intruded into something so appalling, so personal. His enquiries seemed so trivial now. “I know. I’m sorry.”
Jiddu Krishnamurti shrugged again. “It was a long time ago. We have all moved forward.”
9
Speech by Houdini, the great Mystifier
Can the Dead Speak to the Living?
“The first step towards the lunatic asylum is the Ouija board. Anyone who claims to be able to talk with the dead is either a self-deluded person or a cheat. Can the dead speak to the living? I say they do not. I am particularly well qualified to discuss this subject, as I have always been interested in spiritualistic and psychic phenomena. I have personally known most of the leading spiritualists of the last quarter of a century and it is a strange fact that they have been intensely interested in me.”
Rowland stepped back from the canvas to survey his work. Daniel Cartwright was singing some dreadful French ballad from behind his own easel. The American was, of course, both artist and model.
Both Clyde and Rowland were happy for the opportunity to paint. Clyde had set out early that morning for Central Park, inspired by the colour of the American Fall. Milton had gone with him.
Rowland didn’t even try to paint landscapes anymore, and he was not fond of working outdoors in any case. Instead, he had elected to use Cartwright’s studio. Edna had stepped out with Archibald Leach once again, and consequently Rowland was forced to use his host as a model. And so it was that both men spent the day painting Daniel Cartwright.
“Danny, turn this way, will you,” he requested as he highlighted the points of light in Cartwright’s eyes and on the tip of his nose.
“I say, Rowly, this is rather like the old days at Oxford,” Cartwright said happily. “Two chums, Les Frères d’Art…”
Rowland really wished his friend would stop trying to speak French. Still, he’d enjoyed painting Cartwright. The American stood in a wine-red smoking jacket and beret, between a canvas and a mirror, once again in pursuit of the perfect self-image. Rowland’s depiction caught Cartwright as he peered intently at his own reflection, paintbrush and palette in hand. He captured the slight curious smile that showed a man both pleased and fascinated by what he saw in the glass.
“So what did you make of Annie Besant?” Rowland asked in an attempt to bring an end to the French folk songs.
“A perfectly charming woman,” Cartwright replied, glancing from his canvas to the mirror to check that he had done himself justice. “The epitome of cultured hospitality. I found her delightful. Quite the gracious contrast to that Waterman woman, but I suppose that’s to be expected.”
Rowland looked up. “Expected? Why?”
“By George—don’t you know? I thought being from Sydney you would have heard.”
“No. What?”
“Richard Waterman—he’s rather big in sugar, I gather, aside from his surgical practice—made a small fortune before the crash… I suppose you might not know him—new money, really.”
Rowland waited for Cartwright to get to the point.
“He married an American girl—now Mrs. Waterman—she introduced him to the Theosophical Society—she was quite devoted to that chap, Krishnamurti.”
“He’s not really with the Theosophical movement anymore,” Rowland pointed out.
“Precisely,” Cartwright replied. “The Watermans worked with Leadbeater for years preparing to bring the World Prophet to Sydney—built some kind of Roman amphitheatre for Krishnamurti’s arrival.”
Rowland knew the amphitheatre on Balmo
ral Beach. He had always believed it just another folly built on the excesses of the twenties. “And then Krishnamurti abdicated,” he said thoughtfully.
Cartwright nodded. “Waterman had ploughed a lot of money into building the amphitheatre, and of course the embarrassment of it all affected confidence in his other business affairs. It was a complete financial cock-up.”
“So how do you know about all this?”
Cartwright shook his head. “Richard Waterman is in New York trying to borrow money to keep his other Sydney interests afloat. This sort of story has a way of getting round.”
“Embarrassing.”
“Rather.”
Rowland put down his brush and wiped his hands absently on his waistcoat, smearing it in the same alizarin red he’d been using to capture Cartwright’s smoking jacket. He could hear Bradford’s formal courtesy in the other room. Apparently Clyde and Milton had returned.
They came into the studio a bit windblown but in good spirits. The venture into Central Park had seen Clyde produce several dramatic studies of seasonal colour as well as a few darker sketches of the dissolute, ragged men who now slept there. The bedraggled figures were stark in contrast to the landscaped beauty around them, but they had become as much a fixture as the benches upon which they huddled.
Clyde looked at Rowland’s finished portrait of Cartwright. He laughed. “This has worked, Rowly.” He glanced back at Rowland critically, noting the paint-stained waistcoat and streaks of lighter pigment which showed up in his dark hair. “You’re a mess as usual—I’d swear you were finger painting.”
Rowland smiled and ran his hand through his hair again. He’d always been somewhat exuberant in the way he applied paint—it could be a little messy.
“Good Lord, Rowly, this is magnificent,” Cartwright exclaimed, looking at the painting for the first time. “I just cannot allow it to leave these premises…”
“It’s still wet, Danny,” Rowland replied, amused but not surprised. “I couldn’t take it even if I wanted to.” He looked around at the numerous portraits of Daniel Cartwright that adorned the walls. “You’re right—it belongs here… where it will be in good company.”
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