Decline in Prophets

by Sulari Gentill

  “Quite so, quite so… I have just the place for it.” Cartwright grabbed the still wet painting and headed into the main sitting room. His guests followed.

  “I’ll have it framed of course,” Cartwright announced, “but you’ll see that this is the perfect position…”

  He gave Rowland’s painting to Clyde and dragged over a chair so that he could remove the work that already hung over the mantelpiece. He tossed that painting carelessly to Rowland and retrieving his portrait from Clyde, hung it on the former’s hook.

  “See… perfect.”

  Rowland looked at the painting in his hands, and glanced at Clyde and Milton.

  “Danny, this is a Picasso.”

  “Yes, I believe it is. Was never really happy with it. Would you like it?… I have nowhere to hang it now…”

  “Danny, this is a Picasso,” Rowland repeated with slightly more emphasis, finding it hard to believe Cartwright had virtually flung the work at him.

  Cartwright sighed. “Yes, I know, he’s very fashionable now. He just always picks such dreary subjects…” He waved his hand dismissively at the painting and gazed appreciatively, almost lovingly, at the one he’d just hung on the wall. Clearly, he was satisfied with the exchange.

  They dined that night without Edna, whose time was being monopolised once again by Archibald Leach. The sculptress seemed quite taken with the English actor.

  When the meal was complete, they saw the evening out with brandy and cards. Daniel Cartwright insisted they play bridge. The Australians indulged their host’s choice as they were just four. Cartwright explained trumps and tricks, bids and rubbers and they did their best to make a good fist of it, though they thought it a silly, overcomplicated game. They were quite pleased when Edna returned—with a fifth player they would have to play poker.

  With this in mind, they showed a great deal more interest than they might have otherwise in the events of her day with Leach. Edna sat down and pulled off her gloves. Rowland dealt her in.

  “Oh no, Rowly, I just want to sleep… it’s been the most delightfully exhausting day.” Her eyes glistened dreamily.

  “But we want to hear all about it,” Milton objected, looking sideways at Cartwright in case the American sought to resurrect the game of bridge. “Stay and tell us everything… while you play a hand.”

  Edna regarded him suspiciously, but then overcome by an enthusiasm for the as yet unopened Broadway musical, to which Leach had taken her, she picked up her cards. “They were rehearsing some of the big dance numbers… I’ve never seen anything like it. Archie introduced me to the lovely man who played the lead—losing his hair he’s but the most extraordinary dancer.”

  “So what’s this show with the balding lead called, Ed?” Rowland asked as he took up his own hand.

  “Gay Divorce I believe. It was completely wonderful.”

  “They’re expecting it to be a hit,” Cartwright agreed.

  Edna continued to chat happily about her day discovering New York and, of course, Leach.

  “Oh, you poor dear girl,” Cartwright consoled, his round face a picture of empathy and concern, as he refilled a large silver trimmed pipe. “You mustn’t let Archie break your heart.”

  Rowland smiled, Milton and Clyde laughed out loud.

  Cartwright seemed aghast that they could be so callous.

  Edna looked warmly at Cartwright. “Don’t worry, Danny—Archie’s very sweet… I think he’ll be quite sorry when I go. We’ll always be wonderful friends.”

  Milton rolled his eyes and Clyde muttered, “Poor bastard.” Rowland dealt again.

  “So will you be joining us tomorrow evening?” Milton asked. “Or are you forsaking us again for that… actor?”

  “What do you have planned tomorrow?” Edna asked, reordering her cards.

  “We’re going to a séance,” Milton said casually.

  “Did Annie…?” started Edna a little confused.

  “No,” Rowland replied. “It was that Milatsky woman from the party. She was quite taken with Milton apparently.”

  “Very perceptive, these clairvoyants,” Milton added.

  “So she wants to introduce him to the dead?”

  “You might say that.” Rowland pondered over a card.

  “Tomorrow’s the 31st,” Milton informed the sculptress. “Halloween.”

  “I know,” Edna returned. “It’s nice that we’ll see an American festival before we head home.”

  “It’s also the anniversary of Houdini’s death,” Milton explained patiently.

  “The magician?”

  “The world’s greatest magician,” Cartwright corrected. “I saw one of his shows when I was a boy—amazing… quite thrilling.”

  “It seems that the anniversary of his death gives rise to séances to summon the man himself,” Milton went on.

  “But why?” Edna was still a little perplexed.

  “Could be something to do with the ten thousand dollars his widow has offered to the medium who manages to contact her late husband,” Clyde said. Apparently, he was not altogether happy with the proposition.

  “I thought Houdini didn’t believe in spiritualism?” Edna yawned.

  Milton shrugged. “So his ghost will be embarrassed.” He laughed, pleased with the image of a red-faced apparition.

  Edna rubbed her nose. “So you’re hoping to see Houdini’s ghost?”

  “Of course not—it’s nonsense. Rowly wants to talk to Madame Milatsky.”

  Edna turned to Rowland. “Why?”

  Rowland picked up a card. “Madame Milatsky used to be a Theosophist. Thought she might know something about who’d be trying to kill them off.”

  “Oh, Orville,” Edna said quietly. She shuddered involuntarily. “What do you mean kill them off? It was only Orville…”

  “I’m not so sure about that… there’s Annie.”

  “She fell—it was an accident,” Edna protested.

  Rowland put down his cards and dragged a hand through his hair, which was still flecked with paint. “I’m starting to have my doubts. I figured out what was bothering me about that accident, when I was painting today.” Painting had always focussed his mind—even about unrelated events.

  “Annie’s room was at the bottom of those stairs, not the top. Why would she have climbed them? It was Krishnamurti’s room at the top of the stairs. I don’t know many gentlemen who allow ladies to walk them to their door.”

  “Jiddu saw her fall.”

  “No, he heard a commotion and assumed she had fallen when he found her at the bottom of the stairs. Maybe she was attacked at her door.”

  “Couldn’t she have gone back up the stairs to talk to Jiddu for some reason?” Edna persisted.

  “She’d have had to be very close on his heels… he’d only just closed the door himself when he heard her “fall”… why wouldn’t she have just called him back?”

  “So you think this all has something to do with the Theosophists more than Orville personally?” Edna was thoughtful.

  Rowland shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “And you think that Madame Milatsky might know who would want to kill the Theosophists?”

  “I think they probably have their skeletons… nothing like a disenfranchised member for that kind of information.”

  “Bit of a long shot, Rowly.” Edna looked at him sceptically.

  He smiled and widened his eyes. “You’re right—I just want to see a ghost.”

  “Now you’re being silly—I’d better come with you.” She helped herself to Milton’s drink, beaming suddenly. “Mr. Houdini was very handsome, you know.”

  “Good Lord, Ed,” Clyde muttered. “Surely you draw the line at ghosts.”

  Rowland glanced at Edna as she giggled over Milton’s brandy. If anything could bring a man back from the dead…

  10

  Houdini’s Death

  It has become known that Houdini the “handcuff king,” who died recently in New York, addressed a class of students in C
anada on spiritualistic tricks. He commented in his address on the phenomenal strength of his abdominal muscles and their ability to withstand hard blows without injury. Without warning one of the students struck him twice over the appendix. He suffered no distress at the time, but in the train complained of pain. His doctor at Detroit advised an immediate operation. Houdini however, refused to disappoint his admirers, and gave his usual show at the Garrick Theatre, though as it subsequently appeared, the student’s blow had ruptured his appendix. Peritonitis developed after the operation.

  The New York Times

  Madame Anna Milatsky’s rooms were in a less than salubrious part of the city. The buildings were noticeably dilapidated and the streets dotted with glowing drums around which huddled men who may or may not have had somewhere to sleep. Daniel Cartwright’s white Cadillac was parked on the curb outside the Manhattan Arms. The driver sat behind the wheel, smoking, watchful.

  The foyer of the Manhattan Arms was old and worn but it was clean. Madame Milatsky lived on the eleventh floor. The elevator was out of order and so they climbed.

  “Are you all right, Rowly?” Edna whispered, noticing the strength of his grip on the banister as they passed the ninth floor.

  He nodded, though he was very aware of his leg. Still, it had been just over a week since he’d lost his stick. He motioned towards Cartwright, who was wheezing loudly, his round face red with exertion. “Better watch Danny, though.”

  The clairvoyant’s door boasted her name on a polished brass plate above a heavy knocker fashioned to resemble a sphinx.

  Several people were already within—it seemed Madame Milatsky had invited a sizeable audience for her communion with Houdini.

  The lady herself came out to greet them, dressed again in a shapeless diaphanous gown of indigo, and an elaborate feathered turban. Though Rowland had gathered from his conversation with J.C. Henry, that she was a good deal older, Madame Milatsky looked to be in her late forties. She held both of Milton’s hands, closed her eyes and swayed a little as she seemed to sing, “Welcome my kindred brother, welcome.”

  Clyde looked askew at Rowland. “Doesn’t anyone just shake hands anymore?” he muttered as he hung back.

  Milton introduced his companions and though she voiced welcome in the same melodious style, she did not clutch or sway again. Rowland smiled and gave Clyde a reassuring nudge.

  A shrivelled man shuffled amongst them with a large tray of sliced sausage and cheese. Anna Milatsky insisted they take glasses of what she called ambrosia and which tasted to Rowland like blackcurrant wine.

  Clyde sipped cautiously. “A couple of glasses of this and we’ll all be seeing Houdini,” he warned.

  “Better keep an eye on Milt,” Rowland replied. The poet was already on his second glass. “If anyone’s going to offend the dead…”

  They milled sociably for a time, mingling with the eclectic gathering. Clyde studied the artworks that cluttered the papered walls. Strange representations of occult subjects, portraits of bearded men in robes and medallions, and then several saccharine oils of kittens with balls of wool. Observably, the artist in Clyde was more affronted than the Catholic, and it was these last paintings that caused him to recoil with horror.

  “Who are you?” A stocky man with nervous downcast eyes approached Rowland.

  “Rowland Sinclair.” Rowland proffered his hand, which the other shook briefly.

  “Is your mind open? This will only work if our minds are open.” The man sounded very much on edge, and gulped the so-called ambrosia in gasping swigs.

  “I don’t believe I caught your name?”

  “Whitehead.” The answer was mumbled. The man would not look him in the eye.

  “Gordy, darling!”

  Whitehead jumped as Anna Milatsky approached and draped her substantial form around him.

  “You must not be worrying, my liebchen,” she crooned. “Mr. Houdini will only see welcome and open hearts here—his reception will be warm and loving and perhaps you will have the opportunity your conscience seeks.” She pulled Whitehead’s face into her ample bosom and, embedding it there, she stroked his hair soothingly.

  Rowland shifted awkwardly and stared at his glass as the embrace prolonged. He wondered if Whitehead was suffocating. Eventually she released the man.

  “Come!” The medium clapped her hands sharply. “We will begin!”

  The room fell into a bustle of activity. A large round table was carried into the centre of the room, draped with a number of dark silk squares and surrounded by chairs. Curtains were drawn, candles were lit in their dozens and incense burned. As the electric lighting was switched off, Anna Milatsky asked them all to sit around the table.

  Rowland found a seat between Clyde and Edna. Milton sat to the right of their hostess, Whitehead to her left. There were more than a dozen people in the circle. Rowland looked with interest at the faces cast in the warm gentle light of the candles. Shadows accentuated as well as softened features, eyes widened and sparkled in the dim, flickering light. He usually painted only in natural light but he was suddenly intrigued by the possibilities afforded by the naked flame.

  Anna Milatsky sat imperiously and asked that they all join hands. She began to intone something that was halfway between a prayer and an incantation. She called on all present to emanate love from their very beings, to cast it outwards from their mortal bodies.

  “Children of God,” she commanded them. “Let your brothers and sisters feel your goodwill. As your heart beats, pulse the rhythm of your love through your hands.” The medium began to squeeze the hands she held.

  Rowland’s brow rose just slightly. Edna’s hand pulsed in his and trembled with suppressed laughter between each squeeze. Across the table, Milton was participating enthusiastically, squeezing with such vigour that Rowland could see the bespectacled man to the poet’s right wince in rhythm. Clyde, in contrast, was not pulsing in either direction. The woman who held Clyde’s other hand was becoming visibly frustrated that her squeezes of brotherly love were not being returned. Rowland noticed that Clyde’s lips were moving silently in recitation. He was pretty sure it was the Lord’s Prayer.

  Madame Milatsky began to chant, imploring Houdini to make his presence known. The smoke of the incense wafted around the table creating a perfumed fog. Rowland noticed a drought—someone must have opened a window. Suddenly, the medium stopped speaking and collapsed onto the table still holding the hands of Milton and Whitehead. Rowland glanced at Clyde, wondering whether they should do something to assist the apparently stricken woman, but the unconsciousness was short-lived. Abruptly she was bolt upright, her limbs stiff, her eyes open and glazed. Garbled noises and a bubbling foam erupted from her mouth. Rowland blanched—was she having a seizure? Nobody else seemed concerned. And then Madame Milatsky began to speak in a strange harsh voice.

  “I am here. Who calls me?”

  For a moment nobody seemed willing to admit to having summoned Houdini from the beyond. Then Whitehead spoke.

  “Mr. Houdini?”

  “Call me Harry.”

  “Harry, Mr. Houdini—it’s me, Gordon Whitehead.”

  “Why have you called me?” The medium’s voice still rasped and spittle continued to froth at the edges of her mouth.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Houdini. I just wanted to tell you I was sorry.” Whitehead’s voice was thick, choked with tears.

  Rowland watched him carefully. Whitehead was a young man, no older than he; his accent had the faint French overtones—Canadian perhaps. His eyes were grey and haunted.

  Whitehead sobbed quietly as he repeated his declarations of remorse.

  Finally the medium spoke again.

  “It is done, Gordon. We have all made mistakes—I have made my own.”

  Whitehead broke down completely.

  Madame Milatsky collapsed again; the circle startled as her head hit the table with an alarming thud. As before, it was short-lived and the medium lifted her face and wiped the foam from her mouth i
n just a few moments. She seemed a little confused.

  “He has gone,” she said wearily, as someone turned the lights back on. Hands were hastily released. Edna’s eyes were merry, Clyde’s still uneasy. Madame Milatsky took Whitehead’s face into her bosom once again and consoled him as he wept.

  “What is that all about?” Rowland asked Milton quietly as glasses and drinks were once more offered.

  The poet shrugged. “Poor chap seems to think he killed Houdini.”

  “Oh. One would expect him to be in prison then?”

  “He’s probably mad,” Clyde muttered. “Everybody else here is bloody barmy.”

  Milton laughed and grabbed Clyde’s shoulder. “Open your mind, mate—we obviously didn’t pulse enough brotherly love into you…”

  “Don’t touch me.”

  The party started to disperse. Anna Milatsky farewelled each of her guests with extravagant endearments. Whitehead too departed, but not before his face was pressed yet again into the comfort of the medium’s bosom. Soon there were only the Australians and Daniel Cartwright left.

  “Come, sit.” Their hostess invited them into a small sitting room and called to the wizened man who had carried the tray of sausage. “Victor, bring some more ambrosia.”

  The medium directed Rowland to the chair by hers. “There are things you wish to know?”

  “Yes.”

  She reached into a sewing basket by her feet and extracted a pack of cards. “Your aura is difficult to read,” she sighed. “I will require the help of the tarot.”

  Rowland was startled. “No, I’m afraid that’s not the kind of information I need.”

  Anna Milatsky looked archly at him. “Perhaps you don’t want it, liebchen, but it remains to be seen what you need.”

  Rowland smiled. The old man brought in several goblets of the blackberry wine and handed round the glasses with ancient, shaking hands.

  “I had hoped you might tell me a little about the Theosophical Society—I understand that you were once celebrated among them.” Rowland chose his words carefully.