Decline in Prophets (10 page)

Clyde pushed Rowland in next to her, and then climbed in himself. “Where does this friend of yours live, Rowly?” he asked.

“The Warwick—he has the 31st floor I believe.”

“Thirty-first! You’re kidding.”

“I really should explain about Daniel…”

“You met him while you were at Oxford, didn’t you?” said Edna. “I didn’t know Americans went to Oxford.”

“What line of business is he in?” asked Milton, turning back towards them.

“Inheritance. His family is in railways. He likes to paint.”

Clyde seemed to brighten a little. “So he’s an American version of you?”

Rowland shifted uncomfortably. “I suppose so.”

“He’ll be all right, then.”

“Danny’s an excellent fellow, but…”

“He doesn’t talk like Hubert, does he? That could be confusing.”

“No, Danny’s rather embraced European custom… or an interpretation of it anyway.”

“You look nervous Rowly,” Milton grinned. “Are you afraid he’ll tell us what you got up to at Oxford?”

“Look Rowly, that must be Central Park,” Edna exclaimed, leaning over him until her face was virtually pressed against the window.

They continued through the streets of midtown Manhattan, finally turning into West 54th Street at the Avenue of the Americas. The Cadillacs lined up outside the elegant entrance of the Warwick
Hotel.

“Mr. Cartwright is expecting you, sir,” the driver informed Rowland as they piled out. “I’ll see that your trunks are sent up.”

They did not linger out in the frozen day, and hurried into the foyer of the grand renaissance-revival building. The lobby itself was small and private but every detail spoke of quality and
quiet opulence. A uniformed doorman directed them across floors of polished marble to brass-doored elevators.

“Mr. Cartwright’s apartments please.”

The operator nodded. “Certainly, sir. Mr. Cartwright told me to expect you.”

They watched the dial as the elevator climbed to the 31st floor. Rowland paid the operator—this was not his first visit to New York and he understood the American tradition of tipping.
They stepped out into a small foyer, before a large oak door nestled into a decorative arch.

Rowland hesitated before he knocked. He turned and spoke quietly. “I should probably warn you…”

“Rowly, old man!” The door flew open, making them all jump. “What the dickens are you doing out here?”

Daniel Cartwright stood in the open doorway, beaming. He was a rounded young man, with a full head of curly blond hair. His upper lip bore a thin, waxed moustache which gave him a distinctly
European air. The gold brocade of his waistcoat stretched over the generous curve of his torso, and contrasted with the burgundy velvet of his smoking jacket. He grabbed Rowland Sinclair by the
shoulders and kissed him on each cheek all the time exclaiming in unintelligible French.

“Bloody hell,” Clyde murmured.

Rowland stepped back and shook Cartwright’s hand. “It’s good to see you, Danny.”

“Ah Rowly,
mon ami
… it has been too long, far too long… how long has it been?”

“About five years, I should think. You haven’t changed, Danny.”

“You’re too kind, Rowly my friend, too kind.” Daniel Cartwright’s accent was painstakingly British, even when he was speaking French. It was unusual for an American.

“May I introduce Miss Edna Higgins…?”

Daniel Cartwright exploded into a string of what sounded a little like French, as he clasped Edna’s hands and kissed them. Rowland flinched at the appalling pronunciation and Edna, whose
mother had been French, giggled. Rowland finished the introductions. Their host greeted Milton in the same ostensibly Continental style that he had Rowland. Clyde thrust out his hand, more an act
of defence than greeting, and kept a wary distance.

Rowland laughed.

“You can’t kiss Australian men, Danny boy—I thought I’d told you that.”

Daniel Cartwright smiled. “I had hoped that civilised custom had made its way to the outpost colonies by now.”

“We may need a few more years,” Clyde said brusquely.

“I say, why are you all standing on my doorstep like hopeful carpetbaggers? Come in for heaven’s sake… I’ll have my man organise refreshments.”

He left the door open for them and turned into the apartment, calling, “Bradford… Bradford… where the devil have you got to?”

The sitting room they entered was lavish—the wood panelling had been painted white as had the stately columns and arched architraves. The walls were deep red and ornately framed works of
art hung at regular intervals. The furnishings were more extravagant than masculine or even fashionable.

A stern-faced man in black tie and tails came into the room.

“You called, sir?”

“Oh, there you are.” Cartwright beamed. “May I introduce my man, Bradford,” he said. “Bradford, these are the guests I’ve been expecting—my old chum,
Rowland Sinclair, and his dear friends, Miss Higgins, Messrs Isaacs and Watson Jones.”

Bradford inclined his head in acknowledgement. “Shall I serve tea, Mr. Cartwright?”

“I suppose you could… I was rather hoping you’d serve something a good deal stronger.”

“Certainly, sir.”

The butler retreated to fulfil the request.

“I thought America was still dry,” Milton said, with reference to the prohibition enforced since the early twenties.

Cartwright laughed. “Just a formality,” he said. “This is New York City—there’s a speakeasy on every corner and Bradford is a member of the best dozen.”

Cartwright demanded that they make themselves at home and inform him of their every whim. He took them into the large space he used as a studio. It was furnished with several massive easels,
shelves laden with equipment and materials, and immense drying cupboards. Upon the far wall were hung three magnificent mirrors, each at least ten foot high and framed in gilt.

The familiar smell of oils and turpentine reminded Rowland of how much he missed working. He and Clyde had set up a makeshift studio in France where they had stopped for some weeks, but since
then he had been able to do nothing but capture ideas and images in his notebook. It wasn’t the same as painting.

Cartwright stood before a work in progress, explaining his choice of palette to Edna. The painting was a self-portrait; its scale larger than life. Rowland studied it from a distance.
Cartwright’s work had improved, refined in the past years.

Milton and Clyde had been taking in the paintings on the other easels, as well as the gallery of canvases that lined the unmirrored walls. They came to stand on either side of Rowland, their
arms crossed as they watched Cartwright discuss the finer details of classical composition with Edna.

“Rowly,” Clyde’s voice was low and touched with disbelief. “These paintings… they’re all of him… Cartwright… all self-portraits.”

Rowland nodded. “Yes, Danny only paints himself.”

“What? Always?” Milton whispered, incredulous.

“Never known him to paint anything else. I must say,” Rowland motioned towards the latest portrait, “he’s getting quite good at it.”

“Does it not strike you as odd?” Milton persisted.

“It’s bloody odd,” Rowland confirmed. “You should see his nudes.”

Bradford appeared suddenly to inform them that refreshments had been served in the dining room.

“Marvellous! I’m perfectly famished. Thank you, Bradford.” Cartwright offered his arm to Edna and led the way.

“I say, Rowly,” he said as they entered the Baroque-styled dining room. “You’re limping…”

“Old injury, long story, Danny,” Rowland replied before he could go on.

A twelve-foot table had been laid with white linen and set with silver cutlery. It appeared Bradford’s idea of refreshments was a banquet for at least a dozen people. The butler stood by a
silver trolley mixing cocktails. Another large portrait of, and by, Daniel Cartwright dominated the internal wall. The external wall boasted large windows overlooking the Avenue of the
Americas.

Edna ran to the windows delighted by the view and the autumn glory of the street trees.

“This is simply breathtaking, Mr. Cartwright.”

“Danny,” Cartwright corrected. “Yes, it is rather a pleasing view. Of course Marion’s is better—she has the penthouse—but you’ll see that this
evening.”

“This evening?”

“Marion?”

“Miss Marion Davies—you may have seen one of her pictures—she’s having one of her little supper soirées this evening—positively fabulous in every
way.”

“And we are invited?” Edna stammered. Miss Davies’ films had screened in Sydney. Her fame was more than trifling.

“Why, of course,” Cartwright replied. “She’s a peach, dear Marion, and takes an inordinate delight in fellow artists. I’ve taken the impertinent liberty of
accepting for you, so it’s settled.”

Bradford served the cocktails he had just mixed and they sat before the elaborate luncheon. Edna asked excitedly about Marion Davies, and Cartwright was only too happy to oblige with tales of
his illustrious neighbour.

“They are here infrequently,” he explained. “Marion has many houses in which she and Randolph entertain…”

Rowland was only half listening, having been presented by Bradford with a silver tray on which lay a letter from home. He was not surprised by the correspondence. His brother Wilfred seemed to
be keeping a careful eye on their itinerary. Letters met him at most of their stops, containing matters of business, instructions and cautions, and the occasional line of personal discourse. For
the most part, Rowland complied with whatever errand Wilfred devised without question. The protection and expansion of the Sinclair fortune had always been his brother’s prerogative and
talent. Rowland had instead secured the role of prodigal son, and he found it suited him.

“From Wilfred?” Clyde asked, as Rowland cast his eyes over the neat, precise hand.

Rowland nodded. “Apparently Lenin’s been chasing sheep…,” he murmured, smiling. “Wil’s threatening to have him shot.” Lenin was his dog—a
particularly ugly one-eared greyhound of dubious bloodline, who had been in Wilfred’s care since they left Sydney.

“Poor Lenin,” Milton said as he sipped Bradford’s excellent vodka martini. “It’s probably his destiny to be shot by the ruling class.”

Rowland laughed. “Wil’s just being Wil. He’s more likely to shoot me than the dog.” He read on and laughed again. “Apparently Lenin’s been having his wicked
way with the working dogs.”

“So, you’re not the only one upsetting the Sinclair breeding plan,” Milton replied.

“Fair go,” Clyde protested. “Rowly could still find a nice girl from a good family and make a quite suitable marriage.”

“I say,” Cartwright dragged himself from his conversation with Edna, having overheard the last. “I could introduce you to some splendid young ladies tonight… not exactly
suitable in the strict sense… but quite charming in an inappropriate sort of way.”

“Marvellous idea, Danny,” Rowland responded, unflappably. “Thoroughly decent of you.”

They spent the remainder of the afternoon in casual uninhibited conversation. Daniel Cartwright proved an easy host, whose past association with Rowland Sinclair gave rise to reminiscences and
stories—some of which Rowland refused to confirm, others which he flatly denied. Bradford and other domestic staff appeared every now and then, to see to the table, refill glasses and
unobtrusively ensure the comfort of Daniel Cartwright’s Australian guests.

8

T
he penthouse was crowded, the party in full swing. A jazz band played in the main hall and uniformed staff moved amongst the guests with
elaborately laden platters. Daniel Cartwright announced their arrival with a cacophony of very bad French, kissing the cheeks of everyone within reach.

Rowland tried not to look embarrassed.

The New Yorkers, however, seemed not to find his behaviour odd.

Cartwright led them through the shuffling forest of people to meet their hostess. Marion Davies was elegantly ensconced on a chaise, the pleated folds of her white chiffon gown draped over the
gentle rise and fall of her famous figure. Her hair was platinum, almost dazzling, and swept into careful ordered curls on the top of her head.

“Danny, darling,” she crooned as Cartwright kissed her hand and greeted her with more of his appalling French. He introduced his guests.

To the men, Marion Davies was gracious; to Edna she said, “Why, my dear, you’re exquisite! Are you in the business?”

Edna responded enthusiastically with how she had played a member of the crowd in the Australian production of
On My Selection
.