There were reports of speeches Adrian Carthallow had made at various functions. Usually they were caustic and calculated to produce feelings of antagonism in some section of the community, which meant that they received due publicity and was no doubt why they had been made. There were photographs in the society periodicals of Adrian Carthallow attending this affair or that in company with his attractive wife.
He began to take an interest in the man. He found himself reading up as much as was known of his career, tracing his rise painting by painting from the time, some eight years previously, when he had arrived unknown with a bundle of canvases under his arm and had proceeded to barnstorm the Royal Academy.
Adrian Carthallow could not be ignored. That was the fundamental fact about him. His paintings might call down a torrent of argument but their technical excellence was never in doubt, and it was the knowledge that he knew how to hold a brush and could hold his own in any discussion on the methods of the masters that enabled him to overcome the initial antagonism that greets a new performer trying to break into the circle of the elect without first having starved in a garret or died unrecognized.
At least, he would never admit to having starved, although it was certain enough that only years of patient endeavour could have developed his skill to such a point, and even a genius must feed his body whilst his mind is flowering and his hand is learning its cunning.
What he had been and where he had lived before the boat train from Paris had deposited him in a London he had been determined to conquer was obscure. He was reported variously to have lived in Buenos Ayres, Chicago and Boston. He himself was stated to have declared that he had learned his art in Rome, from an old man, unknown to the world at large, who was possessed of secrets handed down from Michael Angelo and Titian and who had passed them on, so Carthallow claimed, because he had befriended the old man in his last, poverty-stricken years and had paid to send his daughter to a Swiss sanatorium.
It was all very expansive, typically Carthallow and highly suspect. Nobody could prove it, but neither, so far, had anybody been able to deny it.
Piece by piece Mordecai Tremaine assembled the scanty fragments of the puzzle that had made up Carthallow’s life since his arrival in England. But there was nothing at this time to tell him that there was a drama in the making in which he himself was to play no small part. He thought merely that he was exercising his intense curiosity. He liked to tabulate people. Having met them he liked to know exactly who they were and what they did.
His interest extended to all matters connected with art. He found himself, for instance, paying unexpected attention to such news items as the arrival in England of Warren Belmont. Normally, a rich American visitor would have meant nothing to him, but Belmont, it seemed, had come over in order to invest a not inconsiderable number of dollars in various art treasures, including paintings. Tremaine wondered whether he would consider Adrian Carthallow’s work worth buying with an eye on posterity, or whether Carthallow would convince him in spite of himself.
And then there came the Christine Neale affair.
The controversy over The Triumphal March of the Nations was just beginning to subside, which meant that it was the psychological moment for a new brick to be flung into the calming waters. Adrian Carthallow undoubtedly knew when to make the next move.
For a week or more the newspapers were busy exploring new angles to the story. Christine Neale’s disappearance from the scene; her father’s threat-breathing visit to Carthallow’s club; the speech Carthallow made the following day, all made the headlines.
Strangely enough Carthallow received a certain amount of sympathy from his male acquaintances, although they regarded him generally as a poseur. Christine Neale had been making herself a nuisance. She had been throwing herself at Carthallow’s head and had only herself to blame if he had painted what he had seen.
Adrian Carthallow, Mordecai Tremaine learned—it was a discovery that left him with mixed feelings—was one of those men who fascinate women. They fell over themselves to win his favours, particularly the spoilt, empty-headed Christine Neale variety.
So far, of course, it was just the old story over again. The creative artist, possessed of an irresistible power over women and treading his careless way undeterred by broken hearts or irate husbands, was one of the most familiar of the luscious novelist’s stock figures. But Adrian Carthallow did not run true to type. He was by no means attracted by the women who were so eager to fling themselves at his feet. His reputation was of the purest. No breath of that kind of scandal attached to his name.
Mordecai Tremaine, whose opinion of him went up and down daily according to the latest news item, regarded this particular revelation with satisfaction. He remembered Carthallow’s attitude towards his wife and was pleasantly tolerant about him and even prepared to like him a little.
Winter rained its way into a period of frost and a bright, crisp March. On a certain sunny day that made London look shabby and begrimed by contrast, Mordecai Tremaine decided to visit the Tower of London.
The visit, in itself, was without significance. He enjoyed himself as always, for his mind was receptive to atmosphere and to stand on Raleigh’s Walk or to look out across the green turf where the private scaffold had been erected was to absorb the history of the grey stones around him. He passed the Traitors’ Gate with his usual shudder at the thought of all the unfortunates who had entered under its wide span, turned up by the Bloody Tower and spent an hour browsing among the armour in the main keep of the White Tower.
He came away with the intention of walking through to St.Paul’s, and it was as he was traversing the crowded, narrow streets in the region of the Monument that he saw Adrian Carthallow.
The artist was standing at the entrance to an alley that lost itself in a maze of ramshackle property that looked as though it might house a dozen dens of iniquity but was probably perfectly innocuous. He was talking to a shabbily dressed individual. Mordecai Tremaine, ever ready to add to his collection of human oddities, studied him with interest. He was short, squat, and with a bald head that was peculiarly flat. He looked, in fact, as though he was one of the porters who perform such feats of balancing in the markets and had developed the perfect platform for the carrying on of his trade.
The shabby one must have sensed his scrutiny, for he looked up suddenly. Tremaine saw him nudge Carthallow and the artist turned sharply and looked in his direction.
It was difficult to be certain of what actually happened. To Mordecai Tremaine it seemed that Carthallow made a startled and hasty gesture to his companion and that the shabby one vanished promptly in the depths of the alley. But it might well have been that their conversation had finished and that the whole thing was perfectly spontaneous.
Tremaine wondered at first whether Carthallow would remember their meeting, for it had, after all, taken place some time before and the artist must encounter many new faces. It was unlikely that his own interest in the other had been reciprocated.
But Carthallow’s recognition was open enough. He came forward, his hand outstretched.
“Why,” he said, “isn’t it the sleuth? What are you doing in these wild parts?”
“I’m studying the natives,” Mordecai Tremaine returned, entering into the spirit of the thing. “But I might put the same question to you!”
“You’d receive the same answer,” Carthallow said. There was no trace of embarrassment in his manner. “I’m in search of copy. I often take a stroll down this way. Have to see how everybody else is living, you know, if you aren’t to become stale. But, of course, you know all about that.”
“Yes,” said Mordecai Tremaine, “I know all about that.”
They made their way along the busy pavements, thronged with a diverse assortment of human beings. Carthallow swung confidently along, nothing furtive about him, no sign visible that he resented having been detected in conversation with the shabby individual at the end of the alley. He seemed, indeed, in a highly jovial mood.
He took a delight in pointing out people and places, displaying a keen knowledge both of humanity and of the neighbourhood through which they were passing.
Their progress was enlivened with his comments.
“That fellow over there by the pub,” he said. “You see him? What a study he’d make! Big ears, low forehead, the ape written all over him. I wish I’d had him as a model!”
And a few yards further on:
“Have a look at that restaurant,” he said, indicating it with a lordly sweep of his arm that earned a scowl of resentment from the wayfarer it all but decapitated. “The tiny place on the corner. If you want to see life in the raw that’s the place to find it. A Spaniard who calls himself Pedro runs it and a more villainous-looking scoundrel I’ve yet to see. Nobody ever hears his real name although Scotland Yard probably know it. I’d use him if I wasn’t afraid of having my throat cut when he found out! If ever you go in there take my advice and sit tight like Brer Rabbit!”
Mordecai Tremaine said:
“You seem to know your way about.”
Carthallow accepted it as a compliment and beamed expansively.
“You can’t just sit in a studio and paint indefinitely,” he returned. “You’ve got to get out and see what the world is doing and what kind of people are making it happen.”
An egotist Adrian Carthallow might be, but to walk alongside him was a stimulating experience, although it was inclined to be like a parade along the footlights with the audience staring from all parts of the house. Even in a city in which the unusual was the ordinary he stood out from the multitude. Curious stares followed them and when at length they parted Mordecai Tremaine felt a trifle breathless and like an exhibit in a glass case.
“We must see more of you,” Carthallow said. “I’ll tell Helen to ask you along when we’re holding court. We’ll be in town some while yet. By the way,” he added, “are you going to the Allied Arts Ball next week?”
And when Mordecai Tremaine, not daring to confess that he had no idea that the Allied Arts—whoever they might be—were arranging such a function or where it was taking place, admitted hesitantly that he was not:
“No? I’ll send you a couple of tickets. You mustn’t miss it, my dear fellow. The maddest thing of the year!”
In a slight daze Mordecai Tremaine found himself handing over his card so that there would be no mistake about his address.
“It’s extraordinarily kind of you,” he began.
“Nonsense! You’ll be doing me a favour. You’re just the sort of man I want to cultivate. Perhaps I’ll be only too glad of your professional services one day!”
Mordecai Tremaine judged that their acquaintanceship had ripened sufficiently to enable him to take a chance. He said:
“You mean because of Christine Neale?”
To his relief Carthallow displayed no rancour.
“So you read about that storm in a tea-cup,” he said, with a modesty that rang loudly false. “Women,” he added, “are the devil.”
Mordecai Tremaine’s sentimental soul caused him to add certain mental reservations to the statement but he could understand the other’s attitude. Man, the hunter, does not take kindly to the role of the hunted.
3
THE NEXT DAY, after sleep had erected a barrier from the far side of which he could see the incident in a more normal perspective, Tremaine came to the conclusion that it had been no more than a chance encounter that had ended where it had begun. He had caught the artist in an ebullient mood, in the full sweep of his creative vision; by now Carthallow had forgotten all about him. The date of the Allied Arts Ball—he had looked it up in the meantime and had discovered that it was expected to be one of Chelsea’s liveliest efforts—could be safely crossed from his diary.
But in this he was mistaken. Two days later the promised tickets arrived. There was a brief note from Carthallow to say that he was looking forward to seeing him and that his wife was inviting a few friends to their house on the evening of the following Wednesday and would be delighted if he could come.
Mordecai Tremaine, who had not danced for longer than he was willing to recall, practised awkward steps in front of his dressing-table mirror and then rang up Anita Lane.
Her voice revealed her surprise.
“Why, Mordecai! You’re becoming quite the gallant cavalier. I’m not doing anything and of course I’d love to come. If only,” she added wickedly, “to see you dance the polka!”
“At one time,” said Mordecai Tremaine stiffly, “I was considered an excellent dancer.”
Her laugh came over the wire and he could imagine the amusement in her grey eyes.
“Seriously, Mordecai,” she said, for he had told her the source of the tickets, “you seem to have made a hit with Adrian. I thought he only went after people like Belmont.”
The name was vaguely familiar to him.
“Belmont?”
“Warren Belmont,” she explained. “The American millionaire. He’s over here to buy pictures and Adrian isn’t the man to lose an opportunity.”
Oddly there crept into his mind then a faint memory of what she had said to him when he had been leaving her flat on the night the Carthallows had been there. He said:
“Nita, you were going to tell me something once about Adrian Carthallow. I’d just spoken to you about how much he seemed to be in love with his wife and you said something about keeping my head in the clouds. Remember?”
“Yes,” she said quietly, and her voice had lost its note of humour. “I remember. But whatever it was I was going to say, Mordecai, is better left unsaid.” She was silent for a moment or two. And then: “You aren’t—up to anything, Mordecai?” she asked.
“Up to anything?” he said, genuinely surprised.
“I mean with the Carthallows.”
“Of course not,” he told her. “What should I be up to?”
“Nothing,” she said. “Nothing at all. Good-bye, Mordecai. It was very sweet of you to think of asking me.”
He heard the click as the receiver went down and he sat staring at the instrument in his hand, a puzzled frown on his face. It was unlike Anita to be mysterious. He wondered what was going on. It was frustrating to have something waved in front of him and then whisked away again before he could see it properly. He would have to tell Anita so.
But when he saw her again there were many other things to think about. The Allied Arts Ball was a fancy dress affair. What, he said to Anita, did she think of going as Elizabeth and Essex?
Essex, said Anita practically, would look rather odd in pince-nez. She had been thinking of something a little more subdued, like Pierrot and Pierette. Tremaine abandoned his vision of himself as the dashing if unfortunate earl with a sigh of regret, but he realized the soundness of Anita’s objections. She had mentioned only his pince-nez but it was also extremely doubtful whether his attenuated shanks would have shown to the best advantage in the costume of an Elizabethan gallant; it would be safer if they were to be decently concealed by the baggy trousers of Pierrot.
Adrian Carthallow had spoken of the ball as the maddest affair of the year, and when Mordecai Tremaine ushered his partner into the vast hall where the festivities were already in full swing he realized that for once the artist had not been exaggerating.
Gipsies, admirals and field-marshals; ballet dancers, pedlars and princes were whirling together under flying paper streamers and falling balloons. Around the edge of the floor moved a procession out of the fantastic deeps of an inebriate’s nightmare. Enormously tall men with faces of a moonlike roundness and painted grotesquely moved stiffly among an assortment of weird creatures most of whom looked like the freakish results of trying to cross a dragon with a dinosaur.
Mordecai Tremaine began to enjoy himself. He responded to the atmosphere like a tropical flower in the sun. It seemed unlikely that he would encounter Adrian Carthallow in such a wild entanglement of humanity disguised with wood and canvas and dresses of many hues, but there was no reason why he sh
ould not make the most of the opportunity the other had given him.
Two hours later, uttering a silent prayer of thanks that there was more room for relaxation in Pierrot’s ample folds than would have been provided by the unyielding garments of the Earl of Essex, he found himself trying to make his perilous way back to Anita with the soft drink for which she had asked. A balloon rebounded gently from his pince-nez, leaving them even more precariously poised than usual. A huge face loomed over him; he met the fixed stare of a painted eye and wondered vaguely why it looked so human.
He sidestepped skilfully out of danger and in that moment a corpulent jester with a flaunting red nose and bells jingling on his cap flourished a rattle in front of him.
“What have you done with it?” hissed a conspiratorial voice in his ear.
Mordecai Tremaine looked startled.
“Done with what?” he asked.
“The body!” said the jester dramatically, and he realized that it was Carthallow.
The artist grasped him by the arm.
“Come along, we’ve been searching everywhere for you!”
“My partner—” Mordecai Tremaine managed to gasp before Carthallow could drag him off his course and cause him to lose his bearings completely.
Fortunately Anita was near enough at hand to have witnessed the scene.
“I thought it was you, Adrian,” she said. “Nobody else could look quite such a dervish!”
Carthallow’s exuberance cleared a way for them through the dancers. In a few moments he had guided them across the floor to his wife’s side.
“I’ve found him,” he announced, and stood aside to reveal his prize with the air of a magician who produces the final wonder from the inevitable top-hat.
Breathless and damply perspiring Mordecai Tremaine restored his pince-nez and tried to look dignified, suddenly aware that he was getting too old to go capering around as Pierrot. But Helen Carthallow did not seem to find anything incongruous in his appearance.
So Pretty a Problem Page 8
