King Con Page 18
He went on to express optimism about his mission and spoke with ill-informed flattery about the British people: “They appreciate you for what you are, and it doesn’t matter what color you are.” Getting into his stride, he also spoke about his supposed tour of Canada with the Prince of Wales. Edgar now claimed to have been one of the five Indian chiefs who had awarded the prince an honorary title: “Chief Morning Star.”
Soon Edgar’s impromptu press conference was over. He then faced the same potentially nervous wait that followed the opening night of a vaudeville show. But he was in this instance awaiting reviews of a different nature, reviews that would have an even greater impact. If the press didn’t buy his stories, he couldn’t do what he did back home—just travel to the next city and go through the same routine. National newspapers in Britain, which did not yet exist in America, threatened to make that impossible. Any exposés of him would spread across the country with epidemic speed.
* * *
—
Edgar made the short trip from the docks to the center of Liverpool, where—probably accompanied by his “secretary”—he checked in to the 550-room Midland Adelphi Hotel. Popular with rich transatlantic travelers, this was among the grandest of Britain’s hotels, its marble-lined stairwell and much-vaunted atmosphere of refinement presaging exceptionally comfortable, centrally heated rooms.
Later that day, Edgar had the opportunity to adjust to the differences between North America and Britain, to the decorum of British waiters and desk clerks, to the way men didn’t always remove their hats indoors, to the linguistic variations, to the guineas, half crowns, sovereigns, and other idiosyncratic coinage. Above all, he could forget about Prohibition and order a glass of wine to go with his lunch.
Wandering around the Midland Adelphi’s maze of hallways, he entered what was once a ballroom and an adjoining lounge. The Voss Motor Galleries, open for business even on a Sunday, now filled these two rooms. A selection of twenty of the latest cars manufactured by Daimler, Napier, and other companies were parked there. Edgar paused to admire the brand-new vehicles, his feathered headdress and the rest of his outfit reflected in their paintwork. By passing appreciative comment on the skills of British coachbuilders, he curried favor with one of the sales staff, his perfect English and gentlemanly demeanor causing a certain amount of surprise. He added that the automobiles on display were far more beautiful than their American equivalents. When he remarked on how much smaller British cars were, he was ushered over to a soft-topped Austin Seven. The sight of this petite two-seater amused Edgar, who expressed doubt when he heard it was capable of carrying a full load at fifty miles per hour.
The owner of the dealership informed him that the Austin Seven—“absurdly cheap to run”—was the smallest four-cylinder motorcar currently produced in the British Empire, but the dealer’s patter failed to banish Edgar’s mirthful incredulity. So the dealer asked if he’d care for a test-drive.
He accepted, though he must’ve had trouble folding his long limbs into the driver’s seat. For a man of his size, the Austin Seven was more like a tight-fitting coat than an automobile. Its rudimentary instrumentation and interior certainly bore scant resemblance to those of the Studebaker he’d owned when he and Burtha were together.
From the Midland Adelphi Hotel, he piloted the car through the center of Liverpool, where the streets—yet to sprout pedestrian crossings or stoplights—would have been relatively quiet. Around him were lots of new buildings, which made it feel like an American city, though its air of modernity was diminished by the number of horse-drawn carts and cabs. Leafless trees emphasized the wintry bleakness as he drove through the city’s parks.
Afterward he returned to the Midland Adelphi, an enormous, smooth, stone-jacketed building, outside of which a crowd awaited him. While he was still sitting in the Austin Seven, its soft-top folded down, a small child in a woolly hat approached him from the driver’s side. Her face wasn’t much higher than the steering wheel. She started crying when she saw Edgar in his regalia. Without getting out of the vehicle, he calmed her down. Then he removed his golden bracelet and placed it around the awestruck girl’s wrist.
* * *
—
The verdict on Edgar’s quayside press conference was delivered by next morning’s newspapers. If he had any worries about how the British press would portray him, these were rendered redundant by the uniformly supportive reviews he earned. He’d have been able to read and reread them, because he—and presumably Eugene, too—had a few hours to spare before they boarded a steam train down to London, the cars of which were divided into unfamiliar little compartments seating a maximum of eight passengers. Ahead of them was a journey timetabled at up to six hours. Parading across the window beside Edgar were the soot-blackened Liverpool suburbs, long stretches of farmland, and a sequence of small towns that soon dissolved in the encroaching darkness.
Night had fallen by the time he stepped onto one of the platforms at Euston Station, smoke from his train swirling beneath the low roof. Uniformed staff were ready to assist passengers with their luggage. Bewilderment registered on the porters’ faces at the sight of Edgar’s conspicuously colorful getup.
A reporter from the Daily Express likely chose this moment to corner Edgar, who spouted the usual stories about himself. “I have brought with me presents for the Prince of Wales from the Canadian Boy Scouts,” he added. “These include a shield with a maple leaf in buckskin, inscribed with the names of all the subscribers.”
Given that only a mile and a half of low-rise streets and antiquated buildings separated the train station from the Grosvenor Court Hotel, where he’d be staying, that final leg of the journey wouldn’t have taken long. His hotel lay at the intersection of Oxford and Davies Streets, just across from a Lyons Corner House, part of a busy café chain. The realization that the Grosvenor Court was, for all its comforts, not among the city’s most distinguished hotels may have been a source of dismay to Edgar. Yet the scenario wasn’t without its consolations. Thanks to Major Harrington, his friend from the SS Regina, the Canada Club was paying for him to have a suite of rooms, which included the luxury of a private bathroom. The suite provided more than enough space for Eugene, too.
As Edgar and Eugene may have discovered since their arrival in Liverpool, the British tended to regard homosexuals with contempt. Particular scorn was reserved for the more visible of them—effeminate male homosexuals, or “nancy boys” in the pejorative slang of the era. Though sex between men was illegal in Britain at that period, hotels such as the Grosvenor Court were willing to accommodate male couples, so long as they didn’t flaunt their sexuality. Despite this relative tolerance, Edgar and Eugene ran the risk that someone might report them to the police. Were that to happen, they could wind up being deported, sentenced to up to five years in jail, or even whipped.
15
Edgar lunched at the majestic Hotel Cecil, where the dining room looked across a wide stretch of the Thames, one of the world’s busiest waterways, along which hefty barges were towed by steamers uncorking genies of smoke. On what was only his second afternoon in London, he’d been a guest of the British Association of Rotary Clubs. Even at this private event, Chief White Elk’s celebrity attracted a reporter, who admired his “gorgeous” ensemble. Afforded the chance to talk about his mooted audience with the king, Edgar stressed the altruism of his own motives. “I want to convey to Great Britain first of all the renewal of our pledge of loyalty,” he said. “At all times we shall be ready, as during the war, to follow the tracks of our forefathers and to guard and protect the colors in which we pledge our loyalty to His Majesty and to Great Britain.”
Leaving the reporter with the impression that he was “one of the most picturesque personalities that has ever visited this country,” Edgar exited the hotel, which had a taxi turnaround in front of it. Doormen wearing military-looking attire stood outside establishments such as the Cecil, waiti
ng for departing customers. In what tended to be genteel accents that failed to disguise their Cockney origins, the doormen would say to the likes of Edgar, “Keb, sir?”
Probably utilizing this service, Edgar and Eugene boarded a cab. It would have taken them past the platoon of aging tin toy vendors who treated the sidewalk beyond the taxi turnaround as their counter. Little clockwork horses and errand boys hauling miniature trunks made erratic, darting movements that forced Christmas shoppers to improvise ungainly dance steps.
Seated in the taxi, Edgar and Eugene were driven over to the gentle arc of Regent Street. Pricey clothes stores, furriers, and jewelers dominated the early-nineteenth-century premises on either side. Interspersed with these were gutted buildings, vacant lots, and construction sites—something Edgar must have noticed on most streets in the city’s West End, which vibrated with the hammering of demolition crews. A number of the surviving stores currently visible through the windows of Edgar’s cab displayed the royal coat of arms, indicating that they had the honor of supplying goods to the royal household. If Edgar’s plans worked out, he’d soon be a guest of that household.
He had already requested his much-trumpeted audience with King George V. To maximize the chances of having his request granted, Edgar couldn’t risk being seen around town in anything other than his interpretation of Cherokee costume. Over his normal outfit, he was now wearing a black lamb’s fur coat, necessitated by the plummeting temperature. Sharpening the chill was a wind fierce enough to wobble his taxi and jiggle the silver medallion that hung from his neck.
Hard to believe that the weather had been mild to the point of mugginess the day before. He hadn’t needed a fur coat when he’d found his way over to Trafalgar Square, then clambered onto one of the huge stone plinths at the base of Nelson’s Column. Sprawled across the plinth was a massive sculpture of a lion. Edgar had positioned himself in front of the creature’s paws and then addressed the big crowd forming around him. Among the crowd was a press photographer, whose picture of Edgar ended up featuring in many of the newspapers that people were reading on the afternoon of his cab ride. Edgar might not have been too pleased, though, by the Daily Sketch’s decision to juxtapose his photo with a shot of a troupe of Russian midgets.
A little further down Regent Street, natural preserve of silk-stockinged window-shoppers, Edgar’s cab pulled up. He and Eugene got out. Edgar—whose feathered headdress attracted the attention he craved—was instantly pounced upon by another reporter. She said she’d been hunting for him for the past couple of days.
He gave a hearty laugh. “Is that what women do in England?” he said, turning toward Eugene in a show of amusement. “Fancy women hunting men…”
Ditching his tone of jokey disbelief, he was soon talking about his favorite topic—himself. “I hope to have an audience with His Majesty, but please don’t imagine I have any grievance to talk about.” He added that his only son had died not long back, leaving him as the last hereditary chief of the Cherokee. “My people were the first real Canadians,” he said, his fruity voice cutting through the street noise. “We are descended from the Iroquois, who inhabited North America long before any European races.” Just in case he hadn’t won over the newswoman, he deployed a burst of flattery. “London is a great surprise to me. It is larger and much more wonderful than I imagined. I don’t think New York compares with it.”
His sidewalk interview concluded, he and Eugene headed for their destination. This was likely the Café Royal, on the fringe of Soho, a neighborhood associated with homosexuality and drug dealing. Edgar would have been able to buy cocaine from the young women who pounded the streets carrying drawstring handbags that subtly advertised their wares. Purchasing drugs was risky, though. If caught in possession of them, he could be arraigned on felony charges. And there was a certain amount of risk associated with picking up young men, too. Many of the established cruising grounds were kept under surveillance by the police, who targeted them with agent provocateur operations.
Through the doors of the perennially fashionable Café Royal, where many of the regulars shared Edgar’s taste for narcotics, were multiple bars and restaurants, all with red-plush-upholstered seating and tobacco-stained ceilings. Private dining rooms were also available, the tables swathed in crisp white damask and laid with floral-patterned Minton china and long-stemmed glasses brimming with vintage wines and champagne. Tall, gilt-framed mirrors reflected the movements of a disparate clientele. Aristocrats. Beautiful young women, employed as artists’ models. Groups of Frenchmen, playing dominoes. Leading figures from the arts, not least the suave playwright and actor Noël Coward.
By throwing parties at chic venues like the Café Royal and at the kind of nightclubs where dance bands provided a watered-down interpretation of jazz, first popularized in Britain not quite four years previously, Edgar began to infiltrate the world of moneyed London. On the understanding that he was about to receive a stupendous windfall from King George V, who was set to return to him a million acres annexed by the British government, he appears to have been able to borrow money from his wealthy new acquaintances—money that could fund his self-aggrandizing extravagance.
* * *
—
Edgar was in the audience watching The Private Secretary—not his own nominal secretary, but a newly revived Victorian farce, staged at a handsome and capacious theater just down the street from Trafalgar Square. Creaky though the play turned out to be, its rollicking portrayal of two rogues assuming false identities in order to thwart their creditors tickled Edgar, whose merriment must have been rather more knowing than that of most other members of the audience.
When he left the Playhouse Theatre and crossed the West End, he’d have seen the animated electric advertising signs that had become a prominent feature of every main road. People would sometimes pause in front of these signs, mesmerized by the free show. One of these advertisements, composed of hundreds of lightbulbs, was near Edgar’s hotel. The sign depicted a hand reaching toward a cabinet containing a gramophone and then placing the gramophone’s arm onto a record, crimson musical notes floating out of the cabinet as the record spun.
But Edgar’s chances of showing off his own musical talents on the London stage were not looking promising. He only had to talk to a theatrical agent or someone else in the business to discover how wrongheaded his original plan had been. Finding employment in the British equivalent of vaudeville, known as either “music hall” or “variety,” wouldn’t be easy, because he’d been unlucky enough to arrive when the business was in the middle of a protracted slump. Performers who once commanded sizable salaries had to accept a 50 percent pay cut. Others were reduced to selling combs and soap on the sidewalks. There were even tales of minor celebrities from the worlds of opera and movies working as buskers.
Suffice it to say it was no surprise that Edgar’s attempt to obtain bookings on Sir Oswald Stoll’s illustrious theater circuit met with disappointment. Edgar then turned his attention to what was, in the business, referred to as “the Gulliver Circuit.” Headquartered in a warren of offices at the Holborn Empire, a large nineteenth-century building on High Holborn, this comprised sixteen theaters run by Charles Gulliver. Conveniently for Edgar, most of these were in and around London, though the problems afflicting the business left him with few grounds for optimism. There was a surfeit of other out-of-work novelty acts into the bargain. Up against him were Victor Niblo’s Talking Birds; Chung Wang, the Chinese Magician; Zingaro, the Royal Gypsy Instrumentalist; to say nothing of Professor J. Raymond and His Electrically Controlled Automaton.
* * *
—
Positioned only about a hundred yards from the raggedy hem of southeast London, where houses gave way to fields, 60a Leyland Road was one of a row of large detached two-story Victorian properties. It had a bay window facing the broad, silver birch–lined road.
Homes were in short supply throughout the cap
ital, so Edgar had been fortunate to be able to move into these five upstairs rooms not long after Christmas. He rented them using the name Dr. Tewanna. With him were Eugene and two other young men Eugene had befriended. Eugene’s friends probably came from the city’s flourishing yet unobtrusive gay subculture, which revolved around specific pubs, restaurants, parks, theaters, and public toilets (the latter known as “cottages”).
Sharing the Leyland Road apartment, which backed onto a series of big, oblong gardens, was something of a comedown for Edgar after the luxury and metropolitan bustle of the Grosvenor Court Hotel. Still, he couldn’t expect the Canada Club to keep paying his tab indefinitely.
Whenever he strode out of the house in full regalia, complete with feathered headdress, he was bound to provoke stares. After all, he wasn’t just exotic—he was famous, thanks to yet more press coverage. Side by side with a picture of Britain’s deputy commissioner of police, his photo had featured in the “Personalities of the Week” section of the Illustrated London News. And he’d appeared alongside Andrew Bonar Law—the country’s prime minister—on the front page of the popular Daily Graphic.
Edgar’s new apartment was more than seven miles from the West End, making his fondness for traveling by taxi expensive. The most direct route took him past a billiard hall and then through the squalid blue-collar neighborhoods on London’s south side, row houses, pubs, small stores, and myriad businesses fringing the often-constricted streets, their sidewalks and slate roofs frequently coated by the chill sheen of winter drizzle.