Twenty-seven

We exited on West 10th, not far from Madame’s penthouse on Fifth Avenue.

“Look at this,” I said, astonished. “Mr. Scrib lives on the same street as the Emma Lazarus House…”

Lazarus was a poet who loomed large among Greenwich Village’s literary legends. I couldn’t quote any of her other works, but one sonnet was destined to live forever. “The New Colossus,” which she’d penned in 1883, was cast in bronze and set in the pedestal of the Statue of Liberty.

“I memorized that poem in third grade,” Esther said. “But I don’t see too many tired and poor on this block…”

Esther was right. We were standing amid what Realtors called the “Gold Coast” of Greenwich Village. Rows of nineteenth-century brownstones with wrought iron work, arched windows, and Juliet balconies stood together like elegant ladies in perfectly preserved vintage finery. Leafy trees lined wide sidewalks dappled with amber light, while a stroll away, residents would find some of the city’s most charming bars and restaurants.

This block boasted not only the Italianate home of Emma Lazarus and the former residence of author Mark Twain, but also the famous Astor “farmhouse,” a redbrick Federal-style structure built on farmland once owned by John Jacob Astor.

At one point the Astor home was separated into ten different apartments until an anonymous buyer paid $31 million for it and even more to convert it back into a single-family mega mansion, continuing a trend of rich and famous folk snapping up properties in this area and then converting them, including a Hollywood actress who’d fused two town houses into one Frankenmansion; a telecom exec who invested millions in transforming a garage; and the founder of a notorious music-sharing app who recently snapped up three “Gold Coast” buildings when they hit the market.

While I gawked at the Astor house, Esther elbowed me.

“What is it?” I asked.

She pointed to her phone screen. A Realtor’s website displayed images of a luxury apartment for rent a few doors down, describing it as “a multiroom suite with garden access, parquet floors, and a working fireplace.” The rent for a few months was more than many people earned in a year—and the address was the one Mr. Scrib scribbled on his notebook pocket with the two keys.

Esther and I stared at each other for a few seconds with amazed expressions. Clearly, we were thinking the same thing—

How could Mr. Scrib, a gentleman who appeared to be mentally unstable and borderline homeless, possess the financial power to live on this block?

“Do you think he wrote down the wrong address?” Esther whispered.

“Maybe. Or maybe he knows someone who lives here?”

“Or used to know them. Either way, these keys might not work, and we’re on a wild-goose chase.”

I faced her. “We both know there’s only one way to find out.”

“We better be careful,” she said, chewing her bottom lip. “We don’t want anyone to think we’re trying to break in and rob the building.”

“Let’s stay calm and try these keys, okay? What could possibly go wrong?”

Esther blinked. “You want a list?”