14 14Gus Bailey, working at his computer, heard the telephone ring several times before he remembered he had forgotten to put on his message machine.
“Hello?”
“Is that Gus Bailey?”
“Yes.”
“It’s Ceil Somerset. Do you remember me?”
“Yes,” he answered, but he didn’t actually remember. She had the fashionable voice of someone he had probably been introduced to at a fashionable party, and he knew before the conversation began that she was going to invite him to another fashionable party, probably as a last minute fill-in.
“We met at Justine Altemus’s engagement party,” said Ceil Somerset.
“Oh, yes,” replied Gus. He still didn’t remember, but it didn’t matter. If he was free, he would go. It interested him to see how the various groups of New York overlapped.
“I was the one who loved your article about the movie star who gave up booze.”
“Oh, yes.” Gus was fifty by the time people started to recognize him by name, and even face, and it never ceased to amaze him.
“Are you still writing about that ghastly gigolo who took all that old lady’s money?”
“Yes, I am. I thought this call might be he. He hasn’t shown up for the last two appointments I had with him.”
“You can’t trust people like that, Gus. You should know that by now.”
Gus laughed. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m Loelia Manchester’s sister-in-law. My husband’s her brother.”
“Yes.”
“You’re not by any chance free for dinner tonight, are you? I know this is terribly last minute, but, you see, someone’s dropped out, and I’m having a dinner before Mary Finch’s dance for Justine Altemus and Bernie Slatkin, and Justine said you were coming to the dance, so I wondered if maybe you’d like to come to dinner.” She talked very fast, as if she thought he would be offended at being asked so late.
“Sure,” said Gus.
“You would?” She sounded amazed that he had accepted. “Oh, you are divine. Eight o’clock. Our apartment’s too small, so we’re giving it at my mother-in-law’s. Do you know where she lives?”
“No.”
“The same building as Lil Altemus.”
“You’re over here, Gus, next to me,” called out Lil Altemus, patting the needlepoint seat of a Chippendale chair, when she saw Gus make a late entrance into the dining room, after being shown through the apartment by Ceil Somerset’s mother-in-law, Fernanda Somerset. Gus was overwhelmed by the art on the walls, and Fernanda Somerset, who was also the mother of Loelia Manchester, was always keen on showing off to an interested guest the masterpieces that her late husband, who had a taste for art and a lust for the gentlemanly sport of collecting, had amassed and that her own children and their friends simply took for granted. Fernanda Somerset was known to be dismayed and distressed over her daughter’s liaison with Dimitri Minardos, the shoe designer, whom she considered totally inappropriate for her daughter, but she kept her opinions on the matter to herself. When Gus excused himself to go into dinner, Fernanda retired to her room, as she was not a member of the party going on that evening.
“I hear you’ve been getting the grand tour from Fernanda,” said Lil, when Gus was seated.
“And grand is the right word,” said Gus, sitting down, after giving Lil a kiss on the cheek. “That’s what’s called a collection.”
“All going to the museum when Fernanda dies,” said Lil.
“She told me that.”
“Did she tell you about Mr. Renthal’s offer?” asked Lil.
“Elias Renthal? No.”
“He offered to buy the entire collection, can you imagine? ‘Name your price,’ he said. Or had Mrs. Verdurin say for him. To furnish his new apartment,” said Lil.
She gave a sharp little laugh, her Lil laugh, her children called it, a sort of intake of breath that sounded a bit like a cultured snort, although, according to Janet Van Degan, it would have been better named her Van Degan laugh, for both Lil’s mother and her grandmother had had the same laugh when they were amused by the pretensions of the New People. “Too funny, really,” she finished by saying. Lil looked around her at the dining room and the people in it. This was her kind of life. These were her kind of people.
“I didn’t see Justine and Bernie.”
“Bernie had to work at the last minute, and Justine wouldn’t come without him. We’ll meet up with them later at Mary’s dance.”
“Congratulations on Justine’s engagement.”
No words of disapproval for her daughter’s choice of partner passed Lil Altemus’s lips, but her wry smile, her weary shrug, and her look of forebearance conveyed her feelings more than any expressed thoughts ever would.
“He’s charming,” said Lil cautiously. “Not one of us, of course, but charming.”
Gus laughed. It amused him when she said not one of us to him, as if he were. “Neither am I,” he said.
“Neither are you what?”
“One of you.”
“But you’re not going to marry my daughter,” she replied.
“I know Bernie,” said Gus. “I like him.”
“On TV, you mean?”
“On TV, yes, but in life too. I see him at Maisie Verdurin’s parties.”
“Awfully good looking. I’ll say that for him,” conceded Lil.
“Far more than good looking, Lil,” said Gus. “He’s a very successful young man. He earns a fortune. He’s working. That’s more than most of the guys do whom Justine could have married. People say he’ll get the top spot one of these days.”
“You sound just like Justine. That’s what she keeps saying.” Lil gave a little dismissive laugh. Earned money, no matter how abundant, never impressed Lil Altemus the way inherited money did. Then, not unexpectedly, she mouthed but did not speak the word Jewish.
In the several years Gus Bailey had known Lil Altemus, he had seen her, in other circumstances, about other people, mouth but not speak other words in explanation of their identities: Cancer, she once mouthed about Honoria Manchester. Or, Adopted, about Dodo Fitz Alyn. Or, Alcoholic, about Sweetzer Clarke. Or, Lesbian, about Nan Timson.
A young man on the other side of Lil cleared his throat to get Lil’s attention, in order to resume a story he had been telling her when Gus came to the table.
“Laurance has been telling us the most fascinating story,” said Lil. “Do you know my nephew, Laurance Van Degan? Gus Bailey. And Maude, you know, don’t you? Maude Hoare?”
Sure of himself, bespectacled, balding too early, Laurance Van Degan, whom everyone in the family called young Laurance, acknowledged Lil’s introduction of Gus without absorbing his name, eager to continue with his story. Lil often wished that her son Hubie was more like her nephew, who fit in, who continued on in the things that had made the family famous, or even that her son and her nephew were friends, which they never had been. “There’s a man called Elias Renthal,” said Laurance Van Degan, in explanation to Gus about the subject of his story, as if Gus would have no idea who Elias Renthal was. Young Van Degan, like a lot of the group at Ceil Somerset’s who thought of themselves, without actually putting it into words, as old New York, had strong feelings about Elias Renthal and his manner of conducting business.
“You see the Renthals everywhere these days,” he continued. “They were at the opera the other night, with Constantine de Rham, and that woman he is always seen with, Mrs. Lupescu, who was wearing white fur and far too many diamonds.”
“She’s ghastly, that woman,” said Lil.
“Renthal is apparently an old friend of Constantine de Rham,” continued Van Degan.
“Doesn’t that tell you a lot?” said Lil, who still had not been able to bring herself to tell anyone that the Renthals were coming to her daughter’s wedding.
“Hear me out, Aunt Lil,” said her nephew, who didn’t like to be interrupted. “Mrs. Renthal, however, who’s on the make, as everyone knows, didn’t enjoy being seen in public with de Rham and his girlfriend, and she and Elias had a few words during the first act, and the people around them kept shushing them up.”
A waiter from the catering service brought in to supplement the Somerset staff nodded a greeting to Gus over Lil Altemus’s head while she took asparagus from a silver platter he held for her.
“Oh, hi,” said Gus in return to the waiter.
“But that was nothing,” continued Laurance Van Degan with his story. “You won’t believe what happened. During the second act, when Montserrat Caballe was singing her Vissi d’Arte, more beautifully than I’ve ever heard it sung, incidentally, one of Mrs. Lupescu’s diamond earrings fell with a great clunk to the floor of the Metropolitan.”
“No,” cried Lil.
“Oh, yes, and both she and de Rham got right down on the floor to look for it, first things first, right in the middle of the aria, and even lit a match to aid their search.”
“Extraordinary,” said Lil.
“Laura and I were there with Mother. You can imagine Mother’s reaction, Aunt Lil. She insisted they halt their search until the end of the act when the house lights came on.”
“Good for Janet,” said Lil.
“Mrs. Renthal is trying to get on Mother’s opera committee, and she was so embarrassed that Mother saw her with de Rham and Mrs. Lupescu that she took off, and, of course, Elias had to follow her. He’s a bad apple, de Rham.”
“Consuelo was one of my best friends,” said Lil, shaking her head.
“Bad apple, how?” asked Gus, entering the conversation for the first time.
“Owes money everywhere. Rents out that house he inherited from Consuelo for all sorts of purposes, they say. Herkie Saybrook says if he ever wanted to have someone taken care of, he’d go to Constantine de Rham.”
“No,” said Lil, in disbelief.
“I don’t mean to imply he’d do anything himself, but he would know exactly the person to go to to have it done.”
“What exactly do you mean?” persisted Gus.
“Just what I said,” replied young Laurance Van Degan, who then turned to speak to Maude Hoare on his other side.
On the other side of Gus sat a young woman who did not seem to know anyone at the party but acted perfectly content to watch it without participating. When Gus turned to speak to her, he found that she was staring at him. He picked up her place card and saw that her name was Inez Peretti.
“Are you a friend of Justine’s?” asked Gus, trying to find an opening for conversation.
“I’ve never met Justine,” replied Inez Peretti.
“Bernie then. Are you a friend of Bernie’s from the television station?” asked Gus again.
“I’ve never met Bernie either. I don’t even know his last name, just that he’s going to marry Justine Altemus,” said Inez.
Gus, curious, framed his next question.
“I’m Ceil Somerset’s psychic,” she said in explanation to Gus, who had been about to ask her what her connection was to all these people, and Gus laughed that she had anticipated his question.
“Ah, a psychic. How interesting.”
“Have you ever been to one?”
“In California. Not here. Do you make house calls?” asked Gus, making conversation.
“I prefer not to.”
“Where do you live?”
“Sullivan Street. Do you know where that is?”
“Right. Most of these friends of Ceil’s think it’s in Tasmania, or someplace equally remote. That Mrs. Lupescu, Mr. Van Degan was just talking about. She got my name from someone and called for an appointment, but when she heard where I lived, she canceled, saying she never went below Fiftieth Street. She said Saks Fifth Avenue was her downtown limit.”
Gus laughed. “That sounds like the sort of thing Mrs. Lupescu would say, from what I gather about Mrs. Lupescu,” he said.
“You’re going somewhere tonight, aren’t you?” asked Inez Peretti.
Gus looked at her. “Mary Finch’s dance for Justine and Bernie,” replied Gus, cautiously.
Inez Peretti ignored his evasive answer. “Before that, I mean.”
Gus continued to stare at her.
“Whatever it is you’re planning on doing, don’t,” she said. Their eyes met for an instant. Gus picked up Inez’s place card again.
“Next you’re going to ask me for my telephone number,” said Inez, smiling.
“Right,” replied Gus, and he wrote it down on the place card when she gave it to him, then put the card in the pocket of his dinner jacket.
Laura Van Degan appeared behind young Laurance and put her hand on his shoulder. He looked up at Laura and smiled. She wore no makeup, a plain evening dress, and her uncoiffured hair, straight with bangs, hung like a schoolgirl’s to her shoulders. Ruby Renthal would have said, had she been present to make the comment, that you had to be as rich and as entrenched as the Van Degans to appear at a party dressed like that. Laurance, however, seemed delighted with her. “Time?” he asked.
“Yes, darling,” she replied.
“Laura’s still breastfeeding the new baby,” explained Laurance to Lil. “We’re going on home, and we’ll meet up with you later at Mary’s.”
“Little Janet is so excited about being a bridesmaid for Justine, Lil. You just can’t imagine,” said Laura.
“You’re missing all this delicious coconut ice cream,” said Lil, spooning out some from the silver bowl the waiter held.
“My favorite thing,” said Gus, when the waiter held the bowl for him to take some.
“There’s rum in the coconut ice cream, Gus,” whispered the same waiter who had spoken to Gus earlier. Gus looked longingly at his favorite dessert and declined with a shake of his head.
“Who’s your friend the waiter?” asked Lil.
“Someone I know from A.A.,” said Gus.
“That reminds me, Evangeline Simpson’s drinking again,” said Lil.
“Do you suppose Constantine de Rham will be at Mary Finch’s dance tonight?” asked Gus.
“Not likely,” answered Lil.
“But they’re the couple of the season, it seems,” said Gus.
“Maybe at Maisie Verdurin’s, and at Clarence’s, and all those places you frequent, Gus, but not in this crowd,” answered Lil, waving her hand to indicate the thirty-two guests in the Somerset dining room. “I think everyone’s moving on to Mary’s. Do you want a ride? My car’s downstairs.”
“No, thank you, Lil. I’ll meet you there. I have to make another stop first.”
“That’s what Matilda always says about you.”
“What does Matilda always say about me?”
“That you’re always going somewhere mysterious.”
If Constantine de Rham thought it strange that he should be receiving a call at ten o’clock at night from a man who had refused to speak to him at Maisie Verdurin’s parties, he gave no such indication. Gus Bailey was surprised that he answered his own door, although a butler of advanced age hovered disagreeably in the background, as if his duties of door opener had been usurped. Later, Gus remembered that de Rham wore velvet slippers with the initials C de R elaborately intertwined in gold and a smoking jacket of dark green velvet, but at that moment, standing outside in the rain on Sutton Place, looking into what had once been Consuelo Harcourt de Rham’s house, he was aware only of the marble stairway behind Constantine, down which Consuelo had fallen two years earlier, and the black-and-white marble floor on which she had landed.
“My name is Augustus Bailey,” began Gus.
“Yes, I know who you are,” answered Constantine. “You refused to shake my hand at Maisie Verdurin’s party.”
Gus, having come as a supplicant, blushed.
“I remember slights. Even averted eyes are recorded in my computer up here,” Constantine said, pointing to his head. He stared at Gus, cold and wet, standing in the street under an umbrella, as if he enjoyed the feeling of power he possessed by not immediately giving him entrance. “My inclination is to slam the door in your face, but curiosity overrides that desire. Come in.”
Gus passed him and walked into the house.
“Give your wet things to Ramon,” he said, as Gus took off his coat. The butler gathered up Gus’s umbrella and coat, soaking the front of his white jacket in the process.
“The Filipinos, they say, are an intelligent race, but my butler is an exception to the rule,” said de Rham, in front of the butler. “Don’t put those wet things on the upholstered bench, Ramon. Take them into the kitchen.”
Gus turned to a mirror and readjusted his black tie, which had become crushed under his coat.
“You are either coming from or on your way to Mary Finch’s dance for Justine Altemus and Mr. Slatkin,” said de Rham, observing Gus’s dinner jacket and black patent-leather pumps.
“Wouldn’t you love to have been a fly on the wall when Justine told Lil she was going to marry Mr. Slatkin? Or perhaps you were, Mr. Bailey. A fly on the wall, that is.”
“No, I wasn’t, Mr. de Rham.”
“With one of your magazine articles?”
“No.”
“I’m sure Mr. Slatkin wasn’t quite what Lil had in mind for Justine. I rather think her hopes were higher.”
It had not occurred to Gus, in his anticipatory thoughts about his night visit, that Constantine de Rham would gossip with him about an approaching society wedding. From another room, the sounds of a television drama could be heard.
“Yvonne is watching Dynasty,” explained Constantine, with a tolerant smile. He pronounced dynasty “dinasty” in the British manner and indicated with a head gesture that Gus should follow him. They walked down a hallway into Constantine’s den, and Constantine closed the door behind them.
On one dark red wall, over a deep tufted sofa piled high with damask and tapestry pillows, was a large painting of a stag being torn apart by hounds. On another Gus’s eye was drawn to a bookcase full of tall slender volumes, bound in red Moroccan leather with gold lettering, that appeared to be privately printed: aristocratic biographies of aristocratic de Rhams: Casimir, Stanislaus, Edouard, and Thierry, the revered ancestors that Constantine claimed as his own. “The guillotine played havoc with my family during the Terror,” de Rham said, watching Gus look at the books, “but enough members survived to perpetuate the name and reclaim the estates.”
Gus turned from the books and looked up into the eyes of the tall man whose gaze was boring into him, daring him to disbelieve his ancestral claims. In the close quarters of the den a scent of not-quite-fresh perspiration clouded the air. It occurred to Gus that perhaps Constantine de Rham was not an everyday bather. Inwardly Gus asked himself why he was in this man’s house, on this rainy night, and for an instant he considered flight. Instead, needing him, he fought his distaste and admired the elegant French desk behind which de Rham seated himself. The desk was, de Rham explained, signed by Boulle. He passed his long fingers lovingly over its highly polished ormolu-encrusted surface.
“But surely you have not delayed going to Mary Finch’s dance to come crosstown on a rainy night to discuss a Boulle desk,” said de Rham.
“No.”
De Rham rose and pulled the velvet curtains closed on the two windows behind his desk. When he turned around, he made a show of surprise, by raising his eyebrows, that Gus had already seated himself, as if he had expected him to remain standing until he had been invited to sit.
“No, not there. Sit in the Regency chair,” Constantine said, pointing to a black lacquer chair with a cane seat that looked considerably less comfortable than the club chair that Gus had chosen. “I can see you better there.”
Gus complied, understanding that Constantine needed to be in charge.
“Now, how can I help you, Mr. Bailey?” asked de Rham.
“There is a man who will be coming up for release from prison,” began Gus, cautiously.
Constantine de Rham again raised his eyebrows, in an exaggerated grimace of amazement. “Yes?”
“I would like to have this man followed.”
“I find it utterly extraordinary that you should come to see me on such a matter.”
“I was told that you knew people who could lead one to other people who performed such services.”
“Am I supposed to feel flattered by such a reputation?”
“Please let me finish.”
De Rham shrugged, as if the matter were of complete indifference to him.
“I want this man followed,” Gus repeated.
“You’ve already said that.”
Gus, sweating a bit, wished he had not come.
“Starting when?” asked Constantine, surprisingly.
“From the day of his release.”
“Where is the prison?”
“California.”
“Where in California?”
“Vacaville.”
“How long will you want him followed?”
“Indefinitely.”
“That sort of thing can prove very expensive.”
“I don’t care.”
“Have you thought of the police?”
“I don’t want the police.”
“Perhaps a private detective would be more what you wanted.”
“I don’t want a private detective either.”
“Is it possible you have something more in mind than merely following him?”
“Perhaps.”
“That sort of thing can be arranged from within.”
“I don’t want it to be arranged from within,” said Gus.
“What is the name of this man who haunts you, Mr. Bailey?”
“I didn’t say he haunted me, Mr. de Rham.”
“You didn’t have to, Mr. Bailey. I know an obsession when I see one.”
Gus laughed. “Hardly an obsession.”
“Hmm.” Constantine de Rham folded his arms and waited for Gus to answer.
“Flint. Francis Flint. He is called Lefty Flint,” said Gus, quietly, but a movement of his shoulders belied the sound of his voice.
“Even the sound of Mr. Flint’s name seems to upset you, Mr. Bailey.”
Gus looked at Constantine for a moment.
“What has this man done to you?”
Gus shook his head and waved his hands to indicate that he did not wish to discuss the matter.
Constantine watched him and then rose and walked toward the window. He pushed back the red velvet curtain he had just closed and looked out at the rain coming down on Sutton Place.
“I think I know someone who might be able to lead you to someone, as you put it.”
Constantine de Rham unlocked a drawer of the Boulle desk and withdrew a worn leather address book that he carried to the sofa, settling himself. As he slowly looked through the pages, he seemed interested only in a piece of skin on his thumb, which he tried first to twist off and then to bite off.
Yvonne Lupescu opened the door and entered without knocking. Her satin-and-lace negligee revealed the cleavage between her breasts.
“Finally Alexis Carrington has gotten her comeuppance!” she said, referring to the television series she had been watching. Both men turned to look at her, and she turned from Constantine to Gus, as if she had been unaware of his presence. “But, Constantine, I didn’t know you had a guest,” she cried, crossing her hands modestly over her breasts.
Gus rose to his feet. It was the first time that he had seen Yvonne Lupescu with her blond hair hanging loosely about her shoulders. They looked at each other.
“An unexpected visit, my dear, at this late hour. Mr. Bailey. Baroness Lupescu,” he said, making an introduction. “You remember, Yvonne. Mr. Bailey was not friendly toward us at Maisie’s parties.”
“Yes, yes, I remember. He and Matilda Clarke were speculating about me across the table,” said Yvonne.
Again Gus blushed.
“Ah, look at him, Constantine. He blushes. How smart you look, Mr. Bailey. Now let me guess: you’re going on to Mary Finch’s dance,” said Yvonne playfully.
“Of course, we weren’t invited.”
“I’ve explained that to Mr. Bailey.”
“I don’t know Mr. Bailey’s first name, Constantine.”
“It’s Augustus,” said Gus.
“And, of course, they call you Gus. Or is it Gussy?”
“Gus.”
“That’s what I’m going to call you. Now, Gus, before you go off to Mrs. Finch’s, come into the library and drink a glass of champagne with Constantine and me.”
“No, no, thank you. I don’t drink, and I must be off, Mrs. Lupescu.”
“Leave your address,” said Constantine.
Gus leaned over and wrote it on a pad on the desk.
“I’ll see Mr. Bailey to the door, Constantine,” said Yvonne.
Mrs. Lupescu preceded Gus down the corridor.
“Tigers’ whiskers,” she said.
“Tigers’ whiskers?” repeated Gus, not understanding.
“Chopped very fine and mixed with food. The victim dies a few days later, and nobody can detect the cause.” She turned to him and smiled.
Gus realized she had listened to the conversation.
“Ah, but where does one find tigers’ whiskers?” he asked, as if they were sharing a joke.
“That, of course, is the problem,” said Yvonne Lupescu. “Once, in Albania, my grandmother, who was the mistress of King Zog—”
Gus’s coat and umbrella, dried, had been left in the hallway. He again turned to the mirror and straightened the bow of his black tie.
“That’s not the way to tie a black tie,” said Yvonne, interrupting her story.
“What’s the matter with it?” asked Gus, fingering it on both sides.
“It’s entirely too lopsided. See? Too much tie on the left. Not enough on the right. Here, let me do it for you,” Yvonne said, untying his tie and standing close to him while she held each end, looking him squarely in the eye. “You start this way, with both sides even, and then you make a half bow on the right side, like this, and then you wrap the left side around the half bow, like this, and then you pull it through this hole, like this. Voilà.”
She moved even closer to him. Her breasts had become more exposed in the tying of his tie. Gus, embarrassed, blushed again.
“Do you want me to take care of that hard-on for you?” she whispered, smiling at him.
“No,” whispered Gus, looking back toward the door of Constantine’s den.
“Danger’s half the fan, Gus,” she said.
“I’m late.”
“What I have in mind won’t take a minute and a half.”
“That’s incredibly kind of you, but no, thank you,” said Gus, heading for the door.
“What do you want, Mr. Bailey?”
“I’d like to hear about King Zog and your grandmother some time,” said Gus. He opened the front door and left.