Walls within Walls

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Walls within Walls Page 12

by Maureen Sherry


  “And your parents?” asked Brid.

  “It’s very hard to recover from so much loss. They were unwilling to discuss Julian very much in my presence, and remember that I was in boarding school and rarely home. My father died of a heart attack in 1937, and it seemed he did so in the middle of writing his very complicated will.”

  “You mean the will that described your and Julian’s inheritance?” Brid asked.

  “The very one. You see, my mother had her own income, so he left all his artifacts and treasures to Julian and me, but he didn’t trust banks to hold them. Instead of leaving them in a bank vault, he hid everything. He had always hinted at one last, grand treasure hunt, with clues that had been created at the time the apartment was built. But he probably didn’t have time to hide all the clues before his death.”

  “So you were left with nothing?” Brid asked.

  “Not completely nothing. There was enough money for our education. I have a modest income, and my mother left the apartment I live in to me, and the apartment on the other side to Julian, even though we didn’t know where he was. I moved back here after her death. By then the estate had put walls everywhere in front of the old walls to cut our huge apartment into four family-sized apartments. Since Julian never appeared to claim his inheritance, my mother’s estate rented it out to a man named Joe Torrio, from the very family some suspected of causing my brother’s disappearance.”

  “But the Torrios didn’t really do that?”

  “I honestly don’t know—I have no way of knowing what really happened.”

  Brid was looking at her notes. “What about your mother’s jewels?”

  “Before her death, my mother donated most of her jewelry to the Smithsonian Institution in Washington, DC. In fact, her two-hundred-seventy-five-carat diamond ring that Napoléon I gave to Marie-Louise is on display there. But my parents’ other priceless items—the Fabergé porcelains, the eighteenth-century gold boxes, their Russian Imperial art objects, the jewels from the Maximilian dynasty—all went missing. The list goes on and on, and nobody has ever seen any of it again.”

  “And this is what you think is still in the apartment?” CJ asked.

  “I used to think so, and so have others. But the apartment has been picked over so many times, and nobody has found anything. Still, I just cannot make myself leave 2 East 92nd Street; I feel it’s the last place where I can be close to my family. When you handed me those poems from my father, it brought my childhood back to me. He loved this city so much.”

  “And he loved you,” Brid said simply.

  “You know, there have been moments over the years when I doubted that, but after you handed me the note and book, I felt happier. Even if we never find the treasure, I feel better about how everything has turned out. To think, I didn’t get this book just because I didn’t return a library book.”

  CJ interrupted. “But why was that book behind the wall on the shelf?”

  “The walls were built before I had a chance to clear everything from the shelves. I suppose some things were left behind the walls. I remember now that I came back from a trip after my father died, and everything had been covered up by the new walls.”

  As they thought about that, the trio watched a crow swooping to a precipice below them, picking at the remains of some unfortunate animal.

  Eloise continued, “The Torrios were aware of my father’s confusing will. In fact, all of New York City knew about it. It was like a pirate treasure hunt for a while, but nothing ever showed up. In time, everyone seemed to have forgotten it, except Joe Torrio and me.”

  “And now us,” said Brid.

  “Yes, and now the Smithforks,” said Eloise. “I do know that Torrio would frequently go into your apartment and the Williamsons’. The two of them are connected by our old silver room, a thin hallway that opens onto a staircase.”

  “Wait a minute,” interrupted CJ. “Is the access from our apartment in a large closet, like in Patrick’s room?”

  “Yes, just push on one side of the closet where you see a seam,” Eloise said matter-of-factly. “It opens to a narrow hallway.”

  “We finally know who our visitor is!” said Brid. “And I thought he was a ghost.”

  “Yes, you may wish to nail that shut,” said Eloise. “He does like to snoop around, old Torrio. He may look scary, but really, he’s just annoying. He keeps telling me that there is something of the treasure left for him, too, and he needs to find it. He’s never held a job, you know. He says his father and grandfather left him enough money that he can afford to be a ne’er-do-well.”

  “A what?” Brid asked.

  “An idle, worthless person,” said CJ.

  “But Eloise,” said Brid, “even if he found the treasure, he wouldn’t own it, would he?”

  “That is unclear. My father meant for me and Julian to inherit it, but Julian has either passed away or disappeared, and that letter you retrieved from the New York Public Library said only ‘hopefully Eloise,’ meaning it was all right if someone else found it.”

  “Oh, no, it didn’t mean that. It couldn’t have,” said CJ, even though, before he met Eloise, that was exactly what he thought it meant.

  “You have no idea of the value of my father’s estate,” Eloise continued.

  “It’s a lot, right?” CJ said.

  “Like twenty thousand dollars?” Brid asked.

  Eloise smiled. “Times have changed, and these were one-of-a-kind objects: real treasure from another era. I once made a list of what I knew to be hidden. I took it to an art appraiser; he told me the low bid on such items would be several hundred million dollars.”

  The Smithforks gasped. Brid had thought she might be looking for a few rare books and maybe a valuable tea set and some coins, but nothing like what Miss Post described. As the sky over Central Park darkened, everything around her seemed uneasy and sinister.

  “Children, after all these years and so many false starts, it is hard for me to be truly excited. I don’t want to raise your hopes or mine. But I will say how much I enjoy having someone to talk to about this, someone I can trust.”

  “Well, we’re happy to finally have someone to talk to, too!” blurted out Brid.

  Eloise smiled. “We need to stay apart from each other in the building. We don’t want to attract Mr. Torrio’s attention. Also, keep your eyes out for poetry. My father was a great one for the obvious.”

  “Meaning?” said Brid.

  “Meaning that if you try to really read and understand the signs around you, you may find some answers in obvious places. I wouldn’t put it past my father to have done that,” said Eloise.

  “You mean a place lots of people walk by every day?”

  “Exactly.”

  CHAPTER 24

  It was a crisp, beautiful Saturday morning in late October, a few weeks after their conversation with Eloise. The children hadn’t seen her again, nor had they made any progress on finding the treasure without her. Brid, Patrick, and CJ sat at the breakfast table, while their dad flitted past them, putting papers in bags, taking papers out of bags, and occasionally letting a swear word fly.

  “What’s up with Dad?” CJ asked. He eyed his bowl of cereal with curiosity rather than hunger. It was a mix of whole-grained this and that, resembling tree bark. Their mom was on a big-time healthy-eating kick, and sometimes meals were a little too interesting.

  “He has to go to the office today, and he hates working on Saturdays.” Brid always had the pulse of the family firmly in her grasp.

  Mr. Smithfork had two new projects at work. The first was the launch of the DigiSpy robotic toy, and the second was the opening of a new manufacturing plant in China. Their dad had explained to them that his investors wanted bigger profits, so he was being forced to move his factory from Brooklyn to China, where workers were paid less. He would be traveling to China in a couple of days, and that was making him grumpy.

  Their mom stood with her back to CJ and Brid as she added green stuff to the
ir eggs. She had heard that plankton was full of vitamins, so mixing the stuff into their eggs was a new nutritional tactic of hers. As she yelled, “Breakfast!” Bruce Smithfork bolted for the door, pretending to be late. CJ wished he could do the same.

  “See you tonight!” their dad called.

  “I’ll save you some eggs, Dad,” Brid said.

  “You can save him my eggs, too,” Pat moaned. “Bet he’s going to get a doughnut at work, the lucky guy.”

  Anne ignored them. “Carron and I are off to yoga class this morning,” she said cheerfully, sliding green gloop onto their plates. Upon hearing the word yoga, Carron slipped off her seat and bent over to touch the floor, demonstrating her downward-dog stance.

  “Very nice, Carron,” their mom cooed.

  Saturday and Sunday were Maricel’s days off, so CJ and Brid were looking forward to being left alone. Even Charlize, the homework helper, refused to come in on weekends. Anne Smithfork cleared her throat, the way she always did when she was about to say something the children didn’t want to hear.

  “So, children,” she said. “I know you both believe you are old enough to stay home alone, but we will be out for several hours today, and Patrick doesn’t want to come with me. I have hired a caregiver, and I want no complaining from either of you.”

  CJ’s heart sank.

  “Now, this woman is very nice, and if I hear stories of disrespectful behavior from either of you, there shall be a deep and severe punishment.”

  Brid and CJ smirked at each other. Their mother was terrible at punishments. She could never remember what the rules were supposed to be, and when they were broken she would say things like, “No electronics for the rest of the day.” Five minutes later, she would be asking the punished child if he wanted to watch a movie with her.

  Anne Smithfork continued, “The sitter’s name is Miss Munn, and she actually lives in the building. We met her one night—remember? Ray told me she was available for some babysitting help, and voilà! It could be a perfect match.”

  Brid couldn’t control herself. “That lady Eloise from downstairs?” she blurted out.

  “Yes, she seems very sweet, but she is a bit older, and you need to respect her age.”

  CJ tried to look disappointed. “Mom, do we really need a babysitter?”

  “She won’t be in your way, but she’ll be here if anything arises. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Okay,” said CJ and Brid, trying to contain their joy. Patrick was eating his green eggs, oblivious to what had just transpired.

  Later that morning, the kids sat watching Eloise’s fingers move over a photograph of a Rafael Guastavino building that CJ had printed out. It was the Great Hall at Ellis Island, where immigrants were processed as they entered the United States.

  “This is such a grand room,” she said thoughtfully.

  “I don’t get it,” Patrick said.

  “Guastavino must have either designed it or—”

  CJ interrupted her as he read the caption.

  “It says that Guastavino used an ancient form of mortar-and-tile building called the Catalan vault. He took long, flat tiles and placed them in layers held together by cement and sand. He interlocked the tiles in layers of mortar to create curved horizontal surfaces. These were then shaped into domes or vaults.”

  Eloise was peering at the photograph. “Yes, you see how there is no steel or wood holding the structure up? The tiles support themselves.”

  CJ kept reading. “It also says his buildings were fireproof, since they were completely made of tile and stone. There was nothing that could burn.”

  “Do you think the treasure is hidden there in that building?” asked Brid excitedly. “Can we go to Ellis Island?”

  “Not so fast, Brid. Listen to this: Guastavino was so meticulous about quality that he manufactured his own tiles. He left his mark on more than three hundred ninety structures in New York, but because he always listed himself as a contractor, or builder, rather than the architect—the person who designs something—he was never well known. That explains why his name is pretty much forgotten in this city,” CJ said.

  “So true,” replied Eloise. “We’re all forgotten.”

  CJ pulled out some more photos. “These are buildings he worked on,” he said. “The Custom House down at Bowling Green, part of the American Museum of Natural History, the Cathedral of Saint John the Divine, the City Hall subway station, the Plaza Hotel, the St. Regis Hotel, Temple Emanu-El, Lenox Hill Hospital, the Cloisters, Saint Vincent Ferrer Church, Grand Central Terminal, Saint Bartholomew’s, Grant’s Tomb…it goes on and on.”

  “Stop!” said Brid. “Are we supposed to search through each of these huge buildings?”

  Eloise was peering out the window, her mind apparently elsewhere. “Yes, it’s too vague. Remember that part about a symbol for each structure?” she said.

  “Maybe your father left something at each of these buildings?” Brid asked.

  “That is unlikely, Brid. So much time has passed between when he hid his treasure and the present. Something would have shown up by now, and it would have been in the newspapers.”

  “What we need to do is look at each poem,” said CJ. “Eloise, you need to remember which building in New York City each poem reminds you of. Then we can see if that structure is a Guastavino structure. If it is, then we look for some symbol on that structure.”

  “Honestly, that does seem a bit far-fetched to me,” said Eloise. “But at least it gives us something to start with.”

  “We’ll start at the beginning, at poem number one,” said CJ. ‘The Weary Blues,’ by Langston Hughes. That means in or around Harlem, right?”

  Brid looked skeptical. “Okay, and what exactly do we look for when we get to Harlem?”

  “I presume we should visit any building that Guastavino built or did the tiling for,” Eloise said.

  “Easy enough,” said CJ as he ran an internet search for Guastavino buildings in Harlem.

  “Three places,” he said. “There is a Public Bath House at 243 East 109th Street, and Saint Paul’s Chapel at Columbia University, on 116th and Broadway. Also, the Cathedral of Saint John the Divine at 112th and Amsterdam. But there are others, too, it seems, on Lenox Avenue, near 125th Street—”

  “Get your coat!” said Brid, rising from the floor. “C’mon, Patrick!”

  “Get your bus pass,” added Eloise, rising from her chair.

  CHAPTER 25

  As the Smithforks tumbled out onto the sidewalk, they decided the bus would be too slow. Quickly, CJ ran back inside and brought out his skateboard and Brid’s and Patrick’s scooters. Eloise took one look at their wheels and said, “I believe I’ll take another form of transportation. I’ll call my driver and I’ll meet you at the address of the Guastavino building on 109th Street. You’ll be fine without an adult.”

  Watching her disappear back into the building, they all grinned, happy to be scooting along Fifth Avenue on a beautiful fall day and knowing their mom probably wouldn’t have let them go out alone. “Wish she was our regular nanny. She lets us do anything!” shouted Patrick.

  “This is so bumpy!” said Brid, her voice shaking from the jostling of the sidewalk cobblestones next to the park.

  Patrick was falling way behind.

  “Let’s go inside the park,” CJ said. “We can head north on the park drive. It’s mostly parallel to Fifth Avenue anyway, and it will be smooth.”

  In the park, families and dogs were everywhere. “Whoa,” said Brid, pointing to a spout of water peeking from behind a hedge. “What is that place?” She and CJ stood on tiptoe to look over a sharply cut hedge.

  “Give me a lift,” requested Patrick, who was just a little too short to see over the hedge. Beyond it, they could see a wonderland of fall flowers and greenery. They picked up their wheels and walked through a set of iron gates to get a better look at the spectacular, undulating garden. Little hills were accented with flowers in different colors—sunflowers and pink wild
flowers—their petals pointing toward the sun. The fountain had a statue of dancers, holding hands and twirling joyously around the water.

  There was a sign on the gates that read, Conservatory Garden. No bicycles or wheeled toys.

  “I cannot believe this place is so close by,” Brid said. “It reminds me of The Secret Garden.”

  “Yeah, except seven million people live around this garden, while Mary’s garden was just a few people,” CJ said. “This is really distracting; let’s get back to the streets.” Patrick had already taken off ahead of them, determined not to be left behind.

  “Maybe this should be my quiet place,” said Brid, “the place Eloise says all city kids need. It seems so cozy and safe.”

  CJ rolled his eyes. “Okay, but eyes on the prize, please? Let’s go.”

  Back on Fifth Avenue, they headed north to 109th Street and turned east.

  The three kids felt joyous with freedom. Harlem was so different from the Smithforks’ neighborhood, even though it was only seventeen blocks away. Men played dominoes on a cardboard box, while three girls jumped double Dutch. Brid looked at them longingly. She absolutely loved to jump rope.

  Everyone seemed to be speaking Spanish, even though several stores had signs in their windows that read African Braiding. It was a mixed-up neighborhood, much like their old neighborhood in Brooklyn. About two blocks from their destination, they came across a very old brick building that read, Ross Tile and Terrazzo Co. This made CJ’s heart pound. He made a note to do an internet search on Ross when he got back home. They passed a spectacular piece of graffiti that read Poder a Dominca, or “power to Dominica,” with a Dominican Republic flag. Down the street they heard the sound of balls bouncing, and the shrill voices of children mixed with salsa music. Their pace quickened.

 

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