“Who?” asked Lord Biedermeier.
“It’s a secret backer,” replied Gus, letting him know he wasn’t revealing the identity. “By the way,” said Gus, “I had an interesting conversation with Ruby Renthal.”
“Really,” Biedermeier said, again not meeting Gus’s eyes and nervously rearranging the manuscripts on his desk while Gus spoke.
“Yes. I heard from Ruby that you went to visit the billionaire ex-convict and the frequent widow was a surprise guest. Perla Zacharias herself. You’re traveling in the big-money circles these days.”
Gus continued, “I don’t suppose your surprise rendezvous with the third richest woman in the world at Elias Renthal’s hospital bedside had anything to do with your sudden change of heart about the topic of my novel.”
CHAPTER 29
DODO VAN DEGAN WAS LATE FOR LUNCH AGAIN at Swifty’s, as was her habit when the obligatory monthly lunches with Lil Altemus took place. Actually, she had started not to mind the lunches and no longer did imitations of Lil for Xavior. Dodo had arranged with Robert that no bill ever be presented at Swifty’s, so that there would be no fuss between them as to which one would pay for lunch that month. For her part, although she never would have admitted it, especially to Dodo, Lil had begun to enjoy hearing Dodo’s mortuary stories, from her nights of sitting with Xavior while he was embalming a famous person.
“Did Xavior embalm that actor in Batman who overdosed on prescription drugs?” asked Lil.
“No. That was his day off, and he missed it. He was so disappointed,” answered Dodo.
“How did Xavior get into the business of undertaking?” asked Lil one day.
“Oh, it’s such a sweet story,” said Dodo, who loved to talk about Xavior. “When he was thirteen years old, he waited five hours in line outside the Grant P. Trumbull Funeral Home to see Judy Garland, who had overdosed, in her casket. Xavior said she was wearing her red shoes from The Wizard of Oz. He said at that moment he knew that he wanted to be an undertaker when he grew up. Don’t you think that’s a sweet story, Lil?”
“Look, there’s Ruby Renthal and Baroness de Liagra, sitting at the corner table. They’ve become great friends, I hear from Maisie Verdurin,” said Lil, arching her eyebrows and humming.
“I have an idea for you, Lil. I think you should go to work,” said Dodo.
“Go to work? What in the world are you talking about? What could I do? I’m over seventy years old,” said Lil.
“You’re seventy-six, Lil, not seventy. Remember, I’m family. But you’re hale and hardy, I’ll say that for you. I was talking to Maisie Verdurin about you last night at Linda Stein’s wake at Grant P. Trumbull’s. She said you’d be a great real estate woman and you could come work for her.”
“Me? Maisie said that? How ridiculous!” said Lil.
“She said you knew all the rich widows who are selling off the big apartments to all the nouveaus and looking for little ones in the right buildings. She said the Murdochs bought the old Rockefeller apartment for forty million dollars, and the space hadn’t been touched for years and needed everything done to it. Think what your commission would have been on that. She said you had a built-in clientele. She said with the Altemus name and the Van Degan connection, all the old grand dames would go to you because you’re one of them who did exactly that. You’re tough. You’re snobby. You can be imperious, and you have good pearls that I once dropped in your pea soup. You’d be perfect.”
“Would I have to go to real estate school?” asked Lil as the idea began to take hold on her.
“Yes, but Maisie can help you out with that.”
“It’s hard for me to imagine myself having to go to an office every morning at nine o’clock and having an hour for lunch. Do you suppose that’s what it will be like?”
“I suppose, at least until you sell your first twenty-million-dollar apartment,” said Dodo. “After that, you can take your clients to Swifty’s for lunch and stay as long as you want.”
“Do you know something, Dodo? I would be great doing that, finding the right apartment for the old dowagers like me, making sure they get top dollar for the apartment they are selling. I’ve always loved to argue with the head of the board of the building. I know how to put them in their place,” said Lil. “Shall I call Maisie, or should you? Oh, Dodo, I can’t thank you enough for making that suggestion. My heart is beating so fast with excitement.”
CHAPTER 30
GUS WAS ON IBERIA AIRLINES ON HIS WAY TO Barcelona to change planes and fly to San Sebastián, where he would be met by a car and driven on to Biarritz twenty miles away for the one-day trial of Floyd McArthur, the male nurse who had been found guilty of setting the fire that had asphyxiated Konstantin Zacharias. Longing for his wife and children, McArthur had stupidly made an escape from the old Biarritz prison without a euro in his pocket and had quickly been apprehended at the Spanish border and returned to his dank and lonely cell. Now he was to face punishment for the attempted escape.
Gus always traveled first-class on his assignments in foreign destinations. A wise literary agent called Mona Berg had installed that clause in his contract when he had first begun to work at Park Avenue nearly twenty-five years earlier. His secret benefactor, whose name he refused to divulge to anyone, was a generous and passionate soul who felt that if Gus were going to the court hearing in Biarritz, he should travel in the same manner in which Park Avenue magazine would have sent him.
The benefactor, who had private reasons for despising Perla Zacharias, was Joe Carey, the man Gus had met at Le Cirque the night before his granddaughter’s birthday and later had met with several times at a remote restaurant where neither would be recognized. Joe Carey had been a great friend of the murdered Konstantin Zacharias, although he had not been invited to Konstantin’s elaborate funeral in Biarritz, where the Infanta of Spain and the Duke and Duchess of Chatfield had been members of the International Set of mourners. He knew his exclusion had been Perla’s doing. Joe Carey, who lived in Brooklyn and was worth six hundred million dollars, thought it was important for Gus to be seen in the Biarritz courtroom, if only to show that Perla had not been able to keep him out, as she had bragged she had at a London party, so when Lord Biedermeier refused to pay for Gus’s trip to the one-day trial, Joe Carey had offered to foot the bill. In addition to first-class travel, Joe also had seen to it that Gus stayed at the Hôtel du Palais in Biarritz, where the notables had stayed during the trials.
Perla, who played the role of grieving widow very well, wished to have McArthur’s ten-year sentence extended, for five more years, if possible. Simon Cabot had advised her not to attend the one-day trial. He said it would make her look vindictive and unsympathetic to the public.
In a box at the opera, Perla had told Addison, on whom she was relying more and more, that Simon Cabot had told her she should not be seen in the courtroom in Biarritz. She had whispered into Addison’s ear, during Renée Fleming’s aria, that he should fly to Biarritz and attend the trial in her place, reporting everything to her. If asked, he was to say that she was still too aggrieved to attend.
GUS HAD settled into his seat comfortably. From his carry-on bag, he took out a sleeping pill for later and a novel that everyone was talking about called Empress Bianca by Lady Colin Campbell, about another famous lady caught up in a scandal. He was looking at the menu for dinner when a late-boarding passenger came to sit in the aisle seat next to his window seat. A Louis Vuitton carry-on bag was tossed on the seat and a second, larger Louis Vuitton bag was being placed in the compartment above. It was then that Gus Bailey looked directly into the face of Addison Kent, a man he had taken an instant dislike to the first time he met him, at Lil Altemus’s Easter luncheon party at her old apartment on Fifth Avenue when Addison was the walker for Adele Harcourt. Now he was well known as the walker for Perla Zacharias. He felt that his position as walker and confidant to the very rich widow had brought him stature in international society, in whose outskirts Perla moved.
; Gus realized instantly that they were both headed for the same courtroom in Biarritz. He had heard from his friend Simon Cabot in London that he had advised Perla not to attend the trial.
Addison Kent was equally distressed to find himself next to the man Perla considered an enemy for the eight and a half hours of the upcoming flight. He looked around the first-class cabin to see if there was another seat. There wasn’t. He had the last first-class seat. He sensed that Gus disliked him.
“Hello, Gus. I hope it’s all right if I call you Gus. We seem to know a lot of the same people. We met for the first time at Lil Altemus’s Easter lunch. I was accompanying Adele Harcourt that day.”
“Yes, I remember,” said Gus. “And now you ‘accompany’ Perla Zacharias, who is sending you to Biarritz to cover things for her. I imagine we are heading for the same destination.”
Addison appeared flustered. What caused Addison’s distress was that he had heard from Perla that she had succeeded in getting Gus’s book about Konstantin’s death pulled, and that Gus was being censored at Park Avenue as well. Addison said to the flight attendant, “May I use the men’s room before we take off?”
“If you rush,” said the flight attendant.
Addison zipped open his Louis Vuitton bag, the same bag he had used to take Winkie Williams’s casket clothes to Francis Xavior Branigan at the Grant P. Trumbull Funeral Home the night before Winkie’s cremation. He shuffled through it and took out his cell phone. He raced to the men’s room and dialed Simon Cabot in London.
“I thought you said that Perla said that Gus Bailey is off the story. Wasn’t this all settled in Elias Renthal’s hospital room? Well, he’s on the same plane I’m on. In fact, I’m sitting right next to him. What do I say to him if he starts to talk to me?”
“Take a couple of pills and go straight to sleep,” said Simon.
“SEÑOR, WOULD you please move your carry-on to beneath the seat in front of you?” requested a different flight attendant.
“It’s not mine,” said Gus. “The guy’s in the bathroom. Here, I’ll do it for him.”
Gus lifted the Louis Vuitton bag and, as he was zipping it up, something inside caught his eye. He put his hand in and took out the gold cigarette case with the lyrics of “The Extra Man” engraved inside that Cole Porter had given to Winkie Williams. He put it back, zipped the bag, and placed the bag under the seat in front of Addison’s.
Addison sat down and prepared himself for sleep so that he would not have to talk to Gus. He adjusted his seat so that it stretched out into almost a bed. He threw the blanket over himself, put on the eye mask provided by the flight attendant to keep out the light, and turned away from Gus.
“Whom did you make your report to that I’m on board to attend the escape-from-prison trial in Biarritz?” asked Gus, who was writing the experience as it was happening in the green leather notebook that he always carried. “Did you call Perla? Or Simon Cabot? Simon’s an old friend of mine.”
Addison’s body stirred, but he pretended to be asleep and did not reply. He knew Gus was the kind of reporter who could easily identify his real background, rather than the refined one Winkie Williams had created for him, and he didn’t want that to happen.
“Did I ever tell you I ran into Winkie outside the Grant P. Trumbull Funeral Home the day before he committed suicide? Winkie offered me a cigarette that day on East Eighty-first Street and Madison Avenue. I remember it so well. He had a beautiful gold cigarette case that Cole Porter had given him that he told me he was leaving to the Costume Institute at the Met. It went missing after Winkie’s suicide. Lil is on the board of the Institute. She thinks a cleaning woman stole it, but that’s not my theory. Your klepto reputation precedes you.”
Addison, terrified, continued to pretend to sleep.
CHAPTER 31
PERLA’S FAMOUS FRENCH LAWYER, PIERRE LA Rouche, had been shocked to see Gus enter the courtroom, after having been assured that Perla had had both the book and magazine articles he wrote about her stopped. Gus had written during the criminal trial that La Rouche was “an elegant fellow with a mean streak, who chain-smoked in an affected manner with a tortoiseshell cigarette holder.” La Rouche didn’t like Gus, and Gus didn’t like La Rouche, who he felt had been unnecessarily cruel to Floyd McArthur when the bewildered nurse had been on the stand.
During breaks in the proceedings, the guard watch was much less rigid than it had been during the earlier criminal trial. Floyd McArthur, the American male nurse, was doing ten years. On several occasions during the long day, Gus had been able to engage McArthur in conversation in the prisoner holding room, where they put the shackled nurse during the breaks. During the criminal trial, he had been guarded every moment as if he were a terrorist.
Gus, who had been sympathetic to the nurse in the criminal trial, talked quickly and in a low voice. He told McArthur that there was a rumor in circulation that he was taking the fall for the deaths of Konstantin Zacharias and one of his eight nurses who perished with him, and that he would be receiving a sizeable stipend at a future time. “I am so sick of hearing that story,” said McArthur in an exasperated tone of voice. “Certainly you don’t think I would give up seeing Wanda and the kids for some money down the road.” He went on a rant about the horrors of prison life in Biarritz. “There’s rats in the cells and the toilet overflows all the time and there’s often shit on the floor.”
Gus didn’t want to waste precious time on that sort of information. “Tell me about Konstantin that last night before the fire,” Gus said.
Floyd said he had admired Konstantin Zacharias. They had often taken afternoon walks together through the old city, where Konstantin enjoyed hearing about Floyd’s wife, Wanda, and the children. Konstantin regretted that he had never had children of his own to pass on his fortune and banks to. Despite Konstantin’s vast wealth and his reputation for toughness in financial negotiations, McArthur said the banker was always kind and thoughtful to all the nurses, guards, and servants, which he couldn’t say about “the lady of the house.” He was cautious in denouncing her, but his dislike was apparent. Floyd said that Konstantin’s long-time doctors, especially Dr. Sedgwick, whom Konstantin had known and trusted for years and who had often stayed for long visits at the villa, had been changed. The new doctors, not one of whom Konstantin had felt close to, had kept him overmedicated. He had become paranoid. McArthur said Konstantin thought his enemies in the Russian mafia, whom he greatly feared, were hiding behind the curtains in his dressing room, which he had to pass through on his way to his bathroom. He said none of his friends were allowed in to see him. He said he missed his brothers. He said there were screaming fights about changing the will, cutting out Konstantin’s brothers and sisters.
“Listen, Mr. Bailey,” said Floyd.
“What do you mean Mr. Bailey, for god’s sake. The name is Gus.”
“Call Wanda when you get back to the States, Gus. Send her my love and love to the kids.” There were more things Gus wanted to know, but a guard entered and was furious to see Gus in the holding room. He ordered him to leave, or he would have him thrown out of the courtroom for the afternoon session.
“I’ll call Wanda and say I saw you, Floyd, and I’ll send your love to the kids,” said Gus as the angry guard hurried him out of the holding room. Gus didn’t have the heart to tell Floyd that Wanda was planning to divorce him, to take back her maiden name, and to ask for full custody of the kids.
THE SEASON had ended in Biarritz, and the bar at the Hôtel du Palais, usually filled to capacity with an international fun-loving clientele, was dark and virtually empty when Gus walked in to meet a Spanish reporter friend, who had not yet arrived. He was reading his notes from the conversation he had been able to sneak in with Floyd McArthur during a break in the proceedings. When he looked up, he saw a man at another table staring at him. It was the man in the gray flannel suit who had been in his room at Claridge’s and at the auction of Perla Zacharias’s Fabergé eggs that hadn’t been destroye
d in the fire at the villa. There was no question in Gus’s mind that he was being followed by this mysterious man. He had thought it had ended with the lawsuit, but now that he had thrown down the gauntlet and defied Perla’s attempts to kill his book and kept on writing, publisher be damned, he realized that when she found out, he could be in even greater danger than before. The fear came back, stronger than ever.
GUS WAS in a pensive mood when he flew back to New York the next afternoon on Iberia Airlines from Barcelona. He was relieved that Addison Kent was not on board. Addison had flown on to Paris from San Sebastián to attend a lunch party given in a “glorious apartment” in the Hôtel Lambert in honor of Perla Zacharias, a lunch party that Addison simply could not miss. It was not until a week later that the baron’s butler noticed that a pale blue Fabergé egg that had been part of the centerpiece was missing. A maid was fired.
CHAPTER 32
WITHIN TWO WEEKS OF RECEIVING HER NEW York real estate license, Lil Altemus, lunching at Swifty’s with Maisie Verdurin, for whom she now worked, was receiving congratulations on all sides for having found a buyer for the sixteen-room apartment at One Sutton Place South, one of the most prestigious buildings in the city, belonging to her first cousin, Minnie Willoughby. “Minnie’s mother and my mother were sisters,” explained Lil to each person who stopped by her table. “Poor darling Minnie, she practically hasn’t left her bedroom for two years, except for medical visits, and all those beautiful rooms were just sitting there empty. Quite honestly, I think the maids are stealing things from her, and she doesn’t even notice, as she never leaves her room. Granny’s Lowestoft tureen that Minnie always had in the center of her dining room table just simply is not there. I said to her, ‘Minnie, I don’t think it’s safe for you here.’ At first she said, ‘Never, never, never,’ she would never sell, she’d lived there for over thirty years, but when I said I thought I could get her twenty million dollars, she began to listen, ill as she is. Then you found that pushy hedge-fund couple, Maisie, not our kind but perfectly all right as far as those money-money-money people go, and I know practically everyone on the board of the building, which helped a great deal, and everything fell into place. Isn’t it exciting? I haven’t felt so happy in a long time. Maisie, let’s have a glass of champagne.”
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