Very Old Money

by Stanley Ellin

  There was traffic in this corridor, a housemaid approaching in that willow-gray uniform and minute apron. Unlike O’Dowd, this one was lean and plain-featured, and, even more unlike O’Dowd, she appeared to be of amiable disposition. “Good morning, Mrs. McEye.” There again was the lilt of old Ireland. “A gratifying pleasant day, isn’t it?”

  “It is, Nugent. This is Mrs. Lloyd. And Lloyd.” Mrs. McEye turned to them. “Nugent is senior housemaid. And quite good at it.”

  Nugent smiled self-deprecatingly. “At least as much as I can be. I am very pleased to meet both of you and that you’ll be here.”

  Before either could respond in kind, Mrs. McEye took charge. “You’re to be in the office now, Nugent.”

  “I’m on my way there, ma’am,” said Nugent, and moved off briskly.

  Mrs. McEye steered her party back on course. “You can see the problem. I have to depend on her to take my place at the phone while I’m away from it, and good as she is at her work—and keeping an eye on the junior maids—she’s really not up to that kind of thing.”

  “Mind if I ask a question,” Mike said, “on garb? She’s not wearing any headpiece. That kind of dressy little cap or whatever. Neither was that other maid we met. O’Dowd. I had the impression that—”

  “Oh, that.” Mrs. McEye shrugged dismissively. “Mrs. Jocelyn—she’s Mr. Craig’s wife—felt that those frills were unnecessary and rather stagy, so to speak. That somehow they made the younger girls especially a bit pert in appearance. That reminds me. I didn’t explain about the laundering and tailoring here, did I?”

  “No,” said Amy.

  “Well, you’ll make up your own rooms of course and draw whatever fresh linen you require. That and your personal laundry is picked up Tuesdays and Fridays by our service and returned next pickup day. Just bag laundry and dry-cleaning separately, mark each bag with your name, and leave it in the old laundry room in the basement. Plastic bags are available in the laundry room. Staff, by the way, is not charged for the service.”

  “At all?” Amy said.

  She looked positively dazzled, Mike saw, and why not? In all her brow-furrowing calculations as family accountant and banker she hadn’t allowed for this bounty.

  “No charge at all,” said Mrs. McEye. “However”—she bore down on it heavily—“kindly take heed. This service is not for the benefit of one’s relatives or dear friends. A word to the wise?”

  “Is more than sufficient,” Mike assured her.

  “I trust so.” Mrs. McEye pointed at the hallway bisecting the corridor. “That is East Hall. Our Madison Avenue side. Mr. Craig’s apartment is there, Miss Margaret’s beyond. We’ll call on him and Mrs. Jocelyn first.”

  There was traffic in the East Hall, too. A man emerged from a door of the interesting Miss Margaret’s apartment and headed their way. In his mid-thirties, he was rigged out in tennis whites and sneakers and carried a couple of rackets under his arm. Tall, tan, and terrific, Mike thought. At least a couple of inches taller than even Amy, suntanned to glossy perfection, and obscenely fit. That long, narrow, high-bridged nose and those curiously downward-slanting eyes would certainly have their appeal for the ladies, too.

  Mrs. McEye seemed disconcerted by his presence. “Good morning, Mr. Durie. But it was my impression we had arranged—”

  “So we had, Mrs. Mac. The apartment, sometime after breakfast. But”—he patted the rackets—“a surprise invitation. Anyhow, here I am, and here, I believe, are our newcomers.”

  “Yes.” Mrs. McEye did not sound altogether mollified. “This is Mrs. Lloyd. She’ll be Miss Margaret’s secretary. And my assistant.”

  “Both you and Aunt Maggie are fortunate.”

  “And this is Lloyd. He’s replacing Wilson.”

  “Our insurers will be delighted to hear it,” said whichever of the male Duries this happened to be. And, Mike noted, he said without removing his eyes from Mrs. Lloyd and looking pretty damn interested in what he saw. “Well,” said the Durie, “I do wish both of you the best of luck.”

  Mrs. McEye waited until he was out of sight before she responded to the two inquiring faces confronting her. “Mr. Glendon. Mr. Craig’s son.” And as if to indicate that she recognized unwanted byplay when she saw it: “Mr. Glendon can be somewhat—well—casual at times.”

  So, thought Mike, a vocabulary takes form. Staff is pert. Family is somewhat casual at times.

  “Mr. Glendon lives here?” Amy asked.

  “He and Mrs. Dorothy. Their apartment is North Hall.” With those quick, short steps Mrs. McEye brought them up before a door and halted them there. “Observe,” she said.

  Never mind the winsome Mr. Glendon, Mike thought, here comes that ole protocol again.

  Mrs. McEye lowered her voice. “You knock twice and wait. If there’s no answer after a reasonable time, you repeat. You never enter a family room without invitation.”

  “Suppose there is none?” Mike asked.

  “I’m to be informed of that at once. Actually, this applies to Mrs. Lloyd and other staff. Our chauffeur does not accompany anyone to the car, he always remains right there with the car. Wilson will fill you in on all that. And now, Mrs. Lloyd”—Mrs. McEye graciously indicated the closed door—“if you please.”

  A test run, Mike realized with mixed disbelief and delight. Behind their mentor’s back he gave his wife a tight-lipped nod of mock encouragement, and in return got a baleful look from her. She firmly knocked twice on the door and no repeats were needed. “Come in,” said a voice, and they came in, Mrs. McEye in the van.

  The room was spacious, with paneled walls the same pale green that predominated in the carpets outside and in the pair of carpets here. Deeply recessed, multipaned windows. Bookshelves—an up-to-date library, judging by some of those jacketed copies—set in an arched recess. Obviously a working fireplace, what with the basket of kindling ready beside it. And, Mike saw with a pang, the furniture—chests, tables, highboy, desk, armchairs and side chairs—was all beautifully proportioned Federal, every piece with the mellow patina that comes with a long, long time of tender loving care. Mouth-watering.

  The man in the winged armchair, a section of the Sunday Times in hand, other sections scattered on the floor, suggested the same patina, human variety. Probably closer to seventy than sixty, he was trim-looking with ruddy complexion, silvery hair, neat military mustache, and looked fit as a fiddle. He had that long, narrow nose and those down-slanted eyes too. He nodded at the company arrayed before him. “Good morning, Mrs. Mac.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Durie. Ma’am.” This last was directed at the gray-haired woman in dressing gown who sat at the desk near the window, pen in hand. Madam Chairperson, Mike thought. Handsome, hard-faced, and well-kept. No nod there. And no good-morning. Just that look of frowning concentration.

  Somehow—it was interesting to see how prettily it was done—Mrs. McEye, while addressing the master, managed to make plain that she was also addressing the mistress. “This is Mrs. Lloyd. And Lloyd.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Craig Durie. “And things are all settled now, are they?”

  “I believe they are, sir.”

  Madam Chairperson, eyes on Amy, appeared to have doubts. “You’re very young, aren’t you, Mrs. Lloyd?”

  “Not really,” said Amy. “Ma’am.”

  “You are—?”

  “Twenty-five. Ma’am.”

  “You don’t look it,” Jocelyn Durie said accusingly. Which in this case, Mike saw, was a real conversation-stopper. Jocelyn Durie, however, didn’t allow blank silence to prevail too long. “You do understand about Miss Margaret’s condition, Mrs. Lloyd? That she is unsighted?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Then you will also understand that there may be moods at times. And you must be very kind to her at all times, but especially at those times.” Jocelyn Durie aimed the pen at her housekeeper. “Your responsibility, Mrs. McEye.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “But before you go,
Mrs. Mac,” said Craig Durie, “a word in private.”

  Mrs. McEye nodded assent and motioned her charges out. “Wait there,” she ordered, and closed the door against them. They stood in the hallway looking at each other.

  Amy whispered. “Something has definitely gone wrong.”

  “How?”

  “That Jocelyn. I think she was signaling him she does not favor me, and he got the signal. Now he’s passing it on to McEye.”

  “Knock it off, baby.”

  “Mike, if that’s what’s coming, it’ll be awful. You have to get back to writing.”

  “Baby, the writing is supposed to be my obsession, not yours.”

  The door opened and Mrs. McEye walked out, closing it behind her. No way of reading the news from that expressionless bulldog face.

  “I didn’t get around to telling you people,” she said, “that wages are paid here each Friday. In cash.”

  Oh, no, Mike thought at the sight of his stricken wife.

  “However,” said Mrs. McEye, “Mr. Craig is concerned that you might wish an advance against the first week’s wages. If so, I’m to arrange it. Shall I?”

  “No,” Mike said promptly.

  Amy found her voice. “Still, if it’s customary—”

  Mrs. McEye shook her head. “Quite unusual, in fact.”

  “Oh. But then why would he—I mean Mr. Craig—?”

  “Well, he is a very considerate person, Mrs. Lloyd. As you can now see for yourself.”

  And what had Craig Durie just seen, Mike wondered. That his new team members—not your average from the look of them—must really be losers to have signed on here? Granted that there was kindness in his offer, it wasn’t a kindness easy to swallow.

  If Mrs. McEye, her eyes on him, wasn’t a mind reader she came close it. “Very considerate, Lloyd. And very much pleased that Mrs. Lloyd appears to be exactly the kind of young woman Miss Margaret had in mind. Physically tall, mentally superior. There had been concern, so to speak, about finding a suitable person, and meeting Mrs. Lloyd made Mr. Craig feel much easier about it.”

  “An unco guid man,” Mike said.

  For an instant Mrs. McEye seemed to freeze up, then thought better of it. She nodded. “Nicely put, Lloyd. And the advance?”

  “Not necessary,” Mike said.

  “It’s your decision to make. Now we’ll pass by Miss Margaret here for the time being and see Mr. Walter. A widower for many years. Sad when he lost Mrs. Durie, especially for Miss Camilla. Their daughter, that is. She’s North Hall. She was only three years old when it happened.”

  “How awful,” Amy said.

  “Yes. We go to the end of the hall here and turn right. That is South Hall. Mr. Walter’s apartment is the first one. You are getting these locations clear, Mrs. Lloyd?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Very important to do so; it means no wandering around in all directions. You’ll find the plan of each floor in your desk folder.” Mrs. McEye made sweeping gestures with both hands, herding them along. “It is a large building,” she acknowledged.

  “Very,” Mike agreed. “How many rooms are there in these apartments?”

  This was a subject Mrs. McEye obviously relished. “In Mr. Craig’s and Mr. Walter’s, two bedrooms, two baths, sitting room and an adjoining small room. Mr. Craig uses his as an office away from his office. Mr. Walter refers to his as his den.

  “It’s much the same with Miss Margaret’s except that the wall between the two bedrooms was removed long ago to make one room. And her small room is occupied by Hegnauer. That is her female attendant who’s most expert in body conditioning. The equipment for it is also there. And here we are. South Hall, first door.”

  Since Mrs. McEye must have established to her satisfaction that her physically tall, mentally superior new assistant knew how to knock on a door, she attended to that herself now and immediately drew a melodiously soprano, “Come in, but watch how you come.”

  Except for some variation in choice of furniture and its placement, this sitting room, Mike saw on instant appraisal, was much like the one they had just left. The lone occupant of the room was a pretty and shapely young woman, mid-twentyish, befrocked but barefoot, who was kneeling on the floor waving the company to keep its distance.

  Hey-ho, Mike thought, an elderly widower’s life can still have its sweet consolations, but then, disappointingly, the young woman said in that melodious voice now charged with dark drama, “Daddy’s contact lenses again, goddammit. No, no, Mrs. Mac, don’t help, don’t move. I think I just felt it. There!” She rose to her feet triumphantly, something invisible resting on the tip of her extended forefinger. “Daddy!” she called, breaking it into two syllables that Verdi might have scored.

  The call brought a man into the room, and here again were the Durie nose and down-slanted eyes. This Durie, however, was on the hefty side, a big, solidly built, aging jock with close-cropped gray hair, a half-lathered face, and razor in hand. There were also spots of lather on the T-shirt he wore above unbelted tweedy slacks. He smilingly nodded at Mrs. McEye. “Ah there, Mrs. Mac, right on schedule as ever.”

  “Yes, Mr. Durie. Miss Durie,” said Mrs. McEye, who seemed anxious to get on with introductions while Miss Durie, forefinger extended, said defeatingly, “Take this damn thing, will you, Daddy. Just wet your finger and pick it up.”

  Daddy obeyed and now stood with his forefinger extended. “And these are our new people, Mrs. McEye? The marines have really landed?”

  “So to speak, sir. This—”

  “And wash it before you use it,” Camilla Durie ordered her father.

  “No, darling. I’m putting them away. They don’t work. You were saying, Mrs. Mac?”

  “Yes, sir. This is Mrs. Lloyd, Miss Margaret’s secretary and my assistant. You’ll remember that was the arrangement. And Lloyd. He’s replacing Wilson.”

  “They do work, Daddy,” Camilla Durie said menacingly. “And you will use them.”

  Really a luscious creature, Mike thought. And powerfully single-minded. Daddy’s own half-orphaned little treasure, God help him.

  “Darling,” said Walter Durie, “I will not use them. I am quite beautiful enough without them. So Wilson is actually in retirement, Mrs. Mac? No more comic adventures for us?”

  “I’m sure not, Mr. Durie. Lloyd comes highly recommended.”

  “You will use them, father dear”—the little treasure was really leveling now—“because, in case you don’t know it, any sort of eyeglasses make you look obscenely ancient.”

  “So I am,” Walter Durie said amiably.

  His daughter turned impatiently to Mrs. McEye. “Will you kindly tell him, Mrs. Mac, that he’s just being perverse?”

  Mrs. Mac continued to play wooden Indian. “Well, Miss Durie, if Mr. Durie feels—” and that was as far as she got, because Camilla Durie flashed out, “Oh, you’re as stupid as he is!” and stalked into the corridor, regal even in those bare feet.

  And the most fascinating aspect of this, Mike found, was that neither injured party reacted to it at all. Mrs. McEye stood there apparently emotionless and Walter Durie remained his amiable self. “Anything else, Mrs. Mac?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then thank you.”

  Company dismissed.

  So, thought Mike, if a tree crashes down in Durie Forest with only servants in earshot, does it make any sound? No, it does not.

  Mrs. McEye held her course along South Hall, and here was an elevator, its gate bronze grillwork, the gate bracketed by the head of a staircase winding downward. “Family elevator,” said Mrs. McEye. “For your use, Mrs. Lloyd, when you accompany Miss Margaret. Beyond it there is the principessa’s apartment. Always kept ready for her. Now we turn down West Hall here, and these are guest suites. All unoccupied at present, thank heaven. And behind that pair of doors is our other service elevator. Always use the service elevator nearest the apartment you’re called to.”

  They moved along almost at a trot until they
turned into what Mike gratefully judged to be their almost final lap. “And here,” said Mrs. McEye, “is North Hall. Mr. Glendon obviously won’t be in, but Mrs. Dorothy may be.”

  So she was, and following her hoarse instructions, they wound up at the doorway to her bedroom. Although the room, its blinds drawn, was shadowy, the occupant of the bed put on dark glasses as she sat up to take stock. A few years older than cousin-by-marriage Camilla, Mike estimated, and not in Camilla’s pretty-pretty class, but seen even in chiaroscuro she gave the impression, dark glasses, tousled hair and all, of strong-featured good looks.

  “Of course,” Dorothy Durie said. “Your latest finds, Mrs. Mac. Aunt Maggie’s new secretary, our shiny new chauffeur.”

  “Mrs. Lloyd, ma’am. And Lloyd.”

  “Have you shown off our recruits to Aunt Maggie yet?”

  “Not yet, ma’am.”

  “No? Then if you move fast you may find Mr. Durie with her. He told me he’d visit her before tennis time.”

  “Yes, ma’am. We met him as he was leaving.”

  “Well, good for you. Cigarette, Mrs. Mac? I’m out.”

  Mrs. McEye produced cigarette pack and lighter and saw to the lighting up. “I’ll leave the pack on the night table here, ma’am. Is there anything else?”

  “One thing. Mrs. Lloyd, have you been told about Miss Margaret’s blindness?”

  “Yes, I have,” Amy said. “Ma’am.”

  “Then try to understand this. Never for an instant let her feel that you pity her. She does not regard herself as pitiable, although some dull-witted people can’t seem to comprehend that. Don’t be one of them. And that is my Sunday morning homily, Mrs. Lloyd. Bear it in mind.”