Very Old Money

by Stanley Ellin

  “Then you will all find something else to occupy yourselves with for a few minutes.”

  “To be sure, ma’am,” said Nugent, and like a mother hen herding its chicks, she steered the apparently terrified juniors into the dumbwaiter area and pulled the door shut behind her.

  More secrets? Amy wondered as Ma’am, that hand still lightly on her arm, the other using the cane as a guide by tapping it against chair legs along the way, circumnavigated the table. They stopped before the portrait, and seeing it close up Amy had a feeling that time really had been made to stand still here. That same boyish haircut, those ovals of rouge on the cheeks, that crimson lipstick—But then, somehow depressingly, there was the brightness of those eyes and the extraordinary warmth of that expression. Margaret Durie, age eighteen, ready to take the whole world in her arms and hug it tight.

  While this Margaret Durie, her dead eyes raised to her youthful image, looked like a brooding, hard-faced reflection of that image.

  “My gift, Lloyd, to my father. I gave it to him soon after he made me a gift of that scented garden. An exchange of gifts. A way of letting him know my feelings for him. Do you think it made an appropriate gift?”

  “Oh, yes. It’s a marvelous picture. Who painted it?”

  “One does not refer to a painting of merit as a picture, Lloyd. Nor indulge in that sickly adjective marvelous. It was painted by my instructor. Signed by him on the reverse of the canvas, if you’re wondering. It was his theory that if the casual viewer must judge a masterwork by its signature, it is no masterwork. An interesting theory, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is,” Amy said.

  “Yes, it is,” echoed Ma’am. “You’ll also observe, Lloyd, that this work has place of honor here. I insisted on it. Do you think that was vain of me?”

  “I think,” Amy said, working it out carefully, “you were honoring the artist, ma’am, not the subject.”

  “Nicely put, Lloyd. I’ll wait while you take time to look more closely at those other works on view. Some of them are also unsigned.”

  Amy made the round, trying to make it not so fast as to indicate careless viewing and not so slow as to have the boss start tapping her shoe on the floor in impatience. But, as she discovered, slow had to be better. These were all smallish watercolors of marvelous—no, splendid—quality. You didn’t need signatures to identify Winslow Homer. And here was Sargent again in some heated scenes of apparently Arabic streets. And there were some signatures that should have been familiar but weren’t. And finally there was an unsigned series of paintings, all, under closer inspection, done by the same hand. New York City long ago. Fifth Avenue, Battery Park, other avenues back when elevated trains still ran overhead—each painting vividly suggesting the scene, the people in it barely suggested by a stroke or two of the brush.

  Amy studied them with a growing sense of discovery. An excitement growing along with it constricted her stomach. It became impossible to bottle it up. And again there were clues to go by, weren’t there? Hell and damnation, she thought, even if she were wrong about it, it couldn’t do any harm.

  She turned to the brooding figure across the room. “Miss Durie?”

  “Yes?”

  “These New York scenes are yours, aren’t they?”

  “Very discerning of you, Lloyd. How did you know?”

  “Well, they are unsigned, and after what you said about signatures—And you also said that you did favor watercolors—”

  “I see. A process of deduction.”

  “And”—Amy found with dismay that her tears were rising and her voice choking—“I had the thought that if the girl in that portrait of you was a talented painter, this is how she’d paint.”

  “And so she did. Come here, Lloyd.”

  As Amy came up to her, Margaret Durie reached out a hand. It touched the proffered arm, moved up and rested against the damp cheek. “You are a dear thing, Lloyd, but spare me the tears. I’ve wasted enough of them in my time. And they are wasteful. What matters is only the setting of a goal and the moving toward it. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Good. Now accompany me upstairs, where you’ll pick up my correspondence and attend to it in Mrs. McEye’s office. I assured her I’d release you to her when convenient, and she understands that my correspondence is your first obligation. Oh, yes, and tell Nugent and company to get back to their duties. Otherwise, they’ll have an excuse to do nothing the rest of the day.”

  Which didn’t seem quite fair to Nugent really, thought Amy, but the thought was tempered by this suggestion that Nugent and company were what they were, while Mrs. Lloyd was a dear thing. Hardly the most charitable reaction, but one could live with it.

  Mission accomplished, she moved with her charge across that marble expanse of foyer toward the elevator. Passing the West Gallery, Ma’am, who seemed to know exactly where she was in the expanse, motioned at the massive doors.

  “Did you find our little tour instructive, Lloyd?”

  “Oh, yes. But one thing—if you don’t mind?”

  “Don’t fuss, Lloyd. Just ask your question.”

  “Well, are these all American artists?”

  “Those who did the works in oil, yes. However, it wasn’t always the case. My instructor once persuaded my father to purchase some meritorious French impressionist works. Including a Mary Cassatt, whom my father chose to regard as more French than American. One of her finest studies. All disposed of by him very soon after.”

  “Disposed of? But why?”

  Ma’am smiled a wintry smile. “Oh, one might say that for his own reasons he found them offensive. So what is left of the oils is all domestic art somewhat past its prime, though its commercial value is on the ascendant. Is it possible”—Ma’am seemed amused—“that you’re considering an investment in it?”

  Hardly sensitive of her, Amy thought, to make it so plain that what she had to sell this dear thing could not possibly afford to buy. Sensitivity in Margaret Durie did seem to work on an uneven current. Amy said, “What I had been considering is whether I shouldn’t get some books on these painters—”

  Ma’am cut that off sharply. Almost contemptuously. “Art as an intellectual exercise, Lloyd? Don’t bother.”

  Definitely, that sensitivity worked on a very uneven current.

  From the sublime to the ridiculous. Or, Amy thought as Mrs. McEye, cigarette glued to her lower lip, set about showing her office procedure, at least from the sublime to the mundane.

  Like stepping down from Olympus to till the potato field below.

  However, with the typing of the answers to Ma’am’s correspondence, the shadow of sublimity—willful, unpredictable, all-powerful—did briefly reappear. When that Message received and contents noted was neatly appended to the foot of the principessa’s letter Mrs. McEye, happening to glance over the typist’s shoulder, was momentarily transfixed. Then she snatched the letter from the typewriter. She had to squint at it one-eyed because her lips were now so tightly compressed that the cigarette tilted upward and the other eye was right in line with the rising smoke.

  “Really, Mrs. Lloyd. Is this what you were told to respond? On the letter itself? Without signature?”

  “That’s right, Mrs. McEye.”

  “You’re sure?”

  And yet, Amy thought, the McEye did know about Ma’am’s dislike for her sister—her refusal to acknowledge her title, for instance. However, she didn’t seem to know the dislike could extend to this show of witty bad manners. Amy put on the face of innocence. “If you want to ask Miss Margaret about it—”

  Mrs. McEye instantly stepped on the brakes. “Well, I don’t see any need for that, Mrs. Lloyd. Of course I take your word for it.”

  Of course, Amy thought. Ho ho ho.

  But, as she had to admit to herself while being guided through the office routine, there was much about this pop-eyed, chunky little martinet to admire. The routine entailed the mastery of details piled on details, and the McEye seeme
d to have every one of them at her fingertips, especially the delicate maneuvering of staff and temporary help so that the family dwelt in a plastic bubble—no, make that a crystal bubble—maintained by flawlessly operating machinery.

  To this end there were these duty rosters and daybooks for each day’s assignments, present and future, with plenty of blank space in them for the unexpected. And this battery of phones to arrange comings and goings, and the record sheets to record them. It reminded Amy of that time Mike had been briefly and unwillingly drafted as radio dispatcher for the cab company, trying to keep the widely scattered fleet of cars making the right moves. Like playing blindfold chess, he had explained, except that he was playing on a board the size of metropolitan New York and with three times as many pieces. Watching the McEye at the phones as she guided staff through its paces, Amy suspected that even on a board that size and with that many pieces she’d be a dandy chess player.

  Abe Silverstone—or was it Audrey?—had been right. What became clear was that the word housekeeper was pretty meaningless in this context. What we had here was a grand vizier. Housekeeper all right, but also personnel director, building manager, transportation agent, typist-secretary, and bookkeeper, even though these figures scrupulously transferred to an account book and toted up there were monitored each month by CPA’s from the family’s business office.

  There were a couple of calls from the outside world. A contractor for a cornice repair. One for an electrical installation. Each evidently had a large chip on the shoulder, each finally wound up waving the white flag. During negotiations Mrs. McEye’s voice never rose. In fact, it became almost a purr—what a funny fellow you are in your tantrum, said that purr—and somehow sounded all the more dangerous for it.

  After the second call, a long one, she said to Amy, “You got the gist of that, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “They try to cheat people in this position, you see. A philosophy of soak the rich, so to speak. Unfortunately, there must be many well-to-do people easy to take advantage of.”

  “I suppose there are,” Amy said. “Will I be handling contracts like that, too?” Nice if she could, she thought. A way of paying off some of those arrogant contractor types who took pleasure in soaking that formerly insignificant Lloyd couple down on Thompson Street.

  “Possibly. All in good time.” The McEye smiled pleasantly, and the wonder of it was not only the unexpected smile but that in her position she had never had anything done about those discolored teeth. “You know, Mrs. Lloyd, I can see why Miss Margaret is so taken with you. Mannerly and intelligent both? Believe me, an unusual combination nowadays, if you know what I mean. It’s been difficult with Nugent replacing me here when she must. Mannerly, yes. But when things get hectic she does tend to lose her head.”

  “She’s been very kind and helpful to me,” Amy said, not quite sure why she felt compelled to hand out this bouquet.

  The McEye didn’t take umbrage. “Oh, she would be. And she’ll still be the one to call on when you’re tied down here. I’ve arranged her days off to coincide with yours for that reason. Now it’s time for lunch, isn’t it? Mine is always sent up here, and I could have yours included. However, if you prefer the staff hall—”

  There was something almost wistful about the way she said it, Amy realized, something that suggested she very much wanted her assistant’s company at lunch.

  “I’d very much like to have lunch with you,” Amy said, stretching it considerably.

  The McEye was obviously pleased. “That would be nice. I’m having a salad. Mabry prepares a special salad I can recommend. Would you care to try it?”

  It was indeed an excellent salad, Amy found, a gigantic bowl of exotic flora, crabmeat, avocado, and spiced croutons. Along with it came a basketful of rolls and what appeared to be a small tub of butter. Peters, the houseman who seemed to have been forgiven for having been briefly hijacked into Gwen Langfeld’s meditation circle, arranged a service on each side of the desk, poured coffee, and departed. To her coffee the McEye added enough thick cream so that its residue floated palely on the surface. She was buttering a roll with slow voluptuous pleasure when a phone rang.

  “Oh, Lord,” she sighed. Then she gave her assistant a look that, Amy thought, could only be described as ponderously mischievous. “Time for you to try your hand at it, Mrs. Lloyd. I’ll be standing by.” There was something about this, Amy felt, of the flight instructor wishing the student good luck on her first solo.

  But she knew there had to be an augury in this trial run when she heard Mike’s voice: “Mrs. McEye? Lloyd here.”

  It would be too weird, she thought, to address him as Lloyd even though the McEye, the protocol freak, was sitting there all ears. Besides, the McEye was practically twinkling at her. “Mike? It’s Amy. Where are you?”

  “In the garage. As instructed. Hey there, Mrs. Lloyd, how’s it going?”

  “Very well. Mrs. McEye is showing me the ropes, and we’re now having lunch.” She observed that the McEye was still twinkling. “Come to think of it, what are you doing about lunch?”

  “Believe it or not, baby, I’m Wilson’s guest. Couple of sandwiches he went out for and a dip into his six-pack.”

  “Wilson?” Amy said. “You mean he still—?” She suddenly saw that the McEye had stopped twinkling.

  “Wilson?” said Mrs. McEye.

  “Wait a second,” Amy said into the phone, then reported to that now forbidding presence, “It’s Lloyd. He’s at the garage as instructed. Wilson’s there, too.”

  “He is, is he?” Mrs. McEye thrust out a hand and Amy placed the phone in it. “Lloyd? What’s that about Wilson?” She listened intently, in the process lighting a cigarette and deeply inhaling. Furious, Amy saw. The cigarette smoke, when she ejected it, appeared to eddy not only from her nose but her ears as well. She finally said, “Yes, I understand. But, Lloyd, listen to me. Don’t get close to him socially, if you know what I mean. He’ll make a nuisance of himself, and you’ll regret it.”

  She listened again. “Yes, yes, he’s right about that much. You do report here whenever you complete a trip. Now you’re scheduled to pick up Mr. Craig and Mr. Walter at the office at four and to take Mrs. Langfeld to the airport at five, but there may be an interim call, so you remain there. Good-bye, Lloyd.”

  She put down the phone looking angry and troubled and tamped out the cigarette in an ashtray with a hard pressure of the thumb. “The old fool,” she said.

  “I beg your pardon?” said Amy.

  “Wilson. He’s making himself thoroughly at home, so to speak, in the garage office. And your husband’s in the way of becoming his victim. He had to be warned about it. I trust he’ll take the warning to heart.”

  Victim, Amy thought. She didn’t like the sound of it. “Well, he did say Mr. Levine’s not too happy about having Wilson there. If you let Mr. Levine know that you don’t either—”

  “No.” It came out short and sharp. “I don’t require Mr. Levine to serve as my deputy. And Wilson can be very difficult.”

  “But you said victim. What sort of victim exactly?”

  “Of gossip. About family. Wilson’s served here most of his life, and he’s full of distortions and fabrications about family matters, if you know what I mean. Much too shrewd, I’m sure, to try them out on any outsider, but now that he sees Lloyd as staff—You do understand, don’t you?”

  “Yes, of course,” Amy said.

  Except, she thought, for one curious aspect of it. The lady herself had previously hammered home that any staff caught in just such distortions and fabrications about the family would get canned on the spot for it. And since Wilson was marked as a long-time offender, why, instead of having been summarily dismissed somewhere along the line, had he been royally pensioned off?

  There was that miasma again.

  “Aren’t you forgetting something, Mrs. Lloyd?” asked the McEye, and for an instant Amy had the feeling that her thoughts were visible. But n
o, Mrs. McEye was indicating the record sheet on the desk and her expression was once again almost pleasant. Gently reproving, but almost pleasant.

  “Sorry,” Amy said, “I almost did forget.”

  She reached across the desk and under the most recent entry on the sheet she wrote—Mrs. McEye craning her stout neck to follow this—1 P.M. Lloyd at G.

  Mrs. McEye nodded approval. “We now know at a glance—Nugent too for that matter—where to reach him. If his schedule suddenly becomes tight, he’ll then have Mr. Levine supply a temporary to help out. Not difficult at all, is it? Though Nugent does have her difficulties with it.”

  “Well,” said Amy, “you did mention that the pressure does mount pretty high at times.”

  “So to speak. But I can’t see it getting the best of you, Mrs. Lloyd.” Mrs. McEye went through that business of leaning forward and lowering her voice. “It doesn’t seem to trouble you in serving Miss Margaret. And she does have a way of putting one under pressure, doesn’t she?”

  That warning bell sounded in Amy’s head. This growing chumminess was all very well, but the McEye was—no matter how chummy—the representative of the brothers Durie in their too tender oversight of their sister, freedom fighter Margaret. And in that opaque conversation in the elevator, the one thing that hadn’t been opaque was Margaret Durie’s acid comments on brother Craig and his wife.

  Still, Amy thought, there were signs that the McEye was in a confiding mood, and if she didn’t take advantage of it, Mike would never forgive her.

  She picked her words carefully. “Well, I don’t really feel I’m under pressure from Miss Margaret”—the McEye looked skeptical, and that was all that was needed for Amy to proceed—“but she is changeable of mood.”

  Obviously, this is what the McEye had hoped for, the honest statement. She nodded broadly. “Yes, indeed. Most temperamental. Hard to keep up with at times.”

  So far, so good, Amy thought. But as Audrey had succinctly put it in describing life in the Big Store, one must always take care to cover her ass. “Most temperamental,” Amy said. “But I think that’s because she is so intelligent and quick-minded and well informed. She probably finds it hard to understand why I can’t always keep up with her.”