Very Old Money

by Stanley Ellin

  Mrs. McEye responded in lowered tones as if the boss were standing there at her shoulder. “Of course, Mrs. Lloyd. Any destination mentioned? It couldn’t be a drive around the park in this rain, could it?”

  “I’ll ask,” Amy said, and turned to the boss. “Mrs. McEye would like to know the destination.” Then as Ma’am’s lips narrowed dangerously, Amy hastily improvised, “That would be a matter of knowing how long Lloyd would be required.”

  “Then inform the efficient Mrs. McEye that the destination is lunch at the Plaza. The Palm Court. And while she’s at it, she’s to reserve a table for two.”

  Confusion, Amy thought, was the name of the game. No more mystery about the Plaza? The cards were now to be played face up? Then, with the McEye’s response to these further instructions, an added possibility was introduced. “For two, Mrs. Lloyd?” The voice dripped curiosity. “And you are to be the guest?”

  Hell and damnation, Amy thought. The possibility was fascinating, but presenting this question to Ma’am in her immediate mood would be like seeing how long you could hold a lit stick of dynamite in your hand.

  “I’ll report to you as soon as I’m free, Mrs. McEye,” she hedged, and instantly put down the phone.

  At its click, Ma’am said impatiently, “Sit down, Lloyd. I must now speak to you most seriously. And, to repeat what has already been emphasized, I am speaking in utter confidence.”

  Amy sat down, braced. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Do you remember the name of that art gallery I expressed particular interest in?”

  “Yes. The Jason Cook Gallery.”

  “Correct. You are going to be my emissary there on a matter of importance. I’ll explain it in the car so that I won’t have to repeat it for Lloyd’s benefit. Remember, neither of you is to mention a word of this to anyone. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Good. And since I imagine you share excellent rapport with Lloyd, I leave it to you to see that he does not make any slip in this regard. Do you share excellent rapport with him?”

  To say the least, Amy thought. “Yes, ma’am,” she said.

  “Very good. Now let’s get back to Camille.”

  But it soon became clear during the reading that Ma’am’s thought were far from Camille. She lay there, apparently holding communion with herself, a most pleasant communion, never mind what was happening to poor Camille.

  She abruptly cut the reading short well before the first curtain. “Put it away, Lloyd. And in the topmost righthand drawer of the dresser you’ll find a watch case. Bring it to me.”

  A watch case? Amy thought as she followed orders. To what purpose? An antique watch, a memento of that last season in the sun?

  However, the wristwatch Ma’am drew from the case certainly did not look antique. The design of the face and hands seemed smartly up to date, the case was unadorned gold, the strap a black ribbon. More than ever, to what purpose? Ma’am had demonstrated an uncanny time sense, and when unsure about it simply asked the time.

  “One of the miracles of our age, Lloyd. It requires no winding.” Ma’am extended an arm, and as Amy wonderingly strapped the watch to the fragile wrist, Ma’am said, “What time is it by your watch?”

  “Just about ten after ten,” Amy said.

  Ma’am pressed the stem of her watch, the glass sprang open, she lightly rested the tip of her forefinger against the face. “Quite right,” she said. “And if you’re wondering, Lloyd, the numerals are braille and the hands can’t be damaged by this contact. A gift from my niece Dorothy. She does have more discrimination in her choice of gift than some.”

  Which, Amy thought, had to mean blobby, meditative Gwen, donor of the luckless Philomela. In any competition with sister-in-law Dorothy, whether for Glendon’s favor or Aunt Margaret’s, poor Gwen didn’t stand a chance.

  And give Dorothy credit. The gift watch assured Aunt Margaret that while she did have a handicap, she was still a going and doing independent woman who’d need a timepiece to keep her on schedule. Useful and subtly flattering, all in one neat package, that gift.

  The car at noon promptly, Ma’am had said. At twelve noon promptly, houseman Peters holding a huge umbrella over the ladies, Amy getting the benefit of only a fraction of it, transferred them into the care of Mike, who was waiting at the open door of the car, also with an umbrella upheld. He saw his passengers inside and got behind the wheel, but before he could start the motor Ma’am said, “Wait. As Mrs. Lloyd knows, I must explain something to both of you.” She reached out the cane, found Mike’s shoulder with it and gently pressed the tip into the shoulder. “Are you listening closely, Lloyd?”

  “I am.”

  Ma’am withdraw the cane. “Then note. You will take me to the Plaza Hotel and leave me there. You will then drive Mrs. Lloyd to an art gallery—the Jason Cook Gallery—on Prince Street at West Broadway.” She turned toward Amy, the sightless eyes in line with the rain-drenched car window. “My information is that this Mr. Cook has opened a showing today of an artist who interests me. A young woman who made something of a success de scandale in a showing out of town last year. According to report, she has talent, courage, and a profound concern for the female condition. Vilified by some critics—male, of course—she steadfastly answers to her own conscience. You can appreciate my interest in her, Lloyd.”

  “Yes, I can,” Amy said, and when Mike turned to look at her, casting his eyes to heaven, she bared her teeth at him in a silent snarl. A darling, yes, not really a male chauvinist pig, but there were times when that good old Spruce Pond backwoods masculinity seemed to addle his wits.

  “The artist’s name,” said Ma’am, “is Kim Lowry. What is her name, Lloyd?”

  “Kim Lowry,” said Amy, and this time, when Mike mimed amazement at such a display of intelligence, she aimed a menacing forefinger at him. Enough, he had to understand, was enough. She also had the uncomfortable feeling that Ma’am, sensitized to every current of air, might be tuned in to this byplay. Impossible, but yet …

  Of course, she thought, part of Mike’s mood must stem from his recognition of the same thing she recognized. Those Upshur messages, the secretive banking, the handing over of large sums—all were connected somehow to the career of an artist who had stirred old Margaret Durie’s youthful spirit. A persecuted female artist—a succes de scandale suggested more notoriety than reward—had found herself a rich, reclusive, sympathetic ally, never mind that certainly Craig and Jocelyn Durie, probably Walter Durie, would have a fit if any of that notoriety splashed publicly on fiery Margaret. Would lead them to nip that career as avant-garde fellow traveler right in the bud, however they could.

  Ma’am found Amy’s hand and took a firm grip on it. “You will approach Kim Lowry as my representative—my agent, one might say—bearing in mind that I insist on remaining incognito. You understand what that means?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I take for granted you have sufficient tact to convince her of my bona fides without identifying me. She must be given to understand that any effort to identify me means the prompt withdrawal of my patronage. That will be costly to her, because I am prepared to buy her work at her price.”

  “Yes, ma’am. But buying does mean bills of sale and making out checks, so that incognito—”

  “I’m not a fool, Lloyd. Payment will be made in cash, bills of sale can be made out to your name for that matter. The only problem you may face is in gaining the confidence of the artist. She must be made to know that I—unnamed—am her good friend. To that end, ingratiate yourself with her. I believe you’re entirely capable of that.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Amy said without assurance.

  The slender little hand squeezed hers hard. “Then let’s be on our way. The Plaza for me, the gallery for you. I deplore this weather, but the car can wait for you right outside the gallery. On your return from it, you’ll pick me up at the Palm Court. I’ll wait there as long as necessary.”

  Mike turned in his
seat. “One thing, ma’am. Anyone curious enough about an identity can trace it through a license plate. In case that comes to your mind later, I want you to know I’ll park out of sight of the gallery.”

  Ma’am was openly delighted. “How clever of you, Lloyd. Yes, see to that. By that way, you do know about things mechanical?”

  “Things mechanical?”

  “Such as telephones. I understand that phone conversations may be listened to by third parties who give no notice of this. In that event, would an otherwise inexplicable clicking on the line result?”

  “I don’t believe so, ma’am. The device for tapping—that’s what it’s called—is supposed to be foolproof that way.”

  “Supposed to be, Lloyd, isn’t altogether reassuring. But thank you. Now the Plaza.”

  Which, Amy thought resentfully, was really something. Faithful Mrs. Lloyd had never gotten a thank you. Lloyd, however, gets handed one just like that. A fiery feminist Margaret Durie might be in her secret life, but on occasion there was still the leaning toward the male.

  At the Plaza, after their charge was delivered into the care of the doorman, Amy climbed into the seat beside the chauffeur.

  “Michael, darling.”

  “Oh, oh,” Mike said.

  “Michael darling, one request. When the three of us are together, don’t mime your emotions for my sole benefit. Considering that the women in our charge is blind, it’s not merely discourteous, it’s crude and juvenile. And it bugs me.”

  “Sorry. And what bugs me is the way she talks to you. By now she must know you’re not a drooling idiot. Why does she make you repeat to her whatever she just told you?”

  Chivalry in any form, Amy thought, must not be put down. She found herself softening. “It’s just her way, Mike, and I don’t mind it. What I do mind is this weird assignment we’re on. I mean weird.”

  “Ah, yes. We meet at midnight in the old cemetery. Masks and capes will be worn.”

  “Not far wrong,” Amy said. “Although it does settle one thing. I mean, that those supposedly tender messages from Mrs. Upshur are really reports on this Kim Lowry, don’t you think?”

  “By braille and mail. Avoiding the use of that treacherous telephone. Yes, it seems likely.”

  “Which could also mean that those cash payments so far have been going to the gallery man himself. Jason Cook. For all we know, it was Ma’am who set up this Kim Lowry show. So the only one who doesn’t know her identity is Kim Lowry. For good reason she’s to be kept in the dark about it.”

  “What good reason?”

  “The obvious one,” Amy said. “Kim Lowry—who seems to be a scandalous figure—might take pride in having won Margaret Durie over to her side and tell the world about it. I’m not sure about Walter, but can you see Craig and Jocelyn opening their Times and reading all about it there? They’re even terrified to have it known that Gwen might be on her way to a perfectly proper divorce.”

  “Delightful,” Mike said. “I can see old James Hamilton Durie spinning in his grave. But didn’t our Miss Margaret broach another possibility? Suppose this Kim Lowry is a truly feisty spirit who’d detest being patronized by some unknown fat cat?”

  “Oh, please, not that,” Amy said with feeling. “I’m the one up there in the line of fire.”

  “So you are,” said Mike.

  It was another one of those grim blocks south of the Village, which, as Abe liked to point out, was being engulfed by cute. Even seen through the sluicing rain, the cute was indomitable. A shop titled Things ’n’ Such with an antique wickerwork baby carriage prominent in its window, then a coffee shop titled The Burning Bush, then the Jason Cook Gallery. The display window of the gallery was curtained across with black monk’s cloth on which was inscribed in white flowing scipt Ars longa, vita brevis.

  In the shelter of the doorway Amy closed the umbrella Mike had thrust on her as she had prepared to dash from the car, waited a few seconds to steady her nerves, and walked in. At first glance she recognized that there were no surprises here. The familiar little neighborhood store converted with a minimum of investment and a maximum of optimism into the familiar little showplace for the latest in art. Half a dozen huge paintings on the walls—easy to count because there were three paintings on each side of the room—linoleum floor, rickety-looking table with leaflets and guest book on it, and visible through the open door in back what appeared to be a combination kitchen and storeroom. Track lighting overhead glaringly focused on each of the paintings.

  There were several people in the room—one male among them—all wearing jeans and either T-shirts or flannel shirts, and they all turned to look at her as she stood there wondering what to do about the water puddling on the linoleum from the umbrella. Then the male came forward, and this, Amy decided by simple elimination, had to be Jason Cook. He was, despite the heavy beard, obviously youthful. He was also very short and very fat, the black T-shirt with the white Ars longa, vita brevis on it overflowing his belt line.

  “Here,” he said, “we can put these in the bathroom,” and led the way to a closed door in back. He hung the umbrella and sopping raincoat over a shower-curtain rod already bending under the weight of umbrellas and raincoats, then regarded Amy keenly. He aimed a stubby forefinger at her. “The press,” he said. “Right?”

  “No.”

  “Oh. Friend of a friend of Kim’s?”

  “Well, no.”

  He looked pleased. “Just dropped in to see the show? I’m Jason Cook, by the way. And I do apologize for the weather. It’s a killer when it comes to an outpost like this.”

  “Amy Lloyd. And yes, I would like to see the show and then talk to Miss Lowry. She is here, isn’t she?”

  “Right there. That tall, dark, and vastly talented one and the paintings are all yours for the looking.”

  Emerging from the bathroom, Amy took furtive stock of the tall, dark and vastly talented one and found her heart going out to her. Very tall indeed—another six-footer—hunched forward in that familiar way to make conversation with her unequals. Olive-skinned, a saturnine face, and that frizzed hair of all styles, Amy thought, was a distinct mistake adding yet further inches to the height. If nothing else however, she and Miss Lowry would be literally seeing eye to eye.

  Ingratiate yourself with her, Ma’am had ordered. Looking at the streetwise face under the mop of hair, Amy had a feeling that this was easier said than done. To forestall the moment, she crossed over to the table with a sense of eyes on the back of her neck and picked up a brochure from the pile there. Actually not a brochure but a single-page leaflet recounting some history.

  Reading it, she found, was reading to chill the blood, especially with the images of Craig and Jocelyn Durie vividly before her. The inflammatory showing in Cleveland two years ago, the wrathful assault by some local Association for the Promotion of Decency, the entrance of woman’s lib in trying to withstand the assault. The hotly controversial set design for the off-off-Broadway production of The Bacchae last year (“Stole what there was of the show”—New York magazine), which led to sometimes violent audience reactions led by various factions, male and female, of the gay community. And now these six most recent works by this artist who has a statement to make and will not be deterred from making it. Six titles. Marjorie. Toni. Deirdre. Bren. Helena. Joan. Prices available at the desk.

  Margaret Durie, thought Amy, dear, unseeing Margaret Durie, I know how I got into this, but how did you get into it?

  Whatever the answer, the thing to do now was put on a solemn, art-viewer’s expression and at least make a round of the six works. She did so, checking off each title against the leaflet in her hand, wondering as she went what this list of apparently all female names had to do with the works. The paintings were of uniform size, taller than she was and considerably wider. Seen close up like this, the canvases were heavy-laden with a thick, buttery impasto in swirls and globs, predominantly pink, red, and white, with varying patches on each of black, brown, or yellow.


  Abstract expressionist, Amy thought with relief. Certainly a long way from those pictures in the Duries’ West Gallery and dining room, but—especially since abstract expressionism was now ancient history itself—nothing to work up a fever about. So why the scandal and controversy?

  When she stepped back to get a longer view the answer leaped at her. What she was now seeing, she realized, was what any gynecologist sees when he has the patient on the table, legs up in the stirrups. No, to be precise, what Gulliver would see if he had been a gynecologist and had a Brobdingnagian female on the table. The view varied in each painting, right side up, upside down, sideways, but in each there was no mistaking it. Only the one title Joan differed drastically. Here the torso appeared to be chained to something while a burning brand wielded by a manifestly male hand was being thrust into the center of interest.

  Amy became aware that Jason Cook was at her elbow. “Of course you get the statement,” he said.

  “Joan,” Amy said. “Joan of Arc.”

  “Right. Beneath all the establishment cover-up, the truth. A devasting aperçu.” He took her by the arm. “Kim, this is Amy Lloyd. She wants to talk to you.”

  Kim Lowry detached herself from her companions and drifted over. “Yes?”

  “In private?” Amy said.

  “Oh?” Kim Lowry studied her with great deliberation from head to foot. “Look,” she said, “let’s get this straight. If you’re here to save my soul—”

  “No,” Amy said. “Only to discuss something to your advantage. But it must be in private.”

  “Kim,” said Jason Cook, “the chip off the shoulder. Please?”

  His client curled her lip at him, then gestured with her head at the storeroom. “Back there,” she said to Amy.

  The storeroom was still occupied by a stove, refrigerator, and kitchen sink. Unframed canvases, faces to the wall, were stacked everywhere. Kim Lowry waited until Amy had picked her way through this to a small clearing, then closed the door behind them. “Private enough?” she asked. Amy had the feeling that she wasn’t so much hostile now as wary. So the quicker one came on as Santa’s helper, the better.