“However,” said Abe, “they can be an unhealthy influence on certain ingenuous folks who serve them. To the Duries there is Us and Them. Us in here behind the drawbridge, Them out there. The trouble is that some ingenuous souls who serve them may develop the notion that they too are Us, not Them. And why not? It’s a very sweet life they feel they’re part of, with that hypnotic aura of wealth and power emanating from every quarter. Given just a few crumbs from the table—”
“Abe,” said Amy, “you don’t really believe that.”
“You’ve changed, darling. The clothes, the hair, the manner, the walk, the talk. Without realizing it maybe, you are on your way to becoming a pseudo-Durie. You weren’t too comfortable about it to start with, but you are now, aren’t you?”
“So what?” Audrey interposed. “I think the way she comes on now is just great. Matter of fact,” she said to Amy, “if you ever want to try selling top of the line at the boutique—”
“No,” Amy said, “I don’t think Abe would approve. Your kind of customer might corrupt me.”
“Darling,” Abe said worriedly, “if I’ve hurt your feelings—”
“But what about me?” Mike asked him. “You haven’t hurt mine yet. How about it? Any profound changes you’ve noticed?”
“Well—” said Abe.
Audrey picked up her empty plate and brought it down hard on the table, shattering it into several large fragments. “Thank you, one and all,” she said in the dead silence that followed. She smiled at each in turn. “It’s open stock, so don’t let it worry you. And now my husband is putting away his soapbox. Then we will go out and walk and talk and look around before winter sets in to prevent it. And after a drink or two we will go to the SoHo South and see The Cherry Orchard they’re putting on there. An untampered-with version we hear is pretty good.”
Abe’s expression, Mike noted, became one of somebody now viewing impending delights. Never mind music, he thought, Chekhov had the power to soothe that savage breast.
“The sound of the axe in the woods,” Abe said dreamily. “Jesus.” He leaned forward and pointed at Mike. “That’s a thought for your book. The Chekhovian view of your situation. If you consider it in that light—”
Audrey reached over, picked up her husband’s plate, and held it high. “Abe, dear,” she said.
In fact, it had been pretty good Chekhov, Amy and Mike acknowledged to each other back in the staff hall near midnight. “And,” said Mike, “I figured out why he can even imagine our situation as Chekhovian.”
“Why?”
“It’s his Russian heritage. All Russians live their lives playing roles out of Chekhov.” He plucked the schedule slips from the board and glanced at his. “Crap.” He held out the slip to her. “Five A.M. Golightly at R. Marketing.”
Amy confirmed this. “But that’s awful. You’ll have to set the clock for about four.”
“Dawn patrol, Wilson calls it. Anyhow, I’m still down for the usual nine-thirty Craig and Walter drive to the office, so I suppose marketing’ll be done before then. Want some coffee and cake for a nightcap?”
“No. We go right to bed. You won’t get much sleep as it is.”
He had left the McEye information folder and the house inventory on the bed where he had been scouring through them. He was about to remove them when he thought better of it. He sat down on the edge of the bed and opened the inventory to the place he had marked with a scrap of paper. “Look at this,” he said.
“Now?”
“Yes. It’s been in back of my mind all evening. It won’t take long.” He drew her down beside him. “This inventory goes by rooms. And it seems to be comprehensive down to the last penholder. Now these pages here cover that first-floor dining room—”
Amy looked. “Mike, there must be a dozen pages of it.”
“At least. But the artworks are listed together on these two pages. Now see if you don’t find something strange right here.”
Amy scanned the pages. “No, I don’t.”
“Here,” Mike said, pointing. “Portrait of Miss Margaret Durie. You saw that picture yourself. Ma’am’s gift to her father, she told you. And it’s been there a long, long time.”
“Yes, but I still don’t—”
“No attribution,” Mike said. “No artist’s name. And every other painting listed here has an attribution. Including all of Margaret Durie’s watercolors. But not this portrait of her.”
“Oh, that. But she explained that he didn’t believe in signing a painting except in back. I’m sure I told you about it.”
“You did, and it’s all down in my notes. But Ma’am’s are only signed in back, too, from what she said, and her name’s next to them in the inventory. An inventory like this is a business document. It’s supposed to be complete. Yet no one can tell from it who painted that picture. Don’t you consider that strange?”
“A little,” Amy said. “Yes. But what set you off on this?”
“My notes. Names galore there. Everybody’s name—family and staff. But neither Ma’am nor anyone else here has ever mentioned the name of the art instructor who was so important to her. Occupied this apartment, gave her lessons, painted her portrait—no name. Why not?”
“I don’t know,” said Amy. “But of course the name could be right on the back of that painting.”
“Suppose it isn’t?”
“Michael, dear, you may have come across a typo in the inventory. And if you expect to get even three hours sleep—”
“Hell, that’s right,” Mike said glumly. “The dawn patrol.”
“Predawn patrol,” Amy corrected.
Still, she was the one who, after lights were out, abruptly sat up in bed and switched hers on again. “Mike, do you believe what Abe said about my changing?”
“Baby, you know how Abe dramatizes.”
“Yes, but Audie seemed to go along with him on it. Now I want to know. Have I changed the way he said I have?”
“Look, Abe is used to a sweet, shy Amy in blue jeans and sneakers and with hair that looked like it could stand a little combing. Sort of an overgrown kid, full of quiet charm, always a bit deferential, letting him control the conversation. But not anymore. Now it’s the eye-fetching dress and queenly hairdo and a readiness to talk freely about strange adventures down the Durie rabbit hole. And most troublesome to him, I think, is the way you now go head to head with him. Suddenly the overgrown kid, the daughter he would have wanted—at least I hope he hasn’t been nursing Lolita fantasies—anyhow, suddenly that kid is now an elegant young lady. With a will of her own.”
“Elegant,” said Amy.
“That’s the word for it. Matter of fact, that’s what Audie was telling you when she made that remark about your selling at the boutique.”
“Do you see it that way?”
“Yep. I’ll admit it wasn’t exactly what I bargained for when I picked up this pathetic creature peddling flowers in Covent Garden, but I like it. I find it alluring.”
“I don’t know,” Amy said. “Now I feel somehow self-conscious about it. I can just hear myself talking in that terribly genteel way like the McEye.”
“No chance. Remember you were genteel to start with. Any more questions before I have to get up and go to market?”
“I’m sorry, but yes, just one. What Abe said about our way of thinking now—I mean, reflecting the Durie attitude—”
“Forget it,” Mike said. “No matter how Abe feels about it, for that attitude you need at least three billion dollars.”
“Come in,” called Ma’am, and Amy pushed open the door and trundled in the breakfast cart.
She pulled up short on the edge of that white expanse of carpet. Ma’am was seated in her usual chair, but close by sat Jocelyn Durie in dressing gown, a formidable figure, a hand making sweeping gestures at the still-open door. A loud signal even if silent, Amy thought. Begone, Lloyd.
Before she could move one way or the other, Ma’am, as if she had read all the nuances here, said sharply, “My breakf
ast, Lloyd,” and that settled it.
“Good-morning, ma’am,” Amy said. “Good morning, Mrs. Durie,” and wheeled the cart up to the table between them, exactly between, as the McEye had once expressed it, the rock and the hard place.
Jocelyn Durie said heatedly to Ma’am, “We’ll continue this later, Margaret. After all, you do have some influence on the child.”
“A delusion,” Ma’am said. “And she is not a child. Do look closely at her sometime.”
“She will always be my child, Margaret.”
“She is her own woman now. But I recognize that dreary cliché. So give Craig a message from me, Jocelyn. There are those who are concerned for someone, and there are those who are concerned about someone.”
“I fail to see your point. And the concern right now, with those disgusting British tabloids taking notice—”
“Enough, Jocelyn. Çela suffit. Lloyd, will you show Mrs. Durie out? And attend to my breakfast?”
Jocelyn Durie stood up. In the process, Amy took note, she seemed to take an iron control of herself and then to go all over sensitivity and understanding. She said gently to Ma’am, “What I will tell Craig is how well you’re looking, Margaret. And”—there was no suggestion of irony in the voice—“how spirited you are. That is a joy to all of us.”
“Dear Jocelyn,” said Ma’am in honeyed tones.
At the door, Jocelyn Durie paused briefly. “Mrs. McEye,” she told Amy in an undertone, “has given me very good report of you.”
“Kind of her,” whispered Amy, and waited until the visitor was on her way down the corridor before closing the door.
Indeed, Ma’am was in high good spirits, relishing not only her coffee but the brioche as well. When Amy opened the Times to the obituaries it was dismissed with a fluttering of the fingers.
“Don’t bother, Lloyd.” The fingers brushed over the packet of mail. “Nothing significant here, it seems. We’ll put it aside. What you’ll do now is phone Mrs. McEye and tell her that I want the car at eleven. For her information, a visit to the Upshur Institute, lunch out, perhaps a pleasant drive.”
And that, thought Amy, really does in Mike, poor darling. Up at four for the marketing, on the go since, and no doubt looking forward to a little nap betweentimes to get his eyes uncrossed.
“For your own information, Lloyd,” Ma’am said, “when we leave the Institute we’ll stop first at the bank so you’ll be in a position to settle all arrangements with Miss Lowry at the gallery. You’ll leave me at the Plaza and take whatever time you need for that. You and Miss Lowry are on amicable terms?”
“Yes, I believe so.”
“Because from the information I’ve been given, she seems to be up in arms against the world. Did you find that the case?”
“Well, she does have a somewhat challenging manner.”
“Except”—Ma’am held up a forefinger in reproof—“in regard to her devoted grandmother. You did assure me of that, didn’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“As for the rest, one can hardly blame her for being on the defensive against a hostile world.” Ma’am resumed that straight-backed position in her chair. “You’ve met my niece Gwendolyn, Lloyd?”
“Yes, I have.”
“Do you feel she’s unworldly?”
Closer to unearthly, Amy thought. She said, “Well, I only met her very briefly.”
“I’m aware of that. Now make that call to Mrs. McEye.”
At eleven o’clock, when they got into the car, Amy observed with sympathy that her husband did look tired—after all, he had been up doing since four in the morning—and that his livery did not look quite as natty as it should; good thing the McEye wasn’t on hand to take notice of it. And, traveling crosstown, she became aware that he was in a distinctly remote mood, a sign that he could be writing up a storm in his mind.
He pulled up, as instructed, before a weatherworn, old-style elevator apartment building on West Eightieth Street, and Ma’am, emerging from the car, rested her hand on Amy’s wrist and maintained it there all the way to the door of a third-floor apartment. Disdaining the doorbell, Ma’am tested the location of the door with the head of her stick, then rapped on it smartly. There was a long silence, then the sound of a succession of bolts being thrown.
“Good God,” Ma’am said, “the woman’s got herself locked in like the prisoner of Chillon.”
She rapped again, this time an impatient tattoo, and the door was suddenly thrown open. The woman holding it wide was pleasant-faced, middle-aged, very round-eyed, and appeared to be in a state of mild panic. Somehow, Amy thought, she bore a distinct resemblance to Alice’s White Queen.
The woman said in a flurry, “I’m so sorry, Miss Durie. I was with Mr. Upshur in the bedroom, and he’s not well, and this door—”
Ma’am peremptorily cut her short: “Yes, of course. I won’t be long, Mrs. Upshur.” She kept the hand lightly on Amy’s wrist as they entered a large room, sparsely furnished, as much office as living room, Amy saw, what with that rolltop desk and those filing cabinets and the typewriter and printing outfit on the table. “All I require, Mrs. Upshur, is a check from our book. The next in order.”
“Yes, Miss Durie. One check.” Mrs. Upshur scurried off toward the filing cabinets, stopped suddenly, gave Amy an embarrassed shrug, then changed course to the desk. She searched through a couple of drawers before coming up with a checkbook. “Right here, Miss Durie.”
“And the balance in the book is correct?” Ma’am sounded as if she doubted this. “It includes the most recent deposit and withdrawal?”
“Yes. I made sure of that. But if you—”
“Sit down, Lloyd.” The stick pointed at the desk. “Now a pen, Mrs. Upshur.”
Amy waited to seat herself until Mrs. Upshur, her panic intensifying, scrabbled through other drawers to produce a pen. No surprise in store, Amy thought. A check for six thousand dollars made out to cash. So it was, Ma’am, leaning over her, the hand guiding hers—actually riding on hers—through the motions. It works either way, Amy thought with a touch of resentment. My hand on hers, hers on mine, she’s making sure there are no mistakes, accidental or otherwise.
Ma’am tucked the folded check into her purse. “That’s all, Mrs. Upshur. Now you can lock yourself in again.”
“Yes. And, Miss Durie, I do want you to know how grateful I am for everything. And Mr. Upshur would want you to know—”
“Good day, Mrs. Upshur,” said Ma’am, and said nothing more until the elevator was on its way down. Then she turned her face up to Amy’s. “How would you describe her, Lloyd? A bit too eager to please?”
“Well, ma’am, isn’t it better to err in that direction?”
“Is it? Wouldn’t you doubt the trustworthiness of someone like that?”
“Someone else, ma’am, but not Mrs. Upshur. Watching her, I couldn’t help thinking—”
“Yes?”
“—well, how much she resembles the White Queen in Alice.”
Ma’am smiled. “Featherheaded, but without duplicity?”
“I suppose you could put it that way.”
“So I can,” said Ma’am.
No surprises either at the bank a few blocks away. The same eager and affable Mr. Fontaine attended to the cashing of the check, though this time it was Amy who walked out the door with the money—six thousand in five-hundred-dollar notes—in her pocketbook. Which, she thought, made for a very pleasant sensation indeed, no matter how temporary.
With Ma’am released to the Plaza’s doorman, she slid into the front seat of the car beside Mike. “Tired, troubled, or writing in the mind?” she asked.
“All three,” Mike said.
“Why? Golightly give you a hard time?”
“Not the way I thought. It was the damndest thing. We did the Fulton Fish Market first, then the wholesale meat market district on the West Side, then a couple of specialty grocers. And he kept falling asleep every time he’d sit down in the car, and not quite remem
bering where he was, and losing his shopping list—”
“Stoned?”
“No way,” Mike said. “Just on the edge of senility, seems to me. I have a feeling the only time he functions halfway right is in the kitchen. Out of memory. Yet here he is. All right, Mrs. Mac said Domestique can’t come up with a competent butler, I won’t argue that. But a competent chef?”
“Well,” Amy pointed out, “we already know they don’t like to retire faithful old servants.”
“And that,” Mike said, “is where it always gets interesting. Why don’t they? Just judging by Wilson, they certainly retire them in style. It’s not like turning them out into the street, is it?”
“Far from,” said Amy.
“That is what I keep thinking. Anyhow, when I brought the wagon back to the garage, there was Wilson already with the best part of a six-pack in him. We’re real buddies now, since I don’t object to his cleaning out the cars and polishing them up.”
“Tom Sawyer and the fence,” Amy remarked.
“Well, I doubt there’s ever been much in his life besides those cars. And it keeps him out of Levine’s office, which Levine appreciates. So when he started on the wagon—he gave me a whole lecture about what a disaster fish and meat scraps could be—I worked him around to the subject of Golightly. Considering the shape he’s in, isn’t he overdue for retirement? Doesn’t he want it? It’s Wilson’s response I’ve got on the mind now.”
“Yes?”
“He said Golightly gets real hot if anybody even mentions retirement to him, so he figured the family was just hoping the old coot would drop dead one of these days. And that, as far as they were concerned, would take care of that much.”
“That much?” Amy said, puzzled. “Of what?”
“Wait. I’ve got it down here.” Mike dug the notebook out of his pocket and flipped it open. “Now listen. When I naturally asked Wilson what he meant he said, ‘Hell, Golightly was right there with me and Borglund when she went down those stairs, wasn’t he? He’s the one McEye told to carry her to her room.’”
“Mr. McEye, the butler,” Amy said.
“Right. And get this. When I said, ‘Well, what’s that have to do with Golightly being retired whether he likes it or not?’ Wilson put his finger along his nose—you know, deep secret stuff to share with your buddy—and he said, ‘Mike boy, use your head. Golightly’s got a mean streak in him. Cut him loose, and he could talk his head off just to get even.’”
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