Very Old Money

by Stanley Ellin

  “Confusion seems to be rife,” Amy said. “Talk about what? The accident? That’s no secret.”

  “I put that to Wilson and it shut him up like a clam. He even looked a little scared, though he was so boozy it was hard to tell if he was faking it or he felt it.”

  “He felt it,” Amy said decisively. “He was close to telling something he wasn’t supposed to.”

  “But what? That because those three characters were in the house when Ma’am took her fall the family’s afraid to retire them? Did it only out of dire necessity in Wilson’s case? After all, Ma’am’s right here herself to tell anything that might be told.”

  “There’s more to it than that. That fall, I mean.”

  “Such as?”

  “I don’t know,” Amy said defensively. “But why did Amy Robsart just pop into my head?”

  “Amy Robsart? Out of Kenilworth?”

  “Out of the history books, too. Remember? Her husband thought he might be able to marry Queen Elizabeth but he was stuck with poor Amy, his wife. And suddenly down goes Amy a whole flight of stairs and breaks her neck. You must remember.”

  “Ah, yes,” Mike said. “You mean, did she fall or was she pushed? That Tudor crowd could play rough, couldn’t it? But what we have on the present agenda, dear, are not Tudors but Duries, a whole different kettle of cold fish. Not inclined to the melodramatic passage. Nor would the three faithful servitors here be likely to push the boss’s daughter down a flight of stairs for any reason. Not unless they wanted to get themselves sat in the electric chair as soon as it could be arranged.”

  “They weren’t necessarily the only ones in the house then,” Amy said.

  “Well, we’ve been told the rest of the family was at their Maine island then. Which leaves us with Margaret Durie, age eighteen, tripping lightly down those stairs, catching a heel in that ironwork, and landing headlong all on her own. Want my opinion on the Tudor situation? That’s what happened to Amy Robsart, too, most likely.”

  “You haven’t counted that artist,” Amy said. “The one whose studio was in our apartment then. The one who did her portrait and gave her lessons.”

  “Why count him in? There’s been no hint from anyone that he was around that day.”

  “He could have been. And you’d better get the car moving. Ma’am said I had what time I needed, but it didn’t mean forever.”

  Mike got the car moving. “You sound testy,” he remarked. “Look, just because I’m being logical about this—”

  “That stairway she fell down,” Amy said, “was between the third and-second floors. Third floor was all staff except for that studio. So my logic says she was on the third floor to visit the studio. He could have been right in it at the time. That was about when the portrait was being painted, wasn’t it?”

  Mike sighed. “Talk about conjecture piled on conjecture.”

  “What’s the painter’s name?” Amy asked shortly.

  “His name? Baby, you know we already worked out he seems to be nameless as far as the family—”

  “That’s what I’m getting at. No signature on that painting. No name in that inventory. Never mentioned in the house by name. Yet this had to be a painter of stature, didn’t it? That is quite some portrait.”

  “I wouldn’t know, dear. The ground floor is forbidden territory to servants in my category.”

  “Oh, Mike.”

  “Sorry. That was dirty pool, wasn’t it?”

  “No, it wasn’t. Mike, I’m sure Abe can still get us those teaching jobs. If that’s what you want for us, I’m ready.”

  “And walk out just when you’re also ready to help Ma’am consummate her triumph as closet feminist?”

  “That’s one thing I’d like to walk out on. I’m concerned about her, I feel close to her, but I can’t see this elaborate scenario she’s made of it, not when she’s involved me in it this deep. You too, for that matter.”

  “Easy does it, baby. Let’s overlook the dirty pool.” Mike drew her against him and when in response she crowded hard against his shoulder he said, “Hey, there’s only room for one behind this wheel.”

  “I can be a real pain sometimes, can’t I?” she said without changing position.

  “Well,” Mike said, “dear old Miss Margaret with the best of intentions—viva woman’s lib—has you playing Mata Hari, and you’re just not the Mata Hari type. And there’s the atmosphere we live in. Get little hints of happenings that you can’t ask about or clear up. You have to be pretty thick in the head not to get edgy about it now and then.”

  “It doesn’t seem to bother you that way,” Amy said. “With all those notes you’re taking and then sitting at the typewriter with them all hours, I think you like it.”

  “Half of me. The writer half that finds it interesting. But the other half—no. That’s the half that has to function in it. And worry about your functioning in it. Anyhow, what we’re getting worked up about happened more than fifty years ago. Ancient history. Irrelevant and immaterial. And there’s a fair chance Wilson is full of wind—sure as hell he’s full of beer—whatever he says.”

  “Perhaps,” Amy said. She drew away so that he could use both hands on the wheel in the tangle of Fifth Avenue traffic. “But there’s something Ma’am said only this morning that’s troublesome. It didn’t mean too much when she said it, but now it does.”

  “Do tell.”

  “I wish I could feel that lighthearted about it. You know those payments she made to someone at the Plaza?”

  “At least one.”

  “Even so. We still don’t know who got that money, but from what she said I now have an idea about it. She was talking about Kim Lowry and she said exactly this: ‘From the information I’ve been given about her—’”

  “Yes?”

  “That’s it. That’s what’s significant. Listen,” Amy said, then recited very slowly: “‘From the information I’ve been given about her—’ You see? Not from what she heard or gleaned from reviews, but from what was given to her. And it’s not likely anybody just happened to discuss Kim Lowry with her. It means she assigned someone to get her information about Kim Lowry and someone did. A slip of the tongue? It could be. But there it is.”

  “Mrs. Upshur,” Mike said. “What’s she like anyhow?”

  “Very pleasant. Thoroughly intimidated by Ma’am. Profuse in her gratitude. Not very bright really. Put it all together, she’s not one to go snooping around like a private detective or whatever.”

  “Maybe not,” Mike acknowledged. “But going a step further, I’d say her braille messages did contain delicate information of some kind. You told me Ma’am gets rid of them at once, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. Scissors them to shreds. And I’m not saying Mrs. Upshur isn’t being used. Or that the Institute isn’t a front for handling all that cash without the family knowing. And I agree that, yes, those braille messages did contain delicate information. But, Michael dear, Mrs. Upshur was sure as hell not at the Plaza those times, not when she has a convenient apartment to use for any hanky-panky. Nor was it anybody from the gallery. It was somebody else.”

  “All right, who else?”

  “The one,” Amy said, “who dug up that information that Mrs. Upshur then passed along in braille. The one who met Ma’am at the Plaza to collect payment in cash for the information.”

  “You are seriously talking private detective?” Mike asked.

  “Well, doesn’t that make sense?”

  “I suppose,” Mike said doubtfully. “But, hey, all this rigmarole just to keep the family from finding out she’s giving a grant-in-aid to an aspiring young painter?”

  Amy nodded broadly. “A scandalous young painter, and scandalous is a word Ma’am seems to dote on. And that stuff in the gallery is very raw stuff, Mike. I can see dear Jocelyn taking one look and going off like a bomb. Besides, there’s the tie-in with the gay movement, more scandal in the making. Suppose Kim Lowry or Jason Cook learned the identity of their Santa Claus? You think t
hey wouldn’t tell the whole world about it to get all that gaudy publicity? Put yourself in their place.”

  “Well, in their place,” Mike admitted, “I’d be very tempted and damn the consequences. So it’s possible Ma’am is having her cake and eating it too. Santa Claus to them sordid types, and laughing all the way. But face the facts, darling, it’s all fun and games. Nothing to get emotional about.”

  “Just the same I have to keep telling outrageous lies to the McEye about what Ma’am is doing on these little drives. It does foul up the atmosphere.”

  “You think Mrs. Mac suspects something?”

  “Nothing. She smiles all over when I report. Evidently, Ma’am was such a holy terror all those bad years that these little excursions are the best possible news for the family. Proof she’s now living a nice normal rich-lady life, I suppose.”

  “Comfort yourself with that thought, baby,” Mike advised. “By the way, were you named after Amy Robsart? What with your dad possibly a Walter Scott and Kenilworth fan—”

  “He was,” Amy said, “but I was named after my grandmother. His mother.”

  “At least that’s what he wanted you to believe,” said Mike, “the old romantic.”

  Kim Lowry wasn’t in the gallery, but the bearded, turnip-shaped Jason Cook was, along with a few others. The females were vaguely familiar to Amy from her previous visit, and they all seemed to be focused on a middle-aged male who, nicely done up in full middle-management regalia, including vest, necktie, and attaché case, was examining the works on display with the somber expression of an aficionado weighing artistic values. He had to be aware of the almost baleful concentration on him, Amy was sure.

  “A looker,” Jason Cook confided to her sotto voce. “Gets sweaty hands from what they read as porno. It’s a type. They are not reading Kim’s statement nohow.”

  “Possibly,” said Amy. “But where’s Kim? She’s supposed to be here, isn’t she?”

  “Usually, during open time. But she’s stuck home playing nurse to granny. Old lady’s just out of the hospital after the flu—a real close call—and Kim’s the one to make her follow doctor’s orders. But I can take the money and receipt it. You did bring it?” He seemed doubtful about this.

  “Yes. But I’m instructed to give it to Kim. Is there any way you can let her know I’m here?”

  “Well”—Jason Cook managed to sound both relieved and put upon—“if it comes to that, you can go there. It’s not that far away, West Twentieth near Ninth. If you want me to get you a cab—”

  “No, it’s not necessary. Look, you understand that I must follow instructions.”

  He seemed somewhat mollified by this. “Oh, yeah. And don’t get me wrong, Mrs. Lloyd. I want you to know—whoever your Madame X is—how much I appreciate your business. Three works? Cash payment? I mean, this not only provides heavy supportiveness for Kim, but it practically puts the gallery on its feet. Or shouldn’t I be letting you in on that?”

  “No reason why not,” Amy assured him. “And all the credit goes to Madame X. Now I think—”

  Jason Cook gave her a meaningful look and motioned with his head toward the rear of the gallery. “A couple of minutes in private? Don’t worry, Kim’ll be at home when you get there. I’ll write down the address for you. Just a couple of minutes. It could be important.”

  He led her to the storeroom-kitchen and closed its door as much as it could be closed, which was about halfway. He wrote the address on a scrap of paper and handed it to her. Then he stood looking up at her, obviously trying to line up the right words in the right order.

  “Well?” said Amy.

  “All right,” said Jason Cook, “what went a little bit wrong is when you told Kim on the phone that the buyer wanted her to keep the paintings she bought.”

  “They’re still being paid for,” Amy pointed out.

  “Yeah, but Kim’s not sure now about selling under these conditions. She feels the way someone helps you make your statement is to buy your work and put it up for the world to see. This way it comes off as some kind of handout. She has a lot of pride, Kim.”

  Amy’s heart sank. “If you’d explain to her—”

  “I put in half of last night explaining to her. But the way Adela leans on her—”

  “Who?”

  “Adela. Her grandmother. She told you about her, didn’t she?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, Adela got it into her head that what you proposed is a pat on the head for the artist and sort of a put-down of the art. That is what you are going to run into over there, so if you know about it in advance, all the better.” Jason Cook’s voice rose in outrage. “I want to tell you that I feel I’m getting the finger here. I’ve got my financial neck on the block like Captain John Smith, then along comes Pocahontas to save the day, and next thing she’s being chased away by my client. And her flakey grandmother. This is not only ridiculous, it’s a real downer. And you do want to buy those works, don’t you?”

  “Definitely.”

  “So if we close the deal on the spot—you and I personally—I would take my chances that Kim—”

  “I’m sorry,” Amy said from the heart. The temptation was great, but go report this back to Ma’am. What were those precise instructions? Ingratiate yourself with her. And yet, so it seemed, without daring to confide to Kim Lowry—and her grandmother, for God’s sake—that in this case the buyer was blind, that the works couldn’t mean anything to her, that the deal was, as Mike had neatly put it, a grant-in-aid. Hell and damnation, Amy thought.

  “What would I say to them?” she asked.

  Jason Cook brightened. “I already thought of that. Suppose you just said that the buyer doesn’t have a place right now suitable for displaying the works. They’re very large, a problem for the average premises. So it’s just that Kim is made trustee for them for a while. That could be the case, couldn’t it?”

  Amy regretfully shook her head. “Not really.”

  “So you and I know that, but Kim and Adela don’t have to. Look, all you have to do is be convincing about it.”

  “I’m not sure I can be.”

  “Believe me,” Jason Cook said with feeling, “you can be. The way you come on, Mrs. Lloyd, you could sell me a piece of the Brooklyn Bridge. Take my word for it. And all you really have to do is concentrate on Adela. She likes to know she’s in charge. And since the buyer is female, well, she’s open to argument. If it was male, I’d bet the other way. Just keep in mind that as far as male is concerned Adela knows they’re garbage. I’m the exception, and it took me a lot of sweat to get her around that far. Of course, being gay helped. Even if she’s psycho on the subject, she realizes I’m a long way from the men in her life.”

  “I gather,” said Amy, “that whoever they are, they let her down badly.”

  “Were,” said Jason Cook. “Not are. Her husband walked out on her when she started to lose her looks, and it seems she had kind of a total passion for him. Then her daughter—Kim’s mother—married a hard case who one day took all their money and headed out of town. Never seen again. And Kim’s mother, who also had that kind of total passion, drank herself to death. So that made Adela grandma and grandpa and mama and papa to Kim. She just laid all that passion on her, along with—well, maybe justified misanthropy. You see?”

  “Vividly,” said Amy.

  “I know what you mean. Actually, I don’t think it’s healthy for either of them. I mean, that interdependence where if one sneezes, the other starts hyperventilating. After all, the old lady’s over seventy now and in bad shape so odds are she’ll pass on in a little while, and then what happens to Kim? She’ll be stripped of all defenses.”

  “She’s no child herself,” Amy pointed out. “She’ll knit new defenses. She has talent and a career to concentrate on.”

  “If she doesn’t keep fouling it up, the way she’s ready to do with this deal. Anyhow, now you know what you’ll be running into over there. I’m counting on you to be persuasive. I’m r
eally grateful, Mrs. Lloyd, that you come on so well-balanced about it.”

  “Well,” Amy said, “I’m as much agent for the buyer as you are for the seller, so I have a stake in it, too.”

  “Then we’re in the same boat, halfway up the creek together.” As Amy started to open the door, Jason Cook held up a hand. “One more minute, Mrs. Lloyd? It’s something I have to find out. I know I probably shouldn’t lay this on you, but it’s been on my mind so much I can’t help it. Even Kim doesn’t know about it.”

  “About what?”

  “Well, last month when I put out the press release about the gallery opening and Kim’s show I had someone drop in here for a private interview. Young, but not that young, very enthusiastic about Kim’s work. Said he did free-lance articles on contract for a lot of national magazines, and he thought Kim would be a hot subject. He wanted to do a really strong profile of her but without her knowing it, see? No chance of turning it into promotion that way, so he said. So I talked very freely about her, and then it turned out that friends of hers had also been put through the same routine.”

  Amy felt her stomach turn over. “Nothing wrong with that,” she said without conviction.

  “No,” said Jason Cook, “but I have enough connections with magazine people to find out if any such article was contracted for or even talked about where it mattered, and there wasn’t. No interest from any direction. You see?”

  “If the man provided credentials—”

  “Yeah, but credentials never came up. That’s my fault. I remember I had one little flicker of an idea about it, but then I told myself this could turn him off, and we were doing fine as it was. Right now, matter of fact, I’m worried about turning you off with all this. But I have to take the chance.” Jason Cook was obviously steeling himself for the payoff. “So is there any possibility, Mrs. Lloyd, that you or your client were having Kim checked out? Having her character investigated or whatever? You’re not angry, are you, about me asking?”