The LeBaron Secret

by Birmingham, Stephen;

  Finally, he sits down again, and calls to the passing waiter, “Check, please.”

  “Thank you, sir, but Miss LeBaron has asked that this be placed on her bill,” the waiter says.

  At this very moment, Gabe Pollack has just reached Assaria LeBaron at her house on Washington Street. “I’m in Los Angeles,” he says. “My secretary says you’ve been trying to reach me.”

  “Yes,” she says. “Gabe, this is very important. Harry Tillinghast is planning to make a takeover bid for Baronet, and Eric’s behind him. Naturally, their object is to get me to bail out of the company. I’m going to fight this every inch of the way, Gabe. They’re not going to do this to me, but there is one immediate problem. All the shareholders have received notices in the mail, and Melissa is having dinner with your Mr. McPherson tonight. I think it’s more than likely that she’ll mention something about it to him, and that he’ll feel there’s a story in it. All that is fine, Gabe, but I don’t want a story yet. I’m meeting with the lawyers tomorrow, and there’s a family meeting planned for over the weekend. If McPherson comes to you in the morning with a story on Kern-McKittrick, I want you to tell him to keep the lid on it until I’m ready. Will you do that for me, Gabe?”

  “Sure,” he says. “That should be no problem, Sari.”

  “Believe me, when I’m ready to go to the press it’ll be a much bigger story than anything Mr. McPherson will be getting out of Melissa at tonight’s dinner. And if you’ll do that for me, Gabe, I’m sure you know what your reward will be.”

  “No—what?”

  “You’ll be the first newspaper in the country to have the story. You’ll have the exclusive, inside track.”

  “If that’s possible, that would certainly be very nice.”

  “I’ll personally see that you get it, Gabe. That should sell some papers for you. I’ll even go farther, if you’ll sit on any story about us until I give you the high sign. You know I’ve never given interviews, but I’ll give you an interview on this one—one that’ll knock ’em off their feet. How’s that for a return for the favor, Gabe?”

  He chuckles. “Yes, I guess that would be really something,” he says.

  “Good. It’s a deal. Besides,” she says, “it rather amuses me that the first to get this story won’t be the Times or the Wall Street Journal, but our little old Peninsula Gazette!” She replaces the receiver in its cradle.

  While she has been talking, Thomas has been standing discreetly a few paces outside her door. Now he enters. “Madam,” he says, “there was a letter today in Miss Melissa’s mail that I thought you should know about.”

  “Oh? What sort of letter?”

  “It is a letter from Switzerland, Madam. It appears to be from the Palace Hotel in Saint Moritz.”

  “I see.”

  “And it appears to be quite more than an ordinary letter. It is quite a thick packet. I didn’t deliver it to Miss Melissa, because I thought Madam might wish to examine it first.”

  “I see,” she says. “You’re asking me whether I’d like to open it and read it first.”

  “I thought this packet might possibly contain information that would be of special interest to you, Madam.”

  “Yes.” She hesitates, playing with a pencil. “You know I disapprove of doing things like this,” she says. “I’ve never liked to do it. But yes, I think under the present circumstances, we should. These are very special circumstances, after all.”

  He nods. “I’ll fetch it for you, Madam.”

  While she waits, she doodles with her pencil, and the doodles are the pie charts that she has been drawing and redrawing now for many days. When he returns, and hands her the letter, she sees that indeed it is very long.

  “Have you read this, Thomas? Never mind—of course you have. It doesn’t take twenty minutes to steam open a letter.” She adjusts her reading glasses on her nose, and reads:

  My dear Miss LeBaron,

  Thank you for your kind letter, and its interesting enclosure, and I apologize for the long time it has taken me to get back to you with a reply. We are just now coming to the end of our customarily busy and hectic winter season, and our staff is now preparing for what our British guests call their “hols,” a well-deserved rest until the hotel reopens for summer, in June. This gives me a chance to answer your letter in some detail, which I know you were hoping to have me do.

  But first of all, let me tell you how pleased I was to hear that you enjoyed your stay with us. Let me tell you also that it was our distinct pleasure to have you with us as our gracious and most charming guest. I passed along your compliments and good wishes to Hans, your ski instructor, who in return sends felicitations to you. All of the staff agree with me that your visit was only flawed by the fact that it was much too brief! The staff and I all look forward to another, longer visit in the future and, in the meantime, send our compliments and greetings for a happy, healthy, and prosperous New Year!

  Now, to get to the substance of the questions you pose to me in your letter. I confess, when you spoke to me in December here, I did not immediately in my memory (always faulty!) draw a connection between your name and the people you feel may have been your relatives who stayed at the Hotel in 1926. Too, the fact that the Hotel was in the throes of its busy winter season may also be blamed for my unfortunate mnemonic failure. But the photograph of the young woman you enclosed immediately “triggered” my memory, and I remembered the young woman as though it were yesterday! Also, a search of the Hotel’s records and registry (kept as meticulously as possible since the Hotel’s first existence in 1856) revealed that indeed Mr. and Mrs. Peter Powell LeBaron stayed with us in 1926 and also in 1927. It is particularly regrettable that I should not have remembered their party instantly, since theirs was an unusually long stay!

  Remember, of course, that in 1926 I was only a young boy of twelve, working here for my father, being trained, as he was trained by his own father, in the hotel business from the ground up. That year, I worked in a variety of positions. I worked as a busboy in the dining room, as a waiter in the Bar, and occasionally helped out at the Concierge’s desk, delivering mail and telegrams and newspapers to the guests’ rooms. As a result, I got to know many of the guests and their habits more than a little well.…

  “What a windbag,” Sari says, turning a page.

  … The woman in the photograph you sent me is very definitely Mrs. Peter Powell LeBaron. I remember her well, and our Guest Record Ledger shows that she and her husband occupied Suite 91–93 on the fourth étage. It might interest you to know that this particular suite has also been a favorite of many notables over the years. Miss Mary Pickford and Mr. Douglas Fairbanks spent a part of their honeymoon there. It was also the suite which Miss Greta Garbo always requested, as did Marlene Dietrich and Miss Barbara Hutton, when she was Countess Haugwitz-Reventlow. Other more recent dignitaries who have occupied the suite include Arturo Lopez-Wilshawe and the Baron Alexis de Rédé, Salvador Dali, Lord and Lady Ribblesdale, Mr. and Mrs. David Rockefeller, Mr. Henry Ford II, Miss Christina Onassis, and the King of Qum …

  “And what a name-dropper!” Sari says. “The King of Qum!”

  … Mr. and Mrs. LeBaron’s traveling companion, Mrs. Mary Brown, who remained with them throughout their stay, occupied an equally fine apartement, Suite 87–89, on the étage below. Suite 87–89 has provided a “home away from home” for an equally distinguished list of notables over the years, including Miss Paulette Goddard, Mr. Alfred Hitchcock, M. Jacques Fath, the novelist Erich Maria Remarque, Count Theo Rossi, Miss Elsa Maxwell, Miss Audrey Hepburn, Baron and Baroness Thyssen, and His Royal Highness Prince Karim Aga Khan. The late Shah of Iran particularly fancied this suite, as did David O. Selznick and Lady Maureen, Marchioness of Dufferin and Ava. But on to my recollections of your relatives, which will interest you more …

  “About time!” Sari mutters.

  … With the photograph you sent me in my hand, the memories of Mr. and Mrs. LeBaron come flooding back. I remember
that Mr. LeBaron was a very tall, very distinguished-looking man, good-looking in a rugged American “Western” way. His wife was a tiny woman, but quite extraordinarily pretty, though she looked, in contrast to her husband, quite foreign. I remember that there was some speculation among the Hotel staff about what might have been her country of origin. Some speculated that she might have been Italian, but I remember that she was addressed by her intimates as “Saree,” so there was some talk that she might be part Asian, perhaps Indian. She must have been quite young at the time—recently married, I believe—but in the eyes of a boy of twelve she seemed very mature, so poised, so dignified, so full of self-confidence and excitement, almost a grande dame. What I remember most vividly about her was her walk. For a woman of such small physical stature, she seemed to have extraordinary presence, and this was expressed in the way she walked. Coming down the short flight of steps into the dining room in one of her beautiful dresses, her walk was almost regal, like an actress stepping out onto a stage into the spotlight, and heads would always turn throughout the room as she made her entrance, and moved gracefully to her table, which was number 5, a wonderfully lithe and springy walk …

  And why are Sari’s eyes suddenly misting? She shakes the letter, and reads on.

  … The LeBarons’ traveling companion, Mrs. Brown, was an altogether different sort, who struck me as a shy, solitary, almost moody young woman who seemed to prefer her own company to that of others. I recall that almost every afternoon, in every weather, Mrs. Brown would take a walk around the lake, alone, a distance of 8.5 kilometers. The threesome would frequently gather in the bar at cocktail time, and there would be lively conversation, but it was always my impression that it was Mrs. LeBaron who “sparked” conversation, who tried to keep things gay and interesting, while Mrs. Brown played a more withdrawn and passive role in their social intercourse. I remember, too, that for all the LeBaron party’s outward impression of gaiety and ease and friendship, they also somehow conveyed an impression of inner sadness, some infinite sadness seemed to burden them. I don’t know why I say this, because there was no outward evidence of this, and yet I remember that many of the staff noticed this, and commented on it, and speculated about it. There was speculation, in light of the fact that no Mr. Brown was traveling with Mrs. Brown, that she might have been recently divorced, and that this might have been the cause of Mrs. Brown’s apparent disaffection and dégagé air. It was suggested that Mr. and Mrs. LeBaron might have accompanied Mrs. Brown on this long holiday to divert her mind and raise her spirits after a recent bereavement. And yet neither explanation entirely satisfied the gossips among the staff. American divorcees, we have noticed, often style themselves by taking a maiden name as a first name—Mrs. Vanderbilt Brown, for instance. While American widows customarily retain their husbands’ first names—i.e., Mrs. Thomas Brown. But Mrs. Brown styled her nomenclature “Mrs. Mary Brown,” which did not lend itself to either explanation, divorce or widowhood. But that it must have been one or the other became clear as the weeks went by, and Mrs. Brown’s condition became apparent. Her condition also helped explain the undercurrent of what I call sadness that seemed to pervade the LeBaron party.

  Because, you see, it was not your relative Mrs. LeBaron who was pregnant during her stay here, and gave birth to a child four months or so after arriving. It was Mrs. Brown. I know I am correct in this because of an incident that happened. We had learned that Mr. LeBaron’s family were, or had been, in the wine business in California. There are still a number of vineyards here in the Engadine, some of them very old, and at one point Mr. LeBaron expressed an interest in visiting one of these. But here in the Old World the art of wine making is surrounded by superstitions and old wives’ tales. It is said, for example, that wine must not be bottled during the dark of the moon. It is said that bottling done while a north wind is blowing will turn the wine cloudy, and that there must not be rain or cloudy skies. Even today there are cellar men who will turn pale with fear if a woman passes by their casks at certain times of the moon, and at any time at all if she is great with child. It is all very silly, of course, but our Old World vineyardists believe these factors will doom their harvest. It fell to my father to explain, as tactfully as possible, to Mr. LeBaron that while Mr. LeBaron and his wife would be perfectly welcome to visit one of our local vineyards—provided the phase of the moon were checked on first, of course!—it would be quite unwise for them to include Mrs. Brown in their company. This was explained to him simply to spare Mrs. Brown any embarrassment and discomfort. I remember this because I know that when Mr. and Mrs. LeBaron toured the vineyards, they toured alone. I am certain of this because I was selected as their guide to accompany them on their tour. I remember that when the tour was over Mr. LeBaron offered me a very generous pourboire of a hundred francs. As the son of the hotelier, I quite naturally would not accept this.

  I remember that Mrs. Brown’s baby was born during one of the winter months—December or January of 1926–1927. I remember because there were heavy snows, and there was a great deal of excitement surrounding the event. It is not every day that a baby is born at The Palace! I remember that it was a very difficult birth. If I recall, the baby was about to make a breech presentation, and our old hotel doctor—whose speciality was mending bones broken on the ski slopes!—felt he could no longer handle the situation, and Mrs. Brown was rushed to hospital in a sleigh. A sleigh had to be used because motor vehicles could no longer pass through the streets, due to the snows. At the hospital, we heard that surgery had been required—a caesarian section, I presume—and I remember that we at the Hotel were able to help by contacting the Red Cross and obtaining many demilitres of blood. Later, I remember hearing that both mother and child were very nearly lost. I wish I could tell you the sex of the child, but I cannot. I had no interest in it. To a young man of twelve years old, a baby is simply that—a baby!

  I wish that there were more that I could tell you about Mr. and Mrs. LeBaron and Mrs. Brown. Our records show that they arrived at the Hotel on 17 August 1926, and departed on 1 March 1927, whether to return to America or for further European travel I do not know. In our Guest Registry we note any special preferences or requirements that our guests may have, in order that these may be attended to on future visits. I note that Mrs. LeBaron had a special preference for one hotel maid, Annelinde. I note that Mr. and Mrs. LeBaron liked a Continental breakfast—orange juice, croissant, and coffee—served in their suite at 7 A.M., and often came down for a fuller breakfast in the dining room around 9. I note that Mr. LeBaron wanted the Paris Herald Tribune delivered with his Continental breakfast, and that he liked his shirts laundered without starch. The only notation I find on Mrs. Brown’s card is that she liked her breakfast eggs cooked exactly three and one-half minutes.

  I note that Mr. and Mrs. LeBaron’s address in the Registry is given as 1023 California Street, San Francisco. Mrs. Brown’s is given as Bitterroot Ranch, Lakeside, Montana.

  I hope, dear Miss LeBaron, that all of this will be of some assistance to you in your search for lost relatives, and in your project of constructing a “family tree,” and if I can be of any further help to you please do not hesitate to call on my eager service.

  Meanwhile, my staff joins me in wishing you amities and felicitations.

  Sincerely yours,

  Andrea Badrutt

  “Well, Thomas,” Sari says, putting down the letter, removing her glasses, and rubbing her eyes. “What should we do with this? Give it to her or burn it up?”

  “You’re asking my opinion, Madam?”

  “Yes, of course I am.”

  “I think, under the present circumstances, you should give it to her.”

  “Here,” she says, handing him the letter. “Seal it up. Put it on her mail tray in the morning. This will mean telling her the truth, of course.”

  “Yes, Madam. I see what you mean. Yes.”

  “But what if—?”

  “I know what you’re thinking, Madam. But you’ve
got to take that chance. Considering the present circumstances, considering what Mr. Eric is threatening to do, I don’t see that you have any choice. If she knows the truth, there’ll be at least a fifty-fifty chance that she’ll vote her shares in your favor, and at least a fifty-fifty chance that you’ll win. If she isn’t told the truth, there’s no way you’ll be able to win at all. Your pie charts tell you that.”

  She sighs. “You don’t think I should speak to the lawyers first?”

  “Under the circumstances, I don’t think the lawyers would advise you to do differently, if you’re going to win. Look at the pie charts. Besides, this isn’t just a legal problem, is it, Madam? It’s a human problem, too.”

  “I could still lose.”

  “Isn’t a fifty-fifty chance of winning better than no chance at all?”

  “You’re right. Of course. As always. I’ve always said that you could have become the president of General Motors if you hadn’t decided to take up buttling.”

  “I think I’d rather be a butler, Madam,” he says. “It’s much more interesting.”

  PART THREE

  The Takeover

  Nine

  Sari and Peter had spent the first three full summers of their marriage—the summers of 1927, 1928, and 1929—at Bitterroot Ranch in northwestern Montana with their little girl. The property consisted of three thousand wooded acres in Lake County, overlooking Flathead Lake, and with snowcapped mountains on both horizons, which Julius LeBaron had bought for a song—ten dollars an acre—before the war, when land in the Rockies was considered next to worthless. Now, the U.S. government would like to purchase Bitterroot for a National Forest, but Sari and Julius’s other heirs have been holding out. The figure the government has offered is $500,000. Private developers have also shown an interest.