People Like Us (17 page)

“My name is Augustus Bailey,” began Gus.

“Yes, I know who you are,” answered Constantine. “You refused to shake my hand at Maisie Verdurin’s party.”

Gus, having come as a supplicant, blushed.

“I remember slights. Even averted eyes are recorded in my computer up here,” Constantine said, pointing to his head. He stared at Gus, cold and wet, standing in the street under an umbrella, as if he enjoyed the feeling of power he possessed by not immediately giving him entrance. “My inclination is to slam the door in your face, but curiosity overrides that desire. Come in.”

Gus passed him and walked into the house.

“Give your wet things to Ramon,” he said, as Gus took off his coat. The butler gathered up Gus’s umbrella and coat, soaking the front of his white jacket in the process.

“The Filipinos, they say, are an intelligent race, but my butler is an exception to the rule,” said de Rham, in front of the butler. “Don’t put those wet things on the upholstered bench, Ramon. Take them into the kitchen.”

Gus turned to a mirror and readjusted his black tie, which had become crushed under his coat.

“You are either coming from or on your way to Mary Finch’s dance for Justine Altemus and Mr. Slatkin,” said de Rham, observing Gus’s dinner jacket and black patent-leather pumps.

“On my way to,” replied Gus.

“Wouldn’t you love to have been a fly on the wall when Justine told Lil she was going to marry Mr. Slatkin? Or perhaps you were, Mr. Bailey. A fly on the wall, that is.”

“No, I wasn’t, Mr. de Rham.”

“With one of your magazine articles?”

“No.”

“I’m sure Mr. Slatkin wasn’t quite what Lil had in mind for Justine. I rather think her hopes were higher.”

It had not occurred to Gus, in his anticipatory thoughts about his night visit, that Constantine de Rham would gossip with him about an approaching society wedding. From another room, the sounds of a television drama could be heard.

“Yvonne is watching
Dynasty
,” explained Constantine, with a tolerant smile. He pronounced
dynasty
“dinasty” in the British manner and indicated with a head gesture that Gus should follow him. They walked down a hallway into Constantine’s den, and Constantine closed the door behind them.

On one dark red wall, over a deep tufted sofa piled high with damask and tapestry pillows, was a large painting of a stag being torn apart by hounds. On another Gus’s eye was drawn to a bookcase full of tall slender volumes, bound in red Moroccan leather with gold lettering, that appeared to be privately printed: aristocratic biographies of aristocratic de Rhams: Casimir, Stanislaus, Edouard, and Thierry, the revered ancestors that Constantine claimed as his own. “The guillotine played havoc with my family during the Terror,” de Rham said, watching Gus look at the books, “but enough members survived to perpetuate the name and reclaim the estates.”

Gus turned from the books and looked up into the eyes of the tall man whose gaze was boring into him, daring him to disbelieve his ancestral claims. In the close quarters of the den a scent of not-quite-fresh perspiration clouded the air. It occurred to Gus that perhaps
Constantine de Rham was not an everyday bather. Inwardly Gus asked himself why he was in this man’s house, on this rainy night, and for an instant he considered flight. Instead, needing him, he fought his distaste and admired the elegant French desk behind which de Rham seated himself. The desk was, de Rham explained, signed by Boulle. He passed his long fingers lovingly over its highly polished ormolu-encrusted surface.

“But surely you have not delayed going to Mary Finch’s dance to come crosstown on a rainy night to discuss a Boulle desk,” said de Rham.

“No.”

De Rham rose and pulled the velvet curtains closed on the two windows behind his desk. When he turned around, he made a show of surprise, by raising his eyebrows, that Gus had already seated himself, as if he had expected him to remain standing until he had been invited to sit.

“No, not there. Sit in the Regency chair,” Constantine said, pointing to a black lacquer chair with a cane seat that looked considerably less comfortable than the club chair that Gus had chosen. “I can see you better there.”

Gus complied, understanding that Constantine needed to be in charge.

“Now, how can I help you, Mr. Bailey?” asked de Rham.

“There is a man who will be coming up for release from prison,” began Gus, cautiously.

Constantine de Rham again raised his eyebrows, in an exaggerated grimace of amazement. “Yes?”

“I would like to have this man followed.”

“I find it utterly extraordinary that you should come to see me on such a matter.”

“I was told that you knew people who could lead one to other people who performed such services.”

“Am I supposed to feel flattered by such a reputation?”

“Please let me finish.”

De Rham shrugged, as if the matter were of complete indifference to him.

“I want this man followed,” Gus repeated.

“You’ve already said that.”

Gus, sweating a bit, wished he had not come.

“Starting when?” asked Constantine, surprisingly.

“From the day of his release.”

“Where is the prison?”

“California.”

“Where in California?”

“Vacaville.”

“How long will you want him followed?”

“Indefinitely.”

“That sort of thing can prove very expensive.”

“I don’t care.”

“Have you thought of the police?”

“I don’t want the police.”

“Perhaps a private detective would be more what you wanted.”

“I don’t want a private detective either.”

“Is it possible you have something more in mind than merely following him?”

“Perhaps.”

“That sort of thing can be arranged from within.”

“I don’t want it to be arranged from within,” said Gus.

“What is the name of this man who haunts you, Mr. Bailey?”

“I didn’t say he haunted me, Mr. de Rham.”

“You didn’t have to, Mr. Bailey. I know an obsession when I see one.”

Gus laughed. “Hardly an obsession.”

“Hmm.” Constantine de Rham folded his arms and waited for Gus to answer.

“Flint. Francis Flint. He is called Lefty Flint,” said Gus, quietly, but a movement of his shoulders belied the sound of his voice.

“Even the sound of Mr. Flint’s name seems to upset you, Mr. Bailey.”

Gus looked at Constantine for a moment.

“What has this man done to you?”

Gus shook his head and waved his hands to indicate that he did not wish to discuss the matter.

Constantine watched him and then rose and walked toward the window. He pushed back the red velvet curtain he had just closed and looked out at the rain coming down on Sutton Place.

“I think I know someone who might be able to lead you to someone, as you put it.”

Constantine de Rham unlocked a drawer of the Boulle desk and withdrew a worn leather address book that he carried to the sofa, settling himself. As he slowly looked through the pages, he seemed interested only in a piece of skin on his thumb, which he tried first to twist off and then to bite off.

Yvonne Lupescu opened the door and entered without knocking. Her satin-and-lace negligee revealed the cleavage between her breasts.

“Finally Alexis Carrington has gotten her comeuppance!” she said, referring to the television series she had been watching. Both men turned to look at her, and she turned from Constantine to Gus, as if she had been unaware of his presence. “But, Constantine, I didn’t know you had a guest,” she cried, crossing her hands modestly over her breasts.

Gus rose to his feet. It was the first time that he had seen Yvonne Lupescu with her blond hair hanging loosely about her shoulders. They looked at each other.

“An unexpected visit, my dear, at this late hour. Mr. Bailey. Baroness Lupescu,” he said, making an introduction. “You remember, Yvonne. Mr. Bailey was not friendly toward us at Maisie’s parties.”

“Yes, yes, I remember. He and Matilda Clarke were speculating about me across the table,” said Yvonne.

Again Gus blushed.

“Ah, look at him, Constantine. He blushes. How smart you look, Mr. Bailey. Now let me guess: you’re going on to Mary Finch’s dance,” said Yvonne playfully.

“Correct.”

“Of course, we weren’t invited.”

“I’ve explained that to Mr. Bailey.”

“I don’t know Mr. Bailey’s first name, Constantine.”

“It’s Augustus,” said Gus.

“And, of course, they call you Gus. Or is it Gussy?”

“Gus.”

“That’s what I’m going to call you. Now, Gus, before you go off to Mrs. Finch’s, come into the library and drink a glass of champagne with Constantine and me.”

“No, no, thank you. I don’t drink, and I must be off, Mrs. Lupescu.”

“Leave your address,” said Constantine.

Gus leaned over and wrote it on a pad on the desk.

“I’ll see Mr. Bailey to the door, Constantine,” said Yvonne.

Mrs. Lupescu preceded Gus down the corridor.

“Tigers’ whiskers,” she said.

“Tigers’ whiskers?” repeated Gus, not understanding.

“Chopped very fine and mixed with food. The victim dies a few days later, and nobody can detect the cause.” She turned to him and smiled.

Gus realized she had listened to the conversation.

“Ah, but where does one find tigers’ whiskers?” he asked, as if they were sharing a joke.

“That, of course, is the problem,” said Yvonne Lupescu. “Once, in Albania, my grandmother, who was the mistress of King Zog—”

Gus’s coat and umbrella, dried, had been left in the hallway. He again turned to the mirror and straightened the bow of his black tie.

“That’s not the way to tie a black tie,” said Yvonne, interrupting her story.

“What’s the matter with it?” asked Gus, fingering it on both sides.

“It’s entirely too lopsided. See? Too much tie on the left. Not enough on the right. Here, let me do it for you,” Yvonne said, untying his tie and standing close to
him while she held each end, looking him squarely in the eye. “You start this way, with both sides even, and then you make a half bow on the right side, like this, and then you wrap the left side around the half bow, like this, and then you pull it through this hole, like this.
Voilà
.”

She moved even closer to him. Her breasts had become more exposed in the tying of his tie. Gus, embarrassed, blushed again.

“Do you want me to take care of that hard-on for you?” she whispered, smiling at him.

“No,” whispered Gus, looking back toward the door of Constantine’s den.

“Danger’s half the fan, Gus,” she said.

“I’m late.”

“What I have in mind won’t take a minute and a half.”

“That’s incredibly kind of you, but no, thank you,” said Gus, heading for the door.

“What do you want, Mr. Bailey?”

“I’d like to hear about King Zog and your grandmother some time,” said Gus. He opened the front door and left.

15

It was the same conversation that was going on everywhere for the few weeks that people were discussing the breakup of the Edward Potter Manchester marriage and the romance of Loelia Manchester and Mickie Minardos. It did not rivet Gus Bailey the way it riveted those who knew the principals better than Gus knew them, but by now Gus understood that these people were more interested in talking about themselves than any other topic.

“You see, it was all so well disguised, Gus. No one suspected a thing,” said Lil Altemus, settling back into her chair at Clarence’s. “
I
certainly didn’t and I, after all, am one of Loelia’s very best friends.”

Michael, the waiter with the ponytail, who was everyone’s favorite waiter at Clarence’s, came up to them and told them the specials. Lil never spoke directly to a waiter if she was dining with a man. “Tell him I’ll have the chicken paillard with some sort of green vegetable. Nothing first, and perhaps some of that marvelous Chilean wine, whatever-it’s-called, that they have here. Tell him to ask Chick Jacoby the name. Look, there’s Ezzie Fenwick.

“Anyway, Mickie Minardos made Loelia laugh. Mickie was a marvelous dancer, all that sort of thing, and we all know how Loelia loves to dance, and Ned, Ned always had two left feet when it came to dancing. But no one suspected for an
instant
that a romance was involved. Least of all poor Ned. Did you know that Ned was a cousin of mine on the Altemus side?

“But then, in Egypt, in Luxor, where they went to hear
Aida
sung at the pyramids, with people from everywhere who knew them, it was obvious to anyone with half a brain that they had progressed from giggling best friends to romantic lovers. It was my friend Gertie Todesco, poor Gertie, never could keep a secret, who spread the word, and what Loelia did, to make matters worse, was call Ned from Cairo, with a bad connection, and ask him for a divorce, after twenty-two years. Can you imagine? Is it any wonder that Ned is put out?”

Although Loelia Manchester was a rich woman in her own right, the bulk of the Somerset fortune, which was considerable, was controlled with an iron hand by Fernanda Somerset, Loelia’s mother, and Fernanda Somerset was fond of saying about herself that she understood money management like a man.