The Rich Are Different (60 page)

‘Well, if O’Reilly’s king of the pampas,’ I said dryly, ‘I think it’s about time he paid America a state visit.’ And the very next day I called with reluctance on Sylvia Van Zale.

[7]

By that time, the May of 1928, New York was whipping through its brief spring towards yet another torrid money-making summer. People had stopped talking about Lindbergh’s flight to Paris and The Street was once again the universal topic of conversation. There was only one street in America now and everyone knew it began across the road from Trinity Church and glittered down past Morgan’s to the corner of Willow and Wall. The ticker-tape was blazing its mighty message of unlimited riches, and in response to our servants’ pleas we had a ticker installed in our kitchen at Long Island. There were tickers everywhere now, in the clubs, in the hotels, in the restaurants – even on board transatlantic liners, for Wall Street was the promised land and the milk and honey would flow for anyone who had a couple of nickels to spare.

My chauffeur, ferrying me uptown with a client, would leave the dividing panel ajar so that his long ears could pick up the hottest market tips. Even the housemaids could read the mesmerizing symbols of the great bull market, and at the elegant dinner-parties and the debutantes’ thé-dansants, the swell nightclubs and the lowest speak-easies, people spoke in hushed tones of the gods who made all financial miracles possible, the magnificent, big-hearted, lovable investment bankers who floated issue after issue of mouth-watering pieces of paper, the chips for the greatest gambling machine of all time.

We were celebrities. Following Paul’s example I tried to keep on close terms with the press but eventually I had to call a halt to the interviews. I just didn’t have the time. The press interviewed Caroline instead and photographed our Long Island home. Charley Blair’s new yacht was front page news on the tabloids, and Lewis’s Hollywood profile reappeared with monotonous regularity whenever he went to Washington to confer with the Treasury Secretary. Martin gave a guest lecture at Columbia. Clay was interviewed on the radio. Ward MacAllister’s traditional society of Old New York finally blended with the Café Society chronicled by Maury Paul when the Yankee aristocrats achieved the glamour of upstart filmstars, but as I was driven uptown in my snow-white Rolls-Royce to meet Sylvia, I couldn’t help wondering what our doting public would think if they knew a handful of their heroes were up to their aristocratic necks in extortion, conspiracy and homicide.

Paul had
left the Fifth Avenue mansion to Cornelius, but Sylvia had received the homes in Maine and Florida. She had sold them. She had wanted only to live quietly, and after making pilgrimages to both Bar Harbor and Palm Beach as if to say goodbye to her past memories she had bought a town-house on Fifty-Fourth Street between Madison and Park. She hadn’t wanted the mansion on Fifth Avenue – no doubt Paul had been aware of that when he had made his will – and it wasn’t until I was invited to her new home that I realized how she must have disliked the grandeur of those homes she’d shared with Paul. Her little brownstone was simple and cosy. There were no antiques, nothing which would remind her of Fifth Avenue. In the morning-room there were some nice books like the Edith Wharton novels, a couple of water-colours of San Francisco and a small photograph of Paul which somehow managed to dominate the room. I looked at him while the butler went off to announce my arrival and discovered that no matter where I stood the eyes in the photograph watched me. Once in Europe Paul had dragged me through an art gallery and I’d seen paintings like that. It was the damnedest trick I ever saw on canvas.

When Sylvia entered the room I gasped because she’d had her hair cut. It was the first indication I had that she was recovering from her loss, for Paul had never let her bob or shingle her hair.

She blushed like a schoolgirl. ‘Do I look awful?’ she said nervously. ‘I only had it done yesterday.’

‘You look wonderful!’ I said, and meant it. The new style made her look years younger. No one could have guessed that she was now the wrong side of forty, and suddenly I felt sick. She looked like a woman who either had a lover or was expecting one to arrive any day from Argentina.

‘Sylvia,’ I said after the maid had brought in coffee, ‘you must have wondered why I asked to see you like this during business hours.’

She at once became tense. ‘I knew you were signalling that it was something important.’ She finished pouring the coffee and set down the pot with care. ‘Is it about Bruce?’ she said fearfully. ‘Was it suicide after all?’

I said nothing. At last she realized I had made a pact with Elizabeth and tried again. ‘Was Dinah Slade right?’ she said in a rush.

‘Yes and no. It’s turned out that Greg Da Costa was no more than a bystander. But there was definitely a certain other person involved.’

She got up very suddenly, moved to the fireplace and then stopped as if she couldn’t remember why she was on her feet. As I watched I saw her twisting her wedding band round and round on her finger.

‘It’s no one I know, is it,’ she said, not looking at me, and when I didn’t reply she collapsed on to the couch. ‘But it can’t be – it just can’t be – I’ve been telling myself over and over again—’

‘Have you heard from him, Sylvia?’

‘Two weeks ago. He wrote to me for my birthday. It was the first I’d heard of him since Paul’s funeral. I thought—’ She stopped.

‘That he’d forgotten you?’

‘That he’d finally taken no for an answer.’ She kept smoothing her skirt
over her knees. She looked so pretty with her short hair. ‘It was a long silence,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mind. I was glad. I didn’t want to hear from him again. But when he wrote … He said nothing had changed, nothing would ever change, he said he’d come into some money and had bought this ranch in Argentina – he even sent me some pictures of it … He said he wanted to come to New York to see me but he wouldn’t come unless I was willing – ready – recovered …’ Her voice trailed away.

‘And are you?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said, twisting her wedding ring, but I looked at her new hairstyle and thought I could see the truth better than she could. ‘I just don’t know. I’ve been thinking and thinking about him, wondering how it would be to get away from New York and start afresh. In some ways I think it would be the best thing for me, yet I don’t know whether I’ve got the strength to make such a break with the past. Probably if he came here he’d give me the strength.’ Her eyes were dark with memory and I knew then that O’Reilly had some special sexual message for her that I’d never be able to read. But the next moment she was saying with a shudder: ‘He was so fanatical. I always knew there was nothing he wouldn’t do to get what he wanted.’

There was a long silence before I could bring myself to say:

‘Sylvia, I want him back in New York and you’re the only person who can help me.’

‘Are you sure – quite sure – beyond any reasonable doubt—’

‘It’s not just Greg Da Costa’s uncorroborated story. I’ve been in touch with the manager of Greg’s bank in L.A. Every month Greg gets a cheque drawn on a Swiss bank account and signed by Terence O’Reilly. And there’s Dinah Slade’s evidence too, Sylvia. Before she called you that night she’d just read a letter from Greg implying knowledge of the conspiracy, and the letter was written to O’Reilly. Finally there are the facts that not even O’Reilly himself disputes. He had infiltrated Bruce’s society, he knew Krasnov – and that means he just had to know what was going on because I’ve never met anyone smarter at digging up dirt than Terence O’Reilly. Hell, he even exposed Salzedo! Exposing a lunatic like Krasnov would be child’s play in comparison. Anyway, if you add all those facts to the knowledge that he had the strongest possible motive for wishing Paul dead, there’s only one conclusion to be drawn.’

I thought she might shy away from such a verdict, but her reaction was strong and immediate.

‘Then that’s that,’ she said flatly. ‘I’ll get him here for you.’

‘Sylvia, I sure hate to use you like this—’

‘No,’ she said more strongly than ever, ‘don’t apologize. If he had a hand in killing Paul I want him brought to justice.’

‘It’ll be a vigilante justice,’ I said, watching her. ‘You realize that.’

‘Just do whatever has to be done.’ Her face was bleak. Even the shine seemed to have gone from her pretty hair. ‘I won’t talk about it and I won’t ask any questions.’

We stood
up. Her hand was cold as I took it in mine and drew her to me for a kiss. Paul’s eyes watched us from the photograph frame.

‘Let me know when the next letter comes from Argentina, Sylvia,’ I said, and then leaving the house I travelled rapidly downtown to the bank.

[8]

He never answered her letter. He just packed his bags, jumped on a ship to Florida and caught the train north from Fort Lauderdale. He reached New York on the sixteenth of July, five days before the second anniversary of Paul’s death and checked into the St Regis a stone’s throw from Sylvia’s brownstone.

I was in Philadelphia and had just returned to my hotel after a long business meeting when the phone rang.

‘Steve, this is Cornelius.’

I was surprised. I couldn’t think of a single reason why Cornelius should need to phone me. ‘Yeah?’ I said. ‘Some problem at the office?’

‘No, I’m speaking from Sylvia’s house. Terence O’Reilly turned up on her doorstep today. Being upset she called the bank and when she heard you were out of town she asked for me.’ Cornelius’s prim mid-western accent was as neutral as a tract of virgin snow.

‘Let me talk to her,’ I said abruptly.

Cornelius transferred the receiver without a word. Sylvia’s voice said breathlessly: ‘Steve?’

‘Sylvia, how much have you told that kid?’

‘But that’s the amazing thing, Steve! He seemed to know it all already! As soon as I mentioned Terence’s name—’

‘Let’s not go into details on the phone. Are you all right?’

‘Yes. No. Well, I mean I was shattered to see him without warning but fortunately he understood and said he’d give me twenty-four hours to adjust to the idea of him being in town. He said he’d telephone later from the St Regis.’

‘Fine. I’ll come back to New York right away to take care of everything. Now let me speak to Cornelius again, please.’

‘Steve?’ said Cornelius presently.

‘We’d better talk, hadn’t we.’

‘I’d appreciate that,’ said Cornelius, still chillingly neutral.

‘One o’clock tomorrow at the Colony.’

‘I’ll be there.’

We hung up. I stared into space for ten empty seconds and then I unscrewed the cap on my hip-flask and poured myself the stiffest Scotch in town.

[9]

I returned to New York, calmed Sylvia down, snatched a few hours’ sleep, hired private detectives to watch O’Reilly, put in an appearance at two
board meetings, interviewed a client who wanted twenty million dollars, glanced over the statistical analysis of a proposed merger between two utility companies, called Matt to check he wasn’t trying to run a bucket-shop out of the office of Van Zale Participations, and raced uptown for lunch.

I was ten minutes late and Cornelius was waiting for me. Naturally he would have arrived on time. As I was shown to the table he stood up for he was always scrupulously deferential to me. In fact no junior partner could have shown more respect for his elders and betters than young Master Cornelius Van Zale of Van Zale’s.

I ordered a ginger ale.

‘Scotch?’ I offered him as I produced my hip-flask.

‘Thank you,’ said Cornelius, ‘but I never drink liquor at midday.’

I grabbed the bread-basket, pounced on the largest roll and bit it as hard as I could. Cornelius daintily nibbled a breadstick. As soon as the waiter arrived with my set-up of ginger I snatched a couple of menus from the
maître d
’ and said we’d order right away.

‘I’ll have the paté,’ I added, ‘followed by a filet mignon, medium rare, with creamed potatoes and a salad. French dressing.’

‘I’ll have a hamburger,’ said Cornelius without opening the menu. ‘Well done. No potatoes.’

Ernest, the
maître d
’ who ruled over that dimly lighted, high-ceilinged palace of a restaurant like a high priest over a temple, blanched, but somehow got the order down. One of the nice things about having fifty million dollars is that you can order a hamburger in a joint like the Colony without being flung out into the street.

I took a long pull at my drink, lit a cigarette and made a great business of shaking out the match. When there was nothing else left to do I said shortly: ‘All right, let’s have it. Talk.’

Cornelius went right on nibbling his breadstick. A minor waiter filled our water-glasses. When we were alone again Cornelius said respectfully: ‘Well, I have to congratulate you, Steve. You did a brilliant job.’

I stared at him. He gazed back. His starry grey eyes were effortlessly innocent.

‘You must have bribed every cop in town.’

I shifted uneasily in my chair. ‘You realized—’

‘Why, sure. I’m not dumb. I knew from the start that the conspiracy reached beyond Clayton and Krasnov, and I knew exactly why you had to cover it up. Say, it was real smart of you to lure O’Reilly back to town although I’m sorry you had to use Sylvia. What do you plan to do next?’

I shifted again in my chair and took another long pull at my drink. ‘What made you suspect O’Reilly?’ I said at last. ‘None of the other partners do because they figure he had no motive for wanting Paul dead.’

‘They should have seen the way he used to look at Sylvia during that first summer I spent at Bar Harbor.’

There was a silence. The kid finished his breadstick and wiped his little paws on his snow-white napkin. My uneasiness increased.

‘How come
you kept so quiet about all this?’ I said.

‘I figured the last thing you needed was noise. However I must admit I did plan on approaching you on the second anniversary of Paul’s death and asking you if I could help fix O’Reilly. Incidentally – just out of interest – did you suggest to Bruce Clayton that he should commit suicide?’

‘I did not.’ I pulled myself together, struggled out of the trance he’d put me in and prepared to whip him into line. ‘Now, listen to me, Cornelius …’ I began and launched into a speech about the dire consequences for the bank if the conspiracy became public knowledge.