The Wrong Kind of Money (48 page)

Bullshit, he thinks. The fact is, I don't remember you at all.

Since you left, I have been having the wildest thoughts about you, darling. I have been thinking of what it would be like if you and I were to run away together, to some secret place, where the two of us could spend hours and hours, days and nights, just making uninhibited love. I'm quite serious, my love. I feel nothing for Frank anymore, and would gladly leave him and run off with you, if you would just give me the tiniest of “green lights.” …

Fat chance. Haggard old bitch.

After you left, I had a long talk with Frank in A.C., and I finally “laid down the law” to him. Now I think he knows exactly where I stand. But before that I found out a little more about “the situation” down there.…

Now she's getting to the good part, he thinks.

It seems that Noah L. has been acting
most peculiarly
down there! It seems that there's a “Do Not Disturb” sign hung on his door most of the time, and he hasn't been “socializing” with the other men the way he usually does. And then
—
this cinches it for us, darling
—
Frank said one of the hotel maids told him Noah had a girl in there
—
young, with long dark hair. Frank says the maid is just trying to be a troublemaker, but we know who that girt is, don't we, darling? It's got to be Melody Richards, since we know she's not in New Haven, where she said she was going to be. Just to make sure, I phoned the Shubert Theatre, and you're right. There's nothing playing there, and won't be until March. Why would she lie unless she was going to A.C. to “shack up” with Noah Liebling?

Darling, this whole thing worries me terribly, and I think one of us should tell poor Carol what's going on. After all, Melody is a minor. This is “contributing to the delinquency,” or whatever they call it. Carol could get Noah on the same “rap” that Mia Farrow tried to pin on Woody.…

Oh, my darling, I miss you so achingly, so longingly, from the deep hunger for you in my groin to the roots of my …

And blah, blah, blah. The letter is signed, “Your devoted slave—B.” Bill Luckman refolds the letter carefully and places it in the breast pocket of his Morty Sills blazer. He takes a last, thoughtful bite of his buttered blueberry muffin, places his napkin on the table, stands up, and goes to one of the telephones in the entrance lobby, snapping his fingers as he goes. She has turned out to be a better slave than he had ever dared to hope for!

And now he sits in Cyril Liebling's office at 1000 Park Avenue, opposite Cyril at the big carved walnut partners desk that Cyril bought from the auction of the William Randolph Hearst estate.

“I'm very flattered that you're interested in employing the services of our agency, Mr. Luckman,” Cyril is saying. “But the fact is that I'm not sure there's very much more this agency can do to promote or publicize your book. Your book has had so much publicity already. You've done the eighteen-city tour. You've appeared on all the national talk shows. You've been written up in
Newsweek, Time, Vogue,
and
Vanity Fair.
There just aren't that many publicity outlets left.”

“Yes, I suppose you're right,” he says.

“We wouldn't want to lead you down the garden path,” Cyril says. “And promise to get you and your book more exposure than they've already had. With a book there are only so many things you can do, and it seems to me you've already done them all.”

“You have a very good point, Mr. Liebling,” he says. “I just hadn't thought of that. It's just that I was so very impressed with you the night I met you at Noah and Carol's house.”

“Well, thank you,” Cyril says, lowering his eyes modestly. His tall frame is slouched in the big leather chair, and he picks up a pencil and twirls it between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. “Now, with your next book, on the other hand—” he says.

“Yes?” Bill Luckman sits forward eagerly in his chair.

“When that's finished and ready for publication, we might be able to do something with that.”

“Gosh, that would be wonderful, Mr. Liebling,” he says.

“Something about the secret rich, I think you said? The secret rich and their secret scandals?”

“That's right!”

“It sounds interesting. So, as soon as you have that book in proof form, bring it around, and my staff and I will take a look at it. We'll see what we might be able to do.”

“That would be wonderful, Mr. Liebling. I can tell it's going to be a wonderful experience working with you.”

“Well, we'll see about that, won't we?” Cyril says with a thin smile. “How long do you think that's going to be, Mr. Luckman?”

“Sixteen months—eighteen, max, I work fast.”

“Good. When that's ready, give me a call.”

Bill Luckman looks around the office. “How large a staff do you have, Mr. Liebling?” he asks.

“Oh, that varies,” Cyril says with a wave of his hand.

“I understand your mother—Mrs. Jules Liebling, that is—lives in the apartment just below.”

He studies the younger man's face. “That's correct,” he says.

“Is she at home now?”

“No, I don't believe she is. I believe she's at her office in the Ingraham Building. Why do you ask?”

“It's just that—well, I know this is probably a very impertinent request. But if we're going to be working together, I'll ask it anyway. I've heard it's an absolutely fabulous apartment.”

“It is.”

“I don't suppose you could show it to me, could you?”

Cyril's expression grows thoughtful. “Well, I have a key, of course,” he says. “But no, I think not. I don't think
Maman
would like that.
Maman
's and my relationship is—somewhat uneven at this point. Perhaps some other time, when she's at home, I can arrange to have her show you the apartment herself.”

“I'd love that,” Bill Luckman says. “I found her to be a fascinating woman.”

“Yes. Fascinating.”

“Obviously a woman of many facets.”

“Many facets. Yes.” Cyril half rises from his chair. “Well, Mr. Luckman,” he says, glancing at his watch, “if you have no further business with me, I do have some important client calls to make. I'll hear from you again when your new book is ready.”

“There's just one more thing, Mr. Liebling,” he says.

“Oh? What's that?”

“Under some rather odd circumstances, I've come into possession of a certain letter. It seems to pertain to members of your family. I had doubts about whether to show it to you or not. But since we're going to be working together, I think perhaps I should.” He withdraws the letter from his jacket pocket and hands it across the partners desk to Cyril.

Cyril places a pair of pince-nez across his nose to read, one of several trademark affectations for which Cyril Liebling is reasonably famous. The two men sit in silence as Cyril reads.

“To whom is this letter addressed?” Cyril asks at last.

“I have absolutely no idea.”

“Was there no envelope?”

“Not when it was given to me, no.”

“May I ask how you came to be in possession of it?”

“Now, that was really strange,” he says. “I was standing in front of Saks's window yesterday, on the Fiftieth Street side, looking at some golf shoes I was thinking of buying, and a woman—fortyish, I'd say, well dressed—approached me on the sidewalk, and said, ‘Aren't you William Luckman?' I suppose she was one of my fans, who recognized me from one of my television appearances.”

“Yes. I suppose so.”

“And so I said I was, and she said, ‘I read in Roxy Rhinelander's column that Noah and Carol Liebling had a dinner party for you. Here's something that sheds a little light on what your friends are up to,' and she handed me this letter. Then she disappeared.”

“Curious. Very curious,” Cyril says.

“I thought so. When I read it, I saw that it did contain references to members of your family. But I have no idea who the other people are. The letter is signed ‘B.' But who would ‘B' be? And who is Frank? And what does A.C. stand for?”

“Frank could be Frank Stokes, a business associate of my brother's. B could be Beryl, his wife. And A.C. could refer to Atlantic City, where my brother and Mr. Stokes are attending a sales meeting.”

“Well, I've never heard of any of those people. And who is the other woman mentioned—Melody somebody?”

“Melody Richards. She is a college friend of my niece Anne's. You met her the other night at my brother's house, if you recall.”

“Oh—the other young girl? I'm afraid I didn't pay that much attention to her, Mr. Liebling.”

“Why was it my impression that Melody had invited you to the party?”

“Oh, no,” he says, shaking his head. “I'd never met her before.”

“Hmm,” Cyril says. “Tell me, was the woman who gave you this letter shortish, on the plump side, with frosted hair?”

“No, she was a tall, quite attractive blonde.”

“Then it wouldn't have been Beryl Stokes herself,” Cyril says. “I would describe her as quite unattractive.”

“But why would Beryl Stokes have given me a letter she'd written to some lover? That wouldn't make much sense.”

“No, you're quite right. It wouldn't.”

“My theory is that some man's wife, the wife of the man this letter was written to, discovered this letter in her husband's pocket when she was sending his suits to the cleaner's, or something like that. She passed the letter on to me, knowing I was a writer who's written on the subject of marital infidelity, hoping I'd publicize the letter to embarrass her husband. Of course, that's just a theory. That's just the writer in me, always trying to figure out motivations.”

“Your theory is possible,” Cyril says. “If a bit farfetched.” He taps the letter with a manicured fingertip. “We must consider the effect that this letter could have on my brother's marriage,” he says, “as well as on the Stokes ménage. There are two families involved here, both of which could be irreparably damaged by the contents of this letter. The contents of this letter must be handled with kid gloves.”

“That's why I decided to turn it over to you,” Bill says. “I certainly don't want to get involved in this. I knew you'd know what to do.”

“Yes. Well, thank you. May I keep this, then?”

“Absolutely. I have no use for it.”

“This is the original? Not a photocopy?”

“As far as I know, sir.”

“With the quality of photocopies these days, it's often impossible to tell. You've made no copies?”

“Of course not. Why would I do that, sir?”

“Of course, there's no reason in the world why I should believe you,” Cyril says.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Never mind,” Cyril says. “Tell me, Mr. Luckman, do your pectorals ripple?” He balances the letter between his fingertips.

“I beg your—”

“Never mind. Just being facetious.” He rises to his full height behind the desk and removes the pince-nez. “Now I really must roll my calls,” he says, “as they say on the Coast. It's been an interesting meeting.” He extends his hand. “Good day, Mr. Luckman.”

And now, since he really has nothing else to do, and since it is a fine mid-winter morning with the temperature in the forties, Cyril decides to take a walk. He selects a full-length lynx coat and a walking stick with a silver handle in the shape of a wolf's head. The walking stick is another of his famous trademark affectations. If he stays on Park Avenue, he thinks, a street with very little pedestrian traffic, he will be safe from animal rights activists with cans of spray paint and hatpins to jab into his elbows.

He strides downtown, swinging his stick, the lynx coat billowing behind him, a conspicuous figure on the New York scene.

At Saks, he spends some time studying the windows on the Fiftieth Street side of the store. Then, for good measure, he inspects the windows that address Fifth Avenue, as well as those on the Forty-ninth Street side. Then he steps inside the store. The men's shoe department is on the street floor.

“Yes, my good chap,” he says to the clerk who steps forward to help him. “Yesterday I happened to see a good-looking pair of golf shoes in one of your Fiftieth Street windows. But I don't see them there today. Have you changed your window displays?”

“No, sir. Our window displays change once a week, usually on Wednesday or Thursday afternoons.”

“Funny, but I distinctly remember those golf shoes.”

“Actually, Saks doesn't carry a golf shoe, sir.”

“Ah. Well, perhaps it was Lord and Taylor.”

“Perhaps, sir,” the clerk says.

Whistling and swinging his stick, Cyril heads uptown again. At a corner trash basket, he pauses, removes the letter from his pocket, tears it into shreds, and drops the pieces into the basket. Cyril Liebling may be guilty of certain unspeakable vices, but being a litterbug is not among them. He continues homeward, a spring in his step and a song in his heart. Bathy is coming to lunch!

And now, not many blocks away, Carol Liebling is meeting with the five-member Acquisitions Committee of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The meeting is being held in Room 704 of the Yale Club, of which Mr. Corydon McCurdy is a member, the room the club calls its “Board Room.” The committee members are poised with pencils and yellow pads.

“I've had a long conversation with Mrs. Truxton Van Degan,” Carol is saying. “And I'm pleased to say that the Van Degans have agreed to turn over their collection of Chinese Export porcelains to the museum.”

There are smiles around the room.

“The Van Degans' gift, however, is being made subject to certain restrictions and conditions,” she continues.