The Wrong Kind of Money (49 page)

The smiles become more guarded, and Cory McCurdy says, “Can you outline those for us, Carol?”

“To begin with, the Van Degans are ready to turn over approximately half their collection now. The other half is to be kept for Mrs. Van Degan's discretionary use until her death, at which time Mrs. Van Degan agrees to leave the museum the balance of the collection in her will.”

Corydon McCurdy clears his throat. “That sounds very generous on the surface of it, Carol,” he says. “But tell me, what do the Van Degans mean by ‘Mrs. Van Degan's discretionary use'?”

“I think we have to bear in mind, Cory,” Carol says, “that Mrs. Van Degan is quite a few years younger than her husband. In the normal course of things, Mr. Van Degan can be expected to die first. I think the Van Degans want to set it up this way so that if, after her husband's death, Mrs. Van Degan decides to sell any pieces from the remaining collection, she can be at liberty to do so.”

“I see,” he says.

“But,” Carol says, “I did get her to agree that before she sells anything, she will first offer it to the museum to see whether the museum wants to purchase it.”

“Fair enough, I guess,” he says. “Of course, another purchaser might be able to offer her more than we could.”

“True. But at least the museum would be in on the ground floor in any bidding. We'd get first crack at whatever it is. And it might not even be anything we'd want.”

“From the Van Degan collection? From what I know of it, I'd like to get my hands on it
all.”
There is light laughter around the room. “Which brings me to my next question. You say they're willing to turn over half of the collection to the museum. Which half? Who decides?”

“Here I think the Van Degans are being very generous,” Carol says. “They'd like us to go through the entire collection, and tag fifty percent of the items that we particularly want. In any dispute—that is, if there's a piece we particularly want and that the Van Degans particularly want to keep—they suggest that the matter be decided by cutting cards.”

“Cutting cards?”

“Yes. Cutting a deck of cards. High card wins.”

“Carol, this is the Metropolitan Museum of Art. This is not Las Vegas.”

Carol feels her cheeks redden. “That was merely their suggestion,” she says. “Any other form of lottery would do, I'm sure. Drawing straws. Whatever. I'm sure I don't need to remind you, Cory, that with even half of the Van Degans' collection, plus what we already own, we would have the most important collection of Chinese Export in the world.”

“Hm,” he says. “Drawing straws. Like children on a playground.”

“Now, the next part gets a little tricky,” she says, looking down at her notes and deciding to ignore his last remark. “This involves the porcelains the museum already owns. Mr. Van Degan would like to purchase the museum's entire collection in return for his gift.”

“What?”
he cries.

She looks across at him. “May I finish, Cory, please? I told you this is rather complicated. I told you there were certain conditions.”

“He wants to purchase
our
porcelains? In exchange for his?”

“When you're finished, I'll go on,” she says carefully. “Yes, he wants to purchase the museum's porcelains, at the price the museum paid for them when they were first acquired, which was back in the nineteen twenties. He will then give these pieces back to us, along with his pieces. All the pieces are then to be designated ‘Gifts of Mr. and Mrs. Truxton Van Degan.'”

“Outrageous! I never heard of such a thing!”

“His reason is taxes. If he gives our pieces back to us along with his own pieces, appraised at today's current, real market values, he can take a tax deduction far in excess of the value of his gift. It's all perfectly legal. He's consulted his tax attorneys. In fact, as I understand it, this is their idea.”

“Outrageous!” he says again.

“Finally, he wants the entire collection—those pieces that are currently ours, plus those that are currently his—to be exhibited together in a room to be designated Van Degan Hall.”

“Outrageous. I'm sure the director will never stand for this.”

“It's unusual, I'll admit,” she says. “But considering the importance of the gift, isn't it worth exploring? As I say, it's perfectly legal.”

“It may be legal,” he says, “but it's certainly—shifty, to put it mildly. Tell me something, Carol. Is this a Van Degan deal? Or is it actually a Liebling deal?”

She gazes at him coolly. “What do you mean by that?” she asks him.

“I mean exactly what I say. This sounds like a Liebling-type deal to me.”

“And what exactly is a Liebling-type deal, Cory?”

Corydon McCurdy's prominent jaw juts out even farther. “My father was Richard McCurdy,” he says. “Does that name mean anything to you?”

“No. Should it?”

“Your father-in-law, Jules Liebling, stiffed my father on the price of an apartment he was selling at One thousand Park Avenue. That's what I call a Liebling-type deal. This deal smacks of that. Also, I find it hard to believe that a fine old New York family like the Van Degans would ever come up with a deal like this one. It sounds more like one of those shifty, under-the-counter deals that I understand are so common in the liquor business. That's what I mean.”

A sudden chill falls over the room. Mr. Corydon McCurdy has just made a comment that, in New York City, is considered both politically incorrect and politically unwise. But no one in the room says anything. Carol decides to steer her course directly into the iceberg. “Mr. McCurdy,” she says, “you obviously bear some old grudge against my late father-in-law, whom I never knew, and who has been dead for more than twenty years. I don't think that grudge has any bearing on what we've been discussing, nor do I think it's appropriate to bring it up at this meeting.”

There is a silence after this. Then Bernice Walton, one of the committee members, breaks it to say brightly, “Anyway, I think Carol deserves to be congratulated on having carried the negotiations with the Van Degans this far.”

There is a polite round of applause.

Corydon McCurdy scowls. “Well, perhaps,” he says. “I'll have to discuss all this with the director, of course. And with our own legal counsel.”

And Carol leaves the meeting trying to conceal her fury.

“Well, I've found out this much about that Beryl Stokes,” Pookie Satterthwaite says to Patsy Collingwood as they sit having coffee at the E.A.T. Café on Madison Avenue. “One of our doormen told me that William Luckman, who wrote that dirty book, has paid quite a few visits to Mrs. Stokes this week while her husband's been out of town. What do you make of
that,
sweetie?”

Patsy covers her mouth with her fingertips to conceal a yawn. “So what?” she says. “So she's having an affair. Everybody has affairs. I thought you were going to do something to get us included in the Lieblings' circle.”

Pookie looks briefly crestfallen. Then she says, “The Lieblings' apartment was burglarized last night.”

“Everybody gets burglarized. Did they get away with a lot of good stuff?”

“That's the funny thing about it. The burglars apparently didn't take a thing.”

“How humiliating—to have a burglar who can't find anything worth taking. I suppose Roxy will do an item on it. More ink for Carol Liebling.”

“Now, Patsy. That's the
last
thing River House needs—an item about a burglary. It was apparently an inside job. Everybody says it was her black maid. I know what's going to happen, though.”

“What?”

“Noah Liebling's the president of our board. He's going to use this thing to try to slap another assessment on us for more security. But we're not going to let him.”

“Well,” Patsy says, “I've got to run. Consciousness-raising class.” She signals the waiter for their check. “By the way, I got our last lunch at Mortimer's. Today's on you.”

“Patsy, you did
not
get our last lunch. I did. I distinctly remember, sweetie.”

“Pookie, I got our last
two
lunches, actually. Today is definitely on you.”

“You did
not,
sweetie. I did. I can even show you the credit card receipt.” She fumbles in her Chanel bag. “I know I've got it in here somewhere.”

“Look, Pookie, you're getting off easy today. Two cups of coffee.”

“But at three dollars a cup! Oh, all right.” She hands the waiter a gold American Express card.

“Sorry, ma'am. We don't take credit cards for anything under twenty-five dollars.”

“But I didn't bring any cash.…”

“Oh, for heaven's
sake
!” Patsy says, and she tosses a ten-dollar bill on the table. “Keep the change. Now I've really got to run.…”

On the thirtieth floor of the Ingraham Building, Miss Edith Ackerman is seated at her desk. But it is not her regular desk, and this is not her regular office, and that is part of the trouble.

Edith is Noah Liebling's secretary, and has been for the past nineteen years. This week, with her boss out of town, she was looking forward to catching up on her reading—she is three issues behind with her
McCall's—
without much else to do besides fielding his telephone calls, taking his messages, forwarding the important calls, and faxing the important mail, to his numbers in Atlantic City. The earlier part of the week was just like that, routine.

But this morning, seated at her usual desk outside her boss's office, after finishing transcribing some letters for him and signing them for him “Dictated, but not signed,” she had just reached into her shopping bag for the November
McCall's,
which announced a new and absolutely foolproof diet, when all hell broke loose.

It was Jonesy, Miss Hannah's private secretary, on the phone. “She's
here
!” Jonesy said with great urgency. “We need you here to help out!” And so Edith has been commandeered by the old lady. “Since you won't have much else to do today,” was the way Jonesy put it.

“Commandeered” is the right word. This has happened before when her boss has been out of town, and Edith always resents it when it does. Miss Hannah does not come to the office on any regular basis. Sometimes weeks go by without her putting in an appearance, and some people might say this is a blessing. But to Edith this is the worst part about it. Miss Hannah's appearances are always sudden and unannounced, and when they occur the entire building is galvanized into looking busy and all hell breaks loose.

Edith loves working for Mr. Noah, as everyone calls him. Everyone in the company loves Mr. Noah. Edith herself, though she would never admit it to a soul, is secretly in love with Mr. Noah. Sometimes at night, alone in her bed with Kitty, her Siamese, on the pillow beside her, Edith has dreamt that she was being passionately embraced by Mr. Noah, and awakes from the dream feeling ashamed of herself. After all, Mr. Noah is really some sort of cousin of hers, though Edith is not certain how the cousinship works out. Her father, when he came from Poland as a boy in 1910, was told to look up “rich Cousin Jules in America.” Work was found for him in the New Jersey bottling plant, and after she graduated from high school, work was found for his daughter Edith as well. And here she still is.

Like everyone else, Edith Ackerman feels sorry for Mr. Noah, always under Miss Hannah's thumb yet never complaining, always cheerful. Mr. Noah is a saint, always so nice to everyone.

Miss Hannah is something else again. Miss Hannah, of course, is no relative of Edith's at all. Miss Hannah is what Edith's father used to call “one of those high-and-mighty Deitsch.” Everyone hates Miss Hannah. No, “hates” is not the right word. The word is terror. Everyone is terrified of Miss Hannah. She is called Miss Hannah, and whenever she decides to loom on the scene, it is “Miss Hannah wants this!” “Miss Hannah wants that!” As underlings scuttle about the building, carrying out her orders. She is Miss Hannah to her face, as in “Yes, Miss Hannah,” “No, Miss Hannah,” “Right away, Miss Hannah!” “Can do, Miss Hannah!” “I'll get those figures for you, Miss Hannah!” Behind her back Miss Hannah is “the old lady,” or “the old bag,” or “the old battle-ax,” or the old less polite word beginning with b.

When she makes one of her appearances in the building, she arrives by private elevator and ascends nonstop to the thirtieth floor, where she is escorted to her corner office, where she sits in splendid isolation behind closed double doors, as she is sitting now, presumably. This morning her actual physical presence has not yet been revealed to Edith Ackerman. It is the kind of isolation reserved for kings and village idiots. No one would dare approach her directly unless summoned, and no one would think of initiating a conversation. The job of her executive secretary, Miss Jones—and, oh how Jonesy loves that title—is primarily to shield Miss Hannah from lesser mortals. Of course, as an executive secretary, Jonesy has her own secretary. Lately, in fact, Edith has noticed that Jonesy has begun billing herself on memos as “Executive Assistant to the President,” an even grander form of address.

What Miss Hannah actually
does
when she visits the big corner office is something of a mystery to Edith. Because Miss Hannah's office has its own bathroom, once Miss Hannah is in there, she never needs to come out. That bathroom is a sacred place. Edith wonders if even Jonesy has ever seen it, though the building's cleaning crew places fresh soap and towels in that bathroom every night, whether anything has been used or not. There is a story, perhaps apocryphal, that a new girl was once caught by Miss Hannah using her bathroom. The girl was summarily fired, so the story goes. This is probably a fiction.

When Miss Hannah comes to the office, she hardly ever lunches out. Her lunch is sent in by messenger, a “21” Club hamburger, medium rare. If it is too rare or too well done, an alarm goes off. No, it is merely a buzzer, but everyone reacts as though a bomb had exploded in the basement, tearing about, rushing to telephones, frantically ordering the replacement burger. “This is Mrs. Hannah Liebling's office calling!”