Too Much Money (19 page)

“Why did he rat out the Russian mafia to the FBI?” asked Gus.

“It was like a trade-off. The FBI stayed away from him and his assets. Are you aware that a billion dollars is missing somewhere between Konstantin’s bank in Biarritz and Moscow? I didn’t think you knew that. Let me tell you something, Gus. You don’t fuck with the Russian mafia, if you know what’s good for you.”

“How about the nurse who confessed, and the fire in the penthouse?” asked Gus.

“I’m confused about him. Could be part of the Mafia’s plot, but I don’t think so. Listen, Gus, you have to be careful yourself. You’ve pissed off some very important people with the way you’ve covered this case. I happen to know from my spy in that household that the lady doesn’t like you at all, and she has a reputation for getting even.”

Gus nodded, taking a bite of his slightly tough steak.

“Are you aware she has a brother?” Joe added.

“No,” said Gus, surprised.

Joe replied evenly, “Perla has a much younger half brother from her father’s fifth marriage who was briefly her ward when their father died. He is never spoken of. His name is Rocco.”

Gus chewed his food quickly and swallowed.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“She doesn’t show him off. She makes sure he stays in Johannesburg. And listen, Gus—for what it’s worth, brother and sister are not fond of each other. It seems to me if she’s looking to be the next Adele Harcourt, it would not be to her advantage if this kind of information were to leak out in the wrong circles.”

Joe Carey gave Gus a knowing look and nodded his head. Gus felt fortunate to have met him. The information that Joe Carey knew about Perla could not only help Gus to write his book, but it might also help him keep Perla, that infamous lady, from getting the plug pulled as she had at
Park Avenue
.

“Gus, I want your book to be published. I want people to ask more questions. I lost a very dear friend, and that bitch, in her quest to become the toast of Manhattan society, is keeping me from finding out the truth. I am going to help you pursue that truth, and I am prepared to do whatever you need me to, to make that happen.”

E
LIAS
R
ENTHAL’S RELEASE FROM THE FEDERAL
prison in Las Vegas, Nevada, did not make the front pages of any of the New York papers. While Elias was living his final moments as a convict, Adele Harcourt died at her apartment on Park Avenue, all alone except for Lil Altemus, who had just told Adele of the name change of the Manhattan Public Library, which was to be called the Konstantin and Perla Zacharias Library in return for a one-hundred-million-dollar gift, to be paid in the full amount, not in increments, from the Konstantin Zacharias Foundation. “She just closed her eyes and died, poor darling,” said Lil.

The next day Adele was on the front page of every New York paper, as well as being the lead story on all the local news channels on television. To the relief of Ruby Renthal, who had social aspirations, Elias’s release-from-prison pictures were on the financial pages only and took second place in that section to the story of Leonard Watson’s prison sentence of twenty-four years for robbing his stockholders of one hundred million dollars.

Simon Cabot, in London, heard the news of Adele Harcourt’s death from Perla Zacharias, whose cook was a friend of
Adele’s former butler, George, who had been relieved of his job by Mrs. Harcourt’s nephew from Wyoming, who felt that since Adele no longer went about in society, she didn’t need a butler. George, who Ruby recently hired to be her butler at the house on Seventy-eighth Street, kept up with hourly telephone calls with the maids still in Mrs. Harcourt’s employ, so concerned was he about the great lady whom he had served for so many years. George called Perla’s cook one minute after Adele drew her last breath, and one and a half minutes later, Perla Zacharias, who admired Adele Harcourt over any person and wanted to assume her mantle in New York society, loved having the news of such a piece of social history to pass on to Simon Cabot.

Lil Altemus, who had arrived at the last minute, pushing her way in, was the only one in the room. She had heard from George that it was about to happen. “She was like a second mother to me,” Lil said to the nephew and his wife, who lived on an avocado ranch in Wyoming, and were said to have planned to take over the apartment and the country houses and to fire the help and remove the Vigée Le Brun portrait of Marie Antoinette that was Adele’s favorite picture in her collection although it had mysteriously gone missing recently. “All that going on just as Mrs. Harcourt ‘passed over,’” said George as he described the moment to Perla’s cook. As soon as Simon hung up from talking with Perla, he telephoned Elias Renthal’s plane.

Inside the plane, Elias was beaming from ear to ear. He couldn’t believe his good fortune that he was out of prison after seven years and was lying back relaxing in the luxury of his private jet.

“The plane looks beautiful, Ruby,” said Elias.

“It had better look beautiful, after what you paid to have it done over,” said Ruby. “I used Nicky Haslam. He does the London houses for all those rich Russian oligarths, or whatever
they’re called. I hear Yehudit Tavicoli’s after one of those oligarths.”

“I heard from Max Luby that this renovation of yours cost something like three million,” said Elias.

“Max Luby read that in Gus Bailey’s diary in
Park Avenue,”
said Ruby. “Besides, you can afford it.”

“Gus Bailey had better watch his back. He is on my shitlist for running that television show about my case just when I was getting out,” said Elias. “Speaking of Max Luby, save the date of March twelfth in your book for him.”

“Why in the world would I save a date for Max Luby?” asked Ruby. “He doesn’t like me. I don’t like him.”

“Max Luby’s the best friend I ever had. He looked after my money the whole time I was away. If it weren’t for Max, you wouldn’t have had the three million to do over the house,” said Elias. “He flew out to see me every week that I was in prison. I’ll never forget that.”

“I don’t need his oral history, Elias. What’s the big date you made for March twelfth?” asked Ruby.

“He’s being honored by the Chamber of Commerce in Brooklyn as Man of the Year, for all he’s done for the poor kids over there. It’s a big deal for him. I’ve known Max for forty years, and I’ve never seen him so excited about anything. He’s got all the Cleveland relatives coming in. He’s losing weight working out in the gym, and he’s having a new toupee made for the occasion that’s costing him a thousand dollars.”

“Does Max think that people will think that rug pasted to his head is real?” asked Ruby.

“He wants you and me to be there and sit on the dais,” said Elias, ignoring Ruby’s comment. “He said you’d add class to the evening.”

“It won’t be in the papers, will it?” asked Ruby.

The telephone rang. Selena, the flight attendant, asked, “Would you like me to answer that?”

Elias said, “No. Let the voice mail pick up. It might be a reporter.” He felt good giving orders again.

The telephone rang three rings before Selena checked the caller ID, just in case. “Ma’am, it’s Simon Cabot calling from London.”

“I’ll take it. I’ll take it,” called out Ruby, racing for the phone. “Simon, I’m here. We’re not picking up the phone in case it’s a reporter who somehow got the number. Everything’s gone extremely well so far. Elias was simply a star the way he walked over to the plane after we left the facility. He waved to the photographers, but he never stopped. And I wore the old Adolfo black suit, just like you suggested, not that anyone noticed, I was so hidden in the backseat of the limousine, and the windows were black.”

“I wanted to tell you that Adele Harcourt died,” said Simon. “Perla Zacharias called me from New York. There will probably be a huge amount of coverage of that.”

“Oh, Adele died, huh? End of an era, right? You know, she took that fall that eventually killed her in Lil Altemus’s kitchen when she tripped over the old linoleum that Lil didn’t have enough money to change when she moved into the apartment,” said Ruby. “Let me just tell Elias, Simon.” Her voice took on the solemn tone of announcing a death. “Elias, Adele Harcourt died.”

“She was a hundred and five, for Christ’s sake,” said Elias. “Max Luby said she was gaga.”

“You’re missing the big picture, Elias,” said Ruby. “The point is Adele Harcourt will get all the press in tomorrow’s papers, which is great for us.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” said Elias. “Didn’t I give her a couple million dollars for the Manhattan Public Library and some more for the Adele Harcourt Pavilion at New York–Presbyterian Hospital?”

“Yes. The library was when she had us to dinner,” said
Ruby. “Simon, thank you for calling. Elias just reminded me that he once gave Adele a very generous gift for the Manhattan Public Library and for the Adele Harcourt Pavilion at New York–Presbyterian Hospital.”

“I think it would be a good thing if you attended the funeral,” said Simon. “It would be a good place for Elias to be seen in public in New York after just getting out of prison. And you can wear the suit with the sable collar and cuffs that would have looked wrong outside the prison.”

“A funeral like that will probably be by invitation only,” said Ruby.

“That can be arranged,” said Simon. “One of the ushers is a friend of mine. He was the walker for Adele Harcourt in the last year of her life.” Former quickie trick would have been a more apt description of the friend, Addison Kent, but Simon Cabot was always a gentleman and kept that part of his life under lock and key.

T
HERE WAS
sadness but not shock when the announcement of Adele Harcourt’s death was made. Her passing was not unexpected. She was, after all, as Elias Renthal had pointed out, a hundred and five years old, and she had not been seen in public since she had tripped on the linoleum in Lil Altemus’s kitchen and broken her hip. Her broken hip had led to pneumonia. She had refused to go to the hospital. She knew she was at the end of the line, and she wanted to die in the Park Avenue apartment where she had lived for so many years.

Things had begun to change in the apartment, but, alas, she did not notice. George, her trusted butler of so many years, had been let go. The weekly delivery of flowers for the whole apartment from Brucie’s shop in the Rhinelander Hotel was canceled. When she was unconscious, her nightgowns and bed jackets
were not changed, nor were her Porthault sheets changed daily, as they once had been. Her closest friends knew the end was near, but they kept discreetly silent on the subject out of loyalty. The ever-faithful George, who had always organized the seating and written out the place cards and menu cards for Adele’s dinner parties, called every day to check with the maids on Madame’s condition. When he had moved out of the servants’ quarters where he had lived in contentment for so many years, he had said to the two weeping maids, Floriana and Ascensión, who hated to see him leave, that he suspected the fagola from Boothby’s auction house, who often took Madame to the movies, had carried off the tiny portrait of Marie Antoinette by Vigée Le Brun that had been Madame’s favorite of all her pictures.

I
N THE
backseat of Ruby Renthal’s dark green Mercedes limousine, with the glass window raised between the chauffeur and the occupants, Ruby said to Elias, “Well, that wasn’t too bad. There weren’t that many photographers, and wasn’t Jacques marvelous, rushing us right by them and into the backseat?” She picked up the telephone and buzzed. “Jacques, I was just saying to Mr. Renthal what a wonderful job you did there in the airport whisking us past the photographers. We’re so appreciative. Now, will you phone ahead to the house and tell George, the new butler, to have all the lights on and the fireplaces lit? Tell him that as soon as the car pulls up in front of the house, he is to open the door so that we can run inside in case there are photographers waiting outside. Oh, and another thing, ask George to tell Gert that it will take me about forty-five minutes to show Mr. Renthal around the new house, and then we’ll have dinner. In the small dining room, but Gert knows all that. Make sure there’s ice in the silver bucket on the bar, and Mr. Renthal
likes his lemon twist cut very thin for his martini.” She hung up the phone and leaned back on the seat next to her husband. “I love giving orders to the help. Are you excited, Elias?”

“I can’t believe it. I’m back in New York City,” said Elias.

“You’re free. That’s all that matters,” said Ruby.

“I’m out of prison, but you know I’m not necessarily free, I mean
really
free. I’m on what they call supervised release. It’s a fancy way of saying probation.”

“What does it mean? You have to report to a parole officer?” asked Ruby.

“That’s right. If we travel anywhere, I have to get written permission.”

“Written permission to fly on our very own plane?” asked Ruby in a shocked voice.

“You got it,” said Elias. “The parole officer can drop in on me at any time, which could be embarrassing if we should be having dinner at Swifty’s, or entertaining at home. They hate rich people. They like to embarrass people like us. Max tells me it’s even worse since all the bailouts. People seem to be taking their frustrations out on us as a group.”

“Wait until the parole officer sees the house you’re about to move into,” said Ruby.

“Or they can call you on the phone at two o’clock in the morning, just to make sure you’re there.”

“But you served your time. You took your medicine. It’s not fair. Does that mean we have to act humble? Dear God, wait until you hear about the party I’m planning to give.”

“Tell me,” said Elias.

“Later. I have a present for you,” she said. She took a small black velvet box out of her bag.

“Oh, my,” said Elias. “Jewels for the ex-convict.”

“Don’t jump to conclusions about jewels, and don’t call yourself an ex-convict, even as a joke. Open it.”

“A key,” said Elias.

“A solid gold key with a ruby, my stone, set in it,” said Ruby.

“What’s it for?” asked Elias.