Paula Cohen - Gramercy Park

Somber and self-contained, with windows too narrow for the expanse of wall between them, it is a house which does not welcome: a massive, reclusive, indifferent pile of stone, which holds what it has within it, and takes no notice of anything else.

Of the two men approaching it from the direction of Fifth Avenue on this particular afternoon in late May, the house is wholly oblivious, although the many people enjoying the brilliant spring sunshine in and about the little park do not share this disregard.

The men present an interesting contrast in types, for one of them, a pale man of medium build and middle age, is outstanding only in that he is so very ordinary. His companion, however, seems to be the focus of every eye as he passes—women, particularly, seem to find him of uncommon interest—and this fascination could be laid to his height, which is well over six feet, or the exceptional breadth of his chest and shoulders, or even to the cut of his impeccable clothing. About forty years of age, black-eyed and swarthy, he is clean-shaven and well made, and he draws eyes like a magnet, seeming not so much unaware of the glances cast his way as accustomed to receiving them; a man very much at ease beneath the gaze of others.

“I am grateful for your time, Signor Alfieri,” the nondescript man says to his dark companion as they draw near to their destination. “I will waste none of it, for I know that you must have a great deal to do.”

“On the contrary, Mr. Upton”—Signor Alfieri’s heavily accented English fully corroborates his foreign looks and name—“for the first time in years I am completely free and have absolutely nothing to do, at least until the middle of July. Until then, my time is my own.”

“And will you be in New York until then?”

“Until then and after then. I must be in Philadelphia from mid-July to early October. After that I will return here.”

“For the opera season.”

“For the opera season,” the signore agrees, smiling.

“And you have been staying at the Fifth Avenue Hotel since your arrival?”

“A week ago, yes. Originally, I had thought to make the hotel my home while in New York.”

“A year is a long time to live in a hotel, signore.”

“Ah, you see, Mr. Upton? Mr. Grau agrees with you, which is why he sent you to me. And because it would not be right for me to refuse the kind suggestion of the general manager of the Metropolitan Opera House, I am here with you. Also, both Mr. Grau and I feel that my continued presence at the hotel might disturb the other guests—”

“Your consideration does you credit, signore.”

“—and I am absolutely confident that before long the other guests certainly would disturb me.” His smile is amiable. “That has a miserably ungrateful sound, does it not? Nevertheless, you can have no idea of what it is to be pursued everywhere by admirers who have heard you perform. I am afraid, Mr. Upton, that privacy has become a necessity for me.”

Being a house agent, Mr. Upton is both sympathetic and quick to take professional advantage of this opening. “You needn’t fear being disturbed here, sir, I assure you,” he says. “And as for disturbing others, such a thing would be quite impossible. The late Mr. Slade’s house is admirably well built and wonderfully spacious, with absolutely everything Mr. Grau said you would require. Most important, of course, is the music room, which contains a superb grand piano, and even a small eighteenth-century pipe organ, which Mr. Slade had brought over from Germany and built into the walls.

“In addition,” he says, counting on his gloved fingers, “there are a reception room, two drawing rooms, a library, a picture gallery, a ballroom, a conservatory, and a billiards room. The dining room seats twenty comfortably. And, of course, there are the ten bedrooms. The late Mr. Slade lived on quite a lavish scale in his younger days.”

Alfieri smiles. “So I see, Mr. Upton. But,” he says, gazing up at the long rows of curtained windows, “perhaps this house is somewhat … too spacious for my needs? Along with everything else Mr. Grau told you, he must also have told you that I am only an unmarried man, after all, traveling with only one servant. What on earth am I to do with two drawing rooms, a dining room that seats twenty—comfortably or not—and a ballroom?”

“Ah, but you must remember, signore, it was Mr. Grau who suggested that I show you this house. He feels that the music room will appeal to you particularly. And as for its being too spacious, the late Mr. Slade was unmarried too … although, quite frankly,” he adds confidentially, “I cannot ever recall hearing that he made much use of the public rooms in his later years.”

“Or of the ten bedrooms.”

“Or of the ten bedrooms,” Upton agrees. “Much of the house was shut up a great deal of the time,” he says, fitting the key into the lock and struggling with the stiff mechanism, “which accounts for the marvelous condition in which everything has been left.”

“Indeed. Was Mr. Slade a recluse, Mr. Upton?”

“I’m sure I couldn’t say, signore. I never had the honor of meeting him. It is known, however, that he kept more and more to himself as he grew older.”

“Indeed,” Alfieri says again. “Perhaps he, too, found people disturbing.”

“Perhaps, sir. Anything is possible.” Upton pulls the key from the lock, reads the paper label pasted on it, smiles apologetically, returns it to the lock and continues his efforts.

“And just when did Mr. Slade die, Mr. Upton?”

“Just this past winter, signore, very suddenly.”

“Had he no heirs? Was there no one to inherit this admirable house?”

The house agent is momentarily silent as he searches for the right words. “Mr. Slade died a bachelor, signore, and left no heirs.” He hesitates slightly. “He grew somewhat eccentric in his last years. There were a number of bequests, of course, most of them to charitable organizations, but the great bulk of his personal fortune, and this house, were left to his estate. His attorneys wish to keep the house intact and furnished as it was during his occupancy until such time as they see fit to sell it, which they are in no hurry do to. That is why it is available for lease. According to the executors, to keep a staff on to maintain an empty house would be a drain on Mr. Slade’s estate.”

“Really? Did he die impoverished?”

“Oh, very far from it, signore. But the executors, who have retained me to show the house, feel that it is not their place to spend Mr. Slade’s money if it can be avoided, even if it is for the upkeep of his own house. However, if they lease the house, the rental income will defray the cost of keeping it up.”

“That is very sensible, Mr. Upton. Now if only we can get in, so that I may see with my own eyes this house with ten bedrooms that one man inhabited.” The signore smiles. “You know, Mr. Upton, I fear you will never make a successful burglar.”

As if in answer to his words, there is a sudden click, and the key turns in the house agent’s hand. “Ah! That does it! Not a burglar!” he laughs. “That’s very good! Come in, Signor Alfieri, come in.”

The two men step through a vestibule into a cavernous entrance hall. Upton shuts the door behind them, leaving them momentarily blinded. What light there is comes from distant rooms, and is filtered through drawn curtains. Yet, even to eyes not adjusted to the sudden dark, the floor, walls, and ceiling, marble all, glisten in the dimness. Huge archways, flanked by onyx pillars, lead off left and right, and on the far side of a gleaming expanse of floor an alabaster staircase soars palely up, to disappear into the twilight.

Upton slides his hand along the wall until his fingers come into contact with a recessed button, which he pushes. The sound of a click in the darkness is the only response.