Gramercy Park. Paula Cohen

the ground, much as a string holds a child’s balloon.

      “… most astonishingly handsome,” one substantial lady in blue silk and sapphires is saying as she passes by amid a knot of revelers, fresh from their introductions to the guest of honor. “And not vulgar in the least. I had expected him to be quite uncouth … and yet he seems a perfect gentleman, for all that he is such a notorious libertine …” And she gasps, turning bright pink at her own audacity.

      Her companions laugh and murmur agreement, but a slender woman in dove-gray satin embroidered with pearls, replies: “Oh, no! My brother has written me from Florence. He says that the Alfieri family is most respectable. They can trace their line back to the fifteenth century, and are descended from the Medici.”

      “The Medici?” Chadwick says, lifting a glass of wine from the tray of a passing footman. “What of them, Mrs. Hadcock? If it is true—and I very much doubt that it is—they hardly seem to have done him much good. Your great Maestro Alfieri is no better than Little Tommy Tupper. He, too, sings for his supper.”

      It is the lady’s husband who takes up the challenge. “Perhaps you would call it supper, Chadwick, but then, attorneys doubtless set far richer tables than do bankers, which—alas!—is what I am. I rather think of what Maestro Alfieri sings for as a twelve-course banquet. With an excellent vintage at every plate.” Hadcock smiles faintly. “He earns twenty-five hundred dollars for each performance. A very rich supper,” he says, and eyes widen as jaws go slack.

      Chadwick clicks his tongue in disapproval. “Details of finance before the ladies, Hadcock? How shocking!”

      “Only when the boodle’s your own, old man,” says another member of the little group, turning to Hadcock. “Is that his price? For each performance?”

      “That, and twenty-five percent of the gross over five thousand … every time he steps onstage.”

      Another man does the calculations. “But that’s upward of five thousand dollars a night! For twenty performances … that’s one hundred thousand. You must be joking! Grau would never spend that kind of money … and even if he would, Morgan and the other shareholders would never stand for it!”

      “He would and they have. In fact, Morgan and the others will hoist Grau on their shoulders. Grau knows what draws, and he’s willing to spend in order to get. Alfieri will bring money into the house as it’s never been brought before.”

      “Where did you hear all this?”

      “Beeson told me over luncheon at the club. Grau called him in during the negotiations; they needed his expertise in foreign currencies and rates of exchange. Alfieri is no one’s fool, by the way … he’s being paid in pounds sterling and the money is going directly to his account in London.”

      “Beeson advised him, of course,” someone else says.

      “So I thought,” says Hadcock. “But Beeson says not. He said it was one of Alfieri’s own stipulations. He also said that he wished his own people had as much business sense.”

      “Quite a compliment, coming from Beeson,” says still another. “But the man must get advice from someone. He’s a singer, not a financier.”

      Hadcock shakes his head. “Perhaps he does. But it appears that he handles all his business affairs himself, and just today Beeson told me that in the week Alfieri’s been here he’s made inquiries about some very sound investments.”

      “Then perhaps he is descended from the Medici, after all,” murmurs Mrs. Hadcock.

      For these, at least, of Mrs. Astor’s guests, it only remains to be seen if the tenor can make lame men walk and blind men see; there is plainly nothing else he cannot do.

      Still talking amongst themselves about the prodigy they have just met, the little group moves on. Chadwick watches them go, slowly sipping his wine until, tiring of the noise and the heat, he retreats to the conservatory, to seat himself in the cool shadows and smoke a cigar amid the foliage. If he is surprised, halfway through his cigar, to have someone sit down quietly beside him, he gives no sign of it.

      “Mr. Chadwick?”

      “Yes?”

      “Mr. Chadwick, I believe that you are the only man in New York tonight whom I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting. I am Mario Alfieri.”

      “I know who you are, signore, even though I did not join the lines of those waiting to shake your hand. I am not easy in crowds.”

      “On a warm night even I find them trying, Mr. Chadwick. There is no need to apologize.”

      “Apologize? I’m not apologizing, signore; merely explaining.”

      The tenor smiles in the darkness. “Then let me explain, as briefly as I can, why it is that I have sought you out. You are, in fact, the chief reason that I am here tonight, although I would hope that you would not say as much to Mrs. Astor. I understand from Mr. Upton that you were the late Mr. Slade’s attorney.”

      “If this is business, Signor Alfieri, perhaps it will wait until tomorrow? You may not be particular about where you are when you break into song, but I make it a rule never to discuss business either after hours or away from my office.” He stands and bows shortly. “Allow me to retire so as not to disturb you.”

      “I wish to buy Mr. Slade’s house, Mr. Chadwick.”

      There is silence for several moments. “Did you say ‘buy,’ signore?”

      “I did.”

      “Strange. I was not aware that the property is for sale.”

      “Nor am I. That, obviously, is why I am speaking with you now.”

      “But you are aware that the house is available for lease. Did Mr. Upton tell you why?”

      “He told me that you are in no hurry to sell it, but wish the money for its upkeep to come from somewhere other than Mr. Slade’s estate.”

      “Mr. Upton does not have a massive intellect, Signor Alfieri, but he shows houses very well, and his memory is excellent. What he told you is perfectly true. What, then, makes you think that we are prepared to sell the house, at this time—to you or any other speculator?”

      “Because the sale of the house—for cash—which I am prepared to pay, Mr. Chadwick—would both relieve you of the burden of responsibility for it and enrich Mr. Slade’s estate considerably. And surely a man as careful as yourself would welcome the opportunity to save time, as well as money.”

      “You are being presumptuous, signore, which is unbecoming to a so-called gentleman. And have you any idea of what the property would fetch if it were for sale?”

      “I have a vague idea, Mr. Chadwick. I saw the house today. I have a few properties in Europe—a town house in London, an apartment in Paris, a country place outside of Florence. I would wish to buy Mr. Slade’s house as it is, by the way. Completely intact,” he says pleasantly. “Just as it was during Mr. Slade’s lifetime.”

      “As an investment?”

      “As a place to live. I will be here for more than a year.”

      “And what do you wish me to say to you, signore? Surely you do not expect me to quote you a price here and now?”

      “Hardly that, Mr. Chadwick. I merely wish you to tell me if the house is for sale, and, if it is, whether or not you will see my attorney if I send him to you.”

      There is another pause in the darkness; then: “I will see your attorney, Signor Alfieri.”

      “Thank you. I am grateful to you.”

      “I have not said that the house is for sale, signore. Merely that I will see your attorney.”

      “But you have not said that it is not for sale, Mr. Chadwick, and I am an incurable optimist.”