by Sara Donati
“October is what it says in the papers.”
It loomed in front of them, ten stories and maybe two hundred square feet of pale yellow brick bristling with bay windows, balconies, carved stone balusters, and spandrels, all topped by a mansard roof interrupted by dormers, peaks, and gables. Bright copper tracings glinted in the sun.
“Like something out of a fairy tale,” Oscar said. “How many men on the job, do you think?”
Jack took stock of what he could see: workers moving in and out of the building, on the scaffolding, the roof, erecting wrought-iron fencing, mostly laborers but also master craftsmen trailing apprentices like tails on a kite, journeymen, tradesmen bringing in supplies. An entrance wide enough for cargo wagons dipped down out of sight into the cellars. And there were outbuildings, too. Some of them very large.
“No idea. Laborers, maybe two hundred, but the rest of them—” He shrugged.
“You can almost hear the money gushing from here. Let’s go through to the courtyard.”
They used the carriage entrance that opened off Seventy-second Street, passing under a tall stone arch elaborately carved to an inner courtyard that was as overrun and busy as one of Barnum’s circus tents. No doubt the courtyard would be a park at some point, but just now it was crowded with crates and barrels and kegs of hardware, wheels of wiring, mountains of pipe, lumber, stone, brick, sand and gravel. Somewhere else—somewhere under cover and lock and key—would be the expensive materials, the rare tropical woods inset with ivory, marble and gold leaf, copper, bronze, and silver.
There were enclosed staircases in each of the four corners, and there would be just as many elevators.
“Elevators on every corner, is what I heard tell,” Oscar confirmed. “Fine ladies won’t walk up ten flights of stairs. Nor will fat bankers, for all that. And then more elevators for the servants and deliveries.”
They stood there gawking until a small man in a suit appeared in front of them, a clipboard tucked under one arm and a whole army of pencils stuck into his hatband.
“City inspectors?” A lump of tobacco pooched out one cheek and then the other.
“Police department,” Oscar said, and made short work of the introductions without giving away much of what brought them to the Dakota. “We need to see Hardenbergh,” he finished.
“Official business. We’re not here after graft,” Jack added.
The man’s expression softened to something more welcoming. “Well, then. That’s dandy. I’m Ambrose Hill, Hardenbergh’s my boss. Everybody’s boss as far as you can see. I’m happy to be assisting youse, understand, but I ain’t got the vaguest idea where Mr. Hardenbergh has got to. He could be anywheres. A busy man, Mr. Hardenbergh, and much sought after. Well, let’s go have a peek, shall we? And I’ll give youse a little tour while we’re at it.”
They followed him onto the first floor, down a hallway to a great room with high ceilings. Too big for a reception hall, too small for a ballroom.
“I heard about this,” Oscar said. “Restaurant, in case you don’t want to cook for yourself. Like a hotel, but not.”
“That’s the idea all right,” said their guide. “Now this here is the biggest of the dining rooms, but they all have your marble floors, your English oak wainscoting, and above that bronze paneling in what you call bas-relief, so like a statue sunk into a flat surface so’s only the front peeks out, is how I think of it. Ceilings, more carved English oak. Not that you can make out much of the detail from so far off. Dumbwaiters hid away.”
He slid a panel to the side to show them the shaft where pulley ropes were moving busily, and slid it back again. “Kitchens, pantries, bake shops, butcher, storerooms, laundry—all that is down one level. That’s where the staff quarters are too. The Dakota staff, mind you. Tenants have their own maids and so forth, but there’s one hundred fifty of us as works for the Dakota, that’s the number I hear.”
Ambrose Hill grew more expansive in his descriptions, as proud of every bit of fancy cabinetry and wrought iron as if they were his own property. Oscar drank it all in, hands clasped at the small of his back, rocking to and fro on his heels. He’d be telling stories based on this tour for months to come.
Jack didn’t mind; they might as well see what there was to see while they were here. Aunt Quinlan and Mrs. Lee would quiz him about every detail.
In front of a fairly simple door Hill stopped to speak to a watchman who sat reading a newspaper. The man looked at Hill, shrugged and nodded, gestured with the sweep of a hand. Not much in the way of security, but that was something to take up with Hardenbergh. Through one door, down a short but finely finished hall, and they arrived at what might have been a church, for all the hushed reverence in their guide’s tone.
“Sixty-five suites of apartments in the Dakota,” he began. “The smallest just five rooms, the biggest more than twenty. This here is the second largest and the first to be finished. It’s the one Mr. Hardenbergh shows to the fine folks who can afford this place. I promise, you’ll never see the like again.”
He was probably right. As Jack followed along he noted the size and proportions of the rooms, flooring of Minton tile or parquetry, marble mantels inlaid with bronze, a library with satinwood and mahogany cabinets and shelves that reached to the ceiling, intricately carved inset buffets and sideboards in the dining room. It was all rare and beautiful and skillfully put together, and nothing he wanted. He had everything he needed: a garden, a sound roof overhead, no cracks to let the wind in, a good hearth in the winter, Anna. As a bonus, a bathtub long enough for him to lie down in and enough hot water to fill it.
“And?” Hill said when they had finished in the very modern kitchen with a cookstove and two ovens. “What do you think?”
“Unparalleled,” Oscar assured him, and clapped the man on the shoulder. “Now what do you say we go see if your boss might be in his office?”
Ambrose Hill canted his head to one side and then the other. “His office, you say. I should have thought of that myself.”
* * *
• • •
JACK KNEW A few architects in passing, men who spent their time staring at blueprints, hands and cuffs stained with ink and pencil lead, more concerned with fashion than function. They left the real building of things to engineers, draftsmen, laborers, and craftsmen, and were content to watch from afar. At first glance Henry Hardenbergh seemed to fit this mold exactly.
His office door stood open and they could see him standing at a window watching his men at work in the courtyard.
Ambrose Hill cleared his throat. “Mr. Hardenbergh, sir? Two detective sergeants to see you.”
There was nothing unusual about Henry Hardenbergh that Jack could see. A man of forty years or so, balding, average size, not fat or thin, dressed neatly but a season or two out of fashion. He squinted, which could be just a bad habit or indication that his eyes were weak. However weak his eyes, his talent made up for it; every architect in the city had been after this job.
All this went through Jack’s mind in the few seconds it took Ambrose Hill to finish the introductions. Then he accepted the hand Hardenbergh extended, and he realized he had been mistaken about at least one thing. This was somebody who knew the value of hard work. His hand was callused and scarred, his grip firm. Jack looked him in the eye and saw a thoughtful man, serious but not haughty.
Oscar was impressed, too. He said, “Pardon the interruption, Mr. Hardenbergh. We won’t take too much of your time.”
Hardenbergh smiled. “Let’s find the two of you someplace to sit so you can tell me what brings you to the Dakota. Ambrose, help me clear off some chairs, would you?”
* * *
• • •
WHILE OSCAR LAID out the Pittorino case Jack took stock of the room. They were in the Dakota business offices, but they could have been anywhere: piles of papers, great stacks of architectural drawings a
nd blueprints, a side table for drafting instruments: calipers and slide rules, compasses large and small, transit levels, triangles and T-squares, everything neatly laid out in a way that reminded Jack of Anna’s surgical trays. A pyramid of ink bottles stood in the middle of it all, every color ever conceived. An old jar held a couple dozen pencils, sharpened to pinpoint accuracy, and another held pens fitted with drafting nibs.
Hardenbergh listened without interrupting as Oscar talked, his gaze fixed on the hands he had folded in front of him on the worktable.
“If I understand you correctly,” he said when Oscar had finished, “you think this Pittorino might have insinuated himself into one of our apartments to paint a mural.”
“It would fit his pattern,” Jack said. “But only if the apartment has been leased. He targets people moving into a new home. And the owner must be Catholic.”
Hardenbergh reached for a slim binder and put it in front of Jack and Oscar. “This is a list of all the apartments. There are—”
“Six hundred fifty of them,” Oscar supplied.
“I see Ambrose gave you his tour,” Hardenbergh said dryly. “Yes, exactly. About half the apartments have already been taken, and in all those cases the residents have been adding their own—” He paused. “Embellishments or refinements, I suppose you’d say. But they are supposed to get permission from both me and the governing board that the Clark family set up before doing something like that.”
“Let me guess,” Jack said. “That step often slips their minds.”
“These are people who are used to getting their own way,” Hardenbergh agreed. “So it’s certainly a possibility that this Pittorino has been working in one of the apartments.”
“Is there a way to find out for sure?” Jack asked.
Hardenbergh grimaced. “What I can do for you is limited. I can try to speak to each of the individuals who have signed a lease, but they don’t always make themselves available.”
“We have that same experience, all the time,” Oscar said gruffly.
“I can and I will talk to my men. If he’s here somebody has seen him coming and going. But assuming for a minute one of them does recognize him by the description, I’ll still have to get the tenant’s permission before entering the apartment. That could take as much as a week.”
“Not if there’s a suspect hiding out in it,” Oscar said. “We’ll handle the tenant in that case.”
“It may be over before then,” Jack said. “If we’re lucky. But in case we’re not—”
A quick knock at the door was followed by a workman, who stuck head and shoulders through.
“Mr. Hardenbergh, service elevator number two is back in working order, if you’d like to give it a try.”
Hardenbergh stood, and so did Oscar and Jack. He seemed to be ready to say good-bye, then hesitated.
“Would you like to go up to the roof? It’s a rare view of the city.”
Jack thought of Anna, who loved being up high. She would be very put out, but at least he’d have a good story to tell.
Oscar said, “We will make time for it. Thank you.”
* * *
• • •
“THE SERVICE ELEVATORS are bare-bones,” Hardenbergh told them as he slid the gates shut. “The elevators for the residents are very different. Quite elegant. Velvet upholstery on the benches, crystal sconces, mahogany paneling, and beveled mirrors.”
He operated the elevator as if he had been doing just that and nothing else for years, his hand easy on the gearshift. He was a likable man, just odd enough to be interesting. That he had been entrusted with a project like this one meant he was at the very top of his profession, and yet he didn’t surround himself with assistants and secretaries. He was uncomfortable with people but managed them well. More an artist than an engineer, then.
He gave them a little information as the elevator climbed, describing the servants’ rooms, dormitories, and bathrooms on the ninth floor and the playrooms and gymnasiums on the tenth. “All the furnaces and boilers are in a separate building, for safety,” he said. “Which gave me a little extra space to work with. And here we are, the roof.”
* * *
• • •
HARDENBERGH WAS BUSY with his men, so they were on their own, peering down into the courtyard and then watching as workers labored over water reservoirs. A whole universe of mechanical and engineering wonders up on this roof, one Jack would have liked to explore.
Oscar, who had little patience for technology, was more interested in the view. He wanted to know how it compared to the outlook from the top of the towers of the new bridge over the East River, where Jack had spent a memorable afternoon the year before.
He took off his hat to run a hand through his hair, pivoting from north to south and back again. The view was as spectacular as promised. Central Park’s reservoir, the castle, the lakes, the mall were all plain to see and farther to the museums on Fifth Avenue. In the southeast, Long Island Sound stretched away to the horizon, a hundred shades of blue glinting in the sun.
From the opposite side of the building was a very different view, one that had hardly changed in the last hundred years. The Hudson thrust northward like a great muscled forearm to be lost to sight where the mountains of the highlands crowded in from both sides. Somewhere far to the north, beyond the Mohawk River that he had read about in the novels of James Fenimore Cooper, was the village where Anna was born. Someday he would like to see the Adirondacks and the places that were important to her. He wondered if she would allow it. There was some mystery there, something in her Aunt Quinlan’s past that she was unwilling to share. “It’s not my story to tell,” she said when he pressed, cautiously.
Sooner or later it would be told, but patience was called for. As ever, with Anna and her family.
Now he said to Oscar, “On the day I climbed to the top of the arch on the new bridge it was overcast, so I can’t really compare the view.”
He looked out over the land between the Dakota and the Hudson, taking in tanneries, mills, farms and stables, horses and dairy cattle in the pastures, people at work in the fields. Jack followed a herd of cows being driven up Bloomingdale Road and realized that he could see a familiar house.
Jack glanced toward the Hudson where Amelie’s little farm stood. Oscar followed his gaze.
“Right,” he said. “Time for lunch.”
40
AMELIE SAVARD WAS an aunt to Sophie but a half niece to Anna, in a family so complicated that Jack hadn’t been able to make sense of it until Anna sat down and drew him a family tree. All the varied features and skin colors arose from the fact that Anna’s grandfather Nathaniel Bonner had founded three lines with three women, the first a youthful indiscretion, the second a short marriage ended by death in childbed, and the third the love of his life, an English spinster who came to the edge of the New York wilderness to teach school. “My grandmother,” Anna said to Jack when she began to tell the family stories, “was a formidable woman.”
Other people told stories of Elizabeth Middleton Bonner, too, and it was soon clear to him that formidable was not too strong a word. She had raised her husband’s daughter by his first marriage and the four children of her own who survived childhood, taught school, and lived with her husband in harmony for decades. To these facts came stories about the early, more difficult years that included breaking her husband out of jail, chasing a criminal across the Atlantic, and establishing a newspaper.
To see Amelie standing with Sophie and Anna you would never guess that they were related by blood. Anna’s complexion was so fair that she burned in the sun; Amelie took after her Mohawk and Seminole forebears with skin of burnished copper and cheekbones like wings. The fullness of her mouth was the only reminder that she had African ancestors as well. Sophie’s symmetrical bone structure combined African and Indian features, but her eyes were an unusual and very dist
inctive blue-green color. According to Anna the color of Sophie’s eyes was specific to people called redbone in Louisiana. A particular combination of Indian and African and white had brought it into being, and it persisted through generations.
“But don’t use the word redbone,” Anna had said. “It’s considered an insult in most places. Just not by Sophie.”
Sophie’s grandfather Ben Savard and his two sons had the same eye color—Anna called it turquoise—but neither of his daughters did. Amelie’s eyes were hazel, but darker than Anna’s. As near as Jack could calculate she was close to seventy, but she wore the years with grace. She was still lithe and strong, and Jack was not surprised to find her at work in her garden, wielding a hoe with ease, her long white and iron-gray braid swinging freely. For some ten years Amelie had been living out in the countryside raising chickens and corn and squash for her own use on this farm called Buttonwood. Though she had been a midwife with a very busy practice in the city for a long time, Jack found it hard to imagine her anywhere but right where she stood in a carefully tended garden bursting with spring.
She caught sight of them and her expression shifted, first to surprise and then simple pleasure.
“There she is,” Oscar said, starting toward her. “How’s my girl?”
“Oscar Maroney,” she said, wiping her hands on a towel tucked into her work apron pocket. “Come here and let me look at you. You too, Jack. Did the girls send you to see why I haven’t called on Sophie? I meant to be there days ago, but then Buster dropped down dead on me. Contrary old mule, always had to have the last word.”
“That’s bad luck,” Jack said.
She managed a small smile. “I’ve had worse. Come on in. If I know Oscar he’s looking for a meal.”
