City of God

by Swerling, Beverly

  The thought had been an enormous comfort while he watched the auctioneer take each piece out of its wrappings and examine it, finally running his exceedingly short and stubby fingers over a grinning monkey carved entirely of rose-pink jade and seated on a white jade throne. Mutton fat jade, the Chinese called the pale stone. The piece was not the rarest or even the finest example of the stuff, but it was exquisitely carved and enormously desirable. Sam had been ecstatic when he found it in Shanghai.

  “Not the sort of thing most housewives fancy in their front parlors, Mr…. er…Smith,” the auctioneer had said. “Not at all the popular taste.”

  “Of course not. These are uncommon, choice pieces. I’ve been collecting them since I was a lad. They’re worth a king’s ransom, man. This piece here,” Sam quickly unwrapped an exquisitely carved dragon made of the rarest, most translucent pale green jadeite, “is thought to date from the Han Dynasty. That makes it almost two thousand years old. Worth a fortune.”

  “Only as much of a fortune as someone’s willing to pay, Mr. Smith. Not a penny more or less.” The auctioneer was re-wrapping the jade monkey in the bit of silk Sam had brought it in. “Dragons and monkeys. Not your average sort of Chinee curio. How much did you say you wanted to place as a reserve?”

  “Sixty thousand,” Sam said. “For the entire collection. There are thirty-two pieces.” He’d held back only two, another Han piece, a carp carved of jadeite and one pink jade Ming Dynasty vase of which he was especially fond. “If we’re to sell them separately I would think a reserve of between one and two thousand on each. I’d take your advice on that. Separately or as a single collection, I mean. You’re the auction expert. I realize that.”

  “My advice, Mr. Smith,” the auctioneer had finished wrapping the monkey god and pushed it back across the table, “as you’re calling yourself today, is that you take these back to wherever they came from. I couldn’t promise you’d raise more’n a hundred on the lot.”

  He’d gone to three more auction houses and got pretty much the same response.

  Nothing for it then. The twist of brown paper was his only reliable course of action.

  “No season more beautiful than autumn, dear Jenny. Crisp and invigorating. A man can’t ask for more.” Wilbur Randolf left his hat and his gloves and his walking stick on the table by the front door and kissed the cheek of his mistress. “We should go out for supper later. It’s bound to be a glorious evening. Perhaps Delmonico’s. You’re always saying how much you want to go there.”

  “Indeed I do, and you always say we must be discreet.”

  “Fiddle on discretion, that’s what I say now. I feel a new man, my love. Entirely new.”

  “Oh, and may I ask why that is, Wilbur dear?”

  “You may not.” He accompanied the words with a swift slap on Jenny’s generous buttocks. “Suffice to say I have made arrangements that please me. And now I wish to be otherwise pleased.”

  “Do you now? Just what do you have in mind, you big strong man? Must I be punished for all my naughty ways when you’re not here?” He hadn’t wanted to spank her for ages, but Jenny Worthington had gotten as far as she had by always knowing what a man desired before he did, and it seemed her instincts were still sound.

  “Absolutely,” Wilbur was removing his frock coat as he spoke. “Severely punished. Now upstairs with you. And you will bring me the hairbrush yourself.”

  Afterwards he wouldn’t let her be on top, though that too was the way things usually went these days. No, no, he insisted, she must lie yielding beneath him, and he would show her what a raging bull he could still be. He was, too, until he rolled off her and lay panting on the bed, red-faced and sweating.

  “Oh my, Wilbur. That was really quite wonderful. I’d no idea you could still—”

  “Frankly, neither had I. It’s peace of mind that does it, Jenny. But I think we must forego a trip to Delmonico’s this evening. I’m not up to it.”

  “Not to worry, dear heart. I’ve everything ready for a nice supper. What you need now is a nice cup of tea. Put the life back in you.”

  Wilbur agreed that it would and that he’d rest up here a bit while she went down and got the food ready. “Ring your little bell when everything’s prepared and I’ll come down.”

  Fifteen minutes later Jenny rang and rang and wondered if the tea would be more likely to taste odd if it cooled. “Do come, Wilbur,” she called. “Everything is ready.”

  In the end she went upstairs to get him. Wilbur lay on the bed staring at the ceiling. Not moving and definitely not breathing. But he was smiling.

  Jenny left Wilbur where he was and dumped the pot of tea outside where the chamber pots were usually emptied. Then she went upstairs and got Wilbur dressed. Quickly, before he stiffened. That done, she summoned the copper now on duty on her stretch of Bleecker Street. Fearless Flannagan, as it happened—or to put it more accurately, as she had arranged with the alderman who served her district. None of her doing that Fearless had been one of the first men hired by Tammany as soon as they set about forming the new force of city police. But once that happened, well, Jenny had never been one to let an opportunity pass her by.

  “I’ve gotten him dressed, Fearless, but you’ll have to get him back to his house in Washington Square. Then go up to Fourteenth Street and tell his daughter he’s passed. Better coming from you than from me.”

  “No doubt about it,” she would say later, remembering that smiling corpse, “Wilbur Randolf died a happy man.” That was not, however, what she said to Sam Devrey. To him she described a horrific scene of agony and screams. “What I went through,” she said, sniffling and dabbing at her eyes. “It’s worth every penny, Mr. Devrey. Every penny.” That last spoken while she made Sam’s eight thousand in ready money, coin and paper in a small leather pouch, disappear down the front of her dress. “It was absolutely dreadful. Now I’m without my dearest friend and support, but you’ve got what you wanted.”

  “So have you, Mrs. Worthington,” Sam said. “So have you.”

  “As security, Mr. Belmont, the deeds to two properties. Numbers thirty-seven and thirty-nine Cherry Street.” Sam didn’t like coming to the Jews for money, but he saw little choice. It had to be someone he knew was not in Astor’s pocket.

  August Belmont, a Prussian by birth, was the Rothschilds’ man. Belmont had arrived in New York in May of 1837 just as the panic broke and the price of everything was tumbling, long before his employers back in Europe knew what was afoot in the New World. Within a day and on his own initiative the twenty-two-year-old Belmont began buying depressed bank notes and securities, using the Rothschilds’ credit and gambling on their approval. It came. Fulsome praise, in fact, and a salary of ten thousand a year. These days Belmont, still in his twenties and ensconced in a Wall Street office, traded both for the Rothschilds and in his own name.

  “And these properties are worth…What do you imagine, Mr. Devrey?”

  “Twenty-five, possibly thirty thousand.”

  “Less, I think.” Belmont’s English was almost without accent. “Cherry Street is not the best part of town. But you are asking for a loan of sixty thousand. That is correct, no?”

  “It is.”

  Belmont smiled. “I know your reputation as an astute man of business, Mr. Devrey. So I am sure there is other collateral, something you have not thus far mentioned.”

  Sam was not such a fool as to offer the jade. A man of August Belmont’s perspicacity would immediately recognize the real value of the collection. And there was no way he would ever get it back once Belmont had his hands on it. And thanks to Sam’s daring and Jenny’s greed, he need not pay such a huge price to get what he needed. “There is another house, Mr. Belmont. Number three East Fourteenth Street. At the corner of Fifth Avenue. It is worth considerably more. I will produce the deed to it shortly.”

  “I see. May I ask why you did not bring it this morning? Along with these others.”

  “The Fourteenth Street house was a gift�
��or rather the promise of a gift—to my wife from her father, on the occasion of our marriage. My father-in-law has just died. My wife is his only heir. Therefore, as her husband, I will acquire the deed, which will come into my possession in the next week or two, as soon as the will goes through probate and his affairs are settled. When it does, I will give it to you. But if the venture in which I’m interested is to go profitably forward, I need the cash now.”

  “And your late father-in-law”—Belmont glanced at the notes Devrey had prepared for him, though Sam had the feeling he already knew much of what they contained—“was Mr. Wilbur Randolf. A landlord as well as the proprietor of a leather goods firm.”

  “That’s a rather modest description of Mr. Randolf’s position. He had a virtual lock on the whole of the trade in leather in the town.”

  “Yes, I believe I have heard that. But you, Mr. Devrey, have no interest in leather, I think. And no particular expertise in the details of your late father-in-law’s enterprises.”

  “That’s correct. I’m in shipping.”

  “Devrey’s Shipping. Yes, of course. So the leather business will…”

  “That remains to be seen. What counts, Mr. Belmont, is that once my wife inherits I will not require additional funds. It is to provide the funds I need now that I’m coming to you.”

  “On the strength of your…or perhaps I should say your wife’s expectations.”

  “My wife. Just as you say. That is a technicality, is it not?”

  “It is.” Belmont reached for his checkbook. “Twenty-one days, Mr. Devrey. Then payment in full with twenty percent interest.”

  Extortion. Nonetheless. “Done, Mr. Belmont.” Sam relaxed for the first time since he’d walked into the office.

  Carolina had known Gordon James all her life. He’d been her father’s attorney for as long as she could remember. He always came to the house to deal with Papa’s affairs. This day was no different. They sat in Papa’s front parlor, the one with the long windows looking out on Washington Square Park. The trees were all bare now. Soon the branches would be frosted with snow. Then it would be spring again. Life went on as it always did, except that poor Papa was in his grave.

  “Probate in this matter will be more than usually swift,” James said, looking across at the couple. Carolina was pale, a bit tired-looking, the lawyer thought. Mourning didn’t suit her. As for her husband, Sam Devrey looked to James like a vulture. Black suit, white shirt, and white stock. Handsome when young, he was growing gaunt as he aged. His nose seemed sharper as his cheeks became more sunken. A bird of prey waiting to pounce. Well, Mr. Devrey, we shall see about that.

  “Wilbur Randolf’s will is exceedingly simple and very clear,” the lawyer said. “In fact, he remade it shortly before he died.”

  “Remade,” Sam said. “What was there to alter? My wife is his only heir.”

  “Not exactly, Mr. Devrey.”

  Good Christ Jesus, what if Wilbur Randolf left a bundle to Jenny Worthington after all? “But—”

  James waved away the interruption and cleared his throat. “If you’ll permit me to continue.” He knew he was drawing it out longer than he needed to. Hell, he’d really had no reason to arrange this formal reading, the document was plain enough. He could have let Carolina know how things stood and been done with it. He’d done it this way because he suspected it’s how Wilbur would have wanted it. Wilbur couldn’t abide Sam Devrey, not these last few years. It would have given him enormous pleasure to see the man squirm. “I’m pleased you brought young Master Zachary with you, Carolina my dear.”

  Carolina touched her son’s knee but quickly withdrew her hand. At eleven, a student at the Trinity School on Grand Street, Zac did not permit outward signs of maternal affection. Her pride was nonetheless apparent. He was almost as tall as she, but dark like his father. And sitting upright beside her, staring straight at the lawyer. Look a man in the eye when you do business with him, son. That’s the way to get on. That’s how your grandpa’s always done it and so should you. Zac would miss Papa even more than she would. Certainly he’d been the strongest male influence the boy had known. Zac liked Nick, of course, always had, but it wouldn’t be the same.

  “Can we please get this done with?” Sam said. “I’ve other things to see to.”

  “Yes, Mr. Devrey. As you wish. As I said, shortly before he died, Wilbur Randolf made a new will. He was at my office and signed it the very day of his demise.”

  “And the terms of this new will are?”

  James picked up the document and read aloud. “I leave absolutely nothing to my beloved daughter Carolina, not because—”

  “But that’s absurd!”

  “I assure you it is not, Mr. Devrey.” Then, reading again, “…not because of any lack of affection, for indeed she is as she has always been the great joy and consolation of my life. However, she made a poor choice of husband, and to my everlasting sorrow I did not override her decision. It is unthinkable to me that my son-in-law Samuel Devrey should in any way profit from the marriage vows he has so flagrantly violated. I therefore leave everything I possess to my beloved grandson, Zachary Devrey.” James couldn’t help himself. He paused for full dramatic effect. That’s got him, Wilbur, he thought. His face is as white as his stock. You’d have been delighted.

  Sam took only a few seconds to get his breath back. “That doesn’t seem to change much,” he said. “Zachary is a minor and I am his father. I will of course oversee his affairs until he reaches his majority.”

  “No, Mr. Devrey. You will not. Mr. Randolf expressly forbade that.” James looked again at the copy of the will and read, “Everything I own is to be placed in trust and held for Zachary until he reaches the age of twenty-one. The sole trustee is to be his mother, my daughter Carolina Randolf Devrey.” The lawyer raised his eyes. No one said anything, but Devrey’s face had gone from white to bright red. “Your father has also decreed, my dear Carolina, that for the duty of oversight which he lays upon you, the trust is to pay you a salary of three thousand a year. You will not therefore be in any way dependent on your husband for the ordinary expenses of your daily life.”

  The lawyer stared at Devrey. Sam stared back, but it wasn’t Gordon James who was on his mind. A pox on your black soul, Wilbur Randolf. May you rot in hell. But the Hakka pirates couldn’t outwit me, and neither shall you. Once my ship sails, I won’t need a penny of your poxed estate. “Fair enough,” Sam said. “I’m glad to hear my wife is to have a decent income of her own, since I require that she and the children vacate the Fourteenth Street house within twenty-four hours.”

  “Samuel, we can’t. The children—” Then, seeing that he stared straight ahead and refused to look at her, “Very well, but if we must go, surely you can give us more time, Samuel.”

  “No, I cannot. Under the terms of the marriage settlement the house is yours on your father’s death. Acting as your husband, I now demand vacant possession. That is my right under the law, is it not, Mr. James?”

  “Indeed it is, Mr. Devrey. Except for one thing.”

  “Which is?”

  “Before he died, Mr. Randolf arranged the sale of the house. That right remained his. Also a matter of the terms of the marriage settlement, as I’m sure you know.”

  “And it was sold to whom?” The ice was now firmly lodged in Sam’s belly, spreading its cold through every part of him. He could feel it reaching his heart and taking bitter hold.

  “The Fourteenth Street house was sold to Master Zachary Devrey, who paid the sum of one dollar. That is correct, young man, is it not?”

  “Yes, sir, it is.” If he’d known that grandpa was really going to die he’d never have agreed. He’d have made him take it back. But he knew Grandpa did it because Papa was so mean to Mama and didn’t deserve to have any hold over her. Not over him or Ceci either. The boy’s chin came up. “It’s exactly how we did it, sir. I bought the house from my grandfather for a dollar.”

  “Indeed you did, young Master Devr
ey. And it has now been made part of your trust, which your dear mama will oversee until you are twenty-one.” He looked directly at Sam. “I myself filed the transfer of ownership at the registry of deeds yesterday.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  “IT IS GOOD of you to receive me, Mrs. Devrey.”

  “Not at all, Mr. Belmont. It is good of you to come.” Carolina poured her visitor a small glass of sherry as she spoke. There had been a good many visitors making condolence calls these past weeks. Presumably that was the motive of this visit as well, though she’d not known that her father had business with August Belmont.

  “I suspect you may not—” He broke off and nodded his thanks when she handed him the wine.

  “May not what, Mr. Belmont?”

  “May not be entirely pleased with what I have come about.”

  “I see. Well, in that case let us sit down and you can tell me what that is. I always prefer bad news in as direct a fashion as possible.”

  “I don’t mean to convey the wrong impression, madam, and I realize you are in mourning. But I had some business dealings with your husband a short time past, right after the passing of your late father, as it happens. I thought Mr. Devrey might be here.”

  “I assure you he is not.” Carolina took a small sip of her drink and studied her caller over the rim of the glass. Short, a square sort of body and an equally square face below an already much receded hairline, though she’d heard he was still in his twenties. Not yet married, and said to be exceptionally clever. No doubt he was. How else would he be so rich so young? It followed that Mr. Belmont knew as well as everyone in the town not only that Sam Devrey hadn’t lived with his wife for years, but also the unusual terms of Wilbur Randolf’s will. “Perhaps you would care to tell me whatever it is you intended to tell my husband, Mr. Belmont.”