Gramercy Park. Paula Cohen

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      “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.

      “Mr. Slade was one of the first to install an electrical system in his house,” he says, “but it has evidently been turned off for safety’s sake. Shall we move on? We can open the curtains in the other rooms.”

      The house agent’s voice is low, out of respect for whatever lurks just beyond the borders of hearing in silent, shut-up houses, but even so it fills the air with rustling echoes. Alfieri follows him through the doorway on the left, into the first of the house’s two drawing rooms, a chamber so vast that its far end is barely visible in the half-light. The furniture, in muslin shrouds, looks humped and unnatural; what can be seen of it is in a style current twenty years ago. Upton pulls aside the heavy drapery, and colors—ivory woodwork limned in gold, dadoes and friezes of Pompeian red—leap from the walls, only to retreat again into shades of gray as the curtain falls back into place.

      Two massive sliding doors lead from there into the library and the adjacent picture gallery. Upton pulls aside a crimson plush curtain, revealing walls covered in gold and green silk above ebony bookcases filled with rare volumes. A pair of slender marble columns frames the entrance to the picture gallery. The works of art are gone from their places; they rest, instead, on the floor, carefully swathed in muslin and ranged against the sides of the chamber. Lighter patches on the silk walls show where they were accustomed to hang.

      “Would you care to see more, signore?”

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