museum piece, was a silver dekadrachm dating from about 470 B.C. It was a famous coin, one of great classics of Greek mintage. It was called the “Demaretion” and judged as being in Extremely Fine condition. I consulted my catalogues and discovered the most recent Demaretion in similar condition to come on the market had sold for almost a quarter of a million dollars. The value in the insurance inventory was given as only $150,000. I felt Grandby’s could auction this coin for a possible $350,000.
I read the covering letter addressed to Grandby & Sons, picked up the phone, and called Mr. Archibald Havistock.
3
I N MY EAGER WANDERINGS about Manhattan I had discovered it to be a borough of neighborhoods, the most disparate side by side: poor and wealthy, ugly and lovely, raucous and sedate. And within those districts, even a single block could have a distinctive character that set it off from its neighbors, a weed in a nosegay of posies or a rose in a clump of nettles.
Archibald Havistock lived in a unique East 79th Street block that had not yet been given a transplant of glass and steel high-rises. The elephantine brick and stone apartment houses, all looking like armories, seemed to have settled into the earth since they were built fifty years ago. They gave the appearance of solid, dull permanence, and one supposed the occupants of those seven-, nine-, and eleven-room suites had taken on the character of their surroundings.
The lobby, paneled in varicose-veined marble, was a small Grand Central Station, with a codger behind the desk as patterned as the marble. I announced my name, he picked up a house phone and announced my arrival to Mr. Havistock, then announced the apartment number to me. It was all as formal as a court investiture.
The man who opened the apartment door didn’t look like an Archibald to me; he looked more like a Tony or a Mike. Actually, he turned out to be an Orson. So much for my perspicacity. He introduced himself as Orson Vanwinkle, Mr. Havistock’s nephew and secretary. We shook hands. A damp experience.
He was a dark, saturnine fellow with a beaky nose: a perfect Iago with that kind of menacing handsomeness I suppose some women find attractive, but which makes me slightly queasy. Also, his cologne smelled like Juicy Fruit.
I followed him down a muffled corridor, noting a series of etchings on the walls. They all seemed to be of Liverpool at low tide. Not too exciting. But then Vanwinkle ushered me into a chamber that was startling: a den-library from another era. Slate-tiled floor almost hidden by a buttery Oriental rug. Walnut paneling. Heavy velvet drapes swagged back with cords as thick as hawsers with tassels. Oil paintings in gilt frames (including two original Hoppers). Crystal and silver on a marble-topped sideboard.
And on deep, built-in oak shelves, a number of glass-topped display cases. The Havistock coin collection.
The man behind the enormous partners’ desk rose to greet me with a wintry smile. A blocky figure draped in a gorgeous suit of dove-gray flannel with a hairline red stripe. White silk shirt with a bow tie: polka-dotted blue. His vest had white piping—the first time I had ever seen that. Hair silvered to a sheen, and eyes a cold, cold azure.
“Miss Bateson,” he said in diapason tones, holding out a manicured paw, “I am Archibald Havistock. Delighted to make your acquaintance.”
I had an instant reaction: I was meeting a personage. Later, I tried to analyze my awe, and decided it was due to his carriage, voice, grooming, and his presence. He just gave the impression of being a very important man. In control. Even in less admirable surroundings, I think he still would have conveyed the feeling of power and distinction. He was so complete.
And—as if he needed it!—he was beautiful, in the way certain older men sometimes are. A heavy face with crinkly laugh lines. Full mouth. Solid jaw. And, of course, the silvered hair and ice-cube eyes. He could
I read the covering letter addressed to Grandby & Sons, picked up the phone, and called Mr. Archibald Havistock.
3
I N MY EAGER WANDERINGS about Manhattan I had discovered it to be a borough of neighborhoods, the most disparate side by side: poor and wealthy, ugly and lovely, raucous and sedate. And within those districts, even a single block could have a distinctive character that set it off from its neighbors, a weed in a nosegay of posies or a rose in a clump of nettles.
Archibald Havistock lived in a unique East 79th Street block that had not yet been given a transplant of glass and steel high-rises. The elephantine brick and stone apartment houses, all looking like armories, seemed to have settled into the earth since they were built fifty years ago. They gave the appearance of solid, dull permanence, and one supposed the occupants of those seven-, nine-, and eleven-room suites had taken on the character of their surroundings.
The lobby, paneled in varicose-veined marble, was a small Grand Central Station, with a codger behind the desk as patterned as the marble. I announced my name, he picked up a house phone and announced my arrival to Mr. Havistock, then announced the apartment number to me. It was all as formal as a court investiture.
The man who opened the apartment door didn’t look like an Archibald to me; he looked more like a Tony or a Mike. Actually, he turned out to be an Orson. So much for my perspicacity. He introduced himself as Orson Vanwinkle, Mr. Havistock’s nephew and secretary. We shook hands. A damp experience.
He was a dark, saturnine fellow with a beaky nose: a perfect Iago with that kind of menacing handsomeness I suppose some women find attractive, but which makes me slightly queasy. Also, his cologne smelled like Juicy Fruit.
I followed him down a muffled corridor, noting a series of etchings on the walls. They all seemed to be of Liverpool at low tide. Not too exciting. But then Vanwinkle ushered me into a chamber that was startling: a den-library from another era. Slate-tiled floor almost hidden by a buttery Oriental rug. Walnut paneling. Heavy velvet drapes swagged back with cords as thick as hawsers with tassels. Oil paintings in gilt frames (including two original Hoppers). Crystal and silver on a marble-topped sideboard.
And on deep, built-in oak shelves, a number of glass-topped display cases. The Havistock coin collection.
The man behind the enormous partners’ desk rose to greet me with a wintry smile. A blocky figure draped in a gorgeous suit of dove-gray flannel with a hairline red stripe. White silk shirt with a bow tie: polka-dotted blue. His vest had white piping—the first time I had ever seen that. Hair silvered to a sheen, and eyes a cold, cold azure.
“Miss Bateson,” he said in diapason tones, holding out a manicured paw, “I am Archibald Havistock. Delighted to make your acquaintance.”
I had an instant reaction: I was meeting a personage. Later, I tried to analyze my awe, and decided it was due to his carriage, voice, grooming, and his presence. He just gave the impression of being a very important man. In control. Even in less admirable surroundings, I think he still would have conveyed the feeling of power and distinction. He was so complete.
And—as if he needed it!—he was beautiful, in the way certain older men sometimes are. A heavy face with crinkly laugh lines. Full mouth. Solid jaw. And, of course, the silvered hair and ice-cube eyes. He could
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