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By Root 2943 0

II, him what Mr. Moore had referred to as “Cornell.” (The name distinguished him from his grandfather, the larcenous old coot who’d put the family on the map, and also from his own son, Cornelius III, who was called “Neily.”) He was a generous man when it came to charities, was Mr. Cornelius II, but he was also about the most holier-than-thou customer in New York; and he certainly had no interest in meeting with someone as questionable as Dr. Kreizler. If any of our team was going to be admitted to the enormous mansion—which was known to architectural types as a “French Renaissance château”—that took up the whole end of the block of Fifth Avenue between Fifty-seventh and Fifty-eighth Streets, favors were going to have to be asked of third parties: specifically, Mr. Moore would have to seek the help of his parents, something he genuinely despised doing. And, though they did fix an audience up for Thursday afternoon, they also told Mr. Moore that, whatever his business was, he’d better make sure he didn’t bring up the subject of Mr. Vanderbilt’s son Neily, whose existence the old gent wasn’t currently recognizing.

Apparently, young Neily’d had the nerve to go and marry somebody he actually loved, but who his family considered socially below him. The battle over the marriage had become so hot that Cornelius II had actually had a stroke, and pretty well written his oldest son out of his will. The young man himself had gone through with the marriage, then hightailed it to Europe with his bride. They’d only recently returned, though the city’d been buzzing with word of their doings the whole while. The yellow press, of course, had jumped into the thing, and all on the side of love, the better to sell papers. Most of high society was likewise sympathetic to the young couple, since really old New York families, like Mr. Moore’s and Miss Howard’s, considered the recently rich Vanderbilts gate-crashers at their long-running party in the first place. The affair had continued to wear on Cornelius II (who was now migrating between his palace in New York and his even more ridiculously elaborate joint in Newport, Rhode Island), and by that summer he’d grown so bitter and self-righteous that it was actually killing him. Seventy million dollars and the New York Central railroad system all his own to play with, and the man was going to let two young people’s romantic escapades drive him into the ground: there was and is no figuring rich people sometimes …

Anyway, Thursday afternoon arrived and we drove uptown in the covered calash. The average daily temperature had been steadily going up as we dragged deeper into July, and by the eighth it was rising so fast that it was causing that depressing type of warm summer rain that always fails to cool or cleanse the city. Sloshing our way through particularly nasty-smelling horse waste, we rolled over Murray Hill and then entered the mansion district in the Fifties, eventually passing the other Vanderbilt palaces, what had all been built within a few blocks of Cornelius II’s. The main purpose of each of those mansions, it’d always seemed to me, was nothing more than to outdo the rest, even if that meant piling on so many details and extras that the structures themselves crossed over into what you might call laughable, or just plain unsightly.

This was true of One West Fifty-seventh Street most of all: the bright red color of the bricks against the whiteness of the limestone used for the window frames and detailing may’ve been supposed to re-create the look of the French Renaissance, but for my money it came a lot closer to a circus tent. The addition that’d been built onto the back of the house by Mr. Richard Morris Hunt—him what had designed the new wing of the Metropolitan Museum—was much easier on the eyes, and could even be considered handsome, if looked at apart from the rest. But the effect of the front of the house, when you came at it from downtown, was to make you think that you were on your way to see some kind of high-class joker. Which, of course, you were; it was just too bad that