Текст книги "Privileged Lives"

Автор книги: Edward Stewart

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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 37 страниц)

29

THE LAMPLIGHT LAY STILL and liquid on the bedsheets. Propped on two pillows, Babe opened Mortal Splendor: Inside the Babe Vanderwalk Devens Affair.

She read slowly, carefully.

It is in the nature of beginnings, Dobbsie wrote in his prefatory note, that they begin … somewhere. Every comedy, every tragedy, every act of life-giving or life-taking, has its beginning in some other event. The Freudian tells us it all began in the unconscious where forgotten childhood trauma festers. The Marxist tells us it all began in the class struggle that shapes the destiny of every human, be he capitalist drone or proletarian drudge. The Bible tells us, not unwisely, that it all began in the cataclysm of the Creation.

Where then did the chain of events begin that climaxed in Babe Vanderwalk Devens’s drug-induced coma?

In the needfulness of a six-year-old little princess who had every luxury but parental love? In the ambition of a Kentucky mountain boy who preferred martinis to beer, the music of George Gershwin to the twang of a guitar? In the grinding three-hundred-year poverty of Appalachia? In the Babylonian glitter of New York City that has dazzled and appalled the world ever since the Robber Barons burst upon the scene?

Maybe the Bible gives us the clue. Maybe it all began … in the beginning.

Babe frowned and turned the page. In the first chapter, “By Their Roots Shall Ye Know Them,” Dobbsie examined bloodlines.

Through marriage licenses he had been able to trace Scott Devens’s ancestry back through three impoverished Kentucky generations; he said that research further back had been made impossible by “a wall of illegitimacy.”

Dobbsie then turned to Babe’s family tree. He had unearthed the name Pieter Isaak Valk in the register of the Shearith Israel Synagogue of Amsterdam—a remarkable congregation where, almost seven decades earlier, the name Jan Jakob Astor had been similarly inscribed—Jan, of course, being the Dutch form of John. (The name Valk, Dobbsie explained, was related to the Dutch word for falcon, which also served as a slangy Lowlands pejorative for a sharp operator. Imagine, he said, a young American called Peter Isaac Shark, and you have the picture.) Pieter Isaak, the youngest son of a peddler, had been bar mitzvahed in 1830 and in 1833 had emigrated to New York on a ship of the Dutch West Indies Company. He went into the fur-trading business, hauling barrels of Dutch rum into the Indian reserves in upper New York State and Quebec; he bartered liquor for animal pelts, shrewdly extending credit to the tribes, and forged a monopoly.

In 1848 Valk, now a stock market millionaire calling himself Peter Isaac Vanderwalk, rescued the United States Treasury from bankruptcy, forming a consortium to buy up the largest bond issue ever floated by the federal government. From 1860 to 1864 he bankrolled Abraham Lincoln’s Union government in its struggle against the Confederacy.

At age sixty-eight, Peter Isaac married Isabella Hadley, the twenty-three-year-old daughter of the president of the New York Stock Exchange. On the wedding day, Isabella’s father, under grand jury indictment for embezzlement, was able to make good all discrepancies in the Exchange’s books, effectively mooting the charge.

Because Vanderwalk so openly used his power, society considered him a robber baron and shut him out.

Dobbsie told a story dating from the 1880s, when the Astors and the Vanderbilts had sworn they would never say more than two words to any Vanderwalk.

Mrs. Astor and Mrs. Vanderbilt, competing for the position of absolute leader of New York society, had filled their mansions with quantities of European art and sculpture. But one prize eluded them: neither could persuade her husband to spend the half-million dollars which the Austrian chancellory was asking for its Rubens Adoration.

Isabella Vanderwalk determined to exploit the situation and make her long-delayed mark in society. At his wife’s insistence, Vanderwalk paid the Austrians a half million and hung the painting in his Fifth Avenue mansion.

Society faced a dilemma: how to view the Rubens without appearing to accept Vanderwalk’s hospitality. Finally Mrs. Astor’s friends decreed they were willing to visit the Vanderwalk mansion, but only between two and four in the afternoon, taking no food or refreshment. Mrs. Vanderbilt’s friends decreed they were willing to visit between four and six, with the same condition.

Vanderwalk thereupon announced that he would give the Rubens to the Metropolitan Museum, with an endowment to keep admission free. However, he gave both the Vanderbilt and the Astor factions one last chance to see the painting privately: he invited them to dinner at his home the evening before the gift was to be made. (It was well known that Mrs. Vanderbilt and Mrs. Astor never entered the same private home or sat at the same table.)

After agonizing whether it was better to dine with one’s enemies in the home of a robber baron or to rub shoulders with one’s inferiors in the Metropolitan Museum, society opted for the more comfortable humiliation, dinner.

The etiquette of the time required that invitations had to be returned, and by accepting Vanderwalk’s, New York society obligated themselves to invite him and his family into their homes.

There was, however, no obligation to speak to a Vanderwalk.

Mrs. Astor and Mrs. Vanderbilt both arrived at exactly 8:15. As they had sworn, they said only two words to Vanderwalk: “Good evening.” They had arranged that any other messages would be communicated by their banker, Pierpont Morgan.

The ladies found the Rubens hanging in the grand salon, covered by a gold velvet curtain. Pierpont Morgan asked, “Do you not have something to show these ladies?” Vanderwalk answered in his Dutch accent, “Whatever the ladies like.” The ladies said nothing. “Well, then,” Vanderwalk said, “I will show them a fine dinner.”

After the four-hour twelve-course seated banquet, Mrs. Astor and Mrs. Vanderbilt again stood before the curtained Adoration, and Pierpont Morgan again asked Vanderwalk, “Are you absolutely sure you do not have something to show these ladies?” Again Vanderwalk said in his Dutch accent, “Whatever the ladies like.” The ladies still were silent. “Well, then,” Vanderwalk said, “I will show them some fine dancing.”

The guests repaired to the ballroom, where the New York Symphony played the latest waltzes and quadrilles. At two in the morning, when a light breakfast was served, Pierpont Morgan spoke in great anger to his host. “Sir, to put it plainly, have you not an Adoration by Peter Paul Rubens to show us before we go home?”

Vanderwalk looked astonished. “Indeed I had, but at midnight it became the property of the museum, and the workmen removed it.”

“Why in God’s name did you not uncover it?”

In his Dutch accent, Vanderwalk replied, “Out of consideration for Mrs. Vanderbilt and Mrs. Astor. They have criticized me, in society, for displaying my possessions.”

“Mrs. Astor and Mrs. Vanderbilt would not have criticized you tonight.”

“Bless me, but I am buffaloed. The ladies had only to say the word.”

Over the next two years, Vanderwalk’s five hundred guests dutifully invited him and his Mrs. to five hundred dinners; at none of the gatherings was one word beyond “Good evening” addressed to either of them.

Till his death, Vanderwalk remained an unregenerate embarrassment, speaking English with a thick accent, cheating at cards, dining with dirty hands and dripping food on himself, calling for Dutch rum with his meals, even though fashion insisted on French wine. Old Vanderwalk even went so far as to tell bawdy stories in mixed company that included the wife of President McKinley; for this he was roundly scolded in his New York Times obituary.

With the expansion of wealth and the slackening of moral codes that resulted toward the end of the 1890s, the entry requirements for New York Society shifted. It was enough to have money and not to have been convicted of a crime. The New York that had shut Vanderwalk out welcomed his young wife, his son, and his dollars.

Vanderwalk’s son, Hadley Vanderwalk, Sr., attended Princeton University, married a Rockefeller, produced three sons, built a telephone and telegraph monopoly, served in World War I and in the kitchen cabinet of three presidents, never drank or smoked, financed Lend Lease, and spent a lifetime living down his father’s reputation.

But perhaps Hadley Vanderwalk, Sr.’s most fateful act, Dobbsie wrote, was to bequeath to his youngest granddaughter—Beatrice Wilmerding Vanderwalk—half of all the aluminum in the United States—making her, at age three, one of the ten richest women in America.

As Babe read on, she felt she was seeing herself in a fun-house mirror. The person that Dobbsie called Babe bore only a distant, distorted resemblance to the self she remembered and knew.

As a five-year-old, Dobbsie reported, Babe had been photographed by Cartier-Bresson, playing with her two hundred dolls, her thirty-two doll houses, and her two thousand doll gowns; the photographs had appeared in Vogue.

At eight, Babe was given her first pony; at ten, her first Arabian mare. Photographs appeared in Town and Country.

At twelve, Babe was given her first yacht, the sloop Cygnet. Each summer, for the four weeks that the family lived at Hampton Court, their fifty-two-room summer “cottage” in Newport, she had at her disposal her own captain and two-man crew. At sixteen, old enough for a New York State driver’s learning permit, she was given her first Mercedes-Benz. The car had a refrigerated glove compartment.

Babe had her coming-out at Hampton Court. Hadley Vanderwalk, Jr., spent one and a half million dollars providing three orchestras, a quarter-mile-long buffet, and a dozen bars for his daughter’s twelve hundred guests. Babe wore a seven-thousand-dollar gown designed for her by Yves Saint Laurent; she was featured on the cover of Life magazine curtsying to the duchess of Windsor, and news cameras of the three networks covered the event.

It was not surprising, Dobbsie said, that Babe—an only child—grew into a rebel. For homes she had had the old Flagler mansion off Fifth Avenue; the Newport “cottage”; the house in Palm Beach, scene of the family’s Christmas celebrations; the winter chalet in the Swiss Alps and the summer “chateau” on the French Riviera. As an infant she had played in sandboxes with Rockefellers and Vanderbilts. Educated at America’s finest institutions—Spence, Farmington, Vassar—she had broadened her circle to include the children of board chairmen of AT&T, ITT, IBM, United Fruit, TWA. Never separated from those patrician playmates for longer than a summer vacation, she took privilege for granted—above all the privilege of flouting the very conventions that legitimized her own wealth and status.

At nineteen she defied her parents and plunged into a scandalous marriage to internationally renowned concert pianist Ernst Koenig, a thrice-divorced man thirty-eight years her senior. Vassar expelled her.

Dobbsie felt that this first marriage was more than an adolescent acting-out: it was a cry for help, an ominous signal that Babe Vanderwalk wanted in marriage what she had missed in childhood—nurture by loving, as opposed to paid, hands. In Koenig, she had tried to turn a father figure into a husband. Her alchemy had failed, and the solution, she must have decided, was to reverse the transformation. With one failed marriage securely under her belt, she packed her eight-year-old daughter into a Swiss boarding school and set out to find a husband she could turn into a father.

Scottie Devens, Jr., a new chapter began, is the kind of man women can’t resist: good-looking, polished, not doing everything he could with his gifts—a perfect candidate for rescue.

Dobbsie chronicled Scott Devens’s troubled childhood as the son of a Kentucky dirt farmer, his rowdy high school education, his early involvement with “Cuban elements” in Miami. This part of the book was full of quotes from unidentified sources: “Scottie Devens’s closest chums,” “a former sweetheart who wishes to remain anonymous,” “the mother of his aborted child,” “a Rumanian diplomat and drug courier”; “there are even those who swear …”

Like two oppositely charged particles in a cyclotron, it was inevitable—according to Dobbsie—that sooner or later Babe Vanderwalk and Scott Devens would collide.

The Paris Review was holding a Vietnam peace rally—fundraiser at P.J. Clarke’s, a perpetually trendy bar on New York’s Third Avenue. Babe, doing her bit, was passing drinks. Scottie, doing his, was playing cocktail piano.

The room was overcrowded. Reports vary as to who pushed whom—some say that Jackie Kennedy stumbled against Mrs. Leonard Bernstein, others swear that Truman Capote gave Mrs. William Paley what he intended to be a joking shove.

In the ensuing thirty-second domino effect, drinks were spilled, dresses were ruined, friendships were suspended, and love began: Babe Vanderwalk was shoved onto Scottie Devens’s keyboard. Never missing a beat, he continued playing “I’ve Got a Crush on You”—on Babe’s abdomen.

Pieter Isaac Valk, the little Jewish boy from Amsterdam, had not been able to earn social acceptance in a lifetime of unremitting work; Scottie Devens, the hard-drinking ivory-tickling WASP from blue grass country, had it handed to him in five seconds.

Three weeks after that meeting, Babe married Scottie, and together they embarked on the lives of jet set royalty. Within a year Babe discovered she had a gift for designing clothes, and Scottie discovered he had a yen for Doria Forbes-Steinman.

This part of the book was full of things anyone could have known: who owned what, who made how much, who worked where, who knew whom, who lived with whom. It was also full of things Gordon Dobbs had obviously invented: descriptions of people’s houses that were quite simply inaccurate, the underwear people wore, the way they smiled and the way they kissed, the exact things they said to one another during chance encounters at huge parties.

Scottie’s romance with Doria, Dobbsie claimed, became serious five and a half years before Babe’s coma. He described excursions the lovers had made to Paris, Antigua, Acapulco, quoting various unnamed socialite gossips, bellboys, doormen, private investigators.

Dobbsie then described the “crime” and the trial, summarizing the prosecution’s case in detail.

Cordelia Koenig, Babe’s daughter by her first marriage, was awakened at three in the morning by strange sounds emanating from the bedroom shared by her mother and stepfather. Peeking into the hallway, she saw Scott Devens tiptoeing from the bedroom into his dressing room. He was carrying a syringe.

When Babe Devens failed to awaken the next morning, an ambulance was dispatched from Doctors Hospital.

Babe was admitted to the hospital, comatose, with an abnormally high level of insulin in her blood. Emergency room personnel administered one massive glucose injection at 9:00 A.M. and a second at 10:12 A.M. Babe failed to respond.

A little after noon that same day, Cordelia confided to the maidservant, Faith Stoddard Banks, what she had seen the night before.

Mrs. Banks searched the closet of Scott Devens’s dressing room and found a tan alligator carrying case. Within this case she discovered a syringe.

Mrs. Banks phoned Babe Devens’s mother, Lucia Vanderwalk, who phoned her lawyer, William Frothingham. In turn, Frothingham phoned Harrison Jonik, a former New York City detective with thirty years’ experience who had gone into private practice.

Jonik conducted his own search of the closet and discovered that the tan alligator carrying case contained not only a syringe but three bottles of insulin and one of liquid Valium.

The bottles and syringe were turned over to ChemLab of Union City, New Jersey. Encrusted solution was found around the needle. The solution was shown to contain Valium, ammobarbital, insulin, and salinated water.

Dr. Wallace Walker, a prosecution witness and chairman of the Department of Endocrinology and Diabetic Research at Southern Queens Hospital, testified that Babe Devens’s coma was the result of a “massive injection of insulin.” He based his findings on Babe’s blood sugar and insulin levels. Under normal circumstances a patient receiving two such massive glucose injections over a period of seventy-two minutes would show a rising blood sugar level. But Babe’s blood sugar level had failed to rebound, a clear indication that she had been injected with a toxic quantity of insulin.

Dobbsie’s account of Scottie’s defense was little more than a summary of unrelated and unsavory cases that Scottie’s lawyer, Ted Morgenstern, had defended. Dobbsie detailed Morgenstern’s ongoing skirmish with the IRS and the New York Bar Association’s repeated attempts to disbar him. There were two pages quoting Morgenstern’s denial of rumors that he was a homosexual and had had four face-lifts.

Dobbsie described the six days of jury deliberation that led to the guilty verdict. He cited rumors that Charles (“Chassie”) Rockefeller, a drinking and polo buddy, had not only posted Scottie’s bail but had ponied up a million dollars to retain the dean of Columbia Law for advice in masterminding Scottie’s appeal. He quoted Scottie’s statement that he still loved Babe more than any other woman on earth, and were she to regain consciousness tomorrow, he would be back in Sutton Place, with Doria’s blessing, at the side of his lawful wife.

Dobbsie next quoted from a magazine article by the well-known hostess and social commentator, Dina Alstetter:

Two days ago, when I was visiting the stately Sutton Place town house where Babe Devens sank into her final sleep, Babe’s thirteen-year-old daughter, the remarkably poised Cordelia Koenig, asked me if I’d like to accompany her and her grandmother to see “Mommy’s room.” I followed them into a bedchamber done in marvelous Billy Baldwin earth tones, with a Renoir flower painting

(Les Trois Roses)

supplying contrasting accents of green and yellow.

There on the dresser were Babe’s silver-backed brush, comb, and handmirror—heirlooms that belonged to her maternal great-grandmother, the beloved philanthropist and cofounder of Saint Vincent’s Hospital, Yvelise Wilmerding of New York’s original Four Hundred.

On Scottie’s side of the double bed was a silver-framed photograph of a teenaged Babe Vanderwalk at a Waldorf Democratic Party fund-raiser, dancing an uninhibited Charleston with then-President of the United States Lyndon Baines Johnson. Beside the photo was a small, strikingly handsome lacquer box, designed by Erté, intended to hold shirt studs and cufflinks. I opened the box. Inside was a matchbook from the Colony, with the phone number of “Jeanne” scrawled within the cover, and an unused bottle of injectable insulin—manufacturer S. Merck, lot number R-4756-18.

Dobbsie pointed to the poetic justice in the fact that these ill-matched twain—the “shucks-ma’am” boy from Kentucky and the bejeweled, dumpy siren from Marshal Tito’s workers’ paradise—are bound together, forever, by the secret which was no secret at all—except to that stone lady wearing the blindfold.

For that bond, say many who know both these upwardly driven social overachievers, has already turned into a hard-drinking, hard-cursing, fist-fighting shackle. “I wouldn’t invite them anywhere,” says one prominent Manhattan hostess. “Not because of the murder—I couldn’t care less—but because of the filth they scream at one another in public.”

Arthur Schlesinger, Jr., won’t sit down at the same table with them.

Neither will Brooke Astor.

And don’t mention their names to actresses Celeste Holm or Dina Merrill.

Dobbsie found some consolation in the fact that, whether or not justice will ultimately be done in the courts of man-made law, justice has been achieved in a more poetic sense: Scottie and Doria have been sentenced to lifelong doses of one another. “It’s a far more horrible punishment than the crime,” says a Coty-award winning designer, “especially for him.”

On the final page of the book, in a somber concluding note, Dobbsie said he had begun his research convinced of Devens’s innocence, but an exhaustive analysis of the record and thirty thousand pages of interviews had forced him to change his mind.

The real mystery, he said, was not who had injected Babe Devens, but how any sane man or woman could question the considered verdict of twelve impartial jurors. How much longer, he concluded, will society ignore the drumbeat of reason and step to the danse macabre of money?

Babe closed the book.

Dobbsie’s cunning interweaving of fact and conjecture astonished her. The man was a shrewd and ruthless master of implication. If the book had been commissioned by the prosecution, it could not have been more effectively calculated to damn Scottie Devens.

Babe telephoned Ash. The machine answered and beeped.

“Ash, it’s Babe. Are you sleeping?”

“Not now I’m not.” Ash’s voice sounded as though she had just crawled out from under a half-dozen Nembutals. “Hi, doll. What time is it?”

“It’s early, I’m sorry. I’ve just read Dobbsie’s book.”

“Don’t you love it? Champagne truffles all the way.”

“I think it’s horrible.”

“Then you must still be in love with that bastard Scottie.”

“Maybe, but I doubt it. I didn’t know your sister wrote magazine articles.”

“And books. Dina’s been an oral journalist for four years. She tape-records people and her secretary types up the tapes. She interviewed Pope John Paul for Sewanee Review; it’s been anthologized to hell and back. And she did a great book on Sid Vicious for S and S. She had help on that, Dobbsie edited it a little.”

“She certainly did a job on Scottie. I suppose she had help on that too.”

“She was just trying to be obliging.”

“Who was she obliging?”

“Your family. They wanted the insulin in the lacquer stud box brought out and none of the papers were touching it.”

“But Ash, there was no insulin in the lacquer stud box.”

“How do you know? You weren’t exactly there.”

“Because there wasn’t any lacquer stud box. Scottie used a little ceramic bowl to hold his cufflinks and studs.”