Part 4 (1/2)

The way Josh saw it, either he answered the question or he got up and walked out. And if he intended the latter, he'd not have come in the first place. ”Middling sorts of gentlemen,” he said. ”And they'll agree because pretty soon they're not going to have any choice. There's not enough room on this island for the numbers of people who want to live here. It's that simple.”

”Keep 'em out then. Make the place more exclusive. What's wrong with that?”

”They're needed, these engineers and accountants and senior clerks. Business can't run without them. New York's all about business.”

Clifford nodded, but raised another objection. ”Brooklyn,” he said. ”Queens. The Bronx even. What about them?”

”Nothing about them. Some will move there. Many already have. But it's inconvenient. Brooklyn in particular's a devilish journey. The ferry's unreliable in any kind of harsh weather.”

”There's the bridge,” Clifford said. ”Going to change everything. Don't you agree?”

”Might do if it ever gets built.” The granite tower on the Brooklyn side was complete, rising an improbable two hundred seventy-two feet above the high water mark, but the one on the Manhattan side-at Dover Street and the river-was a much slower effort. John Roebling, the engineer who designed the bridge, was dead of teta.n.u.s after crus.h.i.+ng his toes against a piling. His son had taken over, then succ.u.mbed to some mysterious on-the-job illness he was chasing round the globe trying to cure. ”Just now,” Josh said, ”that's looking less than likely. Queens is no easier to get to and it's a wasteland beside. As for the Bronx . . .” Josh shrugged, ”all those places have one major drawback. They're not New York City.”

”Very well. But that fellow Hunt, the architect as put up those flats over on Eighteenth Street, he's beat you to it, wouldn't you say?”

”I would not. Richard Hunt's used a hundred feet of frontage to make twenty apartments on four floors. Not much advantage there.”

”I went over and had a look this afternoon,” Clifford said. ”It's five stories.”

”Top floor's only accessible after four flight of stairs. Too many for most people. The fifth-floor units have skylights. They're let to artists for studios. The whole venture's interesting, but not economically sound. Not here in the city.”

”The way I hear it, Hunt's going up eight stories over on Twenty-Seventh Street.”

Josh nodded. ”Better location. And this time his client's Paran Stevens, who owns a fair parcel of city land to start out with. Hunt's been a.s.signed the entire block between Fifth and Broadway, and he's going to install at least four of Otis's steam elevators. But it's a far cry from what I have in mind. Stevens's building is to have eighteen suites, each almost as big as a house, with ballrooms and butler's pantries and dressing rooms. Communal servants quarters as well. Upstairs in the attic. Under, of course, a properly fas.h.i.+onable mansard roof.”

”You don't approve?”

”I don't think it answers the problem. If business is to thrive we need to shelter more people of the ordinary sort. As I said, we don't have much land on Manhattan Island. We have unlimited air. The solution's to go higher.”

Clifford's blond head was wreathed in cigar smoke. Josh could barely make out his nod. ”Problem becomes that the higher you go, the more of those d.a.m.ned cast-iron pillars you need to hold everything up, and the closer together they have to be. Thicker walls as well. Pretty soon your construction materials are eating up your living s.p.a.ce. That's so, isn't it, young Mr. Turner?”

Josh had given away as much of his thought on the subject as he intended. ”Maybe,” he said. ”Maybe not.”

Another nod. This time Clifford reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a card and pushed it across the table. ”Talk to this man. When you and he figure something out, let me know. I'll back you.”

A cold day in h.e.l.l, Josh thought. But he pocketed the card.

”I hate it,” Josh said, ”that I can only see you on Sundays.”

Mollie laughed. ”I'm a new sort of woman who works for my living, and you have to take me as you find me. You haven't told me where we're going.”

”You'll see.” He kept a loose hold on the reins and the bay was pulling the phaeton along Third Avenue, but Josh was obviously in no sort of hurry. ”Tell me then, do you believe in all this carry-on about ladies' rights, that they should become doctors and lawyers and such? Even vote. Who'll look after the children and the households if they do all those things? Presuming they still marry and have families. And what will happen to the human race if they do not?”

She was of a mind to quote her aunt about the correlation between decent jobs and indecent wh.o.r.es. Mollie thought better of it. ”Well and good,” she said, ”if all women have a man to look after them. What about those who do not?”

”My mother,” Josh said with a hoot of laughter, ”would approve of you, Mollie as-calls-herself-Popandropolos. She's a follower of Miss Anthony, along with all her other unconventionalities. Will you come with me to Suns.h.i.+ne Hill someday soon? I'd like my parents to meet you.”

She fussed a moment with one of the rows of pleated ruching that circled the skirt of her pale green dress, letting her fingers slide over the soft cotton dimity made practical by the warm weather of late May. It was hard to imagine herself as someone a gentleman would want his parents to meet. Even if years ago they had themselves been a source of scandal. Tell us about your family, my dear. Where were you raised? ”Josh, I told you, I don't wish to-”

”-to pursue dreams that cannot be realized,” he finished for her. ”But you refuse to tell me why they are out of reach.”

Mollie pursed her lips and stared straight ahead.

”Very well,” he said. ”We won't talk about it now. Anyway, this is what I've brought you to see.” Josh tugged on the reins and brought the phaeton to a halt on the corner of Eighteenth Street and Third Avenue, across the street from the French flats he'd discussed with Trenton Clifford. ”What do you think of that?”

”The building?” They hadn't spoken much of his business interests in the three months they had known each other, but she remembered him saying he earned a living in property. ”Do you perhaps own it, Josh?”

Another of his bursts of laughter. ”Small chance, Mollie. Nothing so grand. At least not yet.”

”I thought that might be why you've brought me here.”

”I wasn't laughing at you, Mollie. Only thinking that the idea is both too large and too small.” He gestured with his stick, drawing it in a straight crossways line to indicate the entire facade. ”That frontage,” he said, ”represents four of New York City's approved twenty-five-foot-wide lots. In this city, that's a goodly amount of s.p.a.ce. And the building goes up five stories.” The stick made a perpendicular line in the air. ”The top floor is studio s.p.a.ce. The other floors are divided into living units-French flats as they're called-for four families.”

”Rather as if,” Mollie said as she worked out the geometry, ”each family was confined to nothing more than the parlor floor of a brownstone.”

”You sound disparaging, but that part is exactly as it should be, Mollie. I don't want to bother your head with figures, but the average man of New York-neither poor nor rich-the sort doing what the newspapers call white-collar work, he earns two thousand dollars a year. These days an ordinary brownstone, not a mansion, mind, sells for a minimum of ten thousand. And that's in the least desirable parts of the city. It can be as much as eighty thousand in a truly fas.h.i.+onable neighborhood.”

”And you're saying,” she said, ”that on a weekly wage which averages thirty-eight dollars and forty-six cents, this white-collar worker is never going to afford even a ten-thousand dollar house.”

Josh c.o.c.ked his head and studied her. ”That was quick. Two thousand divided by fifty-two. Without a pencil at that.”

Mollie blushed. ”I find numbers easy. It's rather like a parlor trick. I didn't mean to show off.”

”Well, parlor trick or not, you are exactly right. The men we're talking about can't afford to buy a whole New York house for their families, however modest the house may be. So they stuff their wives and children into rooming houses and hotels and leave them behind when they go off to their jobs. And since we have more and more of these types of workers, and the city needs still more if business is to continue to grow, we are soon to run out of places to put them.”

Mollie didn't reply because a woman was coming toward them with an air of purpose. She wore a prim black dress and an old-fas.h.i.+oned black bonnet. Rather like a governess or a nanny, Mollie thought.

”I see,” Josh said, ”that we're about to encounter the controversial concierge. Having modeled his building of flats on those in Paris, Mr. Hunt saw fit to adopt as well their idea of a nosy old biddy to sit by the door and mind everyone's business.”

The woman approached with a rolled-up newspaper clutched in her hand, as if it were a weapon for beating them off. ”Were you folks wanting something from one of my families? If so, I expect you're out of luck. They's most of 'em out on a fine day like this.”

”And you,” Josh said, ”no doubt know which ones and exactly where they've gone.”

”It's my job. I'm a convenience. Says so right in here.” She unrolled the paper with a flourish and waved it under their noses.

”Excuse me,” Mollie said, s.n.a.t.c.hing at the paper, ”may I see that?” Seconds later she gave the woman back her paper and turned to Josh. ”Please take me home at once.”

The phaeton was at Miss Hamilton's door in fifteen minutes. Mollie had not said a word on the journey and Josh had not probed, but when he reined in he did not immediately get down and come around to help her out of the carriage. ”Please tell me what's happened and how I can help.”

”Thank you, that is very kind. But it's a private matter.”

”Not very private if it's splashed all over the front page of the Herald.”

A fair point and she knew it. Besides, his help would be useful. It would mean his knowing all her secrets, but at the moment that didn't seem important. ”I need to go to the Tombs,” she said. ”As quickly as possible.”

”Well,” taking up the slack in the reins as he spoke, ”I wish you'd told me that first thing. We've just gone five blocks in the wrong direction.”

”I needed to get money to hire a cab or-”

”Post bail for someone, I imagine,” he interrupted. ”Never mind, I'll sort it.”