The House That Jack Built (6 page)

    He climbed back into bed. She thought for a split second that he might make love to her, but then he turned his back like he always did, and by the time the clock in the hallway below struck four he was deeply asleep.

    

    

    'Mr. Van Buren can see you now,' announced the secretary with the fiery hair and the firetruck-coloured lips and the huge circular spectacles. She waggled her way along the corridor in front of them, her bright green dress swinging from side to side.

    Walter Van Buren turned out to be an amiable old coot in a beige seersucker coat and brown Staprest pants and a necktie that proclaimed him to be a friend of the Hudson Valley Philharmonic. He had a soft, beige, jowly face, and the palest eyes that Effie had ever seen, eyes that were strained to the colour of weak tea.

    On his beige hessian-covered walls hung photographs of his children and grandchildren, and framed awards from the Hudson Valley Realty Association and the Cold Spring Elks. Out of his window there was a view of a parking-lot, where a 10-year-old full-sized Buick baked in the morning sun; and a children's playground, where a lone mother sat reading, while her scarlet-suited child went around and around on the merry-go-round.

    'Understand you're interested in Valhalla,' said Walter Van Buren, indicating with a wave of his hand that they should sit. They sat. 'Valhalla's stayed empty since 1956. There's been some restoration work, but the only reason it's still standing is that it hasn't fallen down and nobody's gotten around to knocking it down.'

    'I'd still like to see it,' Craig put in. His hands were resting calmly in his lap.

    Walter Van Buren shrugged. 'You can see it, I guess. But if you're looking for large, high-class Hudson Valley property, then I can show you scores of homes you're going to like better, and which are much better value. One of them came onto the market just last week… here, look, Oscawana, a very fine property with seven bedrooms and four bathrooms and two half-bathrooms, not to mention a pool and a squash court and a view of Lake Oscawana. Here, take a look.'

    He nudged a brochure across his desk but Craig didn't touch it; didn't even drop his eyes to look at it.

    Walter Van Buren eased himself back in his chair and blinked with those colourless eyes and said, 'Valhalla… I have to be frank with you… Valhalla is more what I'd call your serious developer's buy. The house was something special, once upon a time. But it would take hundreds of thousands just to make it liveable. Millions, maybe. We had an approach from Trump but when their surveyors took a look over it… well.'

    'I thought realtors were supposed to sell realty,' Craig riposted. 'You know, stretch the truth a little. Make their property sound temping, even when it's nothing but a crock.'

    'Oh, no, don't get me wrong,' Walter Van Buren retorted, holding up his hand. 'Valhalla has one of the finest locations in the Hudson Valley Highlands. Unparalleled views. Privacy, seclusion. It's a house in a million.'

    'But it's badly run down?' asked Effie, trying to stop Craig from badgering Walter Van Buren so intently, and to see some sense.

    'I can't tell you a lie, Mrs. Bellman.'

    'How badly?' Craig wanted to know.

    Walter Van Buren took a worn green manila folder out of his in-tray and opened it up. He passed over an architectural side-elevation of Valhalla, and a blurry black-and-white aerial photograph. The house was designed in the neo-Gothic style, with tall chimneys and leaded windows, and it was huge.

    'My God,' said Effie, and laughed.

    'Let me put it this way,' said Walter Van Buren. 'This is a house you'd really have to have a passion for.'

    Craig picked up the photograph and stared at it for a long, long time. 'It's incredible. It really is.'

    'Well, it belongs to another time,' Walter Van Buren explained, watching him keenly. 'It belongs to the Rockefeller days, the FDR days, the Vanderbilt days. A very big house for a very big man.'

    'Do you know what needs doing to it, roughly?' asked Craig.

    'As I say, Mr. Bellman, I can't tell you a lie. The whole roof needs fixing, most of the windows need replacement, and like most of these older properties, it'll probably need rewiring, and replumbing, too.'

    'But it could be restored?'

    'By somebody who really had the passion for it, yes.'

    'Craig,' said Effie, 'I hope you're not seriously thinking what I think you're thinking. We need a house like this like a hole in the head.'

    'Oh, come on, sweetheart, I'd still like to take a look at it,' Craig told her. 'Who owns it now?'

    'Well, what does it say here?' said Mr. Van Buren. 'A realty trust fund managed by Fulloni & Jahn, up at Albany. That's unless they've sold it or transferred it without letting us know. We haven't had any enquiries about Valhalla for well over a year.'

    'Maybe I should talk to these Fulloni & Jahn people.'

    'You could, for sure, if you really wanted to. I could give you their number. But I'm just trying to be realistic here, Mr. Bellman. Valhalla could seriously damage your financial health; and I wouldn't want that; because you'd never forgive me for it. Every time you drove past this office or saw me in the street, you'd say, "That's Walter Van Buren, who sold me that goddamned house, and ruined me." ' He gave a little dry laugh that was more like a dog barking.

    'Mr. Van Buren,' said Craig, 'I don't think you understand. I haven't even seen Valhalla from the outside; never laid eyes on it. But the moment we drove up that mountain and stopped outside of those gates... well, I don't know. I felt like I was there for a reason. I felt like I was meant to be there.'

    Walter Van Buren glanced edgily at Effie and cleared his throat. 'And, uh, what do you think, Mrs. Bellman?'

    'I think-' said Effie, and Craig lifted his head. 'I think that-' Craig focused his eyes on her. 'I think that, really, yes, maybe we could take a look, at least. If that's okay with you.'

    Walter Van Buren drummed his fingers on the green folder. Then he said, 'Okay… if that's what you folks want to do, then do it, by all means. As you so rightly say, Mr. Bellman, I'm here to sell realty, not to discourage you.' He stood up, and crouched in the corner of his office, where a small grey safe sat, and started to turn the combination lock. 'When would you care to view?'

    'Today?' Craig suggested. 'How about right now? We don't have any plans.'

    Effie said, 'Craig... don't forget we have a one-thirty lunch reservation at the Vintage Cafe...'

    But he waved her into silence and said, 'That's okay, that's okay. We'll make it easily.'

    Walter Van Buren produced a brown envelope containing keys. 'Here you are, then. But if you want to view today, I'm afraid that you'll have to view it alone. I have six or seven other clients calling today. We have a very desirable house just outside of Rhinebeck… you may like to look at it yourselves. It's a stunner. Five bedrooms, three Carrara marble bathrooms, and a view that's only second-best to the view from Heaven itself.'

    'That's quite a pitch, Mr. Van Buren, but all we want to look at is Valhalla.'

    'Let me tell you something, Mr. Bellman… and I'm going to be serious now. When you see Valhalla, you should either want to own it with all of your heart, or else you should turn your back on it and forget it. It's very much more than most people can manage, and I don't just mean financially. Valhalla is the kind of house that people fall in love with, and then it breaks them, breaks their spirit, bit by bit.'

    'I'm not the breakable type, Mr. Van Buren,' said Craig, although Effie could hear that his voice was filled with rain and hammers and mocking mushroom-haired boys in swirling frock coats.

    'Well, let's hope so,' Walter Van Buren replied. 'But Valhalla was built in 1929, by Jack Belias, the textile millionaire; and when he died in 1937 or thereabouts it stayed empty until World War Two, when the Army rented it as overflow accommodation for West Point Military Academy. The trouble was, five officer cadets committed suicide while they were staying there. I might as well tell you before anybody else does that a story started going around that Valhalla was haunted.'

    'Haunted?' asked Effie. 'Haunted by what?'

    'I don't know, and quite frankly I don't believe it. But you know what people are. I've been selling property up and down the Hudson River Valley for thirty-eight years, and I haven't come across a haunted house yet. My opinion is that those boys were frightened of going to war, that's all, and who can blame them?'

    'What happened to the house after that?' asked Effie.

    'As far as I remember it stayed empty for a while. Then it was leased to a woman called Turlington who wanted to turn it into a riding school for the sons and daughters of well-heeled Manhattanites. She didn't do too badly to begin with, but then she took out a party of young riders during an electric storm. One of her wealthiest charges was struck by lightning, and killed, and of course that was the end of her - financially, because she was sued for millions, and psychologically, because the boy was killed right in front of her.'

    'Oh, my God,' said Effie. 'Talk about jinxed…'

    Walter Van Buren shrugged. 'It depends if you believe in jinxes or not. My feeling is that large, expensive properties attract folks who like to take risks - folks who are larger than life, if you know what I mean. Those kind of people live their lives right on the very brink. If you live your life right on the very brink, you're always in danger of losing your balance and dropping clean over.'

    'Who was the last owner?' asked Effie.

    Walter Van Buren leafed through his file. 'Technically - before Fulloni & Jahn took over - Valhalla was owned by the Fishkill Hotel Corporation. They were planning on turning it into a resort hotel, with a golf course and you name it. Fishkill spent over three-quarters of a million dollars on restoring the old ballroom and some of the bedrooms, but then they went bust. Most people who come up the Hudson Valley for a weekend break want cutesy bed-and-breakfast places like Pig Hill Inn and the Beekman Arms. They're not too interested in ritzy, expensive golf resorts. Nobody's shown any serious interest since.'

    'You're right,' said Effie. 'We're staying at Pig Hill. The only reason we came up here was to be comfortable and cosy and quiet. By the way,' she added, 'do you remember Mr. and Mrs. Berryman, who used to run the Red Oaks Inn? I was wondering whatever-'

    But she was interrupted by Craig, who had picked up the brown envelope, and torn it open, so that the keys dropped noisily on Walter Van Buren's desk.

    'Look at these. The keys to the hall of dead heroes,' he proclaimed.

    Walter Van Buren gave him a look of faded perplexity, so Craig added, 'Valhalla, that's what it means. That's what my wife told me, anyway. The hall of dead heroes; from the old Norse mythology.'

    'Hall of dead plaster, more like,' Walter Van Buren responded, dryly.

    Effie picked up the keys one after another and turned them over in her fingers. For some reason she didn't like them. One key was green with verdigris, and unusually large, like the key to a monastery. A second was small and rusted, and looked as if it would fit only the tiniest of cupboards. The third was oily and almost new. 'That opens the padlock on the gates,' Walter Van Buren explained. 'The large key opens the front door.'

    'And the small one?'

    'I don't know. I never found out. All I ask you to do is lock up after you leave.'

    'Sure we will,' said Effie.

    But Craig said, with a sly smile, 'Supposing we decide to buy the place?'

    Walter Van Buren let out another of his sharp, barking laughs. 'If you decide to buy the place, Mr. Bellman, just remember one thing. It's your own decision, I'm not trying to influence you. So don't blame me.'

    

    

    As they drove back over Bear Mountain Bridge the wind was getting up. There was a sense of hurrying everywhere. The clouds were running over the dark skyline of the Hudson Highlands like a pack of pale grey dogs. Grit storms leaped up from the side of the highway, and helter-skeltered across the road.

    Below the bridge, the river was almost black, and anxiously chopping.

    'Feels like a storm's rising,' said Craig. 'Hope it's really humungous. I love storms.'

    'Oh, thanks. We're having our first vacation for three years and you want it to storm?'

    'It'll freshen things up. Besides I'm in the mood for it.'

    'What kind of mood is that?' asked Effie. 'Apocalyptic?'

    'Excited, for Christ's sake. Why can't I just be excited? Is there some federal statute against it?'

    'I'm sorry. It's just that I never saw you act this way before.'

    'You never saw me act excited before?'

    'Of course I have. I've seen you act excited about a court case that really came together. I've seen you act excited about a new car. But I never thought I'd ever see you act excited over some derelict building that even Donald Trump doesn't want.'

    'Donald Trump can make errors of judgement, just like anybody else.'

    Effie went
phph!
And gave a tight, exasperated shake of her head. To the north-west the sky was rapidly darkening, and they saw the first twitches of lightning. She hadn't been keen on visiting Valhalla to begin with, but now she seriously didn't want to go. If this was how Craig felt about it without even seeing it, what was he going to be like when he could actually walk around it? She was enjoying his new excitement, but at the same time she hoped to God that Valhalla would turn out to be so badly dilapidated that no amount of excitement could ever repair it.