The Stranger

The two top floor apartments of the building at 1144 Fifth Avenue had long ago been converted to a single penthouse, 27A, known as, Park View. Walls had been removed, rooms enlarged with windows on Fifth Avenue, commanding sweeping views of Central Park across the reservoir to the West Side, remodelled to create larger openings to the huge balconies running the length of the residence.   

The Halpern’s had lived at Park View for eight years since retiring. Both having had notable careers in law. Gregory Halpern, as a distinguished High Court judge presiding over many complex cases of criminal law in his 20 years on the bench. Frieda, as a noted Patent attorney, her firm retained by the biggest corporate entities in the country. With their children grown and living elsewhere, they’d decided to move from their large Long Island home to Manhattan, closer to the theatres and galleries they both loved. Since moving to the city their pre-Christmas parties had become close to legendary.    

Like clockwork, 16 days before Christmas the invitation arrived. It contained the usual gilt edged rectangular shaped card with rounded corners. Embossed with a drawn outline of the building at 1144 Fifth Avenue.

It requested the pleasure of James Whitmore to attend a grand affair hosted by the Halpern’s at their Park View residence on Tuesday December 20^th at 7PM.   Black Tie. RSVP by December 16^th.    

James smiled, looking at the invitation, no phone number The Halpern’s were nothing if not old-fashioned. He rummaged in the draw for the RSVP’s, making a mental note to examine his dinner suit.

The day had begun brilliantly, despite it being December in New York, mother nature had smiled on the city. A cold morning, with a watery winters sun, having no effect on the light flurry that fell the previous evening. Looking across the park to the East Side, a blanket of white covering the grass, the naked branches of the trees appearing ghost like, held the remnants of the previous night’s snow.  

The buzzer went, his car had arrived. Checking himself in the long mirror by the front door, brushed a fleck of something from his shoulder, before folding his black overcoat over his arm and left. The Christmas lights around Central Park blinked in the early evening. The streets were abuzz, people scurrying in the last-minute hope of Christmas shopping.

At 1144 on Fifth Avenue, a line of elegant automobiles idled in the early evening, waiting to discharge their passengers, columns of white exhaust vapour lifting into the air.

After showing his invitation, he waited, with others in the foyer for the penthouse’s private elevator to whisk them to their evenings soiree.

The chatter amongst the waiting was the same every year, who’s with whom, will she or he, attend? It’s dreadful, someone said, and not right, said another.  

The elevator doors opened onto a large vestibule of parquetry flooring polished to within an inch of its life. Two huge etched Venetian glass vases filled with roses of many colours stood either side of the open carved Mahogany apartment doors.  

Two men dressed as a footmen took coats, allocating each owner a number, like being in a night club, he thought.

Freida and Gregory Halpern were at the entrance greeting each guest as they arrived.

After the pleasantries were done with, he entered the space they called their living room. It was spacious, once two separate rooms, each in their own right having been generous, was now huge. Ornate pelmets surrounded satin curtains above open balcony doors. Elegant plaster work adorned the ceilings highlighting the two chandeliers. At one end, a sumptuous buffet table with two waiters, a further two scurried between the guests with large silver trays filled with various drinks and nibbles. The whole room was impressive. Women in their finery, a colour scape of silks and satins, capped with immaculately coiffed hair styles. The men in black dinner wear, all vey elegant he thought.

Taking a crystal champagne flute from a passing waiter, began mingling. He smiled, The Johnstons where in conversation with an elegantly dressed young women wearing a cream-coloured long evening dress. Her striking red hair, hoisted up in a bun, further adding to her height and allure. He’d known the Johnstons for several years after he moved to New York from Miami. Bobby owned a successful accountancy practice on Wall Street. The firm, started by his grandfather in the 30’s prospered on the back of the great depression, expanding further on the post-war economic boom. Now, they spent their time between the U.S. and the south of France, where they had a yacht permanently moored. He moved towards them.

‘James,’ Bobby Johnston grinned, extending a long tanned bony hand, ‘good to see you, how are you? Before he could answer, Louisa Johnston stepped forward, giving him a hug and planting a pair of bright red lips on his cheek, ‘darling, she exclaimed in her usual impetuous manner, ‘where have you been? We missed you at Cannes this year, Margot Livingstone told us you were skiing in Colorado, is it true? ‘Far too cold for us, darling’ she laughed, ‘and no water,’

She stopped talking, turning to the woman with the red hair, ‘how rude of me, James, this a friend of ours, Helen Livingstone, Helen, James Whitmore’ He took an elegant hand with several rings on it, lightly, ‘pleased to meet you.’ After several minutes of banter, despite her physical allure he thought the conversation boring. After making his excuses, left. Glass in hand, he moved to the balcony it was the first time he saw him. He was standing alone smoking a Panatela cigar, the distinctive aroma of vanilla and nuts moved on the night air, confirming the cigars provenance, and expense. He was tall, with a solid build, jet black hair and dark skin, not the colour of the Palm Springs set, more of heritage. He continued watching as he felt a tap on his shoulder, ‘I’m with you James, the voice said, ‘no idea who he is, and, it would seem, nor does anyone else.’ It was Ernest Rawlands, Ernest owned a book shop on Madison Avenue that was reputed to have the finest collection of pre-Victorian first edition works in America. James smiled, ‘good to see you Erny, and your right, I’ve no idea who he is. He must be somebody; otherwise, he’d never gotten past the Halpern’s gaze.’ They chatted for several minutes before joining Erny’s wife Louisa and her sister at one side of the huge buffet table, busily eating lobster on silver skewers dribbling with melted butter. The sight, reminding James he hadn’t eaten. Grabbing a plate, loaded it with oysters, shrimp and cherry tomatoes.

The room was crowded. The noise level had increased, as people competed with each other to be heard. The small musical trio in the corner had given up. The space designated for dancing was covered with people eating and drinking. It was Christmas at the Halpern’s, the cream of New York society had no time for dancing when their favourite pastime, talking was an option. Especially, when talking about other people.

James noticed the cigar smoker again. This time, admiring one of several huge oils of early Americas West by Albert Bierstadt, one of his more notable, the native American on horseback chasing buffalo. He knew the painting; it was considered a classic. In addition, works by Arthur Patron and other high-profile artists filled the walls. He watched as the mystery man perused the brushwork of the painting. His concentration was broken by someone calling, ‘James.’ Marsha Fields, dripping in diamonds smiled at him through a million wrinkles and caked make-up, desperate to fool herself, if no one else she wasn’t 70 something. Twenty minutes later, and more champagne he broached the subject of the mystery man, ‘beats me, she answered, ‘never seen him before, I would say most definitely, not one of us.’ Before James could respond, Marsha Fields spotted someone else and excused herself, thank god, he told himself. Back to the balcony, less noise and more air. The space was filled with giant terra-cotta pots of various shrubbery, miniature gardens sat against the railings, he knew none of their names. He was strictly a roses type of guy.  He joined two overweight men he knew from the club, heatedly discussing politics. After five minutes of listening to the ping pong conversation between the two, decide to move back inside.

Gregory Halpern, after finally getting the attention of the guests; was making a speech, welcoming everyone and thanking them for their presence. Frieda followed saying a few words, in support of her husband. James couldn’t but notice her jewellery. Gregory Halpern had been a generous husband over the years. It was well known the diamond and ruby pendent she wore around her neck had once been a gift to the mistress of Louis X1V, reputed to be worth 20 million dollars. In addition to the pendant, Frieda Halpern possessed an extensive collection of other items of jewellery.  

James continued to move around the room, stopping and chatting to people he knew. The mystery man was in conversation with an older women James didn’t recognise. She was seated, a cane in her left hand, he, was bending to catch her words, nodding as she spoke.

James looked at his watch, 11.50, time for him to leave. His driver was booked for midnight. Although, only some 700 metres from his West Side residence, trudging through the soft flurry of snow that had started to fall in a dinner suite, did not appeal.

He found the Halpern’s and thanked them for the invitation, promising to have lunch with them after Christmas. Redeeming his overcoat he exited 1144 Fifth Avenue. At street level the air was much colder. Plunging his hands into his overcoats pockets, he looked up and down the avenue, a flashing headlight telling him, that was his ride.

James poured more coffee. It was 7am, snow was falling. The previous night’s flurry had developed into a mini snow storm. Across Central Park West the grass was a carpet of white. Despite the snow and cold, die-hard joggers and dog walkers were at their early morning rituals.

The muted TV on the bench caught his eye, A familiar scene showed an apartment building, not any building, the one he visited last evening. He hit the mute button, cranking up the volume. A reporter, rugged head to foot was speaking into a microphone … so far, the police are keeping tight lipped, refusing to comment, this reporter believes a brazen robbery occurred here at a plush penthouse, she pauses and points, the camera follows her hand, zooming in on the top of 1144 Fifth Avenue. She continued … we have it on good authority, a substantial amount of jewellery was taken from this residence sometime in the early hours of the morning … James hit the mute button. He smiled, behind him the distinct aroma of vanilla nuts moved on the air. The man with the dark skin was sitting at the kitchen table, eye glass in hand, carefully studying an ornate pendant.   

James had already decided not to attend next year’s Halpern party, should they have one.