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“ Masterpiece ,” who tried to eat the flowers Joan was arranging, has the run of the house, but that’s ’cause he has the cleanest paws in New York.
My index finger was pointed at the bell marked “Mr. and Mrs. Alfred Steele,” but before I could make contact, the door flew open. A suntanned man stood before me and he looked like the sort of man who, if I’d seen him on the subway, I’d have been sure he was taking the ride because he was thinking of buying the company. He had that look.
“Darling!” came a cry from behind him. “It’s so good to see you.”
It was Joan Crawford. She waved me into the striking white foyer and I tried not to stare. I’d only met Joan once before and I still hadn’t gotten over being dazzled. Seeing her here, in the $100,000 duplex apartment that had made even her Fifth Avenue neighbors gasp, I began talking real fast, hoping she wouldn’t see that I was a little nervous.
“Gosh, would you believe it? It’s March, the end of March,” I said as I unbuttoned my coat, “and it’s snowing outside! The elevator man blames it on the H-bombs. Imagine, snow at this time of year.”
“I know, darling,” Joan said. “So why don’t you take off your shoes as well as your coat.”
“Oh, they’re not wet,” I said, flattered that Joan would be so interested in whether I might catch cold. “I was wearing a pair ( continued )
Joan’s white rug is usually untouched by human shoes, but she and Al broke their own house rule to pose for this picture on their suspended staircase.