atmosphere.
In spite of this, everything still seems rather grimy and worn just at
the approach to St. Andrew's. The house has a narrow entrance difficult
for a stranger to find, and the entrance lobby is of postage-stamp
size. An elevator shaft takes up most of what space there is. The
elevator attendant and one or two porters squeeze in or out,
nondescript-looking and bored, among the buyers who ring the bell and
wait, usually a long time, before they are carried upstairs. Not merely
buyers ring the bell: the company is only one of many tenants
occupying the building. One wonders, studying the directory board—most
of the firms have something to do with diamonds, one way or
another—where on earth they all hide themselves in such limited
quarters. Once you have found the right door, however, the first
impression is corrected.
It
is like that old Joan Crawford movie where a large part of the action
took place in a tree house that looked like a small hut from outside
but turned into a vast arrangement of halls and polished floors the
moment the camera peered through the door. There is a lot of space in
St. Andrew's after all—roomy private offices and roomier public ones,
with a spiraled iron staircase connecting it all with another, upper,
floor. There isn't a lot of chi-chi about the Diamond Trading Company,
but it's not shabby either, and the young men who walk swiftly back and
forth through the passages with papers in their hands look as if they
ought to be in the Foreign Office. Everything is comfortable, but the
company isn't satisfied. One of the first things to be seen when you
come in is a large model of the new building that is going up across
the road behind the wooden barrier, where all the noise is coming from.
That is an Oppenheimer building, and when it is finished it will occupy
a full block
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