J. M. Felson's 1938 Southmoor House - 230 Central Park South

 

Born in Russia in 1886, Jacob M. Felson received his architectural training at Cooper Union, opening his office in 1910.  At the time, The Hubert apartment house sat at 226-230 Central Park South.  In 1937, Felson was hired by the Park Slope Construction Corp., of which Siegfried Moisseiff was president, to design a modern apartment on the site of The Hubert.

Southmoor House was completed in June 1938.  Felson's subdued Art Moderne design included a stone base with reeded piers.  The entrance was framed by two stories of dark red stone that terminated in a faux balcony.  

The cover of the 1938 brochure depicted the new building.  from the collection of Columbia University's Avery Library.

With Central Park providing spectacular views, Felson gave the northern elevation an abundance of casement windows.  On July 30, 1938, the New York Sun remarked: 

230 Central Park South, opened about a month ago, overlooks the wide reaches of Central Park with a view of lawns and lakes unimpeded clear up to the northern end of the park.  Windows...have been cannily planned to take full advantage of the unusual views.  At Southmoor House, living rooms have been so designed that the entire wall facing the park is given over to an unbroken expanse of casement window.

Views to the south were equally impressive.  The real estate brochure mentioned that the "room width casement windows" on the south side of the building, "with Solarium effect, overlook the skyline of mid-Manhattan."  Noting that suites of one to six rooms were available, it said, "The rooms are large and well-planned and a spaciousness has been added by unusually large foyers, attractive dining galleries and convenient dressing rooms."  Among the building's up-to-the-minute amenities were "metal kitchen cabinets with stainless steel sinks," electric refrigerators, venetian blinds, and "master radio aerials."

The marquee over the entrance is a relatively recent addition.

The Southmoor House attracted several residents involved in the theater.  Among them was 27-year-old playwright Winifred Howe, who moved in in August 1935.  The challenges for a fledgling playwright in the Depression years were too much for Howe.  A month later, on September 28, the New York Post reported she "met her death in a fall from a sixth-floor window of the apartment house...She wore only a nightgown."  Winifred had left several suicide notes.  One of them, addressed to her father, said she "was sorry and very tired."

On March 11, 1941, The New York Times reported that with M. Clay's signing a lease, "that sixteen-story and penthouse structure is now 100 per cent rented."  Among the residents were the emerging entertainer Danny Kaye and his bride Sylvia Fine.  The couple was married in 1940 after they worked together in the short-lived The Straw Hat Revue, which opened on September 29, 1939.  Sylvia was the show's composer, lyricist and pianist.  Although it closed after ten weeks, the show landed both of them work at the La Martinique nightclub.  There, playwright Moss Hart saw Kaye and cast him in his 1941 comedy Lady in the Dark.

Danny Kaye and Sylvia Fine.  from the collection of the New York Public Library

It was the 30-year-old Danny Kaye's breakout role.  On December 31, 1941, columnist Jane Corby wrote in the Brooklyn Eagle that the newlyweds were, "living very well, thank you.  They have an apartment on [sic] swanky 230 Central Park South."  Kaye would go on to become one of America's best known actors, comedians, singers and dancers, starring in 17 motion pictures.

On March 13, 1947, before television was omnipresent, resident Ben Washer held a party to listen to the Academy Awards ceremonies from Hollywood on the radio in his apartment.  A bachelor, Washer was a press agent and manager.  Among the guests that night were the syndicated columnist Earl Wilson, composer Irving Berlin and his wife Ellin, and actor Frederic March and his actress wife Florence Eldrich.

The following day, Earl Wilson wrote, "Frederic March learned via radio somewhere around 2 a.m. today, that he'd won the Oscar for his part in 'Best Years of Our Lives.'"  Florence Eldrich told Wilson, "We're awfully happy.  He's become very proud already.  I've asked him three times to go home and he refuses."

Described by The Pittsburgh Press as the "longtime personal manager and companion" of actress Mary Martin, Ben Washer's life would end tragically.  On the evening of September 5, 1982, he was in an automobile in San Francisco with Martin, actress Janet Gaynor, and Gaynor's husband Paul Gregory.  The car was involved in a horrific crash with a drunk driver.  Washer was killed instantly.  The other occupants of the car were seriously hurt.  (Janet Gaynor died two years later from complications of her injuries.)

John and Helen Noga maintained an apartment in the Southmoor House as their New York pied-à-terre.  In the 1950s, the couple owned two San Francisco jazz clubs--the Downbeat and the Black Hawk--where renowned musicians like Billie Holiday, Miles Davis and Dave Brubeck performed.  It was at the Black Hawk that Helen Noga discovered 19-year-old Johnny Mathis.  She became his manager and made him a star.

In 1968, having landed a new position as a talent agent at the Ashley-Famous Agency, David Geffen leased the Nogas' apartment.  In his 2000 The Operator--David Geffen Builds, Buys, and Sells the New Hollywood, Tom King writes, "The apartment was furnished with a white Steinway grand piano in the living room and a sweeping view of the park."

The following summer, one of Geffen's clients, singer-songwriter Joni Mitchell, was scheduled to appear on the The Dick Cavett Show on August 18.  Concerned that she would not be able to get back in time, Geffen convinced her not to attend the Woodstock festival.  Instead, according to Katherine Monk in her The Creative Odyssey of Joni Mitchell, she:

...watched this 'cosmic accident' unfold on television at Geffen's deluxe duplex at 230 Central Park South, a property owned by Helen Noga, the woman who made Johnny Mathis a star.  Spellbound by the sight of so many young people converging on Max Yasgur's six-hundred-acre dairy farm, Joni began composing the soundtrack for the rapidly evolving Woodstock myth:  "I came upon a child of God.  He was walking along the road.  And I asked him where are you going?  And this he told me: I'm going down to Yasgur's farm.  I'm going to join in a rock 'n' roll band.  I'm going to camp out on the land.  I'm gonna try and get my soul free."

At the time, attorney Philip Peitz lived in Southmoor House.  Few residents appeared in the media because of scandal, crime or other untoward reasons.  But Peitz was an exception.  The 36-year-old was convicted of illegally obtaining information from an employee of the Securities and Exchange Commission concerning an investigation in 1968 and was sentenced to three months in prison on January 9, 1970.

Seven years later, Peitz's name would be in the newspapers again, this time for being the court-appointed defense attorney for serial killer David Berkowitz--the infamous Son of Sam.  The attorney was in trouble again when he attempted to sell taped conversations with his client.  He was disbarred on December 8, 1977.

Southmoor House was renovated in 1994, and it was possibly at this time that the metal marquee was installed over the entrance, replacing a canvas awning that had extended nearly to the curb.  Other than that and the replacement windows, little has changed to J. M. Felson's sedate 1937 design. 

photographs by the author

many thanks to reader Lowell Cochrane for suggesting this post

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Urban Living Enhanced - 240 Central Park South

Brothers Joseph L. B., Charles and Albert Mayer, separately and together, were a force in Manhattan real estate and development.  Joseph was an officer in the real estate firm Gruenstein & Mayer Corp; Charles held a master's degree in engineering and helped found the construction firm J. H. Taylor Construction Co. of which he was chief engineer; and Albert was both a civil engineer and architect.  In 1935 Albert partnered with architect Julian H. J. Whittlesey to form Mayer & Whittlesey.

When wealthy brewer George Ehret died in 1927, he owned 181 parcels of Manhattan property, among which was the entire blockfront on the east side of Broadway between 58th and 59th Street.  The two-story store and automobile showroom building on the property had sat vacant for years as the Depression years drew to a close in 1939.  The Mayers, working as a syndicate called 240 Central Park South, Inc., purchased the property from the Ehret family that spring for $500,000.

On May 18, Albert Mayer released a rendering of the proposed 26-story apartment building.  The following day, The New York Times remarked, "A building operation recalling boom days soon will be under way at Columbus Circle."  Projected to cost $4.5 million (more in the neighborhood of $79.5 million today), the building had no shortage of innovations.

Mayer's rendering showed the staggered storefronts on Broadway and the unexpected open spaces.  The New York Times May 19, 1939

The New York Times reported, "Modern accommodations in the 350-family building will include wiring for television, living rooms with open fireplaces, outside exposure and balconies and terraces in nine lines of apartments."  The newspaper was taken with the "open-air dining balconies overlooking Central Park."  For the convenience of residents, the Broadway stores had entrances inside the building as well as on the street.  In the basement were two steam turbines and a diesel engine which composed the building's own private electric plant.

Most surprising, perhaps, was that the structure occupied only 48 percent of the plot.  A central landscaped courtyard provided open space, light and air to the two buildings which would be connected on the ground floor.  The Real Estate Record & Builders' Guide pointed out, "By sacrificing ground coverage, the builders have been able to incorporate a maximum number of corner suites."

Albert Mayer explained, "This building will introduce the philosophy of modern architecture, allowing the purpose of the structure and its location to dictate its style."  Indeed, 240 Central Park South, completed in 1940, was a model of modern architecture.  It included elements of the waning Art Deco and Art Moderne while venturing into the Modernist style that would gain a firm foothold within the coming decade.  Architectural Forum commented on the modernist lack of ornamentation, saying, "The architectural character of these buildings stems directly from the plans as developed on different levels, and the fenestration.  There is no applied 'architecture.'"

Architecture critic Lewis Mumford, writing in The New Yorker in December that year, congratulated the design, saying, "architectural imagination has not gone stale."

Mayer & Whittlesey's modern building was not totally devoid of decoration.  Above the entrance was Amedee Ozenfant's abstract mosaic mural entitled The Quiet City.

240 Central Park South was a departure from upscale pre-Depression Era apartment buildings in that its largest suites had only four rooms and none offered servants' rooms.  Instead, maid service was available through building management. 

Residents signed leases well before the building was completed.  The tenant list filled with a mixture of business leaders--like Louis M. Stern and William Steinway--and well-known figures in the arts.  Opera singer Helen Jepson signed a lease in August and sculptress Catherine Barjansky moved in in September.

On December 5, 1940, Le Cafe Arnold opened.  Partners Arnold Grass and L. C. Pani had run the Petroleum Roof on top of the Petroleum Industries Building at the 1939 World's Fair.  The men had commissioned Mayer & Whittlesley to design "the decorations and furnishings of the new restaurant," said The New York Times on December 1.  "The dominant motif will be plants and vines placed behind wainscoting."

A postcard showed Le Cafe Arnold's interior, where patrons dined on French cuisine.

Arnold Grass would become known as the "host to the discerning" and Le Cafe Arnold would be a popular destination for decades.

French author and aviator Antoine de Saint Exupery moved in in July 1941.  Two years later his most memorable book, The Little Prince, was published.  Another resident, Samuel Solomon, alias Sam Boston, was equally celebrated, but for more nefarious reasons.  For nearly three decades police knew that he was the head of an illegal gambling ring, but were unable to get hard evidence.

Solomon's wife was involved in a terrifying incident earlier that year.  A bungled burglary at the nearby New York Athletic Club on the morning of April 24 resulted in a policeman being shot.  The three thugs involved scattered.  One of them, San Quentin ex-convict Lyman Finnell, ran towards 59th Street where Mrs. Solomon's car was stopped at a red light.

Flashing his gun, Finnell jumped into the back seat, next to Mrs. Solomon, and ordered her chauffeur, Edward Horton, to drive fast, saying, "no one will get hurt if I can get away."  Instead, Horton jumped from the car and ran.  Finnell, according to The New York Times, "got into the driver's seat" with the terrified Mrs. Solomon as his unwilling passenger.

Her ride would become even more horrific after the car inched through heavy traffic only a few feet.  A policeman suddenly hopped on the running board and pointed a pistol at the crook.  "At the sight of the patrolman Finnell raised his weapon to his head and killed himself," reported The Times.  "The machine careened on for about fifteen feet, sideswiping two other cars and injuring [pedestrian George] Gambon."

Better known to newspaper readers by his alias, Sam Boston ran his betting operation with three partners.  That organization came to an abrupt end when one of them, Max Fox, shot and killed the other two in August 1942.  And yet despite his numerous arrests and Fox's fingering him, Boston continued to evade conviction.

He quickly took on a new partner, Frank Silinksy.  Boston installed four phone lines in what The New York Times described as, "his luxuriously furnished thirteenth-floor apartment at 240 Central Park South," and started taking bets.

Police, however, were one step ahead--they had tapped the apartment's phone lines as they were being installed.  On Friday night, January 29, 1943 plainclothes officers arrived at Boston's door.  The New York Times reported, "Boston tried to push them out...but they made their way into the apartment and found Silinsky at a long table, equipped with four telephone instruments."  Police found two sheets listing $16,000 in bets on sporting events.  The article noted "Boston's wife and daughter were in the apartment but were not taken into custody."

Boston was found guilty on November 9, 1943.  Newspapers called the 240 Central Park South apartment "central office" for his sports betting operation.  On November 19, the day of his sentencing, his lawyer urged leniency, insisting, "he always has conducted himself in a businesslike manner.  He is a home man, and only mingles with the finest of people."

The judge was not especially moved, saying in part, "the fact that he was able to enjoy a luxurious home did not mean he never maintained gambling there.  He hoped the apartment would not be suspected by the police as a gamble resort."  He sentenced Boston to a year in prison.

Astonishingly, New Yorkers woke up on March 11, 1944 to find that the courts had overturned the conviction.  The court of appeals ruled that because guilt was not established beyond a reasonable doubt, the "conviction of defendant Samuel Solomon should be reversed and a new trial ordered."  Sam Boston came home to Central Park South.

The family of Jack Wessel lived on the same floor at the time.  In September that year, a notice from the police department caught the attention of Mrs. Wessel.

On September 6, six youngsters were seriously injured when a bazooka rocket exploded in a Bronx apartment.  Authorities issued a "strong request to holders of dangerous war souvenirs to turn them over immediately to the Police Department, which would ask no questions."  On September 10, The New York Times reported, "It was mid-afternoon when Mrs. Jack Wessel of 240 Central Park South phoned.  She had a bazooka rocket that had been occupying a prominent place in her living room...Mrs. Wessel explained that a soldier had given the rocket to her daughter, Gloria Anne, three months ago as a souvenir."

Five months later, the population of 240 Central Park South was reduced by one.  On February 6, newspapers reported "Samuel Solomon, 58 years old, known among midtown gamblers as Sam Boston, was convicted yesterday."

In the summer of 1950 240 Central Park South rose like a sculpture above the park.  photograph by Wurts Bros. from the collection of the Museum of the City of New York

The Wessels were still in their 13th floor apartment in 1952 when the building was the scene of a tragic incident.  Regina Oblatt was 72 years old and an invalid.  The widow of jewelry merchant Rudolph Oblatt, she shared her apartment with a nurse-companion, Anneliese Jargstorff.

At around 10:00 on the morning of March 21, Anneliese left the apartment.  In her absence the elderly woman opened the five gas jets on the kitchen range.  Whether she was confused or not will never be known, but quickly the apartment filled with gas.  Then, at 10:40, just before Anneliese returned, the build-up of gas ignited.

The force of the explosion blew out plate glass windows for blocks and tore up wooden flooring in other apartments.  The sound was heard as far away as 70th Street to the north and 57th to the south.  Both apartments on either side of Regina's were wrecked.

Nervously aware of Cold War tensions, some New Yorkers thought the city was under attack.  Jack Wessel told police he "was sure the city had been bombed" and that he and his wife "grabbed their 12-year-old pet dog and headed for an emergency shelter."  Regina Oblatt, of course, was killed in the blast.  Amazingly, while the occupants of the apartments on either side were slightly injured, no one was else was seriously hurt.

William R. Steinway, chairman of the piano firm, died in his apartment on September 22, 1960 at the age of 79.  His widow, Marie Kiesler Steinway, survived him.

Another veteran resident at the time was Dr. Jack M. Greenbaum.  His four-room apartment contained an impressive collection of modern art which he acquired through a most unusual means.  Starting around 1938, he proposed to his artist patients (artists, he said, made up about ten percent of his clientele) that he would trade dental work for paintings.

Greenbaum's patients were by no means amateurs--they included, for instance, Larry Rivers, Franz Klein, Milton Resnick and Willem de Kooning.  By August 6, 1961, when the Museum of Modern Art's associate curator of painting and sculpture William Seitz dropped in to do an appraisal, the collection numbered 125 paintings.  (Although the doctor had insured the collection for $150,000, he found out that his best de Kooning, alone, was worth about $50,000.)

Seitz told a reporter "Certain of the pictures, notably those by Franz Kline, Mark Tobey and Jan Mueller, are major examples of the artists' work."  Greenbaum recounted the story of doing "extensive work" on Franz Kline, after which the artist told him "you can have any damn thing in this place."  Greenbaum rode home in a taxi to 240 Central Park South with another rolled up canvas.  The New York Times noted, "An indication of Kline's generosity is that his paintings can fetch as much as $35,000 each."

In 1968, actress Sylvia Miles took an apartment on the 19th floor in the building.  And interestingly enough, not long afterward Albert Mayer, the building's designer, moved in with his wife, Clara.

In October 1977, The New York Times architectural critic Paul Goldberger put together his list of "The City's Top 10 Apartment Buildings."  At the top of the list was 240 Central Park South.  He said in part, "this often-overlooked building at the edge of Columbus Circle contains not only good apartments, but also some splendid urban lessons.

"The apartment house is thoughtful, intelligent and unpretentious throughout--one of the last pieces of luxury housing in New York about which that can be said."

In 1978, a news reporter lived at 240 Central Park South.  Lois Lane received a celebrated visitor when Superman dropped onto her balcony that year.  Well, at least that all happened in the 1978 movie, Superman.  The building had earlier played an important role in the 1957 film A Face in the Crowd.  In a climactic scene, Andy Griffith's character, Lonesome, screams into the night from his apartment near the top after his career as a radio celebrity crashed.

In 2001, State Senator Thomas K. Duane spearheaded efforts to have the building designated a city landmark.  His concern, and that of several residents, was that a history of piece-meal repairs was damaging the architectural fabric.  Replacement bricks, for instance, did not match the originals.  Certain areas showed more than half a century of wear.  "The courtyard is filled with shattered tiles and dry fountains," wrote Kelly Crow in The New York Times on September 2 that year.

Sylvia Miles told Crow, "It's upsetting to me to see the bricks aren't the right color, because this is a truly great building.  I think it's one of the flowers of New York architecture, and we shouldn't let anyone hurt it."

Simeon Bankoff, executive director of the Historic Districts Council chimed in saying "As a modern design, it urbanistically tackles the jagged, receding edges of the circle," and John Jurayj of the Municipal Art Society added, "It has a pedigree that is so important to New York.  This building was among the first to have balconies, and it's one of the best pieces of functional architecture we have."

Within the year the Landmarks Preservation Commission designated 240 Central Park South an individual landmark.  A subsequent $25 million rehabilitation and upgrade project included brick and terra cotta replacement.  It received the 2007 Lucy G. Moses Preservation Award.

photographs by the author

Emery Roth's 1930 St. Moritz Hotel -- Central Park South at 59th Street

If there were ever a real-life Horatio Alger story, it was Emery Roth’s.  The son of a Jewish innkeeper, one of eight children, he left his impoverished family in 1884 following his father’s death.  At only 13 years old he boarded a steamship for America.  Once here, the boy shined shoes in the Midwest to eke a living.

Astoundingly, by the 1920s Roth was one of America’s most successful architects—despite never having been formally trained.  Best known for his innovative apartment house and hotel designs, not even the Wall Street Crash could slow him down.

In 1929 the hulking New York Athletic Club stood at the corner of 59^th Street (now known as Central Park South) and Sixth Avenue.  It would not survive much longer.

The New York Athletic Club would be replaced by the St. Moritz.  photograph from the collection of the New York Public Library

The Club building was demolished and construction begun on Roth’s St. Moritz Hotel in 1930.  The 36-story pile rose to dramatic, complex set-backs where occupants would enjoy breathtaking views of Central Park.  The bulk of the $6 million structure, which held 1,000 rooms, was clad in brown brick and ornamentation was reserved for the three-story base and the uppermost floors.

The St. Moritz took its name from the upscale Swiss winter resort town.  Its mayor presented the hotel with a large painting of that city by Giovanni Giacometti which was hung in the marble lobby.

Upscale 1930s hotels almost necessarily included a dining room where orchestras provided dance music for well-dressed patrons.  In the St. Moritz, it was located on the 31^st floor and was decorated with murals depicting scenes from Omar Khayyam poems executed by David Karfunkle.

In 1932 the Sound Club, whose members were involved in the radio industry, took over the top three floors as its club rooms.  The club included a private dining room large enough for dinner dances, as well.

Ornamentation on the lower floors included medallion busts.

The St. Moritz offered accommodations to both transient guests and permanent residents.  It quickly became a favorite among professional athletes and theatrical figures.  Among the first tenants were boxer Jack Dempsey and his wife; and Fox Studio executive Donald E. McIntire.

The Depression was heavily affecting the motion picture industry and in May 1931 McIntire was asked by studio president Harley L. Clark to recommend changes.  His report was so impressive that he was made active head of the studio.  The pressure of the new position was too much and McIntire suffered a nervous breakdown, resulting in his resignation in March 1932.

McIntire’s doctors treated him in his 21^st floor apartment here, but his anxiety was too great and on December 22, 1932 the 42-year-old plunged from his window to the pavement below.

Despite its well-known residents, financial problems resulted in the Bowery Savings Bank's taking over the St. Moritz in 1932.  It was quickly resold to hotel mogul S. Gregory Taylor.  But any difficulties going on behind the scenes went unnoticed by the public.

In 1939, the Works Progress Administration’s New York City Guide noted that the St. Moritz Hotel was “noted for its continental atmosphere, and its Café de la Paix, a sidewalk restaurant, is reminiscent of its Parisian prototype.”  The Café de la Paix, indeed, brought a touch of Paris to Depression-weary New Yorkers and is considered to be the first sidewalk café in the city.

Among the residents from the entertainment industry at the time were actor Robert Morley, who took an apartment in 1938; tenor Giovanni Martinelli of the Metropolitan Opera (considered by some to be the successor of Enrico Caruso); and comedian Joe Penner’s widow.

On December 3, 1944, Mrs. Penner arrived at the St. Moritz from Beverly Hills.  Her wardrobe trunk had been shipped ahead and was waiting for her.  Inside were furs and clothing valued at $100,000 and a “candy bag” containing jewelry.  The wealthy widow had the only key to the trunk, but when she opened it that night she was shocked to find five pieces of jewelry, valued at $20,000, missing.  She seemed little perturbed by the mystery, telling reporters that “most of the loss is covered by insurance.”

In 1950 the St. Moritz was updated, including a full redecoration of the interiors to mid-century taste.  It became home to baseball player Billy Martin during the winter of 1956-57.  His biographers, Bill Pennington and Scott Waxman, note in their Billy Martin: Baseball’s Flawed Genius note, “Bellmen loved him (and his big-tipping ways)."

That same year another baseball great, Mickey Mantle, lived at the St. Moritz.  Billy Martin recalled to Ronald B. Scott of People magazine in 1977 that he and Mantle were caught dumping water out a window of the St. Moritz onto passersby below.

Martin, whose actual name was Alfred Manuel Martin, went down to the cashier’s desk one evening to cash a check.  The cashier looked at the check, shook his head and said, “We have no Alfred Martin registered here.  We’ve got Billy Martin of the Detroit Tigers.”

Martin later related the story to a reporter, saying that it took some doing to convince the cashier that Alfred and Billy Martin were the same person.  “Alfred Manuel’s still my legal name,” he said in February 1971, “It’s been that way on every baseball contract I ever signed.  I guess I keep it out of respect for the old man.”  Then, pausing, he added, “Hey, I don’t know why I should.  He left us when I was eight months old.”

Mickey Mantle told Bob Costas years later that the St. Moritz was the “biggest and nicest place” he had ever stayed in during those years.  At one point he let Yankee first baseman, Joe Pepitone, share his room.  According to Mantle biographer James Beckett, Pepitone recalled, “He used to stay up and talk about being afraid of dying young because his father and two uncles died young.”

Along with the Café de la Paix was Rumpelmayer’s café.  It was perhaps as well known as the Austrian-born caterer’s Paris café.  The splendid Art Deco interiors were decorated by German-born architect Winold Reiss.  Rumpelmayer’s was famous for its coffee and ice creams.  And it was the ice cream that would cause a stir between two American icons around 1952.

One summer afternoon, Joe Dimaggio and Marilyn Monroe were passing Rumpelmayer’s with Dimaggio’s son, Joey, who was around 12 years old at the time.  According to Morris Engleberg and Marv Schneider in Dimaggio—Setting the Record Straight, Joey wanted an ice cream soda.

“Do you know what they charge for an ice cream soda in there?” said his father.  “Let’s go back to the apartment.  I’ve got ice cream, chocolate syrup, and seltzer and I’ll make you a soda.”

Marilyn sneaked a $20 bill into Joey’s hand.  Distracting Dimaggio by saying she wanted to look at something in a boutique, she directed Joey into Rumpelmayer’s.  When he realized he had been duped Dimaggio was furious.  The three hurried along Central Park South with Dimaggio “loudly bawling her out.”  Despite the very public display, Joey had gotten his Rumpelmayer’s ice cream soda.

Along with famous entertainers and athletics were, of course, guests from the main stream--sometimes including the not-so-respectable.  On Tuesday, December 1, 1964, three “Florida models,” two women and a man, checked into the hotel.

Susan Peterson, Victor Baretto and Linda Pembroke, all between 24 and 25 years old, had a felonious plan.  What they did not know was that police had received an anonymous tip and detectives checked into the suite next door.

The trio walked through the hallways on the night of December 2, ringing doorbells.  If no one answered, they picked the locks and burglarized the rooms.  The detectives, unseen, watched as they looted 39 rooms of $30,000 in cash, jewelry and furs. 

The thieves went back to their room, packed the stolen goods, and headed out of the hotel.  Police were waiting for them.  They were arrested in the lobby and charged with grand larceny and possession of burglary tools.

The St. Moritz was about to undergo a series of new owners.  Harry Helmsey sold it for $72 million to Donald Trump in 1985.  Only three years later, Trump more than doubled his money when he sold it for $180 million to Australian tycoon Alan Bond.  Unable to meet his loan payments, he lost the hotel to his lender, F.A.I. Insurance in 1989.

In January 1997, Donald Trump—never known for architectural sensitivity--was back in the picture.  He partnered with F.A.I. Insurance and laid plans to gut the venerable structure (which did not have landmark protection), encase the façade in glass, and convert it to condominiums.  The St. Moritz was closed on April 20, 1998.

But a week later, on April 29, the scheme changed.  Hotelier Ian Schrager purchased the St. Moritz for $185 million and reopened it with no changes at all.  It was a short-lived reprieve, however.  On November 6, 1999 Schrager sold the building to a development syndicate which, with the Ritz-Carlton Hotel Company, gutted it and converted it to a Ritz-Carlton hotel-condominium, “The Ritz-Carlton New York, Central Park.”  The conversion included extensive exterior restoration by architect Gary Edward Handel, including reproducing some of Roth’s damaged ornamentation.  The topmost floors had suffered extensive weathering and were stripped, the masonry and ornamentation replaced with “exact copies of the Roth originals,” according to Handel.

Opened in April 2002, it operates as a hotel with 277 rooms on the lower 22 floors, while the top 12 contain eleven staggeringly-large residences.  In 2008, one apartment sold for $28 million and in March 2012 a duplex was put on the market for $77.5 million.

Outside, however, strollers along Central Park South notice few changes to Emery Roth’s Depression Era hotel, other than, perhaps, the replacement windows.  The 2002 restoration was unusually sympathetic to the original design, preserving a colorful piece of Manhattan’s residential history.

photographs by the author

many thanks to Marc Mentzer for suggesting this post