‘Everything all right, Westerwicke?’ said Sorrotore. ‘Did it go as planned with Louie?’
Westerwicke nodded. ‘I believe so. Right, Dillinger?’ And he turned to a younger man standing at his elbow, with sparse sandy eyebrows and a sullen look. The man turned deep red, but nodded.
‘I guess.’
‘And the proof?’ said Sorrotore.
Dillinger reached inside his breast pocket and pulled out a small brown envelope. He tipped a gold signet ring into his palm and held it out. ‘Here.’
‘Fine.’ Sorrotore took it. ‘I’ve got to deal with this –’ he gestured at Vita – ‘but I’ll be right out.’
‘Don’t hurry on my account.’ Westerwicke looked down at Vita and smiled: it was the smile of someone who does not like or trust children.
Sorrotore led her into a dark, wood-panelled room. The fire was smoking, and its scent was unfamiliar, as if he had doused the wood in perfume. Vita shook herself, hard, flexing her fingers inside her pockets; the party and the smoke together were making her feel dizzy, unmoored from herself.
A movement in the corner of the room made her jump.
‘Don’t mind the animals,’ said Sorrotore.
She stared, as from behind a sofa came two tortoises, one as small as a side-plate, the other as large as a bicycle wheel. They moved cautiously, slowly, slipping a little on the polished wood. As they came closer, she saw with a jolt that they had gems set into their shells. The larger one had a word spelled out in sparkling white stones: ‘IMPERIUM’. The smaller had a word spelled out in red. She saw with a shock that it said: ‘VITA’.
‘Rubies,’ said Sorrotore. ‘And the white ones are diamonds. Not particularly high quality carat, but I think they’re rather charming. Imperium is Latin for “power”. Vita –’ and he gave a swift, hooded look – ‘means “life”. Power is life, life is power.’ Vita’s forehead creased. ‘Only those who have power really live. I don’t like to forget it. They help me remember.’
‘Doesn’t it hurt them?’ asked Vita.
‘Hurt them? Don’t be crazy – they’re animals.’
Two armchairs stood on either side of the fire. Sorrotore placed the signet ring on the mantelpiece and sat down in one chair, gesturing Vita to the other. She sank into it with relief; her foot was beginning to shake and burn.
‘Now.’ The jocularity had gone out of his voice. ‘Tell me why you’re here.’
‘I’m the granddaughter of Jack Welles,’ she said.
He sighed. ‘Obviously I knew that, or you’d be down in the street by now.’
‘I’m here to ask –’ and Vita tried to make her voice sound tough-minded and official – ‘to see the paperwork relating to my grandfather’s home.’ The words came out too high and thin.
The smaller tortoise nipped suddenly at the back of Sorrotore’s heel. He gave a hiss of shock, and kicked his foot backwards, sending the tortoise skittering over the varnished floor. It bumped against a wall and landed on its back, its feet waving in the air.
‘Your tortoise!’ said Vita.
‘What about it?’
Vita said nothing. She got up, crossed the room, trying to hide her limp from him, and set the tortoise the right way up. Sorrotore gave a bark of unamused laughter.
‘I see I’ve got a little Saint Francis on my hands. What do you mean, you want to look at the paperwork?’
‘I want you to prove that you bought Hudson Castle legally. I want you to show me.’
‘Prove? You expect a grown man to engage in some ridiculous game at the order of a child?’
He did not meet her eyes as he spoke, and Vita felt her temper rise to match his. He was a cheat, underneath the brilliantined hair and the gold watch; she felt sure of it. ‘You took my grandfather’s house, and everything in it.’
‘Took is not the right word. He sold it to me – cheaply, admittedly, but that was his choice. It’s built, as you may or may not know, on an extremely rare and beautiful ornamental lake. I would be stupid not to take the opportunity.’
‘No! He said he would rent it to you—’
‘Are you accusing me of lying?’
The spit of the fire and the scent of the room made Vita want to retch. Her head was lurching from thought to thought. Desperately, through the growing mist in her mind, she tried a different tack. ‘At least let him go back to pack his things. There’s an emerald necklace, and if you don’t let him fetch it, that’s illegal—’
She tried to bite back the words. But he seemed to have barely registered them. He stood and glanced in the mirror, rearranging the way his oiled hair fell across his forehead.
‘This is a joke that I have no time for. I will show you out.’
‘No!’ She tried to summon herself back, to remember what she knew to be true. ‘You’re a thief!’
Sorrotore looked at Vita, and the look pushed her backwards against the armchair. ‘What did you just say?’
‘I said you’re a thief,’ said Vita, in a voice that was just above a whisper.
‘How dare you?’ he breathed.
His face was full of something like disgust. She had prepared herself for a denial, but not for such anger, and she felt herself straining not to cry.
‘Do you know what happens to people who come to my apartment and accuse me of lying to my face?’
Before Vita could answer, there was a knock, and the butler put his head around the door. ‘Mr Westerwicke is being called away, sir – he’d like to see you for a second before he leaves.’
Sorrotore swore, grunted, and strode out of the room without looking at Vita.
Vita’s breath was hot in her chest, but she forced herself to stand. ‘Get up,’ she whispered to herself. ‘Don’t be pathetic. This is what you came for. Reconnaissance. You’ve got to know the enemy. Look around. Something, anything, could be useful.’
On the desk was a pile of papers, at least fifteen pages. She fumbled through them. At the top of each document were the words ‘Deed of Sale’. All of the sums were $200 – astonishingly low. She noted, puzzled, that they were not addressed to Sorrotore, but to corporations with carefully boring names. She leafed through: Expedient Constructions was buying The Old Hotel on Columbus Avenue. North Manhattan Enterprises was purchasing a block of apartments of ‘architectural significance’ on East 23rd. The list was long.
She crossed to the mantelpiece, on which stood several invitation cards, and a photograph of a beautiful woman, signed ‘Darling V! love, Lillian Gish’. She picked up the ring Sorrotore had set there; the gold disc, engraved with the initials ‘LZ’, glinted in the firelight. It was too large for any of her fingers, so she slipped it on to her thumb and held it out, to see it spark red and yellow.
There were footsteps in the room outside. She tugged at the ring. It stuck below the joint of her thumb. The doorknob twisted and Vita bit at the ring, trying to drag it off with her teeth. The door opened. Panicked, Vita shoved her left hand in her pocket, and darted to sit down again.
Sorrotore came back in, and this time his face was sad. ‘Now, kid – listen to me. Glance around you. I imagine you noticed I’m a rich man.’
Vita did not need to glance. She knew the whole room looked like money.
‘So why would I need to steal? Your grandfather said the Castle was a burden. He wanted to be free of it. I bought it. To be a canny businessman isn’t a crime. It’s mine, and I will not give it back, but nor –’ and his eyes darkened – ‘will I have it spread around town that I’m a common thief.’
‘Grandfather swore he didn’t! He wouldn’t lie.’
‘He lies because he regrets it. He lies because he’s embarrassed. He lies because he feels like a foolish old man.’ His voice became an intonation: a hypnotic, dark-voiced burr. ‘He lies because he is a foolish old man.’
‘He doesn’t lie! I know him!’ but an edge of doubt was creeping in; she could hear it, and flinched away from her own voice.
‘You know, in your heart, that
it’s true. I think it would help you to say it out loud. Your grandfather lied.’ And again, slower, ‘Say, “My grandfather lied.”’
‘He didn’t!’
‘You’ve built a fantasy of wrong-doing and injustice around an old man’s mistake. Admit it. Say, “My grandfather lied.”’
Horror and embarrassment and something new, unidentifiable and unspeakable, flooded over Vita.
Renunciation, whispered the harsh, bitter little voice that lives in the dark depths of the heart. Say he lied, and you won’t need to worry any more. Poor foolish Grandpa. You can take him back to England. You can forget the plan. It’s so simple.
Say it, and you’ll be free.
The fire flickered, and Vita shrank further into her chair. She bit her lips together, holding back the words, and shook her head.
‘It will help you, Vita. Say, “My grandfather lied.”’
Vita’s mouth opened to speak.
CHAPTER FIVE
A crash loud enough to shake the floorboards came from somewhere down the corridor.
Sorrotore jerked as if he’d been shot. He darted for the door. People in the large party room were exclaiming with pleased surprise at the unexpected drama.
‘What was that noise?’ called the woman with the diamond-studded feather in her hair. ‘It sounded like smashing ice – did the little girl break your heart?’
The door to the study slammed shut, and Vita was alone. She stood in the middle of the room. Her upper lip was beaded with sweat, and she was breathing as if she had run miles.
Suddenly the sash window wrenched upwards, and a girl clambered in over the sill.
‘Come on!’ she said. ‘Quick. This way.’
It was the blonde waitress.
Vita stared at her. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Later. Out the window.’ Her accent was not American but Irish, and perhaps a little English. ‘Come on.’
‘We’re miles up!’
‘Come on! Fire escape!’
Vita ran across the room. The window opened on to a metal balcony, with a long metal ladder leading to a platform below; which led, in turn, to more balconies, more ladders, and the ground.
Vita swung her leg over the edge of the sill.
‘Faster.’ The waitress spat on her palms and led the way down the first ladder, her hands and feet swift and confident. The final ladder did not reach the pavement; the girl hung by her hands for a second, and dropped. Vita, her hair blowing in her eyes, took hold of the ladder, counted to three, and fell. She tried to land on her right leg, but even so it sent agonising shock waves through her left foot, and she bent to rub at her ankle, ducking behind her hair to hide the pain.
‘What was that crash? Was that you?’ she said.
‘Not here,’ said the girl. ‘Come on.’
They crossed the road and began walking away from the Dakota, mingling with the crowds.
Vita’s left foot was throbbing at every step, and her patience was running thin. ‘Tell me what happened!’ she said. ‘Now, or I’ll shout.’
The girl sighed. ‘I was listening outside the window.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you noticed me … working.’
‘Stealing?’
‘Working. And you didn’t say anything. But I wanted to check – check you weren’t ratting. So I listened. And all I could hear was that man, Sorrotore, trying to con you.’
‘Con me?’
‘Yeah. I know what a con artist sounds like.’
‘How?’
The girl sounded surprised. ‘Well, I am one.’
‘I thought you were a pickpocket.’
‘Both. And a lock-pick, too.’
‘Really?’
They were passing a blue mailbox; the girl pulled a long sliver of metal from her stocking, bending over the lock on the front. ‘Yes, really.’ The box clicked open.
Vita glanced behind her. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Sometimes there’s money in the envelopes. But that’s dirty work, because you don’t know who you’re stealing from. I don’t do that, not any more.’
‘Close it!’ said Vita. ‘Someone will see!’
The girl kicked it closed. ‘But I used to con for a living, when I was young. It was horrible – it’s the worst job there is, worse than post-lifting, even – but I learned how to sound like Sorrotore did, how to sound hurt and wounded and patient and forgiving when I lied.’ She glanced behind her, saw a car slow as it drove past, and pushed Vita down another road. ‘Did you notice how he got angry? The best defence, when you’ve done something wrong, is anger.
‘So I was outside the window, wondering why a grown adult’s trying to put something over on a kid. And I thought I’d do something.’
‘What did you do? What was the noise?’
‘I spilt some red wine on my uniform, so’s I’d have an excuse to go to the kitchen to get a cloth. Then I saw this room with this white china statue of that man, Sorrotore, in it – just his head – and it looked so handsome and noble that I wanted to kick it. I only gave it a tap, though – just so the wind could have done it – and it fell on the floor and smashed.’
‘Ah,’ said Vita.
‘And then I crawled back on to your window sill and dragged you out.’ She looked Vita up and down. ‘So … what were you doing?’
‘That man stole something from my family. I went to ask for it back.’
The girl stared at Vita. ‘Ask for it back?’ She snorted. ‘Listen – and I say this speaking as a thief – that’s insane. Ask for it back! You wouldn’t last three minutes in the Bowery!’ She seemed almost angry. ‘You don’t know anything about the real world, do you? People like you are dangerous!’
‘Like me?’ Vita bristled.
‘Stupid! Naive! Hopeful!’ They turned a corner and the girl stopped abruptly. ‘Not that way,’ she said.
Two boys, a few years older than Vita, stood leaning against a doorway.
‘Who are they?’
She turned on her heel. ‘People I don’t want to talk to.’
There was a shout, and two sets of running steps came after them. ‘Hey! Hey, Silk!’
The girl made a rude gesture across the street. ‘Ach, get out of it!’ she called.
‘Is that your name?’ asked Vita. ‘Silk?’
The taller of the boys began to run. ‘Silk! Hey! Don’t you walk away – you owe us! What you got from tonight?’
But Silk had darted across the road and disappeared among the crush. The boys followed, leaving Vita standing, her head whirling, on the dark pavement.
Vita thought of Silk’s words: ‘stupid’, ‘naive’, ‘hopeful’. She did not feel naive. She did not feel, precisely, hopeful: it was not hope that burned in her stomach and heart, but grim determination. And Vita was not stupid: she could feel the speed with which her mind spun and flashed. Her brain built things; plans, pictures, stories. Especially plans.
She pulled the map from her pocket and set off in pursuit, towards the Bowery.
There was trouble, when Vita returned, but Mama was exhausted, and Vita explained she had lost track of time exploring, and the lecture she received was not, overall, as furious as it might have been.
Vita retreated to her bedroom, and took out her red notebook. She saw again, with a thump of guilt, that she was still wearing the ring. She found some soap in the bathroom, coated her thumb in it and eased the ring off, hiding it in the pocket of her coat.
Then she filled her fountain pen with black ink, covering her fingers in the process. She bit down so hard on her lip it drew blood, and she began to write:
I found the girl outside a pawnbroker in the Bowery. She didn’t want to listen, but I made her: I told her I’d go to the police if she didn’t give me five minutes. I wasn’t proud of that, but I did it. I needed to.
I said, ‘I’ve got a plan. I need help. And I can pay you.’
I told her everything I know about Hudson Castle. I’ve never been, but I�
�ve heard Grandpa’s stories a thousand times.
I told her about the lake, and how the house is built right in the middle of the water. I told her about the burglar bars, which my great-grandfather put on every window, after the robbery of 1888. He put in unpickable locks, too, on every door. Grandpa always called it ‘the old fortress’. Nobody can get in. Nobody can get out.
And I told her the plan:
We’re going to steal back Grandpa’s emerald.
The Castle is impossible to break into. Luckily, we don’t have to.
The emerald, Grandpa says, is hidden in the family’s old hiding place. Which means under the paving slabs by the fountain in the walled rose garden.
There are two guard dogs. They bite. So I need someone to tame them.
She said, ‘You could just kill them,’ but I ignored her.
There’s a wall around the whole garden. So I need someone to help me get over it.
And the rose garden, Grandpa says, has a door with a lock the size of your head. I need someone to pick it.
I need a team. We’d leave New York on a late-night train, so that it’s dark. We would break into the garden, dig up the emerald, break out again, and be back at Grand Central Station before midday. Nobody will know we’ve been there.
And we’ll sell the emerald, and get a lawyer, and get back the house, and Grandpa will have a home. And then he’ll be able to breathe again.
Silk said no.
She had listened, her face clenched and sceptical, until Vita had finished. ‘I don’t have any money right now,’ said Vita, ‘but once we’ve sold the emerald, there would be enough to pay you a fee. A proper one.’
Then Silk shook her head. The look in her eyes was too old for a child.
‘No. Even if it wasn’t insane – which, incidentally, it absolutely is – I never work with anyone else. I don’t do teams.’
‘Never?’
‘No. I’ve been asked before.’
‘But if—’
‘I don’t care about buts or ifs. I can’t get caught. Will you understand that? I can’t. The police – they’d want to know who my guardian is, and then they’d work out I haven’t got one, and then I’d be a ward of the state before you can say “But if”.’
The Good Thieves Page 3
