The Girl on the Velvet Swing

by Simon Baatz

  One year before, White had reluctantly reconciled himself to selling part of his art collection to settle his debts. He had stored some of his most valuable artworks—sixteenth-century Italian tapestries, antique furniture, several seventeenth-century Flemish paintings, some statuary and decorative ironwork—in a warehouse on Thirtieth Street in preparation for the sale of the collection at auction. But disaster had struck: on February 13, 1905, fire broke out in a nearby printing shop; a northwesterly wind fanned the flames, and the blaze spread to the storage rooms, destroying White’s collection. There had been a heavy snowfall the previous night; the streets were not yet clear, and the fire trucks were unable to make their way in time. Stanford White had been too distraught to speak to the newspapers about the catastrophe—he had not insured the collection—but a close friend, Thomas Clarke, had claimed that the loss would be severe.6

  White’s financial distress had gone hand in hand with a general decline in his health. He was now fifty-two; his hair had almost turned white, and he had recently gained a great deal of weight. Even the slightest exertion, merely walking up a flight of stairs, was sufficient to leave him short of breath. He had a recurrent pain on his right side, just above the rib cage, and all his joints seemed to ache in the most alarming manner.7

  And finally, there was the wretched business with Harry Thaw. This irritating young man, the husband of Evelyn Nesbit, had long had an intense dislike of him and had recently hired private detectives to follow him around New York, all in the belief that he, White, was engaged in some nefarious activity. It was unsettling, even alarming, to know that Thaw’s detectives were shadowing him; but what could he do about it? His friends had advised him to be on his guard—Thaw was mentally unstable—but Stanford White disregarded their warnings. Harry Thaw had a reputation for assaulting young girls who had few means of defending themselves; but Thaw was otherwise a coward who would not dare attack one of New York’s most prominent citizens. He, Stanford White, had the resources and the determination to press charges if Thaw was so foolish as to assault him.8

  Evelyn Nesbit watched absent-mindedly as the waiters moved about Café Martin taking orders. She had little appetite that evening and she played with the food on her plate, taking an occasional bite, listening as Harry and his two companions continued to talk among themselves. Truxtun Beale was telling them about his recent adventure in San Francisco. She glanced at her husband, directly opposite, as Harry interrupted to ask Beale about the shooting. Thomas McCaleb sat on her left, saying nothing, watching Beale impassively, his face expressionless, as Beale described how he had shot his victim.9

  It had begun when a newspaper editor, Frederick Marriott, insulted Beale’s wife in one of his columns. Beale had called on Marriott at his home, demanding an apology. Both men had drawn their guns: Beale had emerged unscathed, but Marriott was badly hurt. The jury at Beale’s trial acquitted him of assault, accepting his defense that he had acted to safeguard the honor of his wife.10

  Harry signaled to the maître d’hôtel that he was ready to pay the bill, remarking only that Beale had been very fortunate. It might have ended badly, he added, if the jury had taken a different view of the matter.

  Evelyn Nesbit and Harry Thaw dined with friends at Café Martin on June 25, 1906, before walking across Madison Square to a performance of Mamzelle Champagne at Madison Square Garden. Café Martin, one of the most fashionable restaurants in Manhattan, opened in this location in 1901 after the previous tenant, Delmonico’s, moved uptown in 1899. (Library of Congress, LC-D401-70801)

  He had bought tickets for Mamzelle Champagne, a musical comedy opening that night, and the four of them left the restaurant by the exit on Fifth Avenue, crossing to the park opposite. Madison Square Garden stood before them, on the northeast corner of Madison Square, its vast bulk dominating the square, its tower, illuminated by arc lights, stretching skyward. It had been an unusually mild day—there had been no hint of the sticky humidity that typically gripped New York during the summer months—and the sun had already started to sink below the horizon. The golden rays of the sunset flooded the park, falling directly onto the front of Madison Square Garden. The pale-yellow brickwork and white terracotta reflected the sunlight with an intense gleam, and in the center of the main façade, high above the street below, the purple-pink decoration surrounding the Palladian window had become incandescent. Everyone could agree that Madison Square Garden was the most beautiful building in New York, an anomaly in a city so thoroughly devoted to business and commerce.

  They made their way across the park, passing a statue of Admiral David Farragut on their left, leaving the park at the northeast corner, at the intersection of Madison Avenue and Twenty-sixth Street. An elevator took them from the side entrance of Madison Square Garden to the rooftop. The play was already in progress and the theater was almost full—only a few places were still unoccupied—and they threaded their way through the maze of small tables, eventually reaching their seats.

  Every producer of a musical hoped to repeat the success that Florodora had experienced a few years before. Harry Pincus, the producer of Mamzelle Champagne, had employed the same ingredients—catchy tunes, beautiful girls, dramatic scenes—but the magic that had worked so well for Florodora was missing from Mamzelle Champagne. The audience was already slightly restless, fretful that the play seemed so unexpectedly dreary. Harry Thaw quickly became impatient, irritated that he had brought his friends to see such a dull play. He found it impossible to sit still and he excused himself, whispering a few words to his companions before making his way to the south side of the roof, adjacent to Twenty-sixth Street.

  An acquaintance, J. Clinch Smith, was sitting alone by the balustrade, and Thaw, seeing an empty chair, sat down next to his friend. Smith had studied law at Columbia University, but his inheritance allowed him to live as a man of leisure, sailing his yacht on Long Island Sound and riding his thoroughbreds on his country estate.

  “How do you like the play?” Thaw began.

  It was terribly slow, Smith replied; it surprised him that the theater had chosen Mamzelle Champagne to open its summer season.

  Thaw nodded his agreement, saying only that it might be a success nevertheless; it was always difficult to predict the fate of a musical revue.

  “What are you doing in Wall Street nowadays?” he asked. There was not much more, he felt, that either of them could say about the play.

  “I haven’t bought any stocks in some time,” Smith replied. “Do you know anything?” he added.

  The best investment anyone could make, Thaw replied, would be Amalgamated Copper. The company controlled many of the most important mines in Montana and was able to keep the price of copper artificially high. There was tremendous demand for the metal on account of the mania for electrification; electricity was the future, and copper was necessary for its success. Steel would also be a good investment: the United States Steel Company was one of the most profitable businesses in the country. “In fact,” Thaw advised, “if I had any money to invest I would put it all in steels and coppers, especially the copper.”11

  Neither man was now paying much attention to the actors on the stage. They continued to chat, their voices hushed, talking quietly so as to avoid giving annoyance to their neighbors. Thaw was intrigued to discover that Smith planned to sail to Europe later that week, and the two men compared notes on passenger liners.

  It was astonishing, Thaw remarked, how quickly a ship could cross the Atlantic these days. He was leaving with his wife on the SS Amerika on Wednesday, and it would take them less than a week to reach Germany. It was a new ship, built the previous year for the Hamburg America Line, and he was looking forward to the journey.

  “Do you know the Amerika?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Smith replied. “I only came out on her a few months ago.” It was a beautiful ship, lavishly decorated in the first-class section, but the suites were very expensive.

  “It is a ridiculous thing,” Thaw agreed. �
�They charge for them $900.”

  “What do you want so much room for? There is nobody but yourself and your wife.”

  “Yes,” Thaw answered. “I know that, but when I go to Europe I want to have my meals served in my own private apartment, and that necessitates more room.”

  He glanced out across the theater, scanning the audience, and he noticed Evelyn trying to catch his eye, beckoning him to return to his seat.

  “Excuse me,” he said, turning to Smith, “I am going down this way.”12

  Clinch Smith watched as Thaw made his way across the roof, walking along the side aisle and then threading a path through the maze of small tables. Evelyn Nesbit whispered some words to her husband, motioning to the empty seat by her side, and Harry Thaw sat down to watch the remainder of the play.

  But Evelyn Nesbit also was impatient that Mamzelle Champagne was so dreary. She could not bear to sit still, to remain any longer in the theater. The play had not yet ended, but they started to leave, Evelyn and Thomas McCaleb in front, Harry Thaw and Truxtun Beale following.

  Evelyn glanced behind her as they approached the elevator, looking to say some words to her husband, but he had disappeared. What had happened to Harry? How could he suddenly vanish? She looked around the roof, searching for him, thinking that perhaps he had returned to his seat to retrieve something. Where was he?

  She was surprised to see, in the distance, directly in front of the stage, Stanford White sitting to one side, close to the balustrade, watching the play. He slouched in his seat, his right arm by his side, his left arm on the back of a neighboring chair. Suddenly she saw Harry, standing at the front of the theater, his right arm extended forward, his gun pointed directly at White.

  At that moment Stanford White also noticed Thaw standing before him. White stiffened in his chair and started to rise to his feet; but it was too late. The first bullet entered White’s shoulder, tearing at his flesh and splintering the bone. White slumped backward, sending his wineglass crashing to the floor, and a second bullet hit him in the face, directly beneath his left eye. Thaw fired again and the third bullet hit White in the mouth, smashing his front teeth.13

  Stanford White died instantly, his body falling to the ground face forward, a thin rivulet of blood trickling outward from his head and spreading slowly across the floor. Harry Thaw stood motionless, staring impassively at his victim, his gun still in his hand.14

  Two of the actors on the stage had engaged in a duel only moments before, and nearby spectators, those seated close to the stage, believed that the shooting of Stanford White was part of the play. But Lionel Lawrence, watching from the wings, had witnessed the murder and already realized that it might precipitate a general panic among the audience. The chorus girls onstage had seen the shooting also, and they stopped singing, their voices trailing away in their bewilderment.

  “Sing, girls, sing!” Lawrence called to the chorus girls, “for God’s sake, sing! Don’t stop!”

  The orchestra had stopped playing, the musicians still staring at the spot where White’s body lay motionless, the entire ensemble paralyzed by confusion and fear. “Keep the music going!” Lawrence cried, urging the orchestra to continue, hoping to reassure the audience and prevent a panic.15

  Harry Thaw, seemingly oblivious to the commotion, raised his right arm above his head, holding the gun by the barrel as if to indicate to the audience that he intended no further harm. He now started to walk slowly down the center aisle, toward the rear of the theater, and as he advanced, the spectators started to rise to their feet, craning their necks to get a better view and to discover the cause of the disturbance.

  Lionel Lawrence stepped from the wings, striding to the front of the stage, holding his arms in front of him with a gesture meant to reassure the audience that there was no cause for alarm. “A most unfortunate accident has happened!” Lawrence called out from the stage. “The management regrets to ask that the audience leave at once, in an orderly manner. There is no danger—only an accident that will prevent a continuance of the performance.”16

  Paul Brudi, the duty fireman, was the first person to reach Thaw, approaching him from behind and taking the gun, a blue-steel .22-caliber pistol, from his hand. Warner Paxton, a member of the audience, also came up behind Thaw, and both men, Brudi on the left, Paxton on the right, held Thaw, escorting him slowly down the center aisle toward the elevator at the rear of the theater.

  There was no resistance, no attempt to escape on the part of Thaw. He had willingly given up his gun, and as he walked with his captors toward the exit, he started to speak, telling them why he had shot Stanford White.

  “I did it,” Thaw explained, turning to address Brudi, “because he ruined my wife.”17

  Neither Brudi nor Paxton gave him any response. Thaw continued to talk, speaking first to one man and then to the other, but they ignored him, tightly gripping his wrists as they slowly advanced along the center aisle toward the elevator.

  Already they had arrived at the rear of the theater. Evelyn Nesbit, standing by the elevator doors, an anguished expression on her face, reached out for her husband, as if to embrace him.

  “My God, Harry,” she cried. “What have you done? What have you done? My God, Harry, you’ve killed him.”

  Thomas McCaleb had remained at Evelyn’s side. He stepped forward as she spoke, resting his hand on her arm as if to comfort her.

  “God, Harry,” he exclaimed, “you must have been crazy.”

  But Thaw, a slight smile on his face, seemed indifferent to their anguish. He glanced first at McCaleb, then at Evelyn, as his captors paused before the elevator doors, waiting to descend to the street. “He ruined your life, dear,” he said, speaking to his wife in a matter-of-fact way. “That’s why I did it.”18

  Patrick Debs, the policeman on duty at Madison Square Garden, took Thaw into custody, walking with him toward the station house on Thirtieth Street. The prisoner seemed surprisingly acquiescent in his arrest, and the two men walked side by side along Madison Avenue. Debs was curious that Thaw should be so calm. He asked his prisoner if it was true that he had just killed Stanford White.

  “He deserved it,” Thaw replied, speaking without rancor. “He deserved everything he could get. He ruined a girl and then deserted her.”

  Why, Thaw asked, were they walking along Madison Avenue? Where were they going?

  The police station was located a few blocks uptown, Debs replied, on Thirtieth Street, and he was taking Thaw to be booked. He, Thaw, would spend the night at the station house, and in the morning the magistrate would remand him into custody.19

  It was not easy for Thaw to reconcile himself to his changed circumstances—his prison cell was cold and dark; his cot was uncomfortable; the clamor of the other prisoners kept him awake—and he passed a restless night. The next morning the police inspector, Max Schmittberger, took charge of the prisoner, ordering his transfer to headquarters on Mott Street. He would not grant Thaw any special privileges, Schmittberger declared, nothing to set him apart from the other prisoners. The police would escort Thaw to headquarters in the usual manner, chained and manacled, under armed guard, in a patrol wagon.20

  A small group of journalists and spectators had already gathered at police headquarters to await Thaw’s arrival. The guard escorted Thaw past the expectant crowd into the Mott Street building to be photographed. It was customary to identify prisoners by the Bertillon system of measurement, and Thaw cheerfully cooperated, allowing his captors to measure his head and fingers, to determine his height and weight, and to record the color of his eyes.

  There was a pleasing novelty about the experience that Thaw had not anticipated. The police headquarters building was located halfway down Mott Street, in the center of the Italian immigrant neighborhood, and even at ten o’clock in the morning the market stalls were busy, each proprietor competing with his neighbor for the attention of passers-by. Peddlers and pushcarts moved up and down the street, challenging knots of pedestrians for the right
-of-way, while hordes of ragamuffin boys and girls, intent on mischief, ran in and out of the doors of the tenement houses. Inside police headquarters, a motley collection of pickpockets, cardsharps, prostitutes, swindlers, and gangsters waited, together with Harry Thaw, to be photographed and measured. It was a world apart, as different from Madison Square and Fifth Avenue as one could possibly imagine, and Thaw experienced its novelty as both exhilarating and exciting.

  The magistrate for the Third Judicial District remanded Harry Thaw into custody during a hearing at the Jefferson Market Courthouse. The courthouse was located in this Victorian Gothic building at Tenth Street and Sixth Avenue. (New York City Municipal Archives, bps_17829)

  Thaw and his police entourage traveled next to Tenth Street, to the Jefferson Market Courthouse, a distinctive redbrick building in the Victorian Gothic style. The magistrate, Peter Barlow, remanded Thaw into the custody of the coroner until the completion of the inquest into Stanford White’s death.21

  The Criminal Courts Building, a massive granite structure facing Centre Street, was the penultimate destination on Harry Thaw’s itinerary that day. Thaw’s attorneys, Daniel O’Reilly and Frederick Delafield, had already arrived at the courthouse, and Robert Turnbull, an assistant district attorney, was also present. Patrick Debs, the policeman who had taken Thaw into custody, presented an affidavit with the details of the arrest, and the coroner, Peter Dooley, committed Harry Thaw to the city prison.