House of Thieves

by Charles Belfoure

  Cross pulled out a chair for Mrs. Burnham and then seated himself, unfolding his napkin, which held a dinner roll. Next to his plate was the usual small party favor—tonight, a silver cigarette case. His dinner companion found a jeweled brooch. Cross examined the handwritten menu, inscribed on gilt-edged vellum. Chesapeake Bay oysters on the half shell to start, chicken consommé à l’Italienne, Spanish mackerel à la Maître d’Hôtel served with hock, soft shell crab farcies with Johannisberger sparkling wine, and perdrix aux truffes. Honoria always put forth a good spread. French chefs were more prized than jewels in New York society, and the Lees had one of the finest. Everything was cooked at home instead of catered, which made a vast difference in quality.

  Cross set about engaging Mrs. Burnham in conversation. He decided to set the bar high and work down to banalities about the weather.

  “Do you think Parliament will grant home rule to Ireland, Mrs. Burnham?”

  “I…wouldn’t really know, Mr. Cross.”

  A footman appeared at his left with a plate of oysters. All dinner parties were served à la russe. The footmen stood by the side of each guest, offering him or her each course instead of passing platters of food on the table, à la française. Without the clutter of multiple dishes, society dinners could boast elaborate centerpieces of the sort on Honoria’s table.

  Cross changed tactics and tried something he knew was closer to Mrs. Burnham’s heart.

  “Tell me, Mrs. Burnham. Which do you feel are superior—gowns from Worth or gowns from Pingat?”

  She lit up at the question. “Worth, Mr. Cross, always Worth. In fact, I just received a trunk last week. We had visited the showroom in Paris in the spring to place the order, and I tell you, Mr. Cross, we weren’t disappointed.”

  “That gown looks magnificent on you.” The expected response.

  Mrs. Burnham blushed. For the next twenty minutes, she spoke enthusiastically about her clothes, only stopping to offer an aside about how handsome Count Aleksandrov was.

  The white-gloved footmen continued to serve the food and pour the alcoholic beverages. Finally, desserts of pudding, ices, Bavarian creams, petits fours, and glaces aux marrons were offered, along with a fruit-and-cheese course. By this time, Cross had given up trying to engage Mrs. Burnham in conversation and had begun talking to Marmaduke Scott, who sat across the table.

  Scott had made a fortune importing beef from the West in the new refrigerated railroad cars. Cross hoped the conversation would swing to possible architectural commissions, like a summer place in the Berkshires, where it was much cooler. These dinners were often a gold mine for new jobs. But Scott was in a foul mood.

  “It took an hour to go four blocks in my carriage on Broadway this morning,” he growled, wolfing down strawberries drenched in sweet wine. “Four blocks. Traffic crawled like a slug, I tell you. It’s damn impossible to get anywhere in New York.”

  “And the dust and the manure is shocking,” Mrs. Burnham said.

  “They said the elevated trains would reduce traffic by half. What a lot of nonsense. Traffic is ten times worse. We need new ways of traveling. Perhaps under the ground.”

  “Exactly,” Mrs. Burnham said. “Years ago, I remember my father taking me for a ride on Mr. Beach’s underground railway on Broadway. It was so wonderful. Such a shame it went bankrupt.”

  Cross’s eyes widened, and the spoonful of Bavarian cream that was about to enter his mouth stopped in midair. Setting down his gold dessert spoon, he turned to Mrs. Burnham and smiled.

  “Elizabeth Burnham, you are an amazing, magnificent creature.”

  26

  “I assume this must be urgent, as you’ve summoned me down here at two a.m.” Kent was in evening dress and top hat, his expression frosty.

  “I’m glad I didn’t get you out of bed,” Cross said. He’d made the call when the gentlemen at the Lees’ party had retired to the smoking room for brandy and cigars.

  Kent frowned. “Millicent and I had just walked in the door from a dinner party at Sherry’s—very tired, mind you—when you called.”

  They were standing in the shadows of the huge U.S. Post Office, south of city hall on the east side of Broadway. There was barely a breeze, but the night air felt good after the hot day.

  “I designed Fidelity National across the street,” Cross said, pointing to a narrow, six-story brick building, its huge, arched entry supported by polished granite columns.

  “A very handsome bank, I’m sure. But unfortunately, I experienced a recent mishap robbing a bank in the daytime,” Kent said. “It’s made me cautious.”

  “It was you who tried to blow the vault at Manhattan Merchants & Trust,” Cross said, shocked in spite of himself.

  “With very poor results. Houses of society people are more lucrative—and less of a risk.”

  “Suppose you robbed a bank over a weekend.”

  “Please continue, Mr. Cross.”

  “Back in ’70, a man named Alfred Beach, the editor of Scientific American, had a new idea for public transportation. His train traveled not aboveground, but below,” Cross said.

  “I remember. He built an experimental underground tunnel with his own money so the Tweed Ring wouldn’t find out.”

  “For an underground pneumatic railway, propelled by blasts of compressed air.”

  “Where was it?”

  Cross pointed directly in front of them, at Broadway. “There. In front of my bank.”

  Kent walked to the curb and looked down at the cobblestone street. It was brightly illuminated by the electric streetlights.

  “It’s a ten-foot-wide, brick-lined tunnel that went one block, along Broadway from Murray Street on your left to Warren Street on your right. After the panic in ’73, Beach couldn’t get financing to continue it and went bust. He rented the thing out as a wine cellar and shooting gallery. Then he gave up and sealed it in ’74.”

  “So it’s still down there,” Kent said with a smile.

  “There’s a sealed plate around the corner on Warren where the entrance was. Come on.”

  At this hour, Cross thought they’d be alone, but the area was thick with streetwalkers. They walked to the west side of Broadway and past the bank. “Where’s the vault?” Kent asked.

  “In the basement toward the front of the building—in line with the bottom of the tunnel.”

  As they walked, the whores called out in low voices, “Fifty cents, fifty cents for a fine time.” Most of the women were poorly dressed hags. Drink, opium, and violence had eaten away any trace of beauty they’d once possessed. But their vulgarity and coarseness were what most offended Cross. New York had a strict hierarchy of whoredom, from the first-class parlor houses in the West Twenties to the streetwalkers at Broadway and Twenty-Fourth, who almost resembled fashionable ladies and brought their clients to respectable quarters to transact business. Then there were these disgusting creatures at the bottom. Only the most depraved and desperate were out this late.

  A gap-toothed wench in a torn and soiled dress brazenly confronted Kent.

  “Fifty cents for a handsome gentleman like you. What do you say?” she croaked.

  With astonishing speed and viciousness, Kent struck her on the head with his cane. She dropped to the sidewalk, crying out in pain. Kent grabbed the gold head of the cane, pulling out a long blade, and held it against her throat. “Stay away from me, you filthy bitch,” he snarled.

  Wide-eyed and shaking with fright, the whore crawled away from him, holding the side of her head.

  Kent sheathed the blade and continued walking. “How wide did you say the tunnel was?” he asked. He spoke casually, as though he’d just shooed away a gnat.

  “Not more than ten feet in diameter. There was only one set of tracks. The air blew the train in one direction and then sucked it back.”

  Turning the corner at Warren, they saw the iron
plate set in the street. Kent bent and poked at it with his cane. “You’re right. This is likely where the station was.”

  Rising, he walked quickly around the corner back to Broadway. This time, the whores who saw him coming gave him a wide berth. Kent stopped in front of the bank and smiled at Cross, rubbing the head of his cane with his white-gloved fingers.

  “Yes, Mr. Cross, this has great possibilities. I must look into it more closely. Preparation, preparation, preparation. As always, the key to this game of ours. You’ll be hearing from me.” He turned to leave.

  “Kent.”

  Kent stopped.

  Cross walked up to him, closer, and closer again. Their faces were six inches apart. “Fidelity National handles big accounts. Edison Electric, Atlantic & Pacific Steamship, B. Altman. The owners were on the bank board that hired me, so I know. There’s a good bit of money in there.”

  “And I’m sure it’ll go far in reducing your son’s debt. Good night, Mr. Cross.”

  • • •

  Honoria Lee laid her head on Count Aleksandrov’s shoulder, toying with the soft hair on his chest. “Sergei, you’re wonderful,” she cooed.

  “And you, my love, are more passionate than any woman in Saint Petersburg.”

  “I have everything in life a woman would want—money, houses, clothes—except passion,” Mrs. Lee said forlornly.

  “A woman of your quality needs passion, every night.”

  “Ha. Avery Lee knows what a 6 percent return on a Pennsylvania Railroad bond will bring, but he knows nothing about passion.”

  Aleksandrov laughed. “Mr. Lee is a good provider. That’s what matters most.”

  “Oh, I suppose.” Mrs. Lee raised herself up to look at the clock on the fireplace mantel. “It’s almost five a.m., my dear. You must get back to your room before the servants are about.”

  Aleksandrov kissed her on the cheek and rose from the bed, reaching for his robe. He opened the bedroom door a crack to check the hallway, waved, and was gone.

  The electric lights were off in the long carpeted corridor, but daylight was creeping in through the windows. Aleksandrov stopped at a door and opened it. Before going in, he took off his leather slippers.

  From their breathing, he could tell the Tartletons were sleeping soundly. The guests of honor were housed in a magnificent room with an adjoining sitting parlor. Aleksandrov smiled at the sight of the couple. They probably hadn’t slept in the same bed in years, but their hosts had been afraid of offending them by providing separate rooms.

  Aleksandrov crept silently to the dresser where Sir Henry’s handsome leather billfold sat. Opening it, he found several hundred American dollars, of which he borrowed three-quarters. Rich men like this never kept track of their cash. He spotted the lady’s dressing table and quietly slid open the drawers until he found Lady Deidre’s jewel case. With an expert’s eye, he laid aside the choicest piece, an emerald-and-pearl necklace, and slipped a small ruby brooch inset with tiny diamonds into the pocket of his robe.

  Smiling, Aleksandrov left the bedroom.

  27

  “On arriving at the ball, the guests will find you standing at your mother’s right. She will do the introducing. Then you will dance the German with the gentleman she selects to lead.”

  “Yes, Granny.”

  Julia and Granny were walking along Broadway together. They would always be together from this point on, for Julia’s coming-out meant that she needed a chaperone. And, to her horror, her mother had designated Granny, not a maiden aunt, for this grave responsibility. Granny had taken up her duties with an enthusiasm bordering on mania. Her granddaughter’s well-being and social worth were at stake; the task was not to be left to an amateur.

  “A chaperone is the guardian angel of a well-bred girl,” Granny declared. “She must always be by her side.”

  Julia had a very difficult time concealing her anguish.

  A widow in her seventies, Granny lived alone in a three-story brownstone overlooking Madison Square. It was the heart of what Julia called Knickerbocker Land. When she wasn’t at the Cross house interfering in the family’s lives, Granny spent her days sitting at the tall window in the front parlor, surrounded by at least a dozen cats, watching the world go by. It was like staring at an aquarium, a source of constant fascination for her.

  This morning, Julia had told her mother she was to meet Lavinia Stewart on West Thirty-Second Street to look at a crystal punch bowl at Fernbach’s. This wasn’t quite true. First, she had an appointment with John Nolan. Then she would see the punch bowl. Granny’s accompaniment threw her plans into disarray. There was no possible way of getting rid of her.

  “Above all,” Granny said, “never paint your cheeks. Complexion comes from within.”

  “I promise I won’t.”

  They passed storefronts stocked with every kind of product, protected from the hot August sun by striped awnings. The streets brimmed with the usual flood of carriages, horse-drawn trolleys, and wagons. The stench of horse manure and urine was particularly pungent for so early in the day.

  “It is perfectly correct for you to refuse an offer of a dance with a man, but you must then sit that dance out. Never accept another offer for the same dance. It just isn’t done.”

  Julia ignored that, as she’d done for all the advice she’d been given for the last eight blocks, consumed by the question of what to do about her rendezvous with Nolan. Reluctant to stand him up, she decided to steer her grandmother in the right direction and then improvise.

  “Granny, let’s turn at Thirtieth. I want to see something in a shop window.”

  This didn’t interrupt Granny’s discourse in the least. She continued to lecture on about taking cold baths every morning. Julia saw a hat shop window on the northwest corner of Sixth under the elevated railroad and crossed the street. Above, a train thundered past, and Granny stopped talking for almost ten seconds. She had never ridden on an elevated railroad and she never would, she exclaimed when it was gone. They threaded their way through the crowds to the shop, and Julia pretended to be interested in its wares, sweeping the streets with her eyes.

  “Excuse me, ma’am. I believe you dropped this.” A young man handed Granny her rose-colored velvet purse with a smile.

  “My goodness, yes,” Granny exclaimed, bewildered. “I can’t understand how I lost it. It was tucked in my handbag.”

  “Why, Mr. Nolan, how good to see you again,” Julia said cheerfully.

  Confused, Granny turned her head from Julia to Nolan and back to Julia. “You know this man, Julia?” It was her sworn duty to keep Julia from making improper acquaintances.

  “Of course. You remember the Nolans on East Twenty-Sixth Street. Very close friends with the Roosevelts,” Julia said with a big smile, shooting a wink at Nolan. “Their son, Theodore, is going to run for mayor.”

  Once Granny heard a familiar Knickerbocker name like Roosevelt, she began to calm down.

  “Young John here was with me at Doddsworth Dancing Academy. In fact, that’s where you met him, Granny. You said that you’d never seen a young boy dance a more elegant German. You must remember.”

  Granny looked at the boy. Julia knew she was thinking that he was quite handsome and well dressed.

  “Thank you so much, Mr. Nolan. You came around at exactly the right time. There were four hundred dollars in that little purse,” Granny said in a surprisingly friendly voice.

  Julia saw Nolan frown. “Mr. Nolan, this is my grandmother, Mrs. Arabella Rutherford.”

  Recovering, he shook Granny’s hand. “A great pleasure, ma’am.”

  “We’re just doing some shopping,” said Julia.

  “For Miss Cross’s coming-out ball,” Granny added proudly.

  “A ball for Miss Cross? How nice. Please, let me escort you. So many wonderful things to buy in this district. It would be an honor to car
ry your parcels.”

  “Indeed, yes, I love to shop here,” Granny gushed. Julia could see she was falling for Nolan’s charm and good looks.

  “What’s your favorite thing in the world, Mrs. Rutherford? Something you don’t have enough of, I mean?”

  “Cats.”

  “You’re a cat lover! So am I,” Nolan said. “It just so happens that I know where there’s the most incredible collection of cats—and all for sale.”

  “Really?” There was obvious pleasure in Granny’s voice. Without any children left in her house, cats had become her surrogates, offering endless unconditional love. She’d had scores of them over the years and lavished attention on them. It was such a paradox to Julia: Granny, so rock hard and uncompromising in her feelings toward humans, was so loving and affectionate to her cats. In her will, her surviving animals were due a sizable bequest. Her cats would have a higher yearly income than 99 percent of New York.

  “The place is just on the next block, on Thirty-First. Would you like to see?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Tell me more about the plans for Miss Cross’s ball.”

  As they walked, Granny rattled off the details, down to the pattern on the Dresden china settings. Nolan listened with great curiosity, peppering her with questions. They stopped in front of an ordinary-looking brownstone, and Nolan led the way in.

  The first thing Julia noticed was the odd smell. Not noxious, but almost alluring—rich and smoky. Instead of the usual layout of rooms off the central hallway, there were cubicles furnished with small plush sofas. Each one held a little round table and an oriental rug. Very respectable-looking men and women lay inside, smoking what looked like a pipe. The windows were shuttered from within, making the interior very dark. But throughout there were dozens and dozens of cats of all different colors and sizes, perched on tables and the arms of sofas, sleeping on the cushions, pacing the hallway.