On a table before them lay a map of Newport. Helen had marked the houses with the greatest potential for loot with red Xs. The marks concentrated on either side of Bellevue Avenue, the main thoroughfare for the town’s richest neighborhood.
For ten weeks in the summer, this narrow stretch of land overlooking the Atlantic Ocean became New York society’s social Mecca. At a staggering cost, balls, dinner parties, yachting fetes, and concerts were thrown, each family trying to outshine the other. Bellevue, Daily, and Ocean Avenues were jammed with a promenade of magnificent carriages, carrying beautiful women who wanted to be seen and admired while their husbands raced yachts and played polo. Aunt Caroline’s mansion, Beechwood, recently renovated by Richard Morris Hunt at a cost of two million dollars, was the brightest star in Newport’s social firmament. During the summer season, Helen and John had a standing invitation to stay there anytime they wanted.
“How about Watts-Sherman? He’s a banker,” Cross said. “Remember, I worked on that house for Richardson. I may still have a set of plans.”
Helen smiled at her husband. “Of course I remember. You were a young architect, so happy to be learning from the master. Those were happy days. Lean, but happy.”
“True. I was just getting started, but you know, those were some of the best days for us. George had just been born. Do you remember? I didn’t think I’d like having a child, but I was wrong. It was a joy.”
“We’d take him along the Cliff Walk to that little beach near the point. He’d get knocked down by the waves, but he’d always get up and run back in,” Helen said, smiling.
“George was always headstrong,” Cross said. “But those were wonderful times.” He placed his hand on his wife’s. “What do you think?”
“Watts-Sherman’s place has nothing special. There are more lucrative targets.”
Cross smiled. Helen’s tenacity amazed him. She could have been a general or an admiral, planning a battle.
“Kingscote, Chateau-sur-Mer… What about the Belmonts’ place—By-the-Sea?”
“Maybe Beechwood?” Cross asked, knowing what his wife’s response would be.
“Blood is thicker than water, sir. Aunt Caroline is off limits. She’s family,” Helen said, giving his hand a little slap and laughing.
“The problem is the servants. These places can have up to a dozen, and they’re always there. It’s too many to tie up or lock in the wine cellar,” Cross said. Helen nodded. “What about Isaac Bell?” he continued. “I can get the drawings from Stanny.”
“No, too poor,” Helen said. She ran her finger along the red marks, pausing to take inventory of each house. It had amazed Cross to discover that his wife had a near photographic memory when it came to valuable objects, recalling where every priceless vase or necklace was located. Her reconnaissance of Julia’s coming-out guests’ homes had been quite impressive.
“The Millards are a possibility. So are the Christies. The Van Alens’ house is all by itself, and he’s always in London on business. Do you know, he actually keeps his horses on the first floor and lives above them!” Helen said, amused by this eccentricity.
“No more horses for me,” Cross said. “Too damn much trouble.”
At that moment, Helen’s bedroom door swung open. Charlie dashed in, grinning.
“It seems you’ve forgotten the rule about knocking,” Cross said.
“I didn’t know that applied to me.”
“It especially applies to you.”
Sucking on a lemon stick, Charlie sidled up to the table and looked at the map.
“What’s going on here?” he asked with mock curiosity.
“We’re marking all the places in Newport to which we’ve been invited this summer,” Helen said.
“Great guns, you’re popular. Glad I don’t have to go. So dull.”
“We certainly don’t want to bore you. That’s why you’re staying behind with Mrs. Johnston,” his father said, patting him on the shoulder.
“I’m most grateful,” said Charlie. “Now, do you want to see my dancing steps?”
Though his parents were plainly preoccupied, they nodded. If they indulged him, they might get rid of him more quickly.
Charlie started to hum a tune, and with dainty, nimble steps, he performed a little dance. When he was finished, Cross and Helen politely applauded. Charlie was smiling from ear to ear—not because his parents were pleased with his performance, but because the dance he’d made up on the spot had been a success.
“I’ll need one dollar for next week’s lesson,” he said brightly.
“I thought it was always fifty cents,” protested his father.
“Special double session. We’re learning the latest mazurka.”
Cross doled out the money, and Charlie skipped out of the room. Next week, he’d demonstrate his progress in art class by showing them some drawings his classmate, Fred Truscott, would provide him for five cents apiece.
The Crosses returned to the map. The logistics of the job greatly depended on the location of the house, so they paid particular attention to the entry and exit points. Helen wrote the names of potential victims on a sheet of stationery. She went down the list, giving her husband the pros and cons of each. When the cons outweighed the pros, she crossed off the name.
“John, the Van Duncans have this unusual stair just for the use of the servants,” Helen noted with excitement. “So Henry and Lily don’t have to run into the servants in the hallways, they had an inner stair built so the help can get into the rooms through secret doors. The stair is entered from the basement and leads all the way up to the fourth floor. We get in there, and we can clean out the place when they are having a dinner party.”
Helen’s beautiful face lit up at the thought. Cross had never seen his wife look so radiant.
“But Henry’s had some financial setbacks lately, so they’re not nearly as rich as they used to be,” Helen said and crossed the Van Duncans’ name off the list.
As they worked, Cross marveled at the ways in which his wife had surprised him. After he’d told her about Kent, she had thrown herself into the project with incredible energy. He’d thought she would fold under the heartbreak, but to his amazement—and admiration—she’d displayed an iron will. Cross felt he had no choice but to tell Helen that Robert was assigned to investigate the robberies, but she showed no panic at all. In fact, at dinners with her brother-in-law, she carefully probed to find out what he was up to. From the typical, cloistered society woman, content to dedicate her life to household responsibilities and children, she’d undergone a remarkable transformation.
Unlike her husband, though, Helen never condemned George for causing their calamity. She doesn’t understand the shadowy side of our son, Cross thought. Neither do I, as a matter of fact. Father and son had avoided each other since their confrontation in the carriage, unsure of what to say.
Helen spoke of nothing but the planning of the robberies whenever they were alone together. For the first time in years, they spent evenings in the same room, selecting potential targets and weighing the merits of each job. They hadn’t talked so much in the last decade. Cross had a new regard for his wife, for the clarity of her analytical thought. He actually enjoyed her company. Helen’s mind, he realized, was razor sharp.
She already knew where the owners would be on a certain day throughout the summer; the Newport social calendar was set in stone weeks before the season began. Some would be sailing yachts far out on the ocean; others would spend the afternoon at a polo match and attend a party after. Next to the names of the most likely victims, Helen made an inventory of assets that could be taken. The more she spoke, the more mesmerized Cross became. He could imagine her as the head of a giant company, barking orders to a board of directors.
Each name on the list reminded the Crosses of parties they had attended or gossip they had heard. As the evening wor
e on, they spent more time reminiscing than planning the robbery.
“Old man Ogden thought he had me trapped, but since you designed his house, I knew where the dumbwaiter was. I escaped his grasp and down I went. He spent an hour searching for me upstairs. You know, that dumbwaiter of Ogden’s could be quite useful if we decided to hit them, a wonderful way to get all the loot down—just like at Oceanside.” Helen was laughing uncontrollably, and Cross couldn’t help joining in.
Abruptly, though, he stopped and looked at his wife’s face. It was lovelier at forty than it had ever been before. He reached out and put his hand on the back of her slender neck. Gently, he pulled her toward him. Giving her a long, passionate kiss, he whispered, “I’ve been quite the fool.” With his arm around her waist, he led her to her bed.
• • •
In the darkness, Cross gazed at his wife’s naked body as she walked to the bathroom. She was like Helen of Troy, with the sort of beautiful body one saw on statues from antiquity—perfectly conceived, without the tiniest flaw. Her long black hair cascaded down her back, swaying as she walked.
When she returned, Helen snuggled up against Cross’s chest. He wrapped his arm around her, pulling her close as he drifted into a wonderfully peaceful sleep.
He awakened abruptly to a cry from his wife.
“My God, what have I done?” Helen sat up in the bed.
Alarmed and disoriented, Cross sat up too.
“The Goelets. I completely forgot about the Goelets. They’ll be our next job,” Helen said triumphantly.
39
“Hurry the hell up, Charlie, or we’ll be late.”
Charlie had had to take the unfamiliar Ninth Avenue Elevated to meet Eddie, and it had taken longer to get across town than he’d thought. His friend was impatiently waiting at the bottom of the stair at Cortlandt Street. He grabbed Charlie’s arm and pulled him in the direction of the West Side piers.
Crossing West Street, Charlie saw hundreds of screaming boys crowded around a pier where a white steamboat was moored. A fast-moving stream of boys was running up the gangplank onto the ship. Once aboard, they raced around the decks, shouting and waving to the boys still on the pier.
“What the hell’s this?” Charlie shouted above the din. Cursing had become second nature to him, a fact he took great pride in, as it allowed him to blend with the rest of Eddie’s set.
“It’s the annual newsboys’ picnic. They’re taking us on a boat ride up the Hudson River to the Palisades,” Eddie yelled, waving to friends already on board.
Together, he and Charlie squirmed their way to the front of the crowd and sprinted up the gangplank, butting up against the backs of the boys ahead of them.
“Come on. Get your asses movin’,” Eddie screamed, pushing them forward.
One boy fell on his face, and Eddie and Charlie hurtled over him. On board, they raced to the bow of the boat.
“The rich people feel sorry for the newsies, so they try to do somethin’ nice for us,” Eddie said, climbing onto the ship’s railing and spreading out his arms for balance. “Same do-gooders who built the lodging houses, so we don’t have to be out on the street. But you know you’ll never get me in one of those joints.”
“They’ll send your ass out west to work on a farm, right?”
“That’s right, Charlie, my boy. Eddie Mooney ain’t gonna be no farmer with cow shit on his shoes. I’ll step in the horse shit on the streets of Manhattan any day.”
The boat was fully loaded, hundreds of crazed, filthy newsboys racing back and forth on the decks like wild animals let out of cages at the zoo. The children were delirious with excitement and impossible to control. The crew members, dressed in smart, navy-blue uniforms with red piping on the sleeves and legs, were cursing and yelling at their new passengers, but corralling them was an impossible task, and they quickly gave up. Soon, every painted-cork life preserver was around a dirty neck, and the restroom was a pigsty, the toilets impossibly backed up. When the newsies discovered the steel stair to the bridge and started their ascent, the captain, a nautical-looking elderly man in a double-breasted tunic with gold buttons, ordered the door to the bridge barred.
The Blue Angel cast off, the engine thrown into reverse as it backed away from the pier.
“Come on,” Eddie shouted to Charlie. “They’re going to give out candy.”
At the stern, a table was set up. Well-dressed, middle-aged men were arranging brown paper bags on its surface, but the newsboys descended like locusts, grabbing the bags as fast as the men could set them out.
“One to a boy. One to a boy,” screamed one of the benefactors.
The bags contained abundant amounts of wrapped caramels, bonbons, and a variety of hard candies, which were immediately stuffed into salivating mouths. When their stomachs no longer had room, the boys did what came naturally: they threw candy at one another. Once the first boy began flinging sweets about, another followed suit. In an instant, three hundred newsboys were pelting one another and the crew with projectiles. The crew, outgunned and helpless, retreated belowdecks, locking the hatches behind them. They were paid to be sailors, they huffed, not attendants in a zoo.
The captain and helmsman, captive on the bridge, watched the spectacle in horror. As the boat steamed slowly north, the frenzy increased. The children seemed mad with delight.
In an attempt to entertain them, the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children, which had officially sponsored the excursion, had hired a small brass band. The society believed that the unfortunate children had never been exposed to music, though in fact every boy present likely frequented saloons and heard music daily. Undaunted, the musicians set up on the lower deck at the bow; in the belief that the show must go on, they played stirring military marches, which only seemed to intensify the madness spinning about them. Soon the newsies turned on them too, bombarding them with candy. With its widemouthed horn, the tuba was a favorite target. It soon filled with candy, making it impossible to play. Charlie caught the percussionist in the back of the head with a peppermint ball. The band had no choice but to retreat.
Finally, the captain could take no more abuse. He charged from the bridge like a wounded rhino and made his way below deck to a private cabin. Entering, he was amazed by an incongruous sight: society ladies and gentlemen from the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children, having tea.
“So nice of you to take the time to accompany us today, Mr. Cross,” Mrs. Isabella Beekman was saying as she poured tea into George’s cup. “Captain, George recently graduated from Harvard and is teaching at the Children’s Aid Society school this summer. His students have made wonderful progress.”
George, who had been shanghaied into coming by Dr. Caldwell, gave a meek smile and took a sip of his tea.
Cap in hand, the captain walked up to a distinguished matron in a hat bedecked with artificial flowers.
“Mrs. Beekman, do you have any idea what those little beasts are doing to my boat?”
The woman took a long sip of tea and patted her lips with a linen napkin. “I do hope the children are enjoying themselves. Those poor unfortunates deserve some pleasure in their lives,” she said.
Around the table, her companions nodded earnestly.
“Madame, I’m turning this boat around. We are going back to Manhattan.”
“You shall do nothing of the sort,” Mrs. Beekman said. Her voice implied that the captain was a feeble-minded Irish servant of the very lowest sort. “You have been paid to land us at the picnic grounds at the foot of the Palisades and then take us back. That’s what you’ll do, sir.”
“I’ll land you and leave these animals there,” the captain thundered.
“That would be a mistake indeed, sir. Do you know of my family?”
Reminded of the Beekmans’ sway, the captain cowered like a beaten dog and left the cabin.
At the P
alisades, each boy received a large box lunch as he disembarked. Inside was a thick roast beef sandwich with pickles, two hard-boiled eggs, a generous slice of chocolate cake, a bottle of sarsaparilla, and an apple. The newsboys’ hunger had returned, and the food was devoured in minutes, save the apples. They became handy projectiles as the boys cavorted happily across the picnic grounds. The hot summer air was full of delicious red missiles.
Like many of the boys, Eddie had no interest in games. With Charlie at his side, he was eager to explore the woods. Eddie prowled about with great interest. It was a completely alien world to him. He had been to Central Park, of course, but always to steal purses, and he didn’t have much time to enjoy nature.
The captain, who had raised the gangplank so that the boys would be forced to stay ashore, ordered the crew to feed river water through a fire hose to wash off the decks. If need be, he vowed, he’d turn the hose on the boys on the return trip.
From the upper deck of the bow, Mrs. Beekman and her fellow members of the Society watched the fun the boys were having with great pleasure.
“Remember that we are child savers,” Mrs. Beekman said. “Though I maintain that these wretches would be better off with farm families, breathing the good, clean country air of the Midwest.”
“But some have parents. They’d never see them again,” a dissenting voice murmured.
“You call those vile creatures parents? A cat would make a better mother or father,” Mrs. Beekman said, voice dripping with disdain.
After two hours, the steamboat’s whistle blew, signaling the return to the boat. To the crew’s relief, gorging themselves and running around had worn the boys out. Most stood at the ship railings and quietly watched the Palisades to the west and Manhattan to the east slip by. A few even fell asleep on the decks.
As the gangplank was lowered, Mrs. Beekman and other Society members gathered at the top of the gangway to hand out an informative pamphlet entitled “God Loves a Clean and Moral Boy.” It was forced into the newsies’ hands before they could descend the gangplank.
House of Thieves Page 21
