House of Thieves

by Charles Belfoure

  “Again, that’s extremely kind of you, but I can’t accept.”

  The man seemed to be at a loss for words. A frown replaced his broad grin. He placed the cigarette case in his pocket, removed his hat, and ran his hand through his hair. Looking down at the hexagonal stone pavers in the sidewalk, he seemed to be searching for something to say.

  “And that’s your final answer, huh?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid it is,” Cross said, giving him a sympathetic smile.

  A middle-aged couple passed by, talking quietly among themselves. The man watched them go and then shrugged his shoulders, face still composed and mild. “I guess there’s only one thing left to do,” he said and pulled a revolver from his inside pocket. “Can’t let the competition have an advantage over us. It’s not good business.”

  Before the man could point the gun, Cross had vaulted the stone wall that separated the park from Fifth Avenue and was running through the woods like a wild animal. He heard the man crashing through the undergrowth behind him. Like all the men of his social class, Cross never exercised. After fifty yards of sprinting, he felt as though he might pass out. His heart was pounding so hard he thought it would burst from his chest. Sweat drenched his clothes. But he didn’t dare let up the pace. At any second, he expected a bullet to pierce the base of his skull.

  He tore across the East Drive to a path at the edge of the pond and headed north along its bank. People in the park stopped and stared at the chase, stupefied, as Cross and his pursuer passed by like blurs. Instead of continuing north, Cross took a hard left over the Gapstow Bridge, hoping to fool the man in the derby. But even when he crossed, he heard the footsteps pounding behind him. Running west along the footpath, he almost collided with a nanny pushing a baby carriage. He turned north on the next path and slowed to look over his shoulder. The crack of a pistol report sounded. He felt more than heard a sharp-pitched hissing by his right ear.

  With a burst of newfound energy, Cross flew up the path, running like a madman. Another hissing sound shot by his shoulder. He looked ahead and found that he was at the dairy, south of the Sixty-Fifth Street Transverse Road. A Gothic-style building of stone and wood, it had a gable-roofed open shed connected to it. Cross ran into the shed and hid behind the low stone wall that supported the corner columns on the far side.

  A few seconds later, the man entered the shed. When he saw no one in the long, open space, he turned and went out. Cross waited a few minutes, struggling to catch his breath, and then stood up slowly and went around to the back of the adjoining stone building.

  At the corner, he craned his neck, trying to see if the man was about. No one was in sight. He started to run off—then stopped and stared at the grassed area at the side of the stone building. A dark green shape in the shadows blended in with the grass. Cross crept forward.

  Twenty feet away, he saw the man lying facedown on the ground. He walked over and knelt beside him. The man’s eyes were wide open, staring up into the cloudless blue sky…and a knife protruded from between his ribs. On the ground next to the body lay his derby and the revolver.

  Cross looked around to see if anyone was watching. He saw no one.

  • • •

  From a grove of trees fifty yards away, Nolan watched Cross walk away. He looked down at his shaking hands.

  In his heart, he knew had done the right thing. Yes, he had betrayed his gang—his only family—but he loved Julia. He couldn’t bear to see her hurt.

  54

  Kent and Cross were standing on Hester Street when the bullet passed through the two-foot space between them, shattering the plate-glass window of the saloon at their backs. A shard of glass ripped into a patron standing at the bar, who screamed. Startled, the horses of Kent’s carriage bolted, pitching the driver onto the sidewalk. As he dove to the ground for cover, Kent saw a phaeton with two men in derbies speeding down Hester.

  “Coogan,” he screamed. “Get that goddamn carriage!”

  Coogan, who had been keeping watch in the doorway of McGlory’s, sprinted down the crowded sidewalk. Kent helped Cross stand. The architect was shaking with fear. A man not used to disrespect, let alone a murder attempt, Kent was seething with anger. It was unusual to see the calm and levelheaded criminal mastermind in such a temper.

  “Who the hell do they think they are?” he screamed in the direction of the would-be assassins. “Are you all right, Mr. Cross?”

  For a fraction of a second, Cross was touched by his concern. Then he realized Kent only wanted to know whether his asset had been harmed. He had paid no attention to the anguished wailing of the injured man in the saloon.

  “Yes, I’m fine,” he said shortly.

  “Goddamn it, I’ll find out who’s behind this,” Kent growled.

  An imaginary debate had been raging in Cross’s mind. He had been unsure whether to tell Kent about the rival gang’s offer and about what had happened at the Central Park Dairy. Because of the mysterious circumstances surrounding the man in the green suit’s death, Cross thought it possible that one of Kent’s men had been assigned to him as a kind of guardian angel. In that case, there would be no reason to tell Kent about the threats, because he probably already knew. To Cross, Kent already seemed like an underworld god, all knowing and all powerful. In his company, he felt protected from further harm. No, Cross had been far more worried about the traitor than rival gang attacks. But this changed the situation.

  A pistol report rang out a few blocks away. It was a common sound in the Bowery, like the howling of an alley cat. No one on the street paid it any attention.

  “There’s something I must tell you,” Cross said cautiously.

  Kent stood, expressionless.

  “Two weeks ago, I was approached by one of your rivals. They asked me to leave you and join them. Of course I turned the man down. Yesterday, I refused them again, and a man tried to kill me in Central Park. But someone killed him first.” Cross spoke in a contrite voice, like a little boy admitting to a misdeed.

  Kent stared at him for a few seconds. Then he walked over and leaned against the brick wall of the saloon. Taking out a cigar and lighting it, he looked at the sidewalk, then back at Cross, with a perplexed expression.

  “I guess I should’ve told you right away,” Cross said, lowering his eyes.

  Kent burst out laughing. The spasms of mirth seemed uncontrollable, as if he couldn’t stop. “Yes, Mr. Cross,” he said. “That would’ve been helpful. But I admire your loyalty.”

  “It wasn’t loyalty. It was pure fear. You would’ve killed me for jumping ship.”

  “In a second.”

  Coogan raced up to them. “They turned south on Mott. I got close enough to get a shot off, but I missed. Got a look at the fellow, though. Think it was Big Josh Hines from Milligan’s gang.”

  “What did the fellow who made you the offer look like?” Kent asked Cross.

  “He wore a dark green suit and had these peculiar eyebrows, like caterpillars above his eyes.”

  “Rip Murdock,” Coogan said with a grim smile. “It’s Milligan.”

  “I hate wars. They’re bad for business. But Milligan must be taught a lesson. A very hard one,” Kent said.

  “Should I start with Hines?” Coogan asked.

  “Mr. Coogan, if you want to get rid of wasps, you don’t kill them one by one. You find their nest and destroy it outright,” Kent said.

  “I understand. You and Mr. Cross will need someone to keep an eye on you until this business is finished. I’ll see to that,” Coogan said and walked away.

  “Now, Mr. Cross, before we were so rudely interrupted, you were telling me about the next job.”

  Still shaken by the shooting, Cross wanted to go home and hide under the bedcovers, not discuss another robbery.

  “Another house in Manhattan? Or Tuxedo?” Kent seemed to have forgotten that less than five minute
s ago, he’d been inches from death.

  Cross shook his head, unsure whether to be amazed or terrified. “Manhattan is out. There are too many Pinkertons around.”

  “And how do you know that?”

  Cross realized his mistake as soon as the words left his mouth. He couldn’t stumble with his explanation; it had to be perfect. “Cook, my old client. I ran into him at the Union League Club, and he told me. Tuxedo’s tightly guarded now too.”

  “What about another bank?”

  The last jobs in Newport and Tuxedo Park had been rich hauls. Cross had thought Kent might be pleased enough to not insist on another job so soon. But success had made him greedy.

  And true to his word, Kent had given him a 7 percent share. Unsure what else to do with it, Cross had deposited the money in a separate bank account.

  “I’m looking into that,” Cross said, “but I’ve got another possibility. A far bigger take.”

  “I’m listening.”

  55

  Nolan and Julia had just dropped Granny off at Wah Kee’s for the afternoon. Julia’s grandmother had grown fond of her granddaughter’s handsome friend and allowed her to step out with him unchaperoned, opportunities that came chiefly when she was enjoying herself at Wah Kee’s. Opium was a miracle cure, she told her granddaughter. After ten years of daily pain, her lumbago had vanished. Her visits increased to three times a week. They always escorted Granny home, a dreamy, elated expression on her face.

  Still, Julia worried—that her grandmother would buy more cats from Wah Kee. The animals were overrunning her brownstone and had already caused two servants to quit. There were dozens of them, and they had taken over the house.

  But the risk was worth it. Julia loved to walk the streets of the Tenderloin and the Bowery with Nolan; their perambulations had become her consuming preoccupation. Charles Dickens, whom she greatly admired, walked for miles through London every day. She wanted to do the same thing, she told Nolan, to observe life and take in the details—the more sordid, the better.

  “I can supply you with sordidness to last a lifetime,” Nolan said with a mock evil leer.

  But after hearing so much about Dickens—and without telling Julia—he’d purchased a secondhand copy of Oliver Twist, which he read and enjoyed. The description of the pickpockets rang entirely true. Fagin was his favorite character and reminded him of his mentor, Crazy Ned. Now Nolan was reading Nicholas Nickleby.

  Instead of rat baiting or the cockfights, Nolan chose to escort Julia to a gambling den on West Thirty-Eighth Street called Cantwell’s. New York City had a wide variety of gambling establishments that catered to all classes of society, and Julia was interested in all of them. She and Nolan had even been to a gambling den in Chinatown. In contrast, Cantwell’s was high-class. Its four large rooms were each devoted to a specific game: roulette, faro, dice, and poker.

  Nolan would never allow Julia to bet her own money, and he always put down her bet. Every gambling joint cheated, no matter how classy it seemed. In the end, the house always won. But Nolan was a friend of Cantwell’s owner. He gave a nod to the croupier, and Julia’s number hit again and again. She shrieked with laughter at every win, which pleased Nolan immensely. Caught up in her excitement, the other patrons at the table eagerly placed bets too—just as the house wanted. Nolan had taken Julia to other joints where he knew the dealers, and she had won at faro and dice. But Julia always quit while she was ahead, unwilling to tempt fate.

  After stopping, she stayed at the wheel to watch the other gamblers. The spinning of the wheel and the way the little white ivory ball bounced crazily around mesmerized her. She offered breathless encouragement to the players and heartfelt sympathy when they lost.

  From the dice room came the sound of cheering. At first, it was low in volume, but it got louder and louder. The roar was only interrupted when the player was about to roll the dice. Then came wild applause and laughter: he or she had won.

  “Someone’s lucky today,” Julia said to Nolan.

  There was a lull in the cheering. A lone voice shouted out, “Mathematicians have a special connection to the number seven. You’ll see!”

  Julia turned abruptly from the roulette table and rushed out of the room. Alarmed, Nolan followed. The dice room was packed like a sardine can, and Julia found herself blocked by the crowd at the doorway. With bulldog determination, she squeezed past the dozens of wildly cheering spectators. A heavy haze of cigar smoke floated over the heads of the onlookers like a great storm cloud. Julia peeked between the bodies at the front to see her brother, George, standing at the head of the table, throwing the dice. He had a kind of crazed expression on his face, a hazy smile, as if he were in a drug-induced delirium. Julia had never seen that look on him before and barely recognized him.

  “That’s my brother,” she said in a voice that hardly sounded like her own as Nolan stopped next to her.

  Two more rolls of the dice brought two more wins. The applause grew yet more raucous. George seemed oblivious to the attention, carefully stacking his chips in neat piles, lost in his own private world.

  In front of Julia, an elegant woman in a red-and-purple walking outfit leaned over to the man next to her.

  “I think he’s up to eight thousand,” she said, as excited as if they were her own winnings.

  “More like nine,” the man said.

  Three more passes brought three more wins. The crowd was in a frenzy. The gambling in the other rooms had ceased. The players were crowding into the room to see what the furor was about. Julia stood there, amid the noise and the chaos, and stared at her brother. Nolan watched her, baffled.

  The noise had died down, the crowd anxiously awaiting the next throw.

  “It has to be more than ten thousand,” said the man.

  George paused, looking down at his horde of chips. He picked up a few, jiggled them in his hand, and then put them back on their stack. With both hands, he began carefully taking each tall stack and placing it on the green felt of the dice table. First one, then another and another. They reminded Julia of white towers, forming the outer walls of some medieval fortification.

  A stunned silence swept the room. Not a single sound was uttered. When every chip was down, George picked up the dice in his right fist and stared down the length of the table. Julia wanted to leap forward and plead with her brother, but she remained frozen in place. The fashionable women in the crowd grabbed the arms of their escorts, squeezing them harder and harder as the tension mounted. The well-dressed men were wide-eyed. The longer George took, the more unbearable the wait became.

  With a quick flick of his wrist, the dice went careening down the table, bouncing off the green felt of the barrier wall. Every person in the room held his or her breath as the white cubes came to a rest.

  “Two,” cried out the croupier. A loud collective moan filled the room.

  The two black dots stared back at George like tiny eyes. The good cheer and bonhomie vanished in a second, and the crowd dispersed quickly, not wanting to catch George’s ill luck. He stood, a lone figure at the head of the table. Another player, a man with gray muttonchop sideburns and a large belly, stepped up beside George and held the dice, ready for the next throw.

  As she watched her brother, Julia felt a feeling of crushing despair descended upon her. She grabbed Nolan’s hand and rushed out of the building.

  56

  Cross had spent the afternoon arguing with a client over the cost of marble, the prospect of the next robbery hovering perpetually in the back of his mind. He felt dog tired, as if the weight of the world were pressing down on him.

  Not seeing any carriages, he decided to walk to the Grand Central stop of the Third Avenue Elevated and take the train home. It was late afternoon. Crowds of people filed up the iron stairs for their evening commute. The usual ragged newsboys were hawking their papers. Alongside them, food vendors sold everythin
g from gingerbread cakes to roasted ears of corn. An Italian in a greasy-looking derby sold sausages.

  Physically and emotionally drained, Cross trudged up the stairs.

  “Extra! Extra! Russian count robs the rich and is murdered!” cried a newsboy standing on the landing of the stair above.

  The announcement sent a jolt through Cross. They must have found the count’s body in Tuxedo. Brady had left some jewelry on his body, bait to convince the police that he’d robbed the Lorillards. Apparently, they’d bitten.

  “Russian mastermind steals rare jewel! Read all about it in the Sun!” the boy screamed.

  Amazing. The yellow press was blaming Aleksandrov for the other robberies, including the Pharaoh Blue. It was ridiculous and implausible—and perfectly fine with Cross.

  He approached the newsboy, eager to get a paper—and paused, startled. Most of the newsies were filthy urchins in rags, but this child was well dressed and clean. He took another look and almost stumbled down the stairs in shock. His son, Charlie, was peddling papers!

  “Extra, extra! Read all about it! Russian count robs the rich and is murdered!”

  Stunned by the sight of his son, Cross regained his composure. Instead of confronting Charlie, he slipped down the opposite side of the staircase and back onto the street. Concealing himself behind one of the iron columns that supported the station above, he stared at Charlie. The boy handed out papers and took the money expertly, making change for a dollar and screaming out the lurid headline all the while. Cross couldn’t decide if he was more surprised by the fact that Charlie was there or by how well the boy did the job. He had never seen Charlie do a single practical thing in his life. With servants filling their house, there was no call for it.

  An unwitting smile spread across Cross’s face as he watched his son work. Unaccountably, he felt a real sense of pride in his boy.

  Soon Charlie was out of papers and began to count his day’s earnings. A very ragged urchin approached him. From the way they smiled and laughed together, it was plain that they were friends. They ran up the next flight of stairs, and Cross followed. The boys boarded a downtown train, and Cross did the same, sitting at the very end of the car to avoid being seen. At this time of day, it was crowded. He had to stand to keep an eye on Charlie. Once he ducked down, afraid the boy was looking his way.