House of Thieves (7 page)

With a sick thud, he dropped to the pavement.

“You're right. I
am
mean,” Brady said to the dog. It whimpered and cowered back in the corner of the doorway.

“Add three more to the two you already have. How many is that?”

The nine children in the spartan classroom looked at George with blank expressions. When he'd first met his pupils, he'd been stunned. They were filthy, emaciated, and often seemed deaf and dumb. More like feral animals than children, and so different from his younger brother, Charlie. At first, George thought they were orphans, but he'd soon learned that almost all of them had been thrown out into the streets when their families could no longer support them. They were left to fend for themselves, stealing or working as bootblacks and newsies. The girls sold shoelaces and matches in the streets. Some worked in sweatshops, making envelopes or twine.

Before they came to the lodging house, all the children were homeless, forced to sleep in basements or alleys, to sprawl across steam gratings in the Five Points and the Bowery. Dr. Caldwell, the school's director, said that twenty thousand more roamed the streets of New York like rats. None of them had ever celebrated a Christmas or a birthday; most didn't even know when they had been born. To George, their reality came as a cruel shock.

“What about you, Tim? How many?”

The scrawny, freckle-faced child stared at the caramels that sat before him. Instead of toothpicks or matches, George used candy for his arithmetic lessons. These wretches didn't have the tiniest of pleasures. He meant to kill two birds with one stone. Chewing gum, licorice sticks, and boiled sweets became teaching tools.

Tim knit his brow and moved his lips, silently counting.

“Five?”

“As a reward for Tim's academic brilliance, the class may now eat today's lesson,” George said.

Smiles broke out, and the children began unwrapping the caramels and popping them into their mouths. Initially, when George gave them candy, he expected them to devour every piece at once. He was surprised to see that most saved some to eat later. This, he discovered, was a survival instinct they'd learned on the streets.

It gave George great pleasure to see his class enjoy their treats. The longer he taught, the more it pained him that these children had absolutely nothing in life—no mother or father, no prospects for a bright future. It made him feel ashamed that he'd been given so much. And so, every week, George had come down by train from Cambridge to teach the urchins arithmetic. They weren't stupid. No, it was as if their minds were frozen on account of their mistreatment and neglect. Sometimes he tried to do something special for them, taking them on excursions to Central Park, the wax museum at Eden Musée, or a puppet show on Fourteenth Street. Dr. Caldwell had objected, but George convinced him the trips had a sound educational purpose.

“I'll see you next week,” George said to his class with a wave of the hand, and the children bounded out of the classroom.

On his way out, he smiled at Miss Cavendish, the secretary, who blushed at such a handsome man's attention. The Children's Aid Society building on East Broadway was a massive brick-and-stone edifice designed by a friend of his father's, Calvert Vaux. It held dining facilities, classrooms, and dormitories for destitute children. Some people had even complained that it was too fancy for street urchins.

George walked north on Ludlow Street toward the Third Avenue Elevated Railroad. His new home at the Bradley, an apartment house on West Fifty-Ninth Street, right across from the park, awaited him. As a gift, Granny had paid the eighteen-hundred-dollar annual rent, even though she disapproved of apartment houses, calling them glorified tenements. They were just a fad, she said, because Anglo-Saxons would never share the same roof with strangers.

As he walked, George's thoughts kept returning to the day before. Something wasn't right. For Kent to forgive his debt—it seemed unthinkable. He'd been sure he was going to die, had even resigned himself to the fact. But there he was, back in the city as if nothing had happened. Kitty couldn't give him any details about Kent's decision, and to his dismay, Kent had flatly refused to talk to him.

It was frustrating. George wanted to tell Kent that he'd give him a percentage of his salary each week in appreciation for what he'd done. When he'd dropped him off at the curb, Flannigan had warned him to stay away from Kent's joints. George couldn't understand the reprieve, but he thanked God that his family hadn't found out. The shame would have destroyed them.

A block before Delancey Street was a basement dive called the House of Hell, a lowlife gambling den George had frequented many times. He stopped by the stair leading down to the basement and stared at the crude sign of a tiger above the battered wooden door, which meant the dump was a faro house. There was paper money in his pants pocket. He pulled it out. Six dollars. George bolted down the stairs—but stopped midway and climbed back up to the sidewalk. He closed his eyes, breathing heavily.

At times like this, he couldn't understand the universal forces at play. It was like he was made of pure iron, not flesh and blood, and the dive was a giant magnet, pulling him toward it with an unearthly power. He grasped the railing tightly, as if to prevent his body being yanked back down into the cellar. But there was no magnetic force emanating from the dive. The pull was coming from his brain, which was commanding his body to slap his six dollars on the green felt of the faro table. George wanted to feel that indescribable sensation of suspense in placing his bet, then the pure exhilaration of winning. He would never tell Kitty this, but the thrill was absolutely wonderful, more satisfying than any orgasm. With his mastery of numbers, he knew he could beat the house. Gambling was just a series of mathematical probabilities that had to be analyzed.

Feeling himself beginning to perspire, George tightened his grasp on the railing. Then, taking a deep breath, he let go and bolted down the sidewalk. He didn't look back. If he did, he knew he'd be lost.

• • •

Charlie Cross was determined to get the Crandall mini steam engine.

The gifts from his birthday last month had been disappointing, to say the least. He didn't give a damn about learning the value of money from card games like the “Amusing Game of the Corner Grocery” or the “Game of Banking.” He'd been hoping for the engine or one of those new safety bicycles. The only decent present, a Mike Kelly baseball bat, had come from George.

The Crandall mini steam engine. That was something special. You could actually sit on the thing and ride around. While looking at the sports pages of the
Tribune
, Charlie had seen an advertisement for the toy. It was sold at a store off Pearl Street and the Bowery, which, the ad emphasized in bold black letters, was conveniently located near the Second Avenue Elevated.

Having been on the Third Avenue line many times with his friends, Charlie felt he was ready to take the Second Avenue Elevated on his own. The one good thing about his parents was that they trusted him and gave him free rein to roam about the neighborhood. On foot, he and his pals had ventured all the way up to the park, as far south as Union Square, and east and west to each of the rivers.

He took his time on his way to the Thirty-Fourth Street and Second Avenue station, stopping to look in store windows, buying licorice, playing with a stray cat, and examining junk abandoned by the curb. On the downtown train, he knelt on a seat, looking out at the buildings as they rushed past. He loved being so high off the ground. The colors and lettering styles of the signs that covered almost every square foot of the building facades captivated him.

As his stop at Chatham Junction approached, Charlie turned to face his fellow passengers. Dressed in odd clothing and chattering in strange languages, they were nothing like the people on Fifth and Madison Avenues. He found them as fascinating as characters in a storybook. One old man, dressed all in black with a broad-brimmed hat, had a full, snow-white beard that flowed down to his chest and a long, single curl of hair hanging from each ear. Farther down the car, there was even a Chinaman in a scarlet-and-gold quilted jacket.

At Chatham Junction station, where the Second and Third Avenue elevated lines crossed and formed a dramatic double-decker set of tracks, Charlie scampered down the long stairway to the street. He began walking east in search of Pearl Street and the Bowery but soon found himself completely lost. Confused, he rounded a building and was astonished to see the stone towers of the Brooklyn Bridge looming above him. He'd never seen anything so tall. It dwarfed the buildings around it, even the church steeples.

The net of cables attached to the bridge's towers reminded him of giant spiderwebs. A flood of people, horses, and wagons was crossing the bridge in both directions. Convinced he had gone the wrong way, Charlie turned north and kept walking until he reached the corner of Baxter and Worth Streets. It was as if he had walked onto another planet. The sidewalks in front of the ramshackle two- and three-story buildings were choked with people and strewn with foul-smelling garbage. Instead of cobblestones, the streets were a mash of churned rubble and horse manure. Two-wheeled delivery wagons and pushcarts fought their way along. Charlie stared in amazement at the wide eyes of a dead horse lying in the gutter, covered with green flies. Above him, a withered old woman leaned out of a second-story window and emptied a white porcelain-enameled chamber pot onto the sidewalk. The pedestrians dodged the airborne filth without batting an eye.

The shops along Baxter Street were unlike the neat and tidy ones in Charlie's neighborhood. Dark and dilapidated places, they displayed their stock in boxes and on long plank tables on the sidewalk. Most of it seemed to be used clothing. Their owners continually accosted passersby, trying to physically drag them inside. Peddlers pushed rickety carts, calling out their wares. A fat woman smoking a long clay pipe was selling apples and gingerbread. Charlie was amazed to see little girls younger than him hawking wilted flowers and socks. Men without arms and legs sat on the sidewalk, selling shoelaces and buttons.

It was about ninety degrees, and the stink of the place was making Charlie dizzy. He leaned against a building. Its surface was coated with moldy, greenish slime. A greasy rat scurrying through the filth of the gutter stopped in front of Charlie and fixed him with its beady black gaze.

“Those are some real fancy duds you have on.”

Two boys a couple years older than Charlie were standing perhaps three feet away. They wore filthy, torn canvas shirts and tattered black pants that stopped a few inches above their bare feet. Their faces and feet were smeared with dirt; it looked as if they'd been down a coal chute. Charlie dropped his chin to his chest to see what they were referring to. To please his mother, he had agreed to wear a velvet jacket and lace collar in the style made so popular by the story
Little
Lord
Fauntleroy
, which had just come out. At ten years old, Charlie had graduated to wearing long pants and refused to wear Lord Fauntleroy shorts or get his hair curled. The jacket was a compromise.

“Hey, we'll show ya somethin' neat,” said one of the boys, smiling broadly and gesturing for Charlie to follow him into an adjacent alleyway filled with garbage. Charlie was about to politely decline the invitation, but before he could say a word, the larger of the two put his filthy hand on the back of Charlie's neck, his grip as tight as a vise, and shoved him into the alley. A few yards in, Charlie tried to twist away, but the boy's accomplice struck him full in the face. Down he went, and the two boys began to kick and pummel him. He was too shocked to utter a sound. As he lay on his back, stunned, he felt his attackers undressing him.

“This stuff's real velvet. And the shoes don't have no holes in 'em.”

Like a carcass being picked over by vultures, Charlie was stripped to his underwear in seconds. He heard the scuffling of the boys' footsteps as they ran. His head was pounding with pain, and there was an excruciating ache in his stomach. He tried to fight back the tears, but they poured out in torrents. Pulling himself up from the filth of the alley, he grabbed on to a nearby rain barrel and tried to steady himself.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw an older boy striding confidently toward him, holding each of his assailants by their ears. The thieves were howling in pain.

“Give 'em back,” the boy said, lifting his arms up to stretch the boys' ears even farther. They screamed in agony, dropping the clothing and shoes on the ground.

“Kick 'em in the balls,” the boy said.

Charlie shook his head. He didn't understand. “Balls?'

“Yeah, balls.” With great agility, the boy swung his leg and kicked one of the boys between the legs. “Go ahead,” he ordered.

Forgetting his pain, Charlie got a running start and kicked each of the thieves with all the force he could muster. Still holding them by the ears, the older boy smashed their skulls together with all his might. There was a loud crack, like someone splitting open a coconut. The boys collapsed to the ground and then stumbled away down the alley, clutching their heads.

“Let me help you.” The boy held out Charlie's trousers so he could step into them.

“Thank you,” peeped Charlie.

“So what brings you to the Five Points today?”

Cross sat in a carriage at Fifth Avenue and Eightieth Street, waiting to begin the Cook robbery. It was 2:00 a.m. on a moonless July night.

“You'll find the experience most interesting,” said Kent, who was seated next to him.

Interesting? Terrifying, perhaps. Cross could hardly prevent himself from shaking with fear. His shirt was soaked with sweat.

Sitting across from Cross and Kent were Culver and Brady, the roughneck who'd been so reluctant to trust him. Brady toyed constantly with a length of piano wire, scowling at Cross all the while. The gang had a hierarchy of sorts, Cross had come to realize. Culver, the trusted right-hand man, and Brady, the henchman, were the two top members and thus sat in the boss's carriage.

Along the surrounding streets were scattered enclosed delivery wagons of all types—milk, grocery, bakery, lumber. They would transport the loot. Development on Fifth Avenue above Seventy-Sixth Street was just beginning, with construction proceeding in a checkerboard manner. With its many vacant lots, the area still had a desolate feel. It was deserted at night and rarely patrolled by the police, which was fine with Cross. No one was around to see them.

Kent, who had been puffing on a cigar, exhaled, filling the carriage with the thick, sweet aroma of a Havana premium. He pulled out his pocket watch.

“It's two fifteen, gentlemen,” he said. His jolly tone reminded Cross of Charlie, bounding into their bedroom to tell them it was Christmas morning.

Kent, Brady, and Culver got out of the carriage. The plan was for two men to leave each wagon at one-minute intervals with one man remaining to drive. They would meet at the rear of the house. Other men would serve as lookouts.

Cross froze as if he were glued to his seat. His mind ordered him to get out of the carriage, but his body wouldn't obey.

“Time to go, Mr. Cross. It's your debut performance tonight,” said Kent. “We can't be late.”

Cross did not budge. Brady reached into the carriage, grabbed Cross by the lapels, and yanked him out. “Move,” he said with a snarl.

“Please don't be embarrassed, Mr. Cross. Everyone gets stage fright on their first night,” exclaimed Kent, beckoning Cross to come with a wave of his arm.

Cross's legs felt like gelatin, and he thought he was going to collapse. Somehow, though, he made it to the back of the mansion. A grand wrought iron gate was connected to the low fence that surrounded the fifteen-foot-wide dry moat. To Cross's surprise, the gate lock had already been picked.

Cross swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and slowly walked over to a paving stone right next to the gate. He placed all his weight on the side of it, and up popped the stone, revealing a little compartment below that contained what looked like the inner workings of a clock. His accomplices smiled at one another. He knelt down and turned a lever to the right.

The iron-and-wood drawbridge that covered the rear door slowly lowered with just a low murmur of cables and pulleys.

Everyone at once noticed a light come on at the far end of the basement level at the bottom of the moat. Cross stooped down and switched the lever to stop the bridge. It was only halfway down, at a diagonal to the face of the house. Kent and his men stood motionless, their eyes fixed on the light. A half a minute passed, then the light went out.

Brady turned an accusing eye on Cross and laughed, his voice harsh in the silence.

“I told you this little shit couldn't be trusted.”

“It's a servant,” Cross said in a calm voice, knowing exactly what room it was.

“Take care of it,” Kent said to Brady in a matter-of-fact tone. He might have been telling him to shine his shoes.

Cross saw the smirk on Brady's face and knew what would happen next. “You can't,” he yelled, grabbing the arm of Kent's well-tailored frock coat. Kent's eyes slowly traveled from his sleeve to Cross, who flushed with embarrassment, realizing his faux pas. But he couldn't keep silent. “No one's to be hurt!” he cried.

As Brady raised his fist to punch Cross in the face, Kent lifted a hand in silent command.

“I'm afraid that's going to be difficult, Mr. Cross. We certainly can't call the job off. You can see the position I'm in.”

With Brady's hand still raised, Cross gathered his nerve. “Just let me peek in the window.”

“What the hell good will that do?” Brady sneered.

“Maybe he didn't hear anything. Listen, I set up this job. You can at least give me ten minutes.”

Kent nodded, though his eyes were skeptical. “All right, but you're wasting your time, Mr. Cross…and mine.”

Brady bristled with anger at his boss's decision but didn't protest.

But Cross stopped and realized he had no way of getting down into the moat. No one brought ladders or ropes because he didn't think they'd be necessary. Then he remembered that the gray granite walls that lined the moat were rusticated—they had deep, wide joints between the stones that could act as hand and footholds. Cross swung his body over the iron fence and slowly climbed down the wall as if it were a ladder. When he reached the stone floor, he crept over to below the window and craned his neck until his eyes peered just over the very edge of the sill. The lower sash had been raised about a foot, allowing the servant to get some air in the cramped room. Cross let his eyes adjust to the darkness of the interior. He raised up further, until his entire head was through the opening.

The room was a typical servant's abode, with barely any furniture and no rug. Servants were not allowed to display personal items, and with its bare, white plaster walls, the space resembled a prison cell. Directly below Cross was a cast-iron bed. A young man in a white nightshirt slept soundly on his back. Cross had no idea why he was in the house. The entire domestic staff of city mansions always went to Newport in the summer.

He crouched back down and crawled away from the window, then sat against the stone wall of the house. He needed time to think. Kent waited impatiently above.

“Do you keep a bottle of that stuff on you?” Cross asked in a hushed voice to McGurk, who was standing next to Kent.

“The chloroform? Never leave the house without it,” he said with a smile, patting the side pocket of his jacket.

Cross extended his arms and beckoned for McGurk to toss down the bottle, which he did.

“Mr. Culver, will you please go to the carriage and get the whip and the sponge in the horse's water bucket?”

Culver was puzzled by the request but trotted off. After a few minutes, he was back with the whip and sponge.

“What the fuck are you doing, swell? Time's a wasting,” Brady hissed from the sidewalk above.

“Go to hell, you blackguard,” Cross said, surprising himself with his nerve. He looked up at Kent and spoke directly. “You're not going to kill him.”

Taking the oblong yellow sponge, he squeezed it out. With his penknife, he cut a slit in the end and inserted the long handle of the carriage whip into the space. He emptied the entire bottle onto the sponge. A pungent smell rose up in the warm night air.

Cross crept back and slowly threaded the carriage handle through the open window. Leaning his whole body into the opening, he lowered the sponge to the sleeping man's face, covering his nose. Two minutes passed. Cross pulled his head back and whispered up to McGurk, “Is this long enough?”

McGurk chuckled. “With the shot you gave 'im? He won't wake till tomorrow evening.”

Cross pulled the carriage handle out and climbed back up the wall. “All right, let's get to it,” he said to Kent, almost like an order.

Cross finished lowering the bridge. After Culver jimmied open the rear door, Cross took them first down to the subbasement, where they easily yanked off the padlock and entered the vault. He stood aside while they cleaned out the space, placing everything in canvas sacks. They worked quickly and efficiently, a well-oiled team. Even Brady threw himself into the effort. The vault was bare in minutes, the loot transported quickly across the drawbridge and piled into the wagons that waited in the rear yard.

Throughout the process, Kent stood, smoking a cigar and observing. He seemed to be enjoying every second of the experience and was a good leader, like a general at the front of his troops' charge into battle. His men respected that. And his eyes were sharp. As one man came out, Kent grabbed his arm. He reached into the man's jacket pocket, produced a bottle of wine, and ordered him to put it back.

Once the last of the loot was removed, the gang reassembled in the kitchen, and Cross led them up the servants' stairs to Mrs. Cook's bedroom. Once inside, they stood in stunned silence, gaping at the walls.

“Holy hell,” McGurk whispered.

The walls of Mrs. Cook's bedroom were beautifully carved, gilt boiserie that sparkled in the light of the huge crystal chandelier. Cross hadn't designed this room. The interior was purchased from a Louis XVI palace in France and reassembled upon arrival in New York. At the far end, a gargantuan, ornately carved four-poster bed sat on a high platform fronted by a gilded balustrade, draped by a canopy of scarlet silk and dark-green velvet.

“A family of ten could sleep in that goddamn thing,” McGurk said.

Eager to get the men's attention back to the job at hand, Cross pointed out the safe in the base of the statue of Diana. Two men eased it out and onto the maroon and gold carpet. Then a man brought in two lengths of wood, which were placed under the safe. They carried it out of the bedroom as though on a litter. They'd obviously done this many times before; it was all so amazingly fast.

Next came Mrs. Cook's clothes. Ball and evening gowns, furs, coats, dresses, riding habits, and hats of all description were swept from the closets and stuffed into more canvas sacks. Scores of shoes, scarves, gloves, silk petticoats, chemises, even whalebone corsets were taken. Then Cross escorted them to Mr. Cook's bedroom. The closets of London-tailored clothes were also stripped bare. The thieves reminded Cross of a horde of locusts, devouring a crop and leaving not a speck of grain behind.

As the robbery progressed, Cross realized that, to his surprise, he wasn't scared. Out in the carriage, he had been a nervous wreck, sweating like a pig. But once inside, he'd been so swept up in the excitement of the event that he actually had a feeling of giddy elation, like he'd drunk a bottle of champagne. He was alive with energy; an electrical current seemed to flow through his body.

The men worked in total silence. The gregariousness of that night at McGlory's had vanished, and not one word was exchanged. As they continued to scoop up more articles in Cook's bedroom, a great crash was heard from an adjacent room, like something breaking on the floor. The men froze. Almost at once, each man pulled a gun out of his side jacket pocket. Cross, who also stopped dead in his tracks, was momentarily fascinated at the variety of weapons drawn—derringers, short barrel revolvers, big Colt Navy revolvers, a western six-shooter.

A few seconds of deafening silence passed until McGurk slowly walked toward the wood-paneled door and pushed it wide open. Every man held their breath until he shined his lantern in to see a calico cat on the fireplace mantel and a Chinese vase lying in pieces below on the stone hearth. The cat jumped down and rubbed and purred against McGurk's pant leg. Laughter broke out, then the gang went back to work. McGurk picked up the cat, rubbed under its chin, and set it down gently. The room was Cook's private study, his inner sanctum, where he went to escape his wife and the world. In went the gang and out came his rare sixteenth-century dueling pistols and his beloved collection of ancient and medieval swords.

With an air of great satisfaction, Kent smoked and watched. Then he strolled around, taking a slow tour of the second floor. The long hallway was lined with green onyx stone and lit by five bronze chandeliers. At one end, it connected with a monumental staircase of gray marble. Eyes sweeping the space critically, Kent ordered that a Flemish tapestry depicting a battle from ancient Rome be carted away, along with two suits of armor that had been brought over from a Scottish castle. A man was even sent back to Mrs. Cook's bedroom to roll up her rug.

Finally, Kent came over to Cross and placed his hand on his shoulder. “Does Cook collect manuscripts?”

When Cross shook his head, a look of disappointment came over Kent's face. Sighing, he looked up at the coffered wood ceiling of the study. Even this was decorated in gold leaf.

“A private palace, this. The workmanship is amazing. One day, Mr. Cross, I'll have a place like this too. And you're going to design it. Millicent will love it.”

Cross, whose heart normally leaped at the thought of a new commission, grimaced.

“These paintings,” Kent said abruptly. “Any true masterpieces—Titians, Rembrandts?”

“No, they're all by popular French salon painters. Like that military scene over there—it's by Meissonier,” Cross said, gesturing to a huge painting of Napoleon on horseback, directing his troops from a hilltop.

“Too bad they're so damn big. There's no room for them in the wagons.”

Cross laughed. “To a society man, the bigger a painting, the more valuable it must be.”

Culver signaled to Kent: they were finished. He and Cross walked toward the monumental staircase but paused when Brady called out to them.

“Kent!”

“Go on. I'll meet you in the back,” Kent said to Cross, who started down the stair.

Brady was standing by a door at the end of the second-floor hall. “Look what I found,” he said, yanking a skinny teenage girl out of the doorway. She had bright red hair and blue eyes and was dressed in a plain cotton nightgown. She shook violently in Brady's grasp, eyes wide in fright.

“I heard crying—found her hiding on the third-floor rear stair.”

“Come here, young lady,” Kent said in a kind, paternal voice. “Tell me, are you and the fellow downstairs the only ones in the house?”