House of Thieves (18 page)

“This is a very special transaction I'm offering, Mr. Springer. To buy gold bullion at this price is most unusual. But you're an astute businessman who knows a good opportunity.”

George Cross watched as Herbert Springer, a prosperous grain merchant from Toledo, Ohio, ran his hand over the gold bar on the sitting room table. The initials
U. S.
were stamped on the top and bottom. As Springer picked it up to look more closely, it gleamed in the sunlight streaming through the window of his room at the Grand Hotel.

Springer had come to the city for a week to attend the National Grain Dealers Association convention, held at Chickering Hall on Fifth Avenue. The night before, George, posing as a Mr. George Candler, had shown him the pleasures and sights of the Tenderloin. The appreciative Springer was more than willing to listen to his investment pitch.

“Gold is a rock-solid investment in times like these, Mr. Springer. It will
always
rise in price,” George said.

“Indeed, Mr. Candler. But you understand that I need to verify the quality of the metal,” Springer said, setting the bar back down.

“Of course. That's why Mr. Bertram Johnson, chief assayer of the Manhattan Guaranty & Trust Company, has joined us today.”

Mr. Johnson, a plump gentleman with wire-rim spectacles, smiled and bowed from the waist. From a leather bag on the table, he removed a glass vial of clear solution and an empty steel cup. Impressed, Springer stepped aside and let him get to work. Johnson took the dropper out of the vial, paused, and explained in a professorial manner, “This, sir, is nitric acid, the test for true gold.” He put a drop on the gold bar. “If the solution turns green, it means this is gold plated. If there's no reaction, it's true, 100 percent gold.”

Springer's eyes were glued to the bar. When he saw no reaction, he broke into a wide grin.

“I assure you, Mr. Springer, that all the bullion is of this quality,” George said.

“Very well then. You're right, Mr. Candler, you can't go wrong with gold. Silver is for pansy-picking fops.” Springer pulled out a cigar and picked up the heavy bar. He paced the sitting room, tossing the gold into the air and catching it with one hand. A strapping man in his forties, he did it with ease. But on the third try, the bar slipped from his hand and landed on the stone hearth of the fireplace. Springer stooped to retrieve it—and froze.

He looked at George with cold eyes. Slowly, he pointed to a grayish gash on the edge of the bar. Taking his penknife, he started to scratch away at another part of the bar, scraping off a film of gold to reveal a dark gray surface. At the spot where the solution had been applied, he found a quarter-inch plug of solid gold.

“You blackguard! This a goddamn lead bar,” Springer cried, dropping the bar to the wood floor with a thump.

George stood paralyzed with fear as Springer pulled a derringer from his frock coat pocket.

“You thought I was some dumbass hick you could swindle,” he said in a hurt voice, raising his arm to aim the weapon.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I did,” George said. With the agility of the former athlete he was, he scooped up the bar in a fluid motion and smashed Springer on the head with it.

The businessman tumbled to the ground and lay still.

“Let's get the hell out of here, George,” Johnson yelled, grabbing his bag.

George took a step toward the door—then halted. He went back to Springer and took his billfold.

He and Johnson were out on the street in less than a minute. “Don't run. Walk,” George hissed. The two men paced up Broadway and turned right on Thirty-First Street. They walked eight blocks along Sixth Avenue before slipping into a saloon. George downed two mugs of beer, his throat as dry as a bale of cotton.

“Christ, that was close, George,” Johnson said. “What are you going to do now?”

George was counting the money in the billfold. “Only four hundred,” he said dejectedly.

“How much are you down?”

“Four thousand. I could've gotten that for the one bar,” George said, rubbing his hands up and down his face.

“At least we still have the bar. But we'll have to get it replated.”

“That bar's been good to us, Henry. It's paid off eight thousand by now.”

“Still. It's best to lie low for a while. You're going to have to give them something soon, Georgie, or they'll come looking for you again.”

George ignored Henry's words. Staring into space, he muttered under his breath, “With this four hundred, I can get even tonight. I know I can.”

“I believe the first dance is mine, Mrs. Cross.”

“Don't be such an ass, Wilberforce, I've called for the first dance.”

Horace Wilberforce and Clinton Collingwood stood forehead to forehead with looks of rage on their red, leathery faces.

Helen Cross inserted her long, white-gloved arm between the potbellies of her two admirers, but they paid no mind. They still glared at each other, seconds away from launching into combat like two elks locking antlers in mating season.

In a quiet, soothing voice, Helen said, “Mr. Wilberforce has the first dance, but you may have the next one, Mr. Collingwood.”

Collingwood snorted and stepped back, angry at Wilberforce's smug look. The full orchestra in the balcony of the great ballroom struck up a Strauss waltz. Helen took Wilberforce's plump, gloved hand and glided effortlessly onto the dance floor. The old man beamed with joy as though he had been transformed into the young man he had been in 1858. The couple spun gracefully across the beautiful, black marble floor of the ballroom with all eyes fastened on Helen in her white, low-cut ball gown. When Helen spotted her husband standing by himself, near one of the gilded cast-iron columns that held up the horseshoe-shaped balcony, she smiled, and he walked out of the room.

Out in the high-ceilinged foyer, Cross ran into his friend, Bruce Price.

“Not leaving so soon, old boy,” admonished Price in a pretend scolding.

“Just wanted to get a smoke and gaze at the ocean from the piazza of your magnificent building.”

Price smiled at the compliment.

“This may be your best work of all. What a palace. There's never been a hotel like this,” said Cross with genuine feeling. He always admired—and at the same time was jealous of—Price's tremendous talent. The man never failed to do something innovative in each of his buildings, and that was the true mark of artistic genius. Cross tried to do the same in his commissions but never pulled it off. His projects always turned out to be a rehash of a previous design. He needed to break through that creative wall to do something special.

Cross pulled out his gold cigarette case as Price turned and entered the wide double doors to the ballroom. “I'll be right back. Catch up with you inside.”

Though Newport was the center of the summer season, there were important events held elsewhere. All of society's elite were at the charity ball at the new Oceanside Hotel in Long Branch, New Jersey. It was an invitation no one would turn down. The hotel, through the tobacco heir Pierre Lorillard's patronage, had become fashionable very quickly. Cross wasn't lying when he said no other hotel was like it. It was massive, stretching along the beach for two hundred yards at least. But instead of housing hundreds of small rooms, the hotel offered only fifty, all huge suites. The owner's strategy was shrewd, like the Metropolitan Opera's, which kept its elite seating to a minimum to drive up demand. Along the entire rear of the building was a deep porch where one could enjoy the views and walk on a wooden bridge over the dunes to the private beach. Servants in cutaway coats would serve guests on the sand, bringing buckets of champagne and iced platters of Blue Point oysters.

The hotel was also unusual in its method of construction. Instead of being built of wood with a shingled exterior, it was made entirely of stone, giving it a strong, massive stature rising up out of the sand dunes like a fortress. No hurricane would ever budge it from its place. Its sense of majesty made it seem very elite and special to the rich—a place they
had
to visit.

Cross puffed away on his cigarette as he walked down the thickly carpeted hallway flanked by paneled walls of African mahogany with onyx wainscoting. At the end of the long hall, he turned around to see if anyway else was about. But with the ball going on, the rest of the hotel was completely deserted. He put out his cigarette in an ashtray on a side table and walked to a door located just before the window in the end wall of the hallway. Through the door was a service room where there was an open dumbwaiter. In his white tails, Cross hopped into the dumbwaiter, sat down cross-legged, and pushed the switch to send it up. It rose along iron rails in its wooden enclosed shaft, slowly passing identical service rooms on each floor. At the fourth floor, it came to a stop, but instead of getting off, Cross stood up and gave a low whistle. Above him was an opening in the ceiling, and Culver's head appeared. He reached down to Cross to help pull him up into the opening.

Aside from being a great work of design, Price's hotel had included an engineering innovation that no hotel had ever employed. All other hotels followed the same layout—a central corridor on each floor, lined on both sides with rooms about fifteen feet in depth. The Oceanside used huge, wood and iron roof trusses that spanned its stone walls for a distance of seventy feet, allowing the rooms to measure over thirty feet and giving them a palatial feel. No one had ever before used such colossal trusses, other than for the roofs of great railroad sheds.

Cross stood with eight other members of Kent's gang. In front of them were row after row of the great timber trusses, giant triangles latticed with iron and wood struts. Directly below them was the ceiling of the fourth floor, which was attached to the bottoms of the trusses. And that was where the top-floor luxury suites were located—brimming with expensive jewels, clothing, and cash. All the gang had to do was walk along and break through the ceiling into each suite. Instead of plaster ceilings, the rooms had ornate pressed metal. By just tapping on the ceiling panels from above, they could quietly remove a section and lower themselves down into the room. No messy plaster and lath to deal with, and no risk of being seen entering from the corridor.

“This will be a snap, Mr. Engineer,” said Culver, slapping Cross on the back. After each successful robbery, Cross had been more and more accepted into the gang until he was pretty much considered one of the fellows—except by Brady, who mercifully wasn't present tonight.

“I'm actually an architect, Mr. Culver. There's a big difference.”

Cross was trembling with excitement, not only because of the potential take, but also because he alone would direct this robbery. Millicent, Kent's beloved wife, was quite ill, and Kent wouldn't leave her bedside, so he'd entrusted the entire operation to Cross. Kent really had no choice. The job was planned for the night of the gala ball and couldn't be postponed. Cross had to prove he was up to the task. When Helen had smiled at him from the dance floor, that was the signal that every top-floor guest was in the ballroom. The men who were carrying canvas bags and small hammers took their positions so they were lined up over the rooms and waited for Cross's cue. From the floor plans, Cross knew how the rooms were spaced out and where each man should stand. He felt like a general about to give the command to attack. Cross took a breath, grinned, and waved his troops into battle.

“Nice and easy. You just tap and the ceiling comes loose,” reminded Cross.

Using the wooden end of the hammers, they lightly tapped and pushed down the metal ceiling panels and, like rabbits hopping into their burrows, dropped down into the rooms using narrow rope ladders tied to the trusses. Cross followed Culver down and went along with him as he scooped up every piece of clothing and grabbed objects off dressing room tables. Each room had a small safe that Cross thought would be invulnerable, but with a pry bar, Culver made easy work of it and emptied the safe out. The rooms were luxuriously decorated with beautiful rugs, chandeliers, and French period furniture. Bedrooms flanked a massive sitting room. Cross went over to one of the huge picture windows to look at the ocean and smiled.

“All done,” whispered Culver, who started climbing up the ladder. Two men were left above to pull up the bulging bags from below. Cross followed him, and they hit another room. Soon the truss space was filled with bags. Down the gang went into room after room. Cross grew tired of following Culver down and waited for him above, hoisting up the bag of loot. There were a dozen suites and, by Cross's count, four more to go. The truss space was pitch-black, so Cross was shocked when it was suddenly filled with bright light. He was confused, and his eyes opened wide in panic. The other men froze in place. They looked around, expecting to see police shining lanterns at them with guns drawn. But Cross finally discovered the source of light. It was coming from one of the ceilings they had lifted—the lights were on in a room below.

Cross crept over, knelt by the hole, and cautiously peeked into it. His head jerked back in fear as he heard voices.

“Edith, I couldn't keep my eyes off you. I want you so badly,” a man cried.

“Gerald, we can't do this—it's madness. We'll be missed,” said a woman, not very convincingly.

“The hell with them. They're too busy dancing. It'll be an hour before they notice we're gone.”

There was a brief silence and a woman's low moan.

“Take me to the bedroom,” cried the woman.

“No, here,” ordered the man.

With great care, Cross had decided where in the ceiling to enter, so rope ladders would be off to the side in the sitting rooms, away from the entries. But this ladder seemed to be not more than ten feet away from the couple. It would be seen immediately if either one of them glanced upward. Cross slowly raised the ladder and tucked it up safely in the truss space.

“I want to kiss every square inch of your body,” commanded the man.

“Do it,” pleaded the woman. “But be careful of my gown—it's a Pingat.”

“I'll buy you ten gowns. I'm going to rip this off your body. I want you naked.”

The woman gave out another low, passionate moan.

All of a sudden, Cross recognized the voices—it was Gerald Davenport and Edith Trevelyan, who were both married, but not to each other. To his knowledge, they had never even spoken. Cross was temporarily transfixed by this discovery of infidelity. He knew that many married individuals cheated on their spouses in his set but was amazed that these two were lovers. Who could have imagined it? Although Helen had probably known all along.

The other men had come up from below and were standing around him. Cross propped his arms on both sides of the opening and slowly lowered his head through. Not more than ten feet away were two completely naked people, fornicating with incredible animal energy. True to his word, Davenport couldn't wait and had taken Edith right on one of the matching sitting room sofas. Sounds of such intense passion came floating up and out of the opening that Cross was embarrassed. His gang members were mesmerized.

Cross kept watching, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw something move under the opposite sofa. He pulled himself up and started taking an inventory of the gang. “Where's Culver?” he hissed.

The other men shook their heads.

In horror, Cross looked down and saw movement again under the sofa across from the lovers. He looked back at the couple, who had increased the vigor and intensity of their lovemaking and seemed to be in no hurry to finish. Cross began to panic. He could imagine Kent berating him for fouling up the job. It might be an hour before the two of them called it quits, and that would be an unbearable wait for Cross. He just couldn't chance it; he had to stick to the timetable he'd set. The longer they were up there, the greater the possibility of being detected. In a low voice, he ordered the men to begin to bring down the bags on the dumbwaiter. Cross lowered his head again and saw Culver peeking out from under the sofa and up at the ceiling. Cross looked over at the couple to make sure they were still preoccupied, then waved at Culver to get his attention. A decision had to be made quickly. Should they wait it out until they finished and returned to the ball? But that could take some time, and when they were putting their clothes back on, would they spot Culver?

Cross gestured to Culver to come up. Culver's eyes were full of fear at this command, and he glanced over at the man and woman. He suddenly slithered out and crawled on his hands and knees across the Oriental rug, holding the bag of loot on his back like Santa Claus. Cross lowered the rope ladder through the hole, and Culver scampered up like hounds were on his tail. Up in the truss space, he was breathing heavily and calmed himself by taking a long swig from a small, amber-colored bottle.

Cross and Culver went down the dumbwaiter to the basement where two bound and chloroformed hotel servants lay motionless on the stone floor. After helping Culver out the basement door with the bag, Cross returned to the ballroom and asked Sybil Davenport, Gerald's wife, to dance.