House of Thieves (25 page)

“Gentlemen, why don't we take our cigars and brandy to the main hall?”

Pierre Lorillard V led the way out of the dining room. He was proud of the new house Bruce Price had designed for him in Tuxedo Park, New York, an up-and-coming luxury retreat in the Ramapo Mountains that his father, Lorillard IV, had just created. Cross, a weekend guest, told Lorillard how much he liked the house, but in honesty, he didn't like it at all. A hipped-roof house with an awkwardly placed conical tower, it was nowhere near as good as other cottages Price had designed. Those previous designs had simple, powerful geometries. This one was fussy and conventional, with unnecessary Adamesque decoration on the exterior. It was almost as if the young Lorillard and his wife had strong-armed Price into doing a particular type of design. In cases of a flop, Cross
never
blamed the architect.

Still, Tuxedo Park was a special place, thirteen thousand acres full of winding roads and picturesque landscaping. To great acclaim, Price, Lorillard's favorite architect, had also designed the clubhouse, stables, and many of the first cottages. A fence topped with barbed wire surrounded the development, ensuring that New York society had another exclusive summer watering hole at which they might escape the heat.

Price and Cross were good friends, and Lorillard had already thrown work Cross's way in the city. Moreover, Helen wanted to see Tuxedo Park, which had only opened in May. With all these factors weighing on him, Cross had accepted an invitation to visit. He knew or recognized a few other weekend guests, including the handsome Russian count he and Helen had seen in Newport a few weeks before.

And Cross liked Lorillard, whom he didn't find pompous or overbearing in the way of so many scions to great fortunes. Lorillard had an endearing passion for horses, which he could discuss for hours. His family, which ran an immensely successful tobacco company, had perhaps the greatest racing stable in America. Their horses had even won the Belmont Stakes and the Epsom Derby in England.

“So where do you keep your fabulous horses, Pierre?” Cross asked.

“In New Jersey, in Rancocas,” he said. “Not enough room here. But I may bring a few up.”

The main hall connected directly to a veranda that stretched the width of the house's rear. The men drifted out onto it and gazed out at the setting sun.

“I think my father is prouder of Tuxedo than anything else,” Lorillard said. “He carved this land out of virgin forest. It's a great feeling to create something that will live on after you. Architecture must be the same, eh?”

“That's true,” Cross said thoughtfully. “You leave something behind for people to use.”

Helen and the other wives came out onto the veranda. Although the French thought it a barbaric habit, the English and Americans split off male and female guests after dinner. The women had been chattering away in the reception room. Emily, Pierre's wife, approached Cross.

“I'm so glad you were able to bring your wife along this weekend, John. She's enchanting,” Emily said. She wore a magnificent choker of diamonds and an emerald-green gown. “I think Helen is more beautiful than Jennie Jerome, Lord Randolph Churchill's wife.”

“That's quite a compliment,” Cross said, smiling at Helen.

The guests returned to the hall, where chairs had been set up for an informal piano recital. Cross found the performance quite enjoyable. The program consisted of popular music instead of the usual classical tripe. Refreshments and light food were served afterward, and the evening continued on until about 1:00 a.m., when Lorillard and his wife bade their company good night, signaling the evening was over.

The guest rooms weren't luxurious, but they were comfortable and each boasted the latest amenity in country houses: a private bathroom. The October nights were cooler, especially in the mountains, and the fireplaces were lit. In silence, Cross and Helen undressed and prepared for bed. But at about three in the morning, Cross lifted his head from his pillow to look over at Helen. She was wide-awake, staring at the pressed metal ceiling.

He touched her shoulder. She turned on her side to face him, smiled, and stroked his cheek. “Good luck, my dear,” she whispered.

Cross grasped her hand and then slowly rose from the bed. He put on his robe and slippers, checked the time on his pocket watch, and made his way down the curving stair tower to the main hall. He unlocked the glass door to the veranda and waited.

About five minutes later, two figures appeared in the shadows. Cross opened the door to let them in. In walked Brady with a much shorter man.

“You know Chops Connolly, don't you, Cross?”

He nodded hello, and Chops grunted back.

“So, where is it?”

“In the main parlor,” Cross whispered.

“Lead the way, Mr. Engineer,” said Brady.

Last week, Bruce Price had shown Cross his drawings of all the Tuxedo houses, including Lorillard's. He'd told Price that the Kent and Van Buren designs were particular masterpieces, and in any profession, one needed to learn from a master, which delighted Price.

As he'd examined the drawings, Cross's eye had caught on the ingenious way Price had hidden Lorillard's safe in the wainscoting of the parlor rather than the usual place in the master bedroom. He quietly opened the door—and froze.

At the far end of the room, Count Aleksandrov was looking behind the paintings on the plaster walls. The men watched in silence as the Russian moved from one painting to another.

“Who the fuck are you?” Brady hissed.

The count whirled, eyes widening in shock. Then he recovered his nerve and stood erect. “I am Count Aleksandrov. I was looking for something to read,” he said indignantly.

Brady smiled at Chops. “I didn't know they put books behind paintings, did you, Chops?”

“No. Far's I know, they used to put them on bookshelves.”

“Mr. Cross,” the count said in disbelief. “What are you doing here?”

“You two know each other, eh?” Brady said, amused. With unhurried strides, he walked up to the count and took the small leather satchel from his hand. Opening it, he found small tools and lengths of wire. “A very professional burglar's kit.”

Clinging to his aristocratic bearing, the count looked straight ahead and said nothing. Cross felt almost embarrassed for him.

“I'm sorry to say that you've interfered with our plans tonight,
Count
,” Brady said.

“Ah. If you gentlemen will excuse me, I'll be getting back to my room.” He began to walk away, but Brady grabbed his arm. Cross was afraid the count would start yelling and wake the house; after all, Aleksandrov could easily say he'd come downstairs and found them robbing the place. He was an aristocrat—those in New York society would believe anything he said. And how would Cross explain his presence? It would be awkward at best.

“If we could have
one
more moment of your time, Count,” Brady said in a solicitous tone. In a lightning-quick movement that stunned Cross, the man looped a length of piano wire around the count's neck. He pulled the ends tight. The count's eyes bulged, his face turned blue, and a low gurgling sound came from his lips, then he slumped to the Persian carpet, his eyes staring emptily up at the wood-beamed ceiling.

“So where's the safe?” Brady asked nonchalantly, putting the piano wire back in his side pocket.

In a state of shock, Cross didn't immediately answer.

Angrily, Brady asked a second time. Without taking his eyes off the dead body, Cross pointed to the wainscoting on the right of the fireplace. “Push down on the top molding and slide the middle panel to the right,” he said.

Was he going to faint? Cross felt his head spinning. This was the third man he'd seen murdered before his eyes, but that didn't make it any easier to stomach. He stumbled to the wall, putting out a hand to brace himself. Brady smirked, delighting at Cross's squeamishness.

Chops had his own bag of tools, including a doctor's stethoscope to listen to the movement of the lock's tumblers. He went to work on the safe and had it open in twenty minutes. They removed Emily Lorillard's extensive jewelry collection, which included her wedding gift, an antique gold necklace from the Spanish court of Philip II, and a large amount of cash.

Sniffing, Brady prodded the dead count with his boot.

“A great turn, the count here showing up. They'll think he stole the goods and lit out. All we have to do is make him disappear. To make sure, though, let's leave a little evidence behind.”

He took the count's monogrammed cigarette case and dropped it on the rug.

“We'll need your help to get him to the fence, Mr. Engineer. He's too fuckin' big for me and Chops to carry.”

“Damn, Julia, you don't bet on a bird in a cockfight because you like the color of its feathers,” moaned Charlie as they exited the Red Rat, a gaming establishment on Ludlow Street.

Julia frowned at her brother. “It's not like it was your money lost, little boy.”

“I know,” Charlie said proudly, looking over at Eddie. “My bird won.”

“Stop wasting your time teachin' her strategy, Charlie. A woman thinks how she thinks, and ya can't do nothin' about it,” Eddie said.

“Thank you, Mr. Expert on Women,” Julia said, smirking.

Eddie rolled his eyes at Charlie and John Nolan, who laughed.

“And don't lecture me on betting, you little beast,” Julia continued, growing more incensed. “I'm far, far ahead of you in the ratting ring. I've had six straight winners!”

Charlie bent his head in shame and said nothing. She was right: he'd been on an unlucky streak. It could happen to the best of them. That's what George had said. He'd gone with him and Eddie to the cockfights and had also lost a lot, but it didn't stop him from gambling. In fact, it seemed to make his brother gamble even more.

The group strolled leisurely along Ludlow, taking in the cacophony and bustle of the streets. It was a hot, humid day for October, and the air stank with the smell of rotted food.

Just ahead of them, a bouncer heaved a drunk into the gutter, cursing violently. They walked by as though nothing had happened.

“Where are you supposed to be this afternoon?” Julia asked.

“Science class at the Museum of Natural History. What about you?”

“The library with Jocelyn Van der Meer. Remember that, mind? Last time you got the story mixed up, and Mother was suspicious.”

Charlie scowled at his sister and muttered something under his breath to Eddie.

“We have time before the dogfight. Why not pop into Hannigan's here for a sandwich?” suggested Nolan, gesturing to a small nearby restaurant. His hope of avoiding a sibling free-for-all was realized. Everyone agreed to his plan, filed into Hannigan's, and found a table.

While they waited for their food, Nolan looked surreptitiously at Julia. She was engaged in animated conversation with Charlie and Eddie about the upcoming fight and whether Mustard should be their bet. He smiled at her, and she returned the smile. Her happiness made him happy. So did her presence. Since running into Charlie at the ratting match, she'd wanted to do things with her brother—albeit occasionally. They did love to argue. But Nolan knew Julia loved the fact that Charlie had a secret life like hers.

What they were doing was forbidden, which made it fun and exciting. Julia and Charlie had been raised in a world of suffocating social rules, in which being different was the worst conceivable crime. She had explained all of this repeatedly to Nolan. All their lives, they'd been told what to do to conform: what to wear, what to eat, how to dance, and above all, with whom to associate. Now, the Cross siblings had dared to travel into a taboo world. If anyone found out about their journey, the consequences would be dire.

Is
it
a
fair
price
to
pay
for
the
excitement
and
feeling
of
freedom?
Nolan wondered.

Looking at Julia, he knew the answer. Every second was worth it.

Cross did his best thinking when he was walking. Earlier that afternoon, he'd looked at an empty lot on East Sixty-Fourth Street between Fifth and Madison Avenues. A new client had purchased it to build a house. Instead of being narrow and deep, it had a fifty-foot frontage, allowing a nice wide facade. Cross was pleased. It was a beautiful October day, and he'd decided to forgo a carriage and take the long walk back to the office.

But as he walked down Fifth Avenue past Central Park, Cross's mind shifted to the next robbery. This happened frequently, he'd found, when he was enjoying a musical at the theater or eating his breakfast. Suddenly, he'd start pondering what to rob next.

It never mattered how successful the last robbery had been; Kent wanted a new job lined up within a week so that he might begin the planning.
Preparation. Preparation. Preparation.
The words echoed ceaselessly in Cross's head.

The target still couldn't be in the city. Last week, he'd accompanied Robert on a late-night stroll, and his brother had shown him firsthand the operatives lurking off Fifth Avenue. Between the pressure of Pinkerton surveillance and the stress of dealing with the murders he'd witnessed, Cross felt worn down. Images of each man being killed flashed in his mind—Gordon being drowned, Dilts being bludgeoned to death, the count's eyes bulging out as he was strangled. Sometimes Cross felt like beating his head with his fists, so desperate was he to drive the images out.

With brute effort, Cross forced himself to consider the house design. A stylistic change was taking place in the city. The Queen Anne, once so popular, was on the way out. In its place came the understated classicism introduced by McKim, Mead & White's house on East Thirty-Third Street, which housed two bachelor brothers named Phoenix. Built of yellow brick with terra-cotta, what it omitted from its facade made it original. Instead of picturesque ornament, it was completely flat, the detailing limited to the terra-cotta panels. Such minimalism was the direction Cross was interested in going with his houses too, he decided.

“Well, Mr. Engineer, have you decided to join us? I promise you won't be sorry,” said a jolly voice. The speaker stood directly next to him. Cross whirled, startled to see the man in the derby again. Amid the pressure from Kent to plan more jobs and the flurry of preparation for Julia's coming-out ball, he'd forgotten about him.

The man stood, smiling, hands on his hips. He wore the same ill-fitting, forest-green suit. Cross noticed his unusually thick eyebrows.

“So? What do ya say?”

Though he was annoyed that the man had crept up on him, Cross held his temper in check. He'd treat the man as he would an obstreperous ten-year-old, he decided, with patience and a patronizing tone.

“It's kind of you to offer me this opportunity, but I have to refuse. I trust you'll understand?”

“Come on. Reconsider. You'll make a helluva lot more money working for us. Look what I brought you.”

This time his gloved hand held what looked like a gold Tiffany cigarette case.

“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.