The School for Thieves, page 7
The Corsair pushed open the door to the building, its green paint flaking, and walked swiftly down a bare corridor. It was eerily quiet, and Tom was suddenly acutely aware of their footfalls on the creaking floorboards.
They made their way along a twisting passageway, moving into increasing darkness until they came to a service elevator—a feature Tom had not expected to find in a two-story building. It looked to be out of order, the doors rusted and the space beyond the small, square windows dark.
The Corsair moved to a metal box mounted on the wall and pulled it open. Despite the gloom, Tom could see some kind of compact electrical device with a lever attached to it inside. The Corsair began to tap the lever in a series of sharp rhythmic beats. After twenty or so of these, he stopped and then stood back in silence.
Tom was about to ask what was supposed to happen next when a tiny red light flicked on above the doors to the elevator. Then, somewhere beneath their feet, there was a distant grating noise, which grew louder and louder until, with a screech, an elevator carriage rose up behind the doors and bright light spilled through the windows. The red bulb flicked off, and the Corsair pulled open the doors with an enormous creak.
In stark contrast to the building in general, the elevator was richly decorated. There was a deep red and gold carpet, and the walls were lined with mahogany and polished brass fittings. The Corsair held the internal grille open until Tom followed him inside; then he turned a brass handle, the outside doors banged shut, and they began to go down.
The Corsair hummed a tune. It sounded a little like a sea shanty that Tom would sometimes hear the sailors down at the East India Docks singing, but there were unfamiliar descants and trills to it. Tom still had no idea where the Corsair was from, what his accent was, or why he liked to be called the Corsair. A feeling of disquiet swept over him again. What was he doing here? And where were they going?
The elevator’s gears emitted a shrill howl as they ground to a halt. The Corsair set the handle back to neutral and the doors slid open.
Bright chandeliers hung from a vaulted ceiling, illuminating a wide room carpeted in the same red and gold as the elevator. Tom had once spent an afternoon with Morris at the antiques warehouse on Drury Lane—Morris had been trying to shift some stolen candlesticks, and Tom’s head had spun at the size of the place. But it paled in significance to where he now stood. This was a warren on a mind-bogglingly different scale.
The Corsair set off down one of the corridors of dust-laden furniture, apparently confident of where he was going. Tom scurried after him, staring in wonder at the towers of dining tables and chairs and dressers and wardrobes and drinks cabinets and occasional tables and side tables and folding tables and dressing tables and breakfast tables and games tables and serving tables and card tables and coffee tables and snooker tables and billiards tables and writing tables and sewing tables and work tables and nests of tables. There were gongs and barometers and barographs and sofas and armchairs, presses and mirrors and mantelpieces and globes and tea caddies and gramophones and radios. The air smelled of dust and wood, and the light from the chandeliers cast long shadows as they hit the contents of the room.
They turned a corner and walked past a hundred grandfather clocks. Maybe two hundred. Or three. Then there were cabinets of clocks—bronze, brass, marble, and gold mantel clocks, carriage clocks, and pocket watches—and tables of clocks—circular wall clocks, grandmother clocks, and skeletal clocks—and then clocks just sitting forlornly on the floor. And sundials. Dozens of sundials.
There were elephant-foot umbrella stands, lion heads, deer antlers, rhino horns, chess sets made of ivory—scores of these—coats of armor, swords and rifles, daggers and pistols, sets of boule and buckets of billiards balls, brass coal buckets and pans and lamps—again, hundreds of these—Tom’s mind was reeling—writing boxes and pith helmets, maps and paintings and tapestries and photographs, picture frames and bookshelves, typewriters, fishing rods, golf clubs, and musical instruments. And into every spare nook and cranny there were stuffed ornaments and books and cutlery and inkwells and candlesticks and so, so much more. It was as if all the items that had ever been made in the history of mankind had been brought here to be itemized and stored, as if the world were moving house.
Tom was so overwhelmed that he didn’t notice the Corsair had stopped walking, and he thumped into his back. A petite woman was standing in front of them, old and wrinkly with a large, hairy mole on her chin. She stooped a little and looked even thinner and lighter than Tom. But there was a sharpness to her eyes, and she grinned at them both like a cat. A hungry cat.
“Hezekiah!” she purred, completing the image. “You have one of your little pupils with you, I see. An exciting field trip, eh?” She shouted this last sentence as if Tom were twenty yards away. “Good to get out of that school now and then, eh? See the big city!”
“Um,” began Tom, unsure of what to say.
“Tom Morgan, this is Jessica Chaffinch. He’s a new recruit, Jessica,” explained the Corsair loudly. “He’s not even seen the school yet. Which is why we’re here. He needs to be equipped. Fully equipped.”
Jessica’s eyes bulged, and she rubbed the tips of her fingers lightly together. “Oh good!”
The Corsair inclined his head. “I have a proposition for you. Understand, of course, that we are happy to simply pay for his equipment and be on our way. However, I thought it might benefit the boy to carry out a practical exercise before he gets to the school. To get him into the swing of things, as it were. So… if there was something that you would like us to procure for you—within his capabilities, of course—perhaps that would serve in exchange?”
Jessica cackled. “What a splendid idea. Well, you know me, Hezekiah. I always have a little wish list….”
The Corsair looked across at Tom. “Jessica is a fence,” he explained. “Items are stolen, buyers are found—Jessica is… an intermediary.”
“So, all this stuff… is stolen?” asked Tom incredulously, looking around.
“Oh no, no, not all of it,” said Jessica with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Some of it, yes. Most of it, maybe. All of it, actually… yes, probably.”
“We use Jessica’s services all the time,” continued the Corsair. “You want to pull off a con, you need props. This is the best place to come. You need something, Jessica is bound to have it. And if she doesn’t, she knows where to get it.”
“Indeed,” said Jessica, hobbling down a corridor of North American totem poles and Egyptian statuettes. “And there are one or two items I have on a waiting list that you may be able to help me with.”
She led them to a circular space in what Tom guessed was near the middle of the basement. Several leather sofas and armchairs had been arranged in a haphazard crescent around a huge desk. Like everything else in the warehouse, the table was piled high—but with documents rather than objects. Jessica rummaged through a mountain of paper and eventually emerged with a leather-bound journal.
“Now let me see,” she said, perching a pair of gold pince-nez on the end of her crooked nose. She ran a finger down one of the pages in the journal. “Here we go.” She tilted the page so the Corsair could see what she was pointing to. “How about that?”
The Corsair shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. Not for his first time.”
She peered over her glasses at Tom, looking a little disappointed, before going back to turning the pages. Tom felt himself shrink under the weight of her gaze. “This one?”
The Corsair roared with laughter. “Nice try! We’d need at least six Initiates or Apprentices for that one—possibly fully fledged Shadow Thieves. And probably a qualified assassin as well.”
Jessica harrumphed. “Well, if you’re going to be so picky…”
“How about that one?” asked the Corsair, stabbing his finger across to the other page.
“Mmm,” mused Jessica. “No, I don’t think so. It’s not worth as much as the equipment. I am running a business here, Hezekiah.” She kept flicking through the book. Eventually she stopped. “I suppose this one might work. Any interest? I’ve had the order for the piece for some time, but the window for obtaining it only opens very occasionally—and, as it happens, one of those occasions is tonight.” She held up the page, and the Corsair scanned it quickly.
“It should be a pretty straightforward job, not one I’d usually pay a huge amount for,” she continued. “But I’d be willing to cut a deal for an old friend like you.”
“Very gracious of you,” scoffed the Corsair. He studied the page for a few moments longer. “There’s not much information here. I can’t be sure how dangerous it might be for the boy.”
Tom shuffled nervously from foot to foot. Dangerous? What was Chaffinch wanting them to do?
“Oh, pishposh,” Jessica said dismissively. “There’s not a job that’s too dangerous for you, Corsair. What’s the worst that you’ll face? A bit of security. This should be easy. It’s a job that’s just perfect for that charm of yours.”
After a brief search of her desk, she pulled out a couple of sheets from a manila folder and put them back on the desk before handing the folder over to the Corsair. “Everything you need is in there. I’ll look out for all the boy’s things while you’re gone. You bring back the bracelet and they’re yours.”
Tom tried to scrutinize the pages as the Corsair flicked through the folder, but the writing was too small for him to make anything out. “Doesn’t look too difficult, I suppose,” mused the Corsair. “You have a replica for the switch, I presume?”
She looked as if he had just spat on her shoe. “Of course I do.”
“Mmm,” said the Corsair. “Could be just right….” He snapped the folder closed and looked up at Jessica with a broad smile. “You have yourself a deal.”
Chapter Eight BLACK TIES AND A SILVERMAN
What was all that about?” asked Tom as they walked back toward the car. While they had been in the elevator, the Corsair had been intently studying the contents of the manila folder, a small black box given to him by Jessica jammed under one arm, and Tom hadn’t had the courage to interrupt him.
“Which part didn’t you understand?”
“Most of it. Her book and that folder and the box she gave you.”
“Don’t be lazy. One of the most vital skills for any thief is the ability to observe and analyze. You tell me what it was all about.”
Tom frowned. “Well, the book seemed like a list of jobs,” he said, breaking down everything that had happened into a methodical order. “It detailed… I dunno, things she wanted? And who has them or where they’re kept. Probably both.”
“Good. More.”
“The first couple she showed you were too difficult or dangerous for us to attempt on our own—or for me to attempt because I’m not trained yet.”
“Correct. More.”
“But you eventually chose one. If we steal the item—a bracelet—then she’ll give me all my school stuff.”
“And this is?” asked the Corsair, holding up the folder.
“Information about the mark. And you’ve been reading it, trying to think about how we go about stealing it.”
“And what’s in the box?”
“You said something about a replica. For a switch. So it’s a fake of the bracelet.”
“Very good!”
“So what do we do now?”
“The key to any job like this is preparation—if you are well prepared, then you’ll find it easier to think on your feet when you encounter something unexpected. But we don’t have much time. So we’re going to study the contents of this folder very carefully to see what we’re getting into.” The Corsair passed the folder to Tom. “We’ll need to go back to Eaton Square and make a plan and get you some clothes for this evening. You can read this on the way.”
* * *
Upon arrival at the house in Eaton Square, the Corsair gave Mildew instructions to send for a tailor. Tom, it seemed, needed to be measured for an outfit.
“What have I got to be measured for new clothes for?”
The Corsair had chuckled. “It’s a disguise. But forget that just now—focus on the folder.”
They had moved to the drawing room to sit by the fire, and Mildew brought them tea. Tom sat with his head bent low over the folder, absorbed in its contents, the box Jessica had given the Corsair open on a table beside him, a replica of a stunning diamond and emerald bracelet sitting snugly inside.
As Tom read through the file, he began to understand why he needed a new outfit.
There was to be a reception at the French ambassador’s manor that evening. Hosting the party of several hundred guests would be Émile de Beauvoir, the French minister of war, with his wife, Marianne. Madame de Beauvoir was famed for wearing a priceless bracelet—that had once belonged to Empress Eugénie—to official events, and a client of Jessica’s had placed an order for the bracelet some time ago. The plan was for a light-fingered thief to remove the bracelet and substitute it with the replica without Marianne de Beauvoir knowing.
“How are we going to get in?” Tom asked, looking up. “And how will we explain why I’m there? Do kids normally go to these types of things?”
“No, not as guests. But that is what your disguise will solve.”
“Really? How?”
“You’ll see.”
“And how will we do the swap?”
“There will be an opportunity. You will know it when it comes.”
* * *
The car picked them up from Eaton Square at seven and headed southwest, passing through Richmond and beyond until they arrived at a magnificent three-story mansion near the banks of the river. They swept through tall iron gates into a courtyard, which was lit by storm lanterns and a golden light that poured from the open front doors to the house and from dozens of wide windows that lined every floor. They drew to a halt behind a procession of cars waiting to drop off party guests.
Up ahead, Tom could see some of the richest and most powerful people in the country spilling from vehicles by the front doors to the mansion, the women shaking out and smoothing their long dresses, the men adjusting hats and capes, their canes ringing out on the cobblestones as they approached the stairs that led to the doors of the house. These were attended by several large footmen who checked their invitations and then bowed to each guest as they passed into the brightly lit entrance hall, where the music of a jazz band filled the still evening air.
The car eventually moved forward a few feet and fell below the shadow of an overhanging willow tree.
“This will do,” said the Corsair. He slipped on his own shiny top hat and adjusted the cuffs of his sleek dark jacket and Arctic-white shirt. Beside him, Tom had on a light blazer over a white shirt with a black bow tie, black trousers and shoes, and a scarlet cummerbund that circled his waist like a wide red ribbon. The Corsair was passed a small black bag by the driver, and then he climbed out of the car and prowled behind the willow tree. Trying to look as casual as possible, Tom followed suit.
“Do everything with confidence and purpose,” the Corsair murmured, “and no one will look at you twice.”
He led Tom toward the side of the mansion, unzipping the bag as he walked and foraging for a moment before passing Tom various pieces of equipment. The first item was a belt; it looked perfectly ordinary from the front but had numerous items hanging from the back, which the Corsair talked Tom through one by one. There was a small black cylinder (“A flashlight”), a leather pouch (“This has climbing wire with a grappling hook; it can take the weight of two men, so you’ll hang from it no problem”), a knife in a silk sheath (“Always handy to have a blade or two about you”), and a lock-picking set (“A basic requirement for any thief”). When the Corsair strapped on the belt, all the items were hidden beneath his tailcoat.
He helped Tom into a second belt, which they covered with the cummerbund before the Corsair handed him a pair of gloves made from a strange, stretchy material that had rubbery grips on the finger and thumb pads and across the palms. He pulled on a similar pair.
“Excellent,” he said, appraising Tom. “Ready to go.” He nodded toward one of the windows up above them. “We go in through there. Want to take the lead?”
Tom sucked his teeth, wondering how on earth they were going to climb the twenty or so feet to the window the Corsair had indicated. “Do we use the climbing wire?”
“A good idea, but it takes some time to master. In the meantime, I’ll help you with a trick you’ll learn when you get to school.”
The Corsair slipped the knife from the sheath on his belt and slid his thumb and forefinger across either side of the blade. The darkened metal divided and fanned out to reveal that he was, in fact, holding a dozen individual, very thin blades. It was like a card trick, Tom thought, impressed.
With a whip of his arm, the Corsair began to throw the knives at the wall.
It was almost impossible to see the blades spinning through the air, but Tom was just able to make them out as they whisked toward the wall and embedded themselves in the mortar between the stone, each blade two or three feet higher than the one before.
The Corsair tilted his head in a miniature bow. “A ladder for you, monsieur.”
“I’ll learn to do that?” whispered Tom in astonishment.
“Well, maybe not quite as beautifully as that. But using knives for climbing? Oui. It’s basic training. After you…”
It took Tom a few moments to find the first of the blades in the dark, but then he spotted it, buried deep in the mortar, only the thin handle protruding, giving him a three-inch surface to stand on. He tested his weight on it, then searched for another blade, gripped it in his gloved hand, and began to climb. When he was fifteen feet above the ground, he looked down and could see the Corsair following him up the wall, an incongruous sight in his fine clothing.
