The School for Thieves, page 8
Tom peeked up cautiously over the windowsill at the deserted library just beyond the pane. He dug his fingers under the base of the window, wiggled them around a little to get some purchase, and then heaved it up. Within seconds he was inside. A few moments later, the Corsair was beside him, easing the window shut and then straightening his jacket and adjusting the angle of his hat before appraising Tom and brushing him down.
They took off their gloves and then, with a grin, the Corsair strode across the library and out into the hallway, making for the wide stairs that led down to the entrance hall.
Tom had to fight the urge to run out of the main doors and back into the night. He felt suddenly exposed and out of place among so much grand splendor, such overt wealth, such extravagance.
It was then that he spotted various people dressed exactly as he was slinking in and out of groups around the room—the waiting staff.
“Remember what we discussed,” murmured the Corsair as they moved among the milling crowds in the hall, avoiding eye contact with anyone as they headed into the ballroom. Tom felt the Corsair’s fingers tapping him lightly under the chin. “Confidence is the only weapon you need.”
Tom took a deep breath. He was a blank piece of paper. Fold. Fold. Fold. He looked up as a servant passed with a tray of drinks and smoothly reached out to take it.
“You’re wanted down in the kitchen,” he said, and moved off before the man could reply. The servant seemed about to call out to him—but then he saw the Corsair.
“Get on with you,” said the Corsair with bored superiority. The servant hastily backed away through the crowd.
“Bravo,” said the Corsair, patting Tom’s shoulder.
They moved through the ballroom and into a series of reception rooms beyond, walking slowly yet purposefully, keeping their eyes peeled for Madame de Beauvoir. She would be at the center of the largest group, the Corsair said, “telling a story that will have everyone entranced, whether it’s any good or not. Madame de Beauvoir is glamorous, beautiful, and charismatic. She will be at the heart of the soiree.”
“So how are we going to steal her bracelet if she’s always surrounded?” hissed Tom, before smiling tightly at a large man in military uniform who swiped a glass from the tray as they passed.
“This is a challenge, Tom. It’s supposed to be challenging.”
Tom bit his tongue. This was so dangerous. So stupid. He felt like he had a huge sign hanging over his head that read: IMPOSTOR! How was he going to manage this without getting caught? This was all just a game to the Corsair. One slip from Tom and he’d end up in a workhouse or in prison, and the Corsair would escape back to his comfortable life without a second thought.
They were in a long gallery now, the walls lined with enormous oil paintings that depicted a variety of great French military triumphs—the defeat of the Prussians at the Battle of Sedan, the humiliating surrender of Wilhelm I after the siege of Berlin, the march of Napoleon III into London after his victory at Dover—and a portrait of Napoleon IV and Queen Beatriz of Spain on their wedding day, a marriage that united the French and Spanish Empires to create a power unrivaled in history.
Double doors at the end of the gallery led into another, even larger, ballroom. A jazz band was playing in one corner, and footmen bearing trays of champagne and cocktails navigated tight groups of guests that spread out like orbiting satellites around a bright star at the center of the room: Madame de Beauvoir.
She was dressed in a long green silk gown. Her deep brown skin was radiant, and a cascade of diamonds glinted brightly around her throat. She looked, to Tom, like an angel.
“Well, well, fancy seeing you here, you old sea dog.”
The voice that had come from over Tom’s right shoulder—rich and smooth like melted chocolate—startled him, even though the words had been delivered in little more than a whisper.
“Marcus, well, I’ll be…,” exclaimed the Corsair, grinning broadly.
Tom looked around to see a tall, lean man dressed in immaculately fitting evening wear. He had long white hair, a thick white moustache, and was sporting a monocle.
“Tom, this is Marcus Silverman,” said the Corsair, his voice now a few octaves lower so that their conversation couldn’t be overheard among the hubbub of the party. “Marcus, this is Tom Morgan, a new recruit to the school.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Tom,” said Silverman. “But, ah, I’m Lord Herbert de Montfils this evening, actually, old boy.” He gave Tom a wink. “And I must say, Lord Herbert is making quite the stir. He’s usually something of a recluse.”
“You’ve stolen someone’s identity?” whispered Tom in understanding.
Silverman nodded. “And I’m enjoying the attention a great deal. I’ve been waited on hand and foot since arriving.”
“But isn’t that… well… not a bit dangerous?” asked Tom.
“Marcus—I’m sorry, Lord Herbert—is adopting the tactic of hiding in plain sight,” explained the Corsair.
“Exactly,” agreed Silverman with a rakish smile. “No one has seen Lord Herbert in years, so it wasn’t really much of a risk. I like to find funny little lords and dukes and marquises and princes who usually hide away on their estates. I simply borrow their identities for events such as these. The staff and security never cotton on.”
“He’s a show-off,” said the Corsair.
“I’m a showman,” replied Silverman smoothly. “So, tell me, Hezekiah, what brings you here tonight? I hope we’re not after the same booty.”
The Corsair leaned in close to Silverman. “Jessica Chaffinch has sent us for Madame de Beauvoir’s delightful bracelet. And you?”
“Oh, something quite different,” said Silverman with a relieved flutter of his hand. “I’m on a job for Lysander Hoffmann. The French ambassador has some documents from one of the military’s scientific research sections. He’s handing them over to the minister of war this evening—but I’m to intercept them first and photograph them.”
“Why on earth is Lysander Hoffmann interested in something like that?” asked the Corsair incredulously. “He’s not a Politico or a Spy. He works for the Department of Criminal Education.”
“It is a little strange,” agreed Silverman. “But who am I to question such things? The money is very good, and there are so few jobs for a thief my age these days.”
“You know, I’ve often wondered why you don’t come back to the school and enjoy a quiet life there. You’ve more than earned it.”
“Not on your nelly. Dealing with stuck-up schoolkids all day? No thanks. Anyway, I’d miss the game too much. Don’t you miss it?”
“Oh, I’m still in the game.”
“Not as many opportunities when you’re teaching, though, eh? I suppose it’s just now and again.”
“Yes, just now and again—”
“Oh, would you excuse me,” interrupted Silverman, his eyes darting over the Corsair’s shoulder, “but I think that’s my cue. Changing of the guard,” he added.
Tom saw a soldier standing at the foot of the staircase to an upper floor being relieved of his post by another. As the first soldier walked away, Silverman sauntered easily over to the stairs. There was a moment’s hesitation from the new guard but then he stood aside to let Silverman past.
“Paid off in advance,” said the Corsair in Tom’s ear. “Smoothly done.”
“Preparation is the key,” said Tom, rolling his eyes to meet the Corsair’s, who suppressed a smile.
“Don’t laugh at me,” snapped Tom, struggling to keep the volume of his voice under control. “You brought me here. You’re the one who said that a thief needs to be prepared and that we’d come up with a plan. But we’ve not got one!”
Tom’s initial nerves had blossomed into an anxiety, which was shuddering through his whole body, and he suddenly wanted to claw that smile off the Corsair’s face.
He was going to end up in a cell again, he knew it….
His breathing was short in his chest. He could feel sweat trickling down his back.
He needed to think.
If he didn’t get that bracelet, he’d have failed the test, and the Corsair would surely abandon him. If he tried to steal it and got caught, he’d be arrested immediately. Think, Tom, think!
He could feel the Corsair’s eyes on him. Judging him. Probably dismissing him as a mistake or a lost cause already. And even though the Corsair had been the one to try to recruit Tom, it was clear that he was going to be no help at all.
Or was he?
Tom set off across the hall, gently weaving between the tight little circles of chatting guests and other waiters with their trays full of glasses, the Corsair following close behind. Tom slipped his hand into his jacket pocket and felt for the fake bracelet, smoothly clipping and unclipping the clasp with the tips of his forefinger and thumb. Who knew if the clasp on the real bracelet would work as easily?
He took a deep breath and let his mind drift back several years.
* * *
“In a situation like this, you need to master psychological manipulation and control,” said Morris.
A soft breeze blew off the Serpentine, bringing with it the sweet smell of grass and rushes and lush leaves from the surrounding trees. It was May, and the sun was warm on their backs as they sat in a secluded spot in Hyde Park. Tom was wearing a wristwatch that Morris had stolen that morning.
“You need the mark’s attention to be anywhere but on their wrist,” continued Morris, “and in order to achieve that, you have to understand the psychology of suggestibility and distraction.”
“In what way?”
“Well, look at that heron over there,” said Morris, clapping Tom on the shoulder and pointing downriver.
Tom looked and saw the heron picking its way into the shallows on the far bank.
“What about it?” he asked, turning back to Morris—who was dangling the watch in front of him.
“How—” began Tom, clutching his wrist. He was sure he had felt the watch in place the whole time.
“Distraction—the heron and my contact with your shoulder on the opposite arm from the watch. Then it’s about dexterity and speed of movement. Put the watch back on.”
Tom did as he was instructed and then watched as Morris placed his right hand over the watch, his forefinger and thumb wrapping around Tom’s wrist. “I then give it a squeeze,” said Morris, “which will give the sensation that the watch is still there, even as I…” Tom watched as Morris’s thumb pulled back the floating end of the watch strap, his forefinger released the clasp, and Morris smoothly removed the watch from his wrist. “Distraction, dexterity, and speed. Now you try it with me.”
* * *
Madame de Beauvoir was standing at the far side of a wide circle of ladies and gentlemen. Peals of laughter rang out as she described an incident at her ski retreat in Saint Moritz.
“And you can only imagine my horror,” she trilled, “when this great brute bounded toward me. I’d never seen a Saint Bernard on the move like that before—”
Tom and the Corsair circumnavigated the group, moving around toward the hostess.
“And then, of course, one of my bodyguards started to intervene, but the hound just bowled him over like a child—”
They were closing in now, just a few feet away. Tom was glancing into the crowd as if looking for someone. He turned slightly to let the Corsair catch up and looked as if he were about to ask a question. The Corsair leaned down to listen.
“Watch your step,” whispered Tom, and shoved the Corsair’s hip violently.
The Corsair staggered sideways and collided with a waiter who had been trying to squeeze into the space between the Corsair and Madame de Beauvoir. The waiter barely had time to utter a cry as he toppled into Madame de Beauvoir, the tray of champagne flutes flipping out of his hand and crashing over the elderly gentleman standing beside her. A shrill cry went up as the champagne hit the man, and Madame de Beauvoir almost went flying to the floor, but Tom had moved like the wind and caught her by the wrist, just managing to keep her upright. The tray of glasses he was holding spun like a top on the tips of his fingers, yet not a drop spilled from any of them.
There were a few moments of pandemonium, and all the air was nearly sucked out of the room by the collective gasps of the guests as Madame de Beauvoir regained her balance and her poise and then tried to calm the elderly gentleman who seemed ready to thrash the waiter.
“Get out of here, you awful creature!” Madame de Beauvoir hissed at the waiter, who was trying to apologize for the mishap. “Have this cleaned up immediately!” She turned to her champagne-soaked guest. “Oh, Tobias, I am so sorry. You must go and get cleaned up.”
Then she looked around for the gallant—and quick-witted—savior who had caught her. She patted her hair to make sure everything was still in place and then turned on the spot. Who had it been? There had been another waiter—she had seen the spinning glasses on the tray he was holding, had seen the red of his cummerbund….
Sir Tobias Cawdor and Lady Esmeralda Willard were beside her, Sir Tobias puce in the face and screaming at the calamitous waiter who was now in floods of tears. And now here were her guards coming to investigate the incident, every face in the room turned toward her. She rubbed her wrist beneath her bracelet, where her gallant hero had clutched her to save her from falling. But it wasn’t long before thoughts of thanking the waiter were driven from her mind by the arrival of her bodyguards and the fuss being made over her by her guests.
She had no idea that a man and a boy were at that very moment exiting through the front doors to the mansion and making their way to a waiting car, the man laughing uproariously at the boy’s gumption and audacity—and congratulating him on the skill with which he had executed the switch.
“No thanks to you,” seethed Tom as they closed the car doors behind them. “Preparation is key,” he said in a whiny imitation. “Do you know how many thousands of things could have gone wrong in there?” He swore and called the Corsair an ugly word, then peered through the back window to check if they were being followed. All the while the Corsair continued to laugh beside him.
“Am I a joke to you?” snarled Tom. “Are you playing a game to see how long it’ll be before I get arrested? Or how far you can push me before I rearrange those teeth of yours?”
The Corsair barked another laugh at that.
“You’re quite the wild cat, aren’t you?” he said, wiping away a tear as Tom swore at him again. “It was a test, Tom. And one you passed haut la main. With ease! I thought you might suggest a plan to me that we could discuss—but I see you don’t feel ready to confide in me yet. I believed you would hold up your hands and say, ‘I am sorry, Corsair, I do not know what to do.’ And then I would make some suggestions. But non, you used the Corsair like a little stooge—and you stole that bracelet like an old pro. Bravo, Tom, bravo! I am most impressed.”
He settled back in his seat, still chuckling.
Tom, his arms folded tight across his chest and a deep scowl on his face, stared out the window in silence as the car swept them back toward the city. He was furious—but he couldn’t help feeling a little stab of pride at the Corsair’s words.
Chapter Nine KITTED OUT
An hour later, Tom and the Corsair emerged from the elevator into Jessica Chaffinch’s labyrinth of treasures. They found her at a workbench by her desk, beavering away at some intricate leatherwork on the outside of a fat briefcase. There was another briefcase, identical in size and shape but with the leatherwork embossing already complete, sitting beside it.
So engrossed was she that she didn’t seem to notice them until the Corsair playfully swung Empress Eugénie’s bracelet back and forth like a pendulum between thumb and forefinger before her eyes.
Jessica was unable to hide her delight. “Oh, you are a clever little pirate, aren’t you?” she purred.
“Alas, I cannot claim the credit,” the Corsair replied. “It was all the boy’s work.”
“Well, well,” she said, impressed. “Thank you, young man. You have certainly earned your accoutrements. Come, they’re all over here.”
She led them to a pile of boxes that stood beside a high stack of Prussian police helmets. Tom barely had time to examine all the various items as she handed them over: grappling hooks, climbing wire, sheaths of knives, a copperplate counterfeit set, a pouch of skeleton keys, field glasses with reflection-proof lenses, a wrist mechanism that could feed playing cards into the palm of a hand, a stethoscope for safe-cracking, a selection of antique brushes for art forgery classes, diamond-tipped glass cutters, gloves with tiny sharp studs to help with climbing… and so much more besides. The only things missing, the Corsair explained, were books and stationery, which would be waiting for him when they got to the school.
While Tom packed the equipment into a large trunk, the Corsair sidled up to Jessica and handed over the box with the bracelet.
“What are you working on?” he asked, eyeing the workbench behind her, where the two briefcases lay under an Anglepoise lamp like patients on an operating table.
“Oh, just some embossing,” she replied.
“Very nice,” said the Corsair, moving around to inspect the cases. “I’ve always admired your craftsmanship.” He squinted. “What’s the design?”
“Craftswomanship, thank you very much,” she scolded. “It’s just a little something for the Hoffmanns. And don’t touch it like that! It’s a delicate job.”
The Corsair ignored her and lifted the lid of the first case—crying out in shock as he was engulfed in a plume of mist.
“Mon Dieu, what is that?” he shrieked, wheeling away, his eyes tightly shut, his hands scrabbling at his face.
