Chapter Eighteen

Liam stopped to wipe his face with a hand towel he’d brought in his jacket pocket, cursing the diabolical excellence of the two little locks. Gotham Savings had always been more than a little puffed-up about its “impregnable” security, and though Liam’s presence in their strongroom had stuck a pin in that boast, it was true they hadn’t stinted themselves on lockwork. The locks on this safe deposit box, for instance, one for the bank and one for the customer, had been made by Chubb in England and both confirmed Liam’s feeling that the Limeys were spiteful, conniving, overbearing shite-pots and no friends to the Irish.

Gritting his teeth, he pulled his little carbide pocket lamp closer, changed his picks for a springier pair and went back to work. Any other time he might have made short work of the locks with a few drops of “soup” and a jimmy. But Mike had said that they didn’t want the Gotham crowd to have the least suspicion that anybody’d been inside their precious strongroom, that way it would be at least a couple of months till the job was discovered since Mike’s source had put the box’s owner on vacation in London and Nice till September.

The sweat was starting to sting Liam’s eyes, so he wiped his forehead again and then pulled out his watch. 10:04. If he could just get this moving a little faster, he’d have the job done, his exit made, and the swag handed over to Mike in plenty of time to cover the dozen or so blocks uptown to Becky’s home on Gramercy Park South …

Hah! With a silvery little whisper the bank’s lock gave up the ghost. Almost there. Inside were the personal skimmings of a junior partner in one of the firms that supplied Tiffany’s—according to Mike’s source, more than a million dollars’ worth of AAA grade rubies and emeralds, plus a healthy selection of perfect diamonds. Once all the payoffs were taken care of that would give them enough of a war chest to fight Stanton and his plug-uglies forever, and the beauty of it was that the gems would fit nicely into his money belt, whereas printed money could be devalued or declared worthless any time the Government took a notion to play games with it, and it would take a small army to move a million dollars’ worth of gold.

Hah, hah! There went lock number two! Liam had been thinking about the next step so intently that it took him less than a minute to have the box open, scoop out the little envelopes of jewels and get everything closed up again. Another minute to give his working area the eagle eye and make sure he’d left no signs, and another couple to stow the gems away in the dozen pockets of his traveler’s money belt, re-button his shirt, slip on his jacket, pick up the grate to the air duct, turn out his lamp and pocket it, and then shin up the rope that dangled into the strongroom from the open maw of the ventilator.

Well enough pleased to have to stifle the urge to hum, Liam put his finger-tips through the hole in the grate and drew it back towards its frame, into which it suddenly thunked, pulled tight by the heavy-duty magnets fixed there by Adam Worth a couple of years ago. Little Adam had been keeping a safe-deposit box in the Gotham for a while now, and once it had occurred to him that a way of entering the strongroom at night might come in handy, it had taken the game’s greatest con man no effort at all to send his bank “shadow” off on an errand for long enough to let him loosen the four screws in the corners of the grate, set the magnets in place, replace the screws with dummy screw-heads and glue, put it all back spick and span and return to examine the collection of stolen cameos he was about to deposit. Mike had agreed that they owed Little Adam a diamond of the first water for this one, it was like having the keys to a candy store.

It took Liam a bit more effort to crawl painstakingly through the bends of the duct till he reached the point where it came out in the Gas Company’s tunnel, then a repeat of the grate routine and Liam was standing on the floor of the tunnel brushing himself off and pulling out his watch, thankful for the gaslights that studded the brick walls every hundred yards or so in both directions. 10:18. Still running to schedule, thank Heavens. Coiling up the rope and stuffing it into his pocket with the feeling of a job well done, Liam headed off in the direction of Mike’s place.

He hadn’t gone a dozen steps when he heard noises in the tunnel behind him: the sound of steel hammering on steel, then a cascade of falling bricks, then a yelp of pain and a volley of muttered curses. He froze in place, wondering uneasily who was making the noise, then he turned and started cautiously back in the direction he’d come from. It was almost impossible to guess what he might find ahead. There were by now several hundred miles of tunnel under Manhattan: some the Water Company’s, more belonging to the Gas Company, and lately miles and miles of new tunnels belonging to the various underground railways.

A few years ago Liam had stolen the latest maps from the City Planning department, and since then he and the Butcher Boys had worked out the routes underground from their headquarters to most of the desirable addresses in town. But one of the things they had found when they first started exploring was the fact that they weren’t the only New Yorkers who could pry up a manhole cover. Apart from legitimate workers there were plenty of other thieves with the same idea, not to mention a mob of outcasts of every kind, some of whom made you glad you were going armed. Suiting the action to the thought, Liam slowly drew his Colt .45 and held it at the ready, but before he could reach the source of the continuing noises, a sharp voice rang out from behind him:

“Hold it right where you are! And put the pistol down on the ground!”

Liam’s heart sank into his boots. He recognized the voice, though he couldn’t quite place it. After setting the pistol carefully on the sandy floor, he stood up again and turned towards the sound of the voice, but before he could even complete the turn, a brilliant light flared from an electric lantern and shone directly into his face, blinding him.

“Well, well,” the voice continued from behind the light in mocking tones, “if it isn’t Liam McCool, the King of the Cracksmen himself. I can see you’ve been casing the job, as you people say, and very commendable, too. Alas, Mr. McCool, we have actually come to do the job, so I’m afraid all your hard work will prove to have been in vain.”

He had the voice now, Liam thought bitterly. None other than the arch-villain himself. Lukas.

“Good evening, Prince Yurevskii,” Liam said in Russian, “since you were kind enough to use my title I must certainly use yours.”

“Goodness,” said Lukas mildly, “where did you learn to speak such excellent Russian?” Then, his voice suddenly hardening, he added: “Boylan! Search him and make sure he’s disarmed. And Mr. McCool, raise your hands above your head as far as they will reach—please believe me, if I see them drop by so much as a centimeter I will be forced to shoot you, and that would be a pity.”

At that, Boylan stepped out from behind the blaze of light, grinning nastily. “None of your monkeyshines, McCool, the Boss is a Jim-dandy shot and as far as he’s concerned you’re pretty much surplus to requirements.”

Liam gave them both his flattest stare, thinking that he was only going to get one move and he had better be dead sure it was the right one before he made it. Boylan patted him down with professional speed and quickness, then swooped down and grabbed the Colt off the ground, holding it steadily on Liam as he backed away to re-join his boss. As Boylan drew level with him Lukas turned off the torch and dropped his pistol into the jacket pocket of his immaculately tailored country squire tweeds.

“It’s certainly true I’ve no need of you,” Lukas said in a pleasant enough tone, “but I’m not a brute and I wouldn’t dream of harming you unless you become a nuisance. Now, then. I assume you’re here because of Gotham Savings?”

Liam shrugged. “I’ve been trying to think of another good reason for being down here, but so far I’m stumped.”

“Quite. Well, I doubt there will be much left in the vault after my men are through—I was fortunate enough to secure the builder’s plans and I’m confident that my analysis of the structure has identified the vault’s weakest point. A few sticks of dynamite and we should be able to empty all the reserves of currency and gold coinage before the police have time to yawn and rub their eyes.”

They must have brought hand trucks with them, Liam thought, though I still doubt their score will beat ours … still, I’d better pretend to be upset. He smiled sourly:

“Not bad for amateurs, though my pals in the Butcher Boys won’t be at all happy about it.”

Lukas raised his eyebrows humorously: “Dear me! I must make sure to be troubled by that thought when I’ve the time, but just now we have an uprising to finance and I’m in rather a hurry. My associates and I are creating a new world, Mr. McCool, and that doesn’t allow much time for idle pursuits.”

“‘The passion for destruction is a creative passion,’ isn’t that what Bakunin says?”

Lukas gave Liam a coolly appraising look and then smiled a little. “A well-read cracksman, upon my word. I’m no anarchist, Mr. McCool, but Misha Bakunin made a valid point there. When the old order has petrified and its dead weight is stifling the life out of society, it must be swept away. But don’t misunderstand me. The destruction is just incidental, everything I do is for the betterment and the happiness of mankind, a fact—if I may say so—which was my main appeal to our mutual sweetheart Maggie, who had a solid background in the Lady Printers’ Union and whom I would no more have harmed than I would my own sister, believe it or not as you please.”

He reached into an inside pocket, pulled out an ornate gold watch and flipped open the lid. “The evening moves on apace,” he said, “so if you will forgive me, I must tear myself away from this fascinating conversation and hurry to my next appointment.” He turned to Boylan: “I don’t want him killed, but I don’t want him leaving here to summon his friends either, not for a while in any event. Immobilize him however you like and then go help the others.”

Without another word, Lukas spun on his heel and took off down the tunnel. Boylan grinned wolfishly and thumbed back the hammer on the Colt: “I’m not to kill you but I’m to slow you down. Sure and leaves many a lovely choice for yours truly, wouldn’t you say so, Mr. McCool?”

Becky frowned at the dignified old Seth Thomas ticking away sedately on the mantel and ground her teeth as she paced from one end of the sitting room to the other. 10:52! She had been sure that Liam would be here by now so that she’d have time to explain the details of their mission in Washington and answer any questions he might have about it. Certainly once they were airborne the thrumming vibrations of the silenced Flyer would overwhelm any communication short of putting her mouth against Liam’s ear and yelling into it.

She paused for a moment, stopped in her tracks by the train of thoughts that followed that picture of putting her mouth to Liam’s ear. She stayed with it for another moment or two, reluctant to tear herself away, then shook her head irritably to dissipate her daydreams.

“Rebecca Susannah Fox,” she upbraided herself, “you are a silly goose and a ridiculous poseuse! Fancy you pretending to be Becky Fox, the intrepid lady reporter from Harper’s! Would Becky Fox be swept off her feet by some charming scapegrace with clever green eyes and …”

“Ahem!” came the familiar exclamation from behind her.

Becky turned a bit guiltily, glad that her father wasn’t given to mind-reading. She hurried to his side and gave him a hug. She couldn’t help noticing his gaunt cheeks and his unhealthy pallor—whether it was from his involuntary confinement in the house or the anxiety that gnawed at him every day, she couldn’t bear witnessing the loss of his ruddy complexion and his usual beaming good cheer.

“How are you, Papa?” she asked, trying to keep the worry out of her voice.

Judge Fox smiled wryly. “Not half so well as I shall be when Stanton’s carried away in manacles to Andersonville but quite cheerful nonetheless, Becky dear. I am a bit concerned though, about your friend Mr. McCool. If he arrives too late a great many interlocking bits of our machinery will be unable to function properly.”

“I know it, Papa,” she said with a frown. “I’m as sure as can be that he is doing everything in his power to get here in time, but you know what can happen with this much unrest in the streets.”

Becky was watching her father’s face closely, reading between the lines for any sign of unwellness, and she could tell that something was still troubling him.

“What is it, Papa? I can tell that something’s still troubling you.”

Judge Fox waved his hand exasperatedly. “I’m not even sure if it’s worth mentioning, but President Lincoln hasn’t been far from my thoughts since this evening’s announcement of the impending war. You know how closely I’ve worked with the man over the years, ever since that first long-ago campaign. I feel it in my bones—there’s something deeply wrong about the present situation and I know I’m not the only one having nightmares about the Man in the Iron Mask. If there’s any way that you can find it in your power to learn what’s become of him while you’re in Washington, for pity’s sake don’t hesitate—I feel certain that the pro-war party want to see the nation mobilizing within days, and the only thing that might turn back their greedy passions would be for Abraham Lincoln himself to stand before the people and speak against this great evil.”

Becky hugged her father close, trying not to let him see the tears in her eyes. “I promise, Papa, if the answer can be found I shall find it and bring it back to you.”

Before he could answer a powerful, muted throbbing became audible above them, increasing rapidly in intensity as it descended towards the Fox residence and then cutting off abruptly.

“Capt. Ubaldo has arrived,” Becky said tensely, “I hope all the uproar in the streets has kept our neighbors from taking any special note of it. Come, Papa, let’s go let him in.”

They hurried down the hall to the back of the house, arriving at the door of the darkened kitchen almost simultaneously with a sharp rapping at the window.

“Welcome, Captain,” Becky said breathlessly as she opened the door and a heavily scarved and fur-clad figure hastened in, bowing to each of them in turn before he unwrapped some of the scarves from his head to reveal a cheerful young officer with a tidy little waxed moustache and brown hair parted fastidiously in the middle.

“It’s good to see you, Miss Fox, Judge.” He pulled off his gloves and rubbed his hands together energetically. “I don’t suppose you’ve a drop of spirits around somewhere, do you? I’m half frozen to death, and we’ve got to be getting aloft again quickly.”

“Of course, dear boy, of course,” said Judge Fox, bustling away to get a decanter and a glass as Becky turned towards Ubaldo anxiously. She lowered her voice as she spoke to him:

“Is there some special hurry now? I thought we were well inside our schedule.”

Ubaldo grimaced. “It seems the Department of Public Safety has increased its aerial patrols since we spoke last—if we don’t leave here quickly we’re liable to be caught by one of their Black Deltas, and you know what that might mean …”

Becky nodded, echoing his grimace as she looked towards the kitchen clock. 11:03 … For Heaven’s sake, Liam, hurry!

Liam gave Boylan a stare as flat and cold as a lake of ice, watching his grinning opponent for the slightest twitch, the most fractional movement of the eyes. He had to be in motion a split second before Boylan could send the nerve impulse to his trigger finger, and it was worrying that his arms and hands felt dead and heavy from holding them over his head for so long.

“Where shall I begin, Liam me darlin’,” smirked Boylan, savoring the moment, “with a slug in yer bollocks? Or maybe one in the elbow, I reckon that should tear the arm clean off your body …”

Before Boylan could say more, Lukas’ dynamite charge exploded like a thunderclap, knocking bricks out of the wall around them and blasting a tidal wave of hot air and sand down the tunnel. It was the split second Liam had been praying for, and as Boylan started back involuntarily, Liam was already crouching and spinning on one foot, the other leg cocked for a bonebreaking kick that landed on Boylan’s knee an instant later. The big man screamed and fired in the same moment, the slug just creasing Liam’s shoulder and knocking him to the ground.

“Me knee,” Boylan bellowed in agony, “ye’ve smashed me fookin’ knee!”

Liam scrambled to his feet, snatching his Colt up off the floor as he went. “You can thank the birdbrains you’re using for cracksmen,” he said, “they used enough dynamite to bring down St. Pat’s.”

Liam turned and sprinted away in the direction of the Bleecker Street manhole, leaving Boylan howling and cursing behind him.

As Liam edged the manhole cover up cautiously, crossing his fingers that no curfew Acmes or coppers on foot patrol were anywhere beyond his line of vision, he heard Mike’s voice:

“It’s clear,” he hissed urgently, “hurry up out of there, will you?”

Liam pushed the manhole cover hard and winced as his shoulder protested. Mike was squatting on his heels next to the manhole, and as Liam held up a hand he grabbed hold of it and pulled him the rest of the way out.

“Took you long enough,” Mike grinned, “and you didn’t have to blow up Broadway, one of our neighbors told me the corner of Gotham Savings collapsed into a big hole in the street.”

Liam laughed in spite of himself. “What the hell,” he said, “I figured a few drops of soup couldn’t hurt.” He patted his tummy: “I’ve got the goods right here but I can’t take time to go back to your place to hand them over, I’m running too late.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Mike said, “I figured you’d need all the speed you could get to make it uptown on time, so I borrowed some transportation. Come on.”

He trotted down Bleecker Street a short way with Liam right on his heels, and then he disappeared into an alley between his townhouse and a piano factory. Halfway down the alley, a stripped down Stanley racing machine sat chugging quietly in neutral, its lights turned off. Mike jumped in behind the steering bar and Liam jumped in beside him.

“All right, cabby,” Liam grinned, “there’s a million-dollar tip in it if you can get this thing to Gramercy Park in ten minutes!”

Liam was grinding his teeth hard enough for Mike to punch him on the shoulder. “Take it easy on the grinding,” Mike yelled, “we’ll have to buy you new choppers!”

“Just look at that,” Liam yelled bitterly, waving his hand towards the stretch of Fifth Avenue in front of them. A mob of strikers had spilled out of the upper end of Union Square along 17^th Street and was battling police and militia as far uptown as the eye could see. Shots, screams, police whistles and the bloodcurdling shrieks of the Police Acmes’ steam whistles made conversation impossible, so Mike just pointed right along 14^th Street and held up four fingers. Liam nodded grimly. If they could get onto Fourth Avenue it would only be a few more blocks to the corner of Gramercy Park.

Mike jerked the steering bar around hard and the little Stanley spun around so sharply that it almost turned over. Liam gripped the side of the car hard and cursed the pain in his shoulder, but a moment later they were tearing down 14^th and repeating the terrifying turn, this time onto Fourth. Good! Only a few stragglers running across the Avenue ahead of them and Mike pushing the Stanley so hard Liam could hear its gears whining like a band saw. 16^th …, 17^th …, 18^th …. Suddenly there was a terrifying shriek from inside the machine somewhere, followed by the sounds of self-destructing machinery.

“OUT!” yelled Mike, suiting the action to the word, and sprinting up Fourth with Liam right behind him. They had just reached the corner of 19^th when there was an appalling blast behind them and bits and pieces of the valiant racing machine flew threw the air. Liam grabbed Mike by the arm.

“We’re almost there,” he said breathlessly, “you have to take the stuff now!”

He tore open his shirt, undid the money belt and thrust it on Mike. “Get out of here,” Liam said, “get that home safely, I need you to get the boys out of chokey and find Gran while I‘m gone!”

Mike nodded wordlessly, embraced Liam Russian-style with a kiss on each cheek, and then tore back down the street the way they’d come, hurriedly stuffing the money belt under his own shirt as he ran. Liam pulled out his watch. 11:36!

“Be there, Becky,” he said out loud, “wait for me!” He took off again, turning right on 20^th and finding himself at the lower end of Gramercy Park. As he sprinted right down 20^th, planning to head towards Third Avenue before turning left for the last block between there and Becky’s house, his blood froze at the shriek of a steam whistle from behind him, followed by the heavy clank of running steel feet. Damn it! A curfew Acme! Dodging left, he vaulted the fence into the Park itself, running diagonally towards 21^st and waiting for the second shriek. There it was, followed by the clank of feet as the Acme ran alongside the fence, unable or unwilling to jump the fence itself. Two shrieks is all you get, Liam reflected furiously, then the thing starts shooting. He hit the ground behind a boulder with some kind of plaque on it just as a stream of mini-Gatling fire roared thinly behind him and chopped through the trees and bushes overhead.

Only one thing for it, and it was a hell of a gamble. He waited for the pause as the Acme switched to a second belt, then got up to his knees behind the boulder, thumbed back the hammer on his Colt and aimed with life-or-death care at one of the thing’s glowing red eyes. Blam! Yes! The automaton rocked back on its heels and then started to raise its Gatling arm again with grinding mechanical jerkiness. This time Liam aimed with twice the care, uncertain how many shots were left in the pistol. Blam! Yes, yes! He’d hit the thing in its other eye and now it started clanking around in circles, its steam whistle shrieking hysterically as it fired its remaining rounds into the air.

Liam took off like a race horse, vaulted the remaining fence between himself and Becky’s house and then tore up the stairs two at a time till he was on the landing, grabbing the brass knocker and hammering crazily with it until suddenly the door burst open and Becky appeared.

“Thank God, you’re here!” Liam gasped, collapsing through the doorway onto the hall carpet as Becky knelt over him, pulling at his bloody jacket sleeve feverishly.

“You’ve been shot!” she cried.

“Never mind that,” Liam said, staggering to his feet, “am I in time?”

She glared at him, speechless with tension and exasperation, then abruptly took his face between her hands and kissed him firmly on the lips. After a moment she let go, her exasperation replaced by a cryptic smile.

“Come on,” she said, “the Flyer’s about to leave!” And, grabbing Liam’s hand, she dragged the befuddled man along behind her towards the back of the house.

Washington, D.C. June 28—June 29, 1877