NF (1998) The Napoleon of Crime

by Ben MacIntyre

  Kitty Flynn, age twenty-three, after a photograph by French photographer Félix Nadar. This “unusually beautiful girl” became Worth’s lover and presided as hostess in his illegal Paris gambling den. (Courtesy: Katharine Sanford)

  The West or Western Lodge, Worth’s London headquarters, “a commodious mansion standing well back on its own grounds out of the view of the too curious at the west corner of Clapham Common.”

  The Shamrock, Worth’s 110-foot yacht, named in honor of Kitty Flynn, his Irish lover.

  THIRTEEN

  My Fair Lady

  Worth’s former partners in crime, and love, Piano Charley Bullard and Kitty Flynn, had preceded him to the United States. The former was now in prison, serving time for the Boylston Bank robbery; the latter was in business, biding her time before the next social conquest. Calling herself Mrs. Kate Flynn, Kitty sought to sever contact with her former criminal associates and, as proprietor and main attraction of a men’s boarding house, had transformed herself once again, this time into a comely, impoverished, and wholly respectable New York matron. Or possibly not.

  The young “widow” Flynn, according to one account, rented “furnished rooms on the upper floors to single ‘gentlemen’ and let out her parlor rooms for card parties, small dances, lovers’ trysts and private dinners for businessmen.” Worldly and charming, Kitty soon attracted a reputation as “an influence peddler and go-between in financial deals.” Every time a broker made a deal under her roof, Kitty got a cut. William Pinkerton considered Kitty “dissipated” and remembered her establishment as “a sort of semiassignation house somewheres up town.” She was, he later told his brother, “at one time considered the mistress of a Police Magistrate in New York, I think it was Justice Ottovard.” This may be no more than idle, if intriguing, tittletattle, but it would have been entirely in character for Kitty to select a man such as Ottovard, one of the city’s powerful lawmakers, as her next lover.

  After disembarking in New York, Worth immediately went to visit Kitty and the two girls, as he would repeatedly over the coming years. “Adam told me he always went to see them when he was here, and admitted they were his daughters,” William Pinkerton later wrote. Worth was plainly still infatuated with Kitty, but he made no attempt to win her back from Justice Ottovard. The bond of conspiracy between the two former lovers, who had once shared every secret and ambition, was broken. As he sat politely sipping tea in Kitty’s parlor, Worth made no mention of the noble lady who lay faithfully at the bottom of his large trunk.

  Certainly he was in a strangely euphoric mood when, on June 10, he checked into New York’s Astor House and penned a chatty letter to Messrs. Agnew & Co., brimming with impudent self-satisfaction. This was the first of ten letters sent by Worth over the next two years, all of which remain in Agnew’s archive. It must have irritated the pompous art dealer no end to be thus addressed by a man who had only recently relieved him of the world’s most expensive painting, but Worth was clearly determined to cause Agnew’s the maximum possible annoyance.

  “Gents,” he began, expansively, “A knowledge of safety has an exhilarating effect on one’s nerves after the mental strain I have just passed through, and cannot fail of being appreciated. I arrived in the SS Saythia on Tuesday last, bringing with me the Duchess of Devonshire.” This hail-fellow-well-met introduction was followed by some jaunty observations about the weather, his general state of well-being, and his satisfaction with the facilities at Astor House.

  “Now to business,” he went on, as if bringing a friendly chin-wag to order: “This picture is worth, say, $50,000, and by this advertisement [i.e., the well-publicized theft] its value is greatly enhanced, so much so that one half that sum would be a modest sum for its return.

  “Now, first, I am safe and secure from arrest. Second, this work of art is concealed. No one but MYSELF knows of it. At the same time it is perfectly safe from harm. I can get quite a sum for it here. I heard a dealer from Frisco said he’d give $10,000 if by chance it was offered for sale here, and others expressed near the same sentiment.

  “Knowing this I feel under no meanness and for $25,000 I will return it undamaged. Being personally safe I am open to negotiate with any person you may send or employ—in this country, of course.

  “It was a big risk, but it has the magic words: ‘There’s money in it.’

  “I want no underhand work as you cannot scare me, and it is a game in which I hold the winning card. The picture is in excellent condition. Of course, I rolled it with the painted side out, so I can assure you it is in good order.”

  The effect of this astonishing missive on its recipients can only be surmised, but in terms of sheer devilry, effrontery, and sly humor, it is one of Worth’s masterpieces.

  As well as disguising his handwriting and adding a few persuasive illiteracies, Worth now attached a new alias, signing the letter “Edward A. Chattrel” and giving a postal address for correspondence.

  Was Worth serious about returning the painting, or was he simply playing with his victims? William Agnew had already contacted the New York picture dealer William Schaus and Robert Pinkerton, William Pinkerton’s brother and head of the detective agency’s New York office. As soon as the letter was received, detectives were sent to scour the registration books of Astor House, but naturally found that Chattrel’s name “does not appear on the register, nor does [sic] any of the clerks or employees in the office of the hotel know him.” No postal box was registered in the name of Edward Chattrel, but a twenty-four-hour watch was placed on the post office just in case. “Our impression, on first reading Mr. Chattrel’s note,” wrote Schaus, “was that it was a hoax, and that impression is now considerably strengthened.” Needless to say, Worth had already moved to another hotel, and never went near the post office. It seems likely that his first letter was an act of characteristic hubris, designed to baffle his pursuers and exasperate William Agnew, while notifying them who held the “winning card.”

  For the moment, Worth had no intention of parting with his Duchess, and over the next few months he visited his old haunts, shopping for expensive clothes, dining at the best restaurants, and generally playing the part of a visiting English gentleman. By this point, it should be noted, Worth, habitual dissembler that he was, had adopted a distinctively upper-class English accent. The German-Jewish immigrant and naturalized American would remain resolutely British, in elocution and manner, for the rest of his life.

  Happy to be on American soil for the first time since the Boylston job in ’69, Worth and the Duchess now set off on what might best be described as a triumphal tour of the country. First stop was Boston, scene of his childhood, where he visited his brother John while staying at the Adams House, which he declared to be “the best managed hotel in the United States.” This was followed by a discreet visit to Piano Charley Bullard in Concord prison, and then on to Illinois, where Worth spent a few weeks relaxing and indulging his taste for blood sport in a resort known as Klineman’s Cabin on Lake Calumet, “which was greatly frequented by hunters.” A few weeks later, thoroughly rested, he headed back east to Buffalo, New York, where his sister Harriet now lived with her husband.

  Underworld informants had long ago told the Pinkertons of Worth’s central part in the Boylston Bank robbery, and Worth was still a wanted man in America. One night Worth was entertaining his sister and brother-in-law, a shady lawyer named Lefens, in his rooms at one of the Buffalo hotels. Midway through the party, Worth felt the need for some fresh air, but as he walked through the lobby he realized he was being watched by a man from the other side of the room. “He felt sure it was one of our people,” William Pinkerton later recorded, after Worth had recounted the incident in detail. “His sister was upstairs and not wishing to alarm her he dodged the man, went upstairs, told his sister he was suddenly called away and [told her] to get out of the room.” Back down in the lobby, Worth tried to saunter off but the watcher spotted him and gave chase. Once outside, Worth broke into a sprint but then sto
pped abruptly when he caught sight of “two big policemen standing on the corner. The man made a signal to them and one reached out to grab him, knocking off his hat. They were both big stout men, as big as I am, and he started to run and as they ran after him one of them slipped and fell and the other fell over him and he got away.” The episode had unsettled him, and Worth and his Duchess, who had sensibly been stashed at the railway luggage office, were on the next train out of town. America was still a dangerous place, with the Pinkertons on his trail and one of the world’s most recognizable paintings in his trunk. Worth was also running low on spending money again.

  For the first time Worth appears to have given serious consideration to the possibility of returning the portrait, and his next letter to Agnew’s from the United States, “found in the letter box at Five, Waterloo Place Dec. 30. 1876,” has the unmistakable ring of urgency. The facetious, mocking tone is gone, as are the deliberate mistakes and hastily selected alias, to be replaced by a curt, almost legalistic set of demands.

  December 15, 1876

  Gentlemen:

  We beg to inform you of the safe arrival of your picture in America, and enclose a small portion to satisfy you that we are the bona-fide holders and consequently the only parties you have to treat with. The portion we send you is cut from the upper right-hand corner looking at it from the front, which you will find matches with the remnant of the frame.

  From time to time, as we negotiate with you, we will enclose pieces which will match the piece we now send you so that you can have the whole length of the frame. The picture is uninjured. There being no extradition between this country and England, we can treat with you with immunity.

  This communication must be strictly confidential. If you decide to treat for the return of the picture, you must keep faith with us; as, on the first intimation we have of any police interference, we will immediately destroy the picture. You must be convinced by now of the uselessness of the police in this matter.

  The picture being on this side of the water, almost any lawyer can negotiate with you without being liable to prosecution for compounding a felony. We would like to impress you with our determination which is, NO MONEY, NO PICTURE. Sooner than return, or take any great risk in returning it, we would destroy it.

  Now as to terms. We must look at this as a commercial transaction. It represents to you a money value of 10,000 pounds sterling. The extraordinary advertisement has certainly added to its value. If it was again exhibited in London, thousands would go to see it that never would have thought of going before the elopement of the Duchess. If we come to terms you can exhibit it here (New York) and you will certainly clear two thirds of the money you pay for the recovery of it.

  We want 3,000 pounds or $15,000 in gold. No other money will be taken but English sovereigns. Insert an advertisement in the London Times if you will treat on these terms, viz., “NEW YORK, letter received etc. etc.” or whatever you have to say, as we have The Times by every mail. The rest is simply a matter of detail, and can be arranged by letter hereafter. It lays entirely with you whether you have it back or not.

  If this letter is shown to the police, we will know that you are not inclined to keep faith with us, and will act accordingly. For obvious reasons you will be careful in wording the advertisement.

  Worth signed the letter NEW YORK, and added that all further correspondence would be sent under that name.

  The letter was vintage Worth: methodical, organized, imperious, and remarkably impertinent. The legal tone suggests that it may even have been drafted by his brother-in-law, the lawyer Lefens. Agnew hardly needed to be told that the thief had been good enough to increase the value of his painting by stealing it, nor how to word a careful reply, and it is fascinating that Worth, ever the snob, wanted it understood that even on the other side of the world he still read The London Times, the newspaper of the British elite.

  The letter was also partly a bluff. Worth had no intention of destroying the painting; indeed, the piece of canvas sent as proof of theft had been carefully cut from the portion of the picture beneath the frame, so as not to damage the work: Worth was no Mrs. Maginnis. This letter contains Worth’s first reference to the “elopement of the Duchess”—a humorous remark, but also an indication that the portrait had come to mean more to him than a mere “commercial” property. While Agnew might find his tone distinctly galling, the fragment matched with the remnant on the stretcher and proved the writer was no hoaxer. In contrast to his earlier nonchalance, Worth now gave no clues to his whereabouts.

  Agnew’s, after conferring with their solicitors, Lewis & Lewis, and with Scotland Yard, placed an advertisement in the personal columns of The Times: “New York, Letter received. On further proof are prepared to treat.”

  William Agnew knew he was compounding a felony, whatever Worth’s reassurances, but he wanted his picture back. Worth promptly sent “a longer piece of the upper part of the picture, to match the piece now in your possession,” adding that “from time to time in our negotiations we desire to send a small piece to prevent any mistake or your wasting your time on bogus possessors.” It was a considerate, if ironic remark, for Agnew’s was still being deluged by hoaxers, amateur detectives, crooks, and crackpots. This letter concluded by recommending that Agnew’s place another notice in The Times immediately if he was satisfied and wished to proceed, since “it is certainly in the interest of both parties to bring the affair to a close as soon as possible.”

  Agnew complied, and on March 6, 1877, Worth sent yet another letter, on the elegant stationery of the Grand Hotel, announcing that “in order to facilitate matters” he had dispatched a man to London who “has our confidence” to negotiate the return of the painting and avoid the delays caused by the transatlantic postal system. “The Picture is over here in our possession. You will hear further from the bearer of this letter in a day or two,” Worth wrote, enclosing another fragment of canvas “which will be found to fit the last piece you received.” But Agnew’s did not hear from the mysterious messenger and after three weeks the art dealer placed another advertisement: “New York. Am waiting to hear from you further. Have received your letter and wait appointment.”

  Suddenly the thief was getting cold feet, perhaps fearing some sort of an ambush by Scotland Yard. After several more tense weeks, Worth reestablished contact, but the terms had now changed. He was no longer willing to send someone to London to haggle on his behalf, given “the penalties for the crime of compounding a felony in England.” If Agnew’s wanted the picture back, then someone would have to come to New York and get it. “It is out of the question to get anybody to come to you about negotiating for it, as it might get the party so doing into trouble.” Worth was not prepared to put his subordinates in the way of unnecessary danger, but he was also unwilling, as ever, to relinquish control of events. “The only way that I know of is by you sending a trustworthy man over to N.Y. with a draft for the amount, and paying it, on the picture being shown to him … Please answer as usual.”

  The affair was now coming to a head. William Agnew refused to come to New York and Worth was not about to put himself at the mercy of Scotland Yard by coming back to London, although he made it appear that he had already done so. In his next letter he stated unequivocally:

  I have vainly endeavored to think of some safe way of negotiating the return of the Lady on this side of the water [i.e., England] according to your desire (although it would be considerable expense to bring it over again). But I cannot see my way clear to doing so without putting myself in your power, and that I will not do.

  Consequently we must fall back in our original position—namely that it must be arranged in America. If your desire be to recover the Lady only, on the terms mentioned before, and not the punishment of the abstracters, it can make very little difference to you where the negotiation takes place. If you persist in your determination to deal only on this side I shall be compelled to drop the matter.

  Agnew was equally adamant: �
��NEW YORK, No danger to you whatever. There can be no necessity for voyage, which, indeed, I cannot make.”

  From May to August there was silence. Then on August 8 a letter postmarked London arrived at Agnew’s office. “Finding that it was impossible, as you said, for you to go to America, the parties have gone to the expense of sending the ‘Duchess’ back to this country … too much time has already been wasted on the affair, and the parties wish it settled at once.” Worth had returned to London with the painting, but his attitude had clearly changed. His next letter, dated August 21, was abrupt to the point of rudeness:

  I really cannot suggest any way of returning the Noble Lady, and if you cannot, I am afraid we shall have to drop the affair entirely … We have been trying to think of some plan in which we can safely do it on this side of the water, but can think of no way with safety to ourselves. As I said before, if you cannot find some means of doing it, why then we will not trouble ourselves any more about it. If you really mean to act squarely with us and want the missing lady back, you have only to suggest some safe method and we will adopt it.

  Agnew, realizing he had been presented with an ultimatum, put another coded advertisement in The Times, on August 23, agreeing to do whatever the elusive NEW YORK wanted. But it was too late. Worth had changed his mind. He never again contacted the art dealer, and all William Agnew had to show for his months of delay tactics were a few carefully clipped fragments of canvas and a handful of peremptory letters.

  Agnew had certainly been in contact with Inspector Shore of Scotland Yard, and Worth may have got wind of the danger thanks to his spies in the force. One newspaper, noting his wavering tone many years later, concluded he had been toying with Agnew all along. “It seemed evident that he was not really anxious to surrender the masterpiece or make any revelations. He wished merely to excite curiosity.”