Goodfellowe House Read online

  Of course, she wouldn’t. It would mean that she was accusing Esther of having stolen her car—and that was something Mrs. Goodfellowe wanted to avoid, not only because of the pain it would cause Esther’s family, but because of the personal embarrassment it would cause her.

  The next day, Katherine Goodfellowe said she could give me five minutes, and that’s what she did. We spoke in the second-floor library, the only quiet room in the house. The mansion was in an uproar. Mrs. Goodfellowe was planning a charity auction for the following evening and it was being hailed as the social event of the Christmas season. She’d invited the oldest and snobbiest of New York’s millionaire dynasties to put their family jewels up for auction—not for sale, but for loan. Outsiders would bid for the privilege of wearing heirlooms, sometimes legendary jewels.

  I hadn’t seen Beth since the night of Esther’s disappearance, so after interviewing Mrs. Goodfellowe, I made a quick run down to the kitchen. Beth agreed to talk with me, but said it would have to be the next evening. Once the auction was under way, she’d have time.

  On the morning of December 23—a Sunday—the Reverend Charles Witherspoon of Christ, the Redeemer, Esther’s home church, led the congregation in an emotional prayer for her safe return. Afterward many of his parishioners canvassed 132nd Street, going door-to-door and asking residents if they’d seen or heard anything suspicious on the night of Esther’s disappearance. They started out with high hopes, but ended up disappointed. None of them learned anything useful.

  That evening, I returned to Goodfellowe House for the interview with Beth, but I never got to conduct it. What happened at the house that night augured a radical change in how police viewed the disappearance of a “mere” Negro.

  Chapter 4

  A MILLION GONE IN BLACK-TIE HEIST

  By Lanie Atkins Price

  Harlem Age Staff Writer

  NEW YORK Dec. 24, 1923—Gunmen made off with $1 million in jewels yesterday when they attacked an auction being held at a Park Avenue mansion, police said. Two people were killed in what is being described as the largest robbery of a jewelry collection on private premises in U.S. history.

  The incident occurred at the home of Mrs. Katherine Goodfellowe on East 57th Street and Park Avenue shortly before 7 p.m., according to police spokesmen. The jewels, which belonged to some of New York’s wealthiest families, were to be auctioned for the benefit of Mercy House for Women. Some 150 guests were in attendance. Their names were withheld.

  Nearly 100 shots were fired in a getaway gunfight between security guards and thieves, a police spokesman said.

  Killed was Mrs. Mathilda Gray, 69, wife of real estate magnate Malcolm Gray, and Mr. Edward Slocum, 45, a former Bureau of Investigation agent turned security guard.

  “It was a wonder more people weren’t injured,” Detective Jack Ritchie said.

  Experts said it was highly unusual to hold an auction of such magnitude in a private residence, but sources say Mrs. Goodfellowe insisted it be held in her home—rather than at the fortified Sotheby’s, for example—because she felt that the intimate atmosphere was more conducive to generosity.

  The jewelry was not to be sold. What was being auctioned was the right to wear the famed pieces to one social event next year. Many of the jewels were heirlooms that had not been worn in decades, much less been on public display, in part because of security concerns. The items included the famed Hemphill Diamond, the Tilden Ruby and the Star of Tanzania—all stolen.

  “To my knowledge, this was the largest theft of a jewelry collection on private premises in U.S. history,” said Ritchie. Police have no suspects, but do have clues that should quickly advance the investigation, he said.

  Mrs. Goodfellowe refused to comment on the robbery. However, she sent her condolences to the families of those killed.

  The auction had just begun when three heavily armed men entered the main salon where the auction was being held, witnesses said. The masked gunmen forced the guards to disarm, then herded both guards and guests into the main salon and locked them in the room. They handcuffed Mrs. Goodfellowe and took her with them. One gunman remained stationed outside the salon, while the other three systematically robbed the safes throughout the house. They touched nothing else. Mrs. Goodfellowe said the thieves apparently had detailed knowledge of her home, including the locations of all the safes. They found each safe without hesitation, forced Mrs. Goodfellowe to open them, and then emptied them of the jewelry up for auction—$1 million worth.

  As the gunmen were leaving the house with bags containing the jewels, one of the guards locked inside the salon managed to get the doors open. The gunmen spun around and opened fire, witnesses said.

  “It was pandemonium,” said a guest who chose to remain anonymous. “Suddenly we weren’t on Park Avenue—but Tombstone.”

  “It was horrid. Being locked in. Not knowing what they were going to do,” said a second guest, who also spoke only on condition of anonymity. “I’ve never experienced anything like it, and I hope to never again.”

  Security experts had suggested the use of costume imitations during the bidding in order to keep the amount of real jewelry on hand to a minimum. Winners would then have collected the real pieces from the bank vaults where they were being kept. But Mrs. Goodfellowe reportedly insisted that no imitation, no matter how beautiful or well done, would inspire the same largesse as the real items.

  “No one is inspired to bid for fakes. No one wants to touch them, wear them,” she is quoted as having said. “I want the people to be able to see the jewels up close. This auction is about raising funds for young women. It’s about opening your hearts and your wallets, and that can only be done if we open our family vaults.”

  Sotheby’s agreed to handle management of the auction itself, but sources say it was Mrs. Goodfellowe who took responsibility for security. For security purposes, the jewels had been stored in various camouflaged safes throughout the Goodfellowe mansion. As a further protective measure, the guest list was kept secret and no one not on the list was supposed to have had detailed knowledge of the event.

  There was no word on whether the auction was insured against theft.

  The whole robbery took no more than twenty minutes, but it felt like an eternity. The sights and smells of that evening were etched in my memory—the pushing and shoving of people in panic, the acrid haze of gun smoke, the stench of cold sweat and hot fear, the screech of wheels outside as the robbers’ car sped from the scene and the sudden silence thereafter.

  My article conveyed little of the mayhem, none of the sickening terror. To steady my hands while typing it, I’d had to focus on the facts, shutting out the emotions. At the time, I’d been proud of my ability to become detached from the story, of my “wise” decision to protect readers from the shock of those twenty minutes. But in hindsight, I wondered if my detachment had been more of an effort to protect myself. If so, it hadn’t worked. The terror I’d felt in those minutes had revisited me in my dreams. It had been months before I could regard sleep as a friend.

  Citing undisclosed sources, another article reported that several of the families had urged Mrs. Goodfellowe to allow them to install extra security measures before the auction, but she had refused. She was adamant. Having scads of beefy, threatening men standing around, carrying hefty weapons, would destroy the ambiance.

  Three days after the heist, the Sunday Tribune wrote that several of the families were thinking about suing Mrs. Goodfellowe. It quoted unidentified legal sources as saying that efforts were being made to reach out-of-court settlements. The article suggested that Mrs. Goodfellowe’s vast fortune would certainly receive a dent, but that perhaps even worse for the widow was her precipitate fall from grace. Overnight, she had gone from Brahmin to pariah.

  The story concluded with a return to the police probe. It noted that the search for the robbers had expanded to include consideration of Esther’s disappearance. It also quoted police experts as saying that the robbers had over extended
themselves. It would be difficult to fence such distinctive jewelry, the experts said. Investigators were confident that the thieves would be forced to “bury” the items until they were “cooled off.”

  “But it don’t matter when they try to fence the gems.” Detective Frank Bellamy said. “Now or later, it don’t matter. Just let one of them babies hit the street. Those thieves will be like sitting ducks. Their own greed will betray them. With those types, it always does.”

  Mrs. Goodfellowe had refused to allow the press in to cover the auction, but, as chance would have it, she ended up with a reporter in the house. Beth had let me in by the back servants’ entrance and handed me a maid’s uniform.

  “Here, wear this. I don’t want her catching you and firing me. This way, you’ll fit in.”

  I accepted the outfit, understanding Beth’s concern and admiring her cleverness. With the house full of extra servants because of the event, I was less likely to be noticed if dressed as one. I still had to avoid Roland, though. If that sharp-eyed butler saw me, he’d no doubt recognize me and show me the door.

  The kitchen was a madhouse, with servants rushing back and forth. I’d never seen such a beautiful display of dishes. Food preparation had been going on for two days. Rather than trust a caterer to bring in the food, Mrs. Goodfellowe had hired one of New York’s best chefs to prepare it on site. The result was dazzling: pâtés, shrimp and lobster dishes, set off by a huge, glittering ice carving of a swan with raised wings.

  The first guests arrived. Soon the hall was buzzing with excited voices. After a short period of cocktails in which the guests sipped champagne and nibbled on appetizers, they were ushered into Mrs. Goodfellowe’s second salon, which had been rearranged to suit the evening’s purposes. The hubbub in the kitchen quieted down. Beth didn’t return. Twenty-five minutes went by. Then thirty. Beth had not appeared, so I went looking for her.

  I found her busy setting up for the post-auction reception, another mini-event in itself. She was harried and tired and told me she didn’t know when she could talk to me.

  I decided not to be irritated. Left on my own, I gave in to my curiosity about the house. The place was enormous. I’d read that it contained eighteen rooms. That included seven master bedrooms, a grand reception hall, a library, three salons and a formal dining room. This was a world of hand-carved moldings, dark wood paneling and trompe l’oeil ceilings, muraled walls, intricately tiled fireplace mantles and stylized gold fixtures.

  It was all so very impressive, but after a while, it began to feel oppressive, too. Observing the ostentatious display of wealth, the cold perfection of the Christmas decorations, I had to wonder: Had Esther felt as lost in the place as I did?

  I was already mentally framing sentences to describe the place when I followed a set of back stairs and landed at the side entrance to the salon through which the auctioned items would be brought. The gavel fell just as I arrived and the auction began. The first item up was an exquisite pink diamond-and-ruby studded tiara and necklace set.

  The guard standing in the doorway had just turned and asked me for a glass of water when a second guard walked up and tapped me on the shoulder.

  “Shouldn’t you be in the kitchen?” He jerked a thick thumb back toward the stairs. “The caterers have arrived and they need help unloading.”

  “The caterers?” I asked. “What caterers?”

  Two pairs of blue eyes and one pair of brown, all hit by the same thought.

  Some people who survive traumatic events say they remember everything as happening in slow motion, as though time stretched out and then snapped together like a rubber band. But it wasn’t that way for me. I remembered everything, all right—every detail—but as a series of photographs, individual camera shots all run together to make a jittery film.

  From the salon came a mixture of indignant exclamations, startled cries, and the crash of overturned chairs. We all turned just as a white-uniformed figure appeared in the main salon doorway. Everything about his attire was white, except for the thick beige stocking mask distorting his features and the black Tommy gun. He was tall and lanky. I heard a click behind my back and turned to see a second masked white-uniformed figure. He was of medium height and slender build. He too held a submachine gun on us.

  The gunmen marched us into the salon to join the others. One other gunman was in the room. Like the two behind them, he also wore a stocking mask and carried a shotgun, a sawed-off Remington. The guests were huddled in the center, their eyes wide, their faces pasty. Mrs. Goodfellowe, wearing an ice pink silk evening dress, still stood on the slightly raised dais that had been installed as a platform from which to hold the auction. Like her guests, she was holding her hands up, but whereas everyone else looked terrified, she looked furious. For a moment there was absolute quiet, as though in their fear the guests had forgotten to breathe.

  The one with the Remington produced a satchel. He strode to the podium and reached for the necklace and tiara that had been up for bid. Mrs. Goodfellowe tried to stop him. She grabbed him by the arm and opened her mouth to speak, but he didn’t give her the chance. The sound of his gloved hand smacking her smooth cheek clipped the air. He’d backhanded her so fast the action was a blur.

  The rifleman snatched the trophy necklace and dropped it into his bag. Then he grabbed Mrs. Goodfellowe by the elbow and hustled her down off the dais, pushing her forward until she stood on the periphery of the circle of guests.

  Meanwhile, one of the men with the Tommy gun was securing each of the two other entryways to the salon. He had a key. When he’d locked each door, he joined his comrades at the room’s main entryway. The Remington man—he was bigger than the others, and especially broad-shouldered—pointed to Mrs. Goodfellowe and beckoned.

  The whole thing was done in silence, like a well-rehearsed ballet. The thieves never said a word, not to the guests, not to one another.

  When Mrs. Goodfellowe refused to step forward, the Remington man grabbed her by her crown of steel gray hair. He dragged her to the door, took out handcuffs and clamped them around her wrists.

  All three gunmen backed out the door, taking Mrs. Goodfellowe with them. They slammed the door shut behind them and locked it.

  Inside the room, there was a moment of fear-induced paralysis, a moment of uncertainty, and then the security guards rushed for the door. From the other side came a volley of gunfire. Bullets punched holes the size of mothballs in the door. Blood spattered the floor. Two of the guards stumbled and fell. I dropped down. The elderly, slightly blue-haired woman standing next to me gave a stunned cry. Her hands still held in the air, she stared at the hole that had erupted in her silk-covered midriff, at the crimson rapidly spreading down her front. I would always remember Mrs. Gray’s expression—a mixture of surprise and horror and dismay. Her eyes rolled up and her knees gave way. No doubt, her heart had stopped before she hit the floor.

  “Down!” someone yelled. “Everybody take cover!”

  Unnecessary words. Everyone was down, crawling, scampering, diving behind chairs. Little cover was available. Mrs. Goodfellowe had had all the large furniture removed to make room for dainty scrolled chairs with skimpy legs and padded seats. None of that padding was tough enough to stop a bullet. Several people found cover behind the four faux Ionic columns spaced throughout the room.

  We waited but no more shots came.

  I peeped out from behind my column. The guards had inched out of their places and approached the door. They exchanged glances. Who would dare? One, braver than the rest, started forward, and then came to an abrupt halt. We’d all heard it, the click of a weapon being cocked for firing. The guard backed down, actually crawled backward, and I was glad to see him do it. Mrs. Gray’s face would haunt me for many a nightmare. I could do without any more food for thought of that kind.

  Ten minutes went by. No more, maybe less.

  A rattling at the door was accompanied by a woman’s cry, not plaintive, still resistant: Mrs. Goodfellowe refusing to be
bowed. The door opened and she stumbled into the room, propelled by an unseen hand. Her regal coif was tousled. Her left eye was swollen and a dark bruise had begun to appear on the cheek where the gunman had backhanded her. She was a tall, thin, angular woman. Not pretty, but attractive. Normally commanding in appearance. Commanding even then. A queen toppled from her throne by savages. You could still see the fury in her eyes, the burned pride. She tripped over the corpse of the blue-haired woman and fell with a cry.

  The rifleman issued a short abrupt laugh. It was the only sound I heard from any of them and it was a peculiar one. It conveyed callousness more frightening than the gunfire.

  The gunmen stepped back and pulled the door shut. The guards rushed forward. Some of the guests screamed, “No! Don’t!” But the guards didn’t listen. They yanked the doors open.

  The thieves were already out the front door. The guards pursued them. I slipped from behind the column and followed them. Once in the vestibule, I slid down behind the large Louis XIV wardrobe and peeped around it. Through the open front door, I could see the robbers running toward their getaway car. They’d left a fourth man behind the wheel. The three guards crouched in the doorway and opened fire. The thieves turned and sprayed the guards with gunfire. Two of the guards stumbled backward and fell. The third dived to one side, but then in a heroic, suicidal pitch, jumped up and ran straight at the gunmen. They cut him down before he made three steps.

  I slipped back into the salon, found the telephone and rang for help. At first, the operator didn’t believe me and when she did, she became hysterical. Precious minutes were wasted while I argued with her, and then calmed her before she put me through to the police.