Chapter Twenty
That afternoon, I head back to the New York Public Library with my friends Kiyoko and Nirav in tow.
Friends! Spirit shows me an image of three swashbucklers, chivalrous swordsmen fighting for what is right.
Les Trois Mousquetaires. My maman used to tell us tales of the famous Three Musketeers.
The image pleases me. Spirit has been largely mum on this plan of ours, so I’m interpreting this image as one that leans into justice rather than revenge.
Or as friendship, Stella.
Justice is not yours to seek.
“You’re in high spirits,” Kiyoko says, tilting a glance my way.
“Beautiful day, is it not?”
As soon as I see the pair of lions out front, crouched and guarding their den, my heart smiles. We find Laura in the map room and slyly return the newspaper she lent us.
“Thank you for your help,” I say. “We could use your skills for some additional research.”
“Of course!” Laura leads us across the hall and unlocks a door using the massive key ring attached to her belt. “It’s a study room,” Laura says to my surprised expression. “I figured you could use some discretion?”
The room is small, spare, but has a large table and several comfortable chairs. We can talk here without using hushed tones.
Befriending a librarian certainly has its perks. I introduce Kiyoko and Laura. They smile at each other almost as if they’ve met before.
“Now. What can I help you with today?” Laura asks.
My heavy burlap satchel thumps as I lay it on the table. Next out of its maw: Nirav’s painting.
“Can you help us identify which building this apartment is in? We know that this”—I point to the under-construction building through the window—“is the new Woolworth Building.”
Laura looks at the painting, and it’s obvious she recognizes me, Nirav, and Max Blanck in this likeness. But she’s shrewd and asks nothing. She cocks her head.
“Follow me,” she says, and she doesn’t look back to make sure we are, indeed, following. We cross the hall back into the map room, toward a section where the shelves are labeled New York City.
She pulls out a tome stamped Atlas of the City of New York, Borough of Manhattan. From Actual Surveys and Official Plans [1911]. “I’m showing you where this is in case you need to refer to it further,” she whispers.
Laura turns on her heel and strides back to our tiny workroom. Kiyoko smiles and motions with her head, Well, let’s go!
On our workroom table, Laura flips to the Street Index in the front of the book.
“The Woolworth Building sits at 233 Broadway,” she whispers.
Habit, I suppose. She runs her finger down the list of streets in this city until she finds the listings for Broadway (there are many), and the subheading that encompasses “233.”
Spirit whistles at the length of the index.
Oi, how my city has changed since the 1850s.
You should see how it’s changed since 1614.
So many buildings! Where do they put the horses?
How do they farm?
“Plate two,” she says, and she flips the atlas open to that page.
The maps are hand-drawn and colored with ink pens, pink and green and blue and yellow.
Plate two features the slice of Manhattan from Liberty Street up to Thomas Street, and from the Hudson River over to Park Row.
A large part of this map features a triangular green park that includes the courthouse, city hall, and the main Manhattan post office.
This is where the Brooklyn Bridge empties into Manhattan.
Laura points to a spot across the street from the post office. “This is 233 Broadway.” Sure enough, the pink plot on the map is labeled “Woolworth Bld’g. Bldg 30 + Tower 25 = Stories 55.”
Laura places her thumb on 233 Broadway and spins the map. She draws an invisible circle with her index finger about three inches in diameter. “We’re likely looking in this circle for our apartment building.”
She glances back at the painting. “This angle—it’s high.
And there are no other buildings obstructing the view.
So if this apartment were in, say, the Astor House…
” Laura points to the building immediately south of the Woolworth Building, but says, “No. It’s too close.
That hotel is only five stories tall. You wouldn’t see the spire of the Woolworth from that angle. ”
Laura clicks her tongue, and Kiyoko smiles at her.
“When you look at the Woolworth Building from the east, facing west, toward Broadway and the Hudson…”
Spirit flashes me the image of an owl.
“The two buildings to the immediate east of the Woolworth, over Broadway, are the post office and city hall.” Laura taps both on the map.
“And if you were in one of these buildings…” She drifts her finger to a row of buildings another block east, on Park Row.
“… on one of the upper floors, you would have an unobstructed view of the Woolworth. Because the post office, lovely as it is, is a squatty little thing. Rather like the postmaster himself.”
Kiyoko snorts a laugh. I lean over the map. “So let’s see,” I say. “The residential buildings in that block are the Park Row Building, the Vanderbilt Building, the Potter Building…”
Laura snaps her fingers and beams, and it’s like watching parched earth crack open; it’s obviously been a long time since she smiled so naturally.
“It’s the Potter Building. I should’ve known.
My aunt Carole lives in that building, but on a lower floor.
Straight-on view of the Broadway-facing side of the Woolworth, right over the roof of the post office. ”
“Can you help us find blueprints for the building?” Kiyoko asks.
“Not here,” Laura says. “All approved blueprints are kept at city hall.” She taps the building on the map, coincidentally just across from the Potter Building. “You could go there and request them, but… hmm. I wouldn’t recommend it. So much red tape. It’ll be months before you have them.”
All of us think but don’t say, And we don’t have months. Spirit offers me a ticking timepiece. As if I don’t know how tight the timeline is. Spirit is taunting me, trying to talk me out of this plan.
Aye, that’s exactly what we’ve been saying, my love.
It’s us or it, doncha know.
I don’t believe that for one second, I scowl at Spirit.
Laura crosses her arms, cradles her chin with her right hand. “Blueprints. The architect would be your best bet. You find him, you find the blueprints.”
“And you can help us find his name?” Kiyoko asks.
“Sure,” Laura says with a nonchalant shrug. Her eyes gleam with mischief. She takes off her thin, elegant wristwatch and hands it to Nirav. “Time me. I bet I can have a name for you in less than ten minutes.”
Nirav points at the door, Go! Laura calmly saunters out of the study room.
Kiyoko smiles at me. “I like her.”
Too bad our Stella is corrupting her.
Stop it! I tell Spirit. Surprisingly, they settle. But their words leave me pacing the room, gnawing at my thumbnail. Am I always corrupting others?
Eight minutes and forty-two seconds later, Laura returns to the study room.
She carries a thick, leather-bound book titled The Architecture Union of New York City.
And it’s open to not only a name, Norris G.
Starkweather, but a photo. The four of us study his face; he has a distinct handlebar mustache.
“Well, hello, Norris G. Starkweather,” I say. “It will be lovely to meet you soon.”
“One more thing,” Kiyoko says to Laura after we’ve committed Starkweather’s statistics to memory. “Any books on the Hope Diamond?”
Laura’s face flickers amusement. “One moment.” She returns minutes later with a book titled Hopeless: A History of the Hope Diamond.
“Let me know if you need anything else,” Laura says, and she leaves us to study.
Study we do. The history of this gem is stunningly awful.
Upon our departure, we pass a room packed with patrons: A homeless gentleman, resting his head on a desk.
Children in a single-file line, while their teacher intones, “Story time, friends!” A young woman, poring over a book of medical illustrations.
An older gentleman, leaning on a cane, studying a painting of George Washington.
“I’ve always loved the library,” Kiyoko says wistfully, trailing her fingertip on the wall above a water fountain featuring a brass lion’s head. “The library is where you go when you have nowhere else to go.”
An excerpt from
Hopeless: A History of the Hope Diamond
Written by Harold Swisher
Published by the Abbey Press, 1910
The Hope Diamond, 45.52 karats, blue in color, was unearthed at the Kollur Mine in India in the mid-seventeenth century. It was 112 karats when it was discovered.
· The workers at the mine endured terrible working conditions—they were paid in food, they lived on the premises, and the mines flooded often, killing employees.
· Many people believe that’s why this diamond is cursed: its unfortunate beginnings.
· A long line of people have owned this diamond and all have met with terrible fates:
Jean-Baptiste Tavernier stole the diamond in 1653 and was violently torn apart by a pack of wolves.
King Louis XIV of France cut the diamond to enhance its beauty and color. He died a terrible, messy death by gangrene. Many of his children died young as well.
Marie Antoinette owned the diamond and lost her head to the guillotine’s blade.
Marie-Louise, the princess of Lamballe, owned the gem briefly. Her head was impaled on a spike.
Jeweler Wilhelm Fals later came in possession of the diamond. He was murdered by his own son.
Owners for decades found themselves deeply in debt and often insane: Jacques Colet? Committed suicide.
Prince Ivan Kanitovski? Murdered by Russian revolutionaries.
Lorens Ladue? Murdered in a fit of passion.
Simon Maoncharides? Drove his car off a cliff, killing himself, his wife, and all his children.
· The history of the gem is long, bloody, and riddled with greed and violence.