Swan's Heist

No one was around to hear the loud pop before Agatha and Jane stepped out of the bathroom stall together. The date was November twenty-eight, nineteen sixty-six, and these two women were dressed to impress. The Plaza Hotel had filled with Truman Capote’s guests, and it was a good night for a heist.

“We have exactly fifty-five minutes and forty-five seconds to get what we need and be back in that stall,” Agatha said as she freshened her lipstick, “or Oscar might just kill us.”

Jane chuckled, turning this way and that to inspect her elegant black gown in the mirror. “More likely that he’ll leave us trapped here to make a point.”

“Can you imagine?” Agatha shuddered. “Women can’t even open a bank account by themselves in nineteen sixty-six, for God’s sake.”

A wry smile lifted Jane’s lips as they fitted their feathered masks in place. They each took a deep breath, lifted their shoulders, and walked out to join the rest of New York’s elite as if they belonged there. Andy Warhol breezed by without a mask, glancing at Agatha’s ensemble without comment.

“Must not be his type,” she mumbled, grinning.

“Warhol is gay,” Jane leaned in close to whisper. “So no, I’d say not.”

Agatha turned to her with wide eyes, whispering loudly, “That was Andy Warhol?”

A few heads turned their way, and Jane appeased them with polite smiles. Agatha looked unabashed.

“Remember the objective, Aggie.” Jane grabbed her hand and squeezed. “Check his coat, his briefcase. Stay focused.”

She nodded. “And you’re going to Capote’s apartment?”

“Yes.” Jane looked into her friend’s shocking blue eyes and said firmly, “And if I’m not back on time, leave without me.”

“Jane, no.”

Jane held up a hand, her stony face brooking no argument. She simply tapped the elegant watch on her slender wrist and raised an eyebrow. Agatha nodded, her mouth set in a firm, determined line. With that, they parted. Agatha’s gown fluttered as she rounded a corner, and then she was gone.

Jane headed for the exit, pulling on her large mink coat. It was appropriate for the time, if a little garish. The Literary Society of Chronological Revision kept an entire room full of authentic clothing and accessories on hand for occasions just like this. You never knew where or when you might need to travel for a job. You couldn’t very well travel to the year fifteen fifty-six to attend Mary Queen of Scots’ son’s baptism at Stirling Castle in a dress you borrowed from a costume shop. You wouldn’t get close enough to the Queen to say hello, let alone steal a lock of her hair. Besides, all the Society’s clothing was outfitted with hidden pockets, which were needed to smuggle out the items each member was sent to retrieve. Jane’s mink coat was no exception.

She broke through the throng of partygoers and into the fresh air outside the Plaza. It would take thirty minutes to get to Capote’s Manhattan apartment on foot, so she needed a cab. Luckily, the Society also kept a supply of cash on hand. Money didn’t look much different in the sixties, but you had to ensure accuracy when traveling. Giving someone a coin or bill with a future date printed on it might seem harmless, but it was best not to find out.

Jane found it easy to slip into a cab as someone vacated it. The drive to Capote’s apartment should take approximately seven minutes, but seeing as they were right smack in the middle of the event of the century, it was likely going to take longer.

“Are you one of his Swans?” the cabby asked.

Jane shook her head, laughing a little.

Capote kept a close group of beautiful and stylish high-society women, most of whom were married to powerful men, by his side. These were his Swans. It might have been a compliment from the cabby, but to Jane it was simply confirmation that her disguise was working.

Traffic moved slowly, and when they reached the apartment building, Jane was practically vibrating. She checked her watch: forty minutes before she needed to return. She pressed cash into the driver’s hand, triple his actual fare, and allowed herself ten seconds to breathe before heading inside. She couldn’t rush in with wide eyes and shaking hands. Jane needed to be the picture of elegance. Everyone had to believe she belonged.

“Miss?” a doorman called out, beckoning her away from the cab.

“Yes.” She tried for a demure, polite smile as she walked through the door he held open. “Thank you.”

Jane approached the front desk, and the man behind it looked at her with kind eyes.

“Hello.” She smiled warmly. “Truman sent me to ready his apartment for the special after-party.”

Jane lowered her voice, covering her mouth with her fingertips as if she were telling a big secret. The man gave her a small, knowing smile, and she had no doubt the concierge was accustomed to Capote’s… tendencies.

“Of course, ma’am.”

He presented a book for her signature, in which she scribbled something illegible. He didn’t seem to notice, because he waved her through. There were security guards by the elevators, but they paid her no mind. The ride to the twenty-third floor felt long, though only seconds ticked away on her watch. When she arrived, there was more than one door. There were conflicting accounts of exactly where Capote’s apartment was in the building, but Jane found herself in front of the correct door thanks to her extensive research. She pulled a key from her pocket, another gift from the Society’s archive, and slotted it into the lock. When she turned the handle, nothing happened.

Jane cursed under her breath, wriggling the key and shaking the door, but it remained locked tight.

“Damn it,” she breathed, pressing her forehead to the door.

This wouldn’t be the first time her superiors engineered a challenge. To become an official member of the Literary Society of Chronological Revision she was expected to prepare and present a project to the board. It could be anything she wanted, but it had to be entertaining, thorough, and include a relevant artifact retrieved through travel. Jane chose Truman Capote and his controversial work of nonfiction In Cold Blood. His book was touted as a pioneering work in the world of true crime but also sparked controversy.

Can you call a book nonfiction if it blends fiction and truth? Jane didn’t think so.

Obtaining his original manuscript and notes would hopefully prove her theory that Capote withheld crucial documents when his collection of notes and research was donated to the libraries. She believed those documents would contain irrefutable proof that he fabricated much of what was in that book.

But it appeared the board wanted to see how well she could work under pressure, and so they provided a dummy key. Probably Oscar’s idea, if she had to guess. Arrogant bastard, always messing with—

“Everything all right?” A deep voice startled Jane out of her frustrated musings.

She whirled to find a security guard frowning down at her. Jane glanced at her watch, blanching. Only thirty-three minutes remaining. The guard reached out to steady her, mistaking her for faint, and Jane leaned into him.

“Thank goodness you’re here.” She pressed her hand to her forehead, sniffling. “I’ve really mucked things up. Mr. Capote asked me to prepare his apartment for a party, but I must have grabbed the wrong key or—or maybe he handed me the wrong key? It doesn’t matter, of course it doesn’t matter, because he’s never going to—”

“Miss, please.” The security guard pushed her back a little and stood tall, sighing. “It’s really not—”

“It is important,” Jane wailed, making a big deal of trying to slot the key into the lock. “I was barely invited to his party tonight, and if I don’t follow through on this simple task… Sir, do you know what that could mean for a woman of my standing?”

Jane did her best to look devastated. After all, how could he know she was a time-traveling thief and not a poor, pitiful rich girl? The worst he expected from this damsel in distress was another outburst, and that, Jane thought, was why he agreed to open the door for her.

The guard gave her a look, hands on his hips, and warned, “I’ll be right outside the door.”

Her eye twitched a little, but Jane managed a smile before closing said door in his face. Alone in Capote’s apartment, she took a deep breath before promptly blowing out that air in a shocked huff of laughter. The place was unbelievably fancy in the most absurd way. Capote described his own library dining room as “sinking into a raspberry tart,” but this—wow. Tiffany lamps, animal-shaped vases and figurines. Bright colors and loud patterns. Pillows with abstract art that were borderline terrifying to look at. Jane let her finger trail along an expertly carved thing she had no name for, glimpsing her watch in the process.

Twenty-six minutes. Factoring in hailing another cab, fighting traffic, and pushing her way back into the Plaza, she figured she couldn’t afford to spend longer than ten minutes in the apartment. Finding the manuscript was looking less and less possible, but she hadn’t come this far to simply admire the man’s weird taste in décor.

Her heels clicked along the floors and over expensive rugs as she rushed from room to room. She barely spared the kitchen and bathrooms a passing glance. A study, office, or bedroom were her best bets, but she wouldn’t rule out a sitting room or living room, especially if there were bookshelves or drawers.

It was almost impossible to keep her search silent when she had so little time. Drawers squeaked; books fell from shelves. Jane eventually kicked off her heels to increase speed and reduce noise. After five minutes all she had was a box full of journals, books with notes scribbled in the margins, and a stack of financial documents she wished she had more time to dig into. None of it would impress her superiors.

But then she spotted a stack of papers nearly hidden under a black and white notebook. Most of them were typewritten, but there were handwritten notes along the edges of many pages. She caught words like Swansand lies and facade. On one page, which appeared to be a document dedicated to brainstorming a title, she saw Answered Prayers circled multiple times.

Salacious details were depicted as fiction, but even Jane, who’d only ever read of the women through her research, recognized the characters as thinly veiled representations of Capote’s Swans. He socially and politically slaughtered these women on the page. Things they told him in confidence; things no one, especially a woman living in nineteen sixty-six, would want to get out.

“You dirty, rotten, selfish asshole,” Jane muttered to herself when she came across a particularly awful excerpt, one that he had underlined and written beside in large, excited handwriting: My magnum opus!

She pulled a folder from her hidden pocket and began sliding pages into it. A glance at her watch told her she had less than one minute to get out if she stood any chance of getting back to the Plaza on time. She was halfway through collecting pages when the door to the apartment opened.

“Miss?” The security guard’s deep voice was impatient. “We called the Plaza and spoke with Mr. Capote.”

It should have been fear or panic that stung Jane’s gut, but it was annoyance. She shoved what she could into the folder and left the rest, creeping quietly through the apartment. If she was lucky, she could slip right past the guard and be out before he realized she was gone. She just needed to find her shoes.

“Ma’am?”

Jane barely held in a grunt of frustration when she peeked around the corner to see the guard toe her heels with his black boot. She abandoned her shoes, knowing she could slip through another doorway and beat him to the front door if she went right then. Whether she could do that without him noticing was another story.

“A’right,” she heard him say with more force, his patience depleted. “Stop hiding and—”

She hit the doorway with a thud as her stockings caused her to slip. She booked it to the elevator, which another couple had blessedly already called for, and slipped in ahead of them. It was quite rude, but doing so meant the security guard running into the hall seconds later would see the couple entering the elevator. Not Jane. Those few precious seconds were enough to secure her escape.

In the lobby, however, several guards congregated around the front desk. The elevator dinged as it opened, and the man at the desk caught her eye, a telephone held to his ear. He looked baffled, and she heard him ask, “The woman in the fur?”

Jane was already on the move.

“Hey!” someone shouted.

Another called out, “Stop her!”

No one obliged. In fact, most people jumped out of Jane’s way. She had no doubt she looked like a madwoman dashing through the lobby in her mink coat, feathered mask, and stockings. The night had grown colder, and her skin stung as she raced down the steps and toward a cab idling by the sidewalk. Another couple was preparing to climb in, but Jane shoved them aside, yelling, “Sorry, sorry, emergency!”

She threw a handful of bills at the driver.

“I’ll give you more if you can get me to the Plaza Hotel.”

The couple on the sidewalk shrieked with outrage, but the driver nodded and stepped on the gas. Jane stared out the back window as the security guards skidded to a stop by the angry couple. Once they faded from view, Jane sank back into the seat, taking her first full breath in what felt like hours. With a few minutes to kill, she began flipping through the stolen documents, shocked once again to realize just how much these women shared with Capote. He was an author, for God’s sake. He’d garnered fame and fortune by turning people’s tragedies into entertainment with his novel In Cold Blood. Why would these women think their stories would be safe with him?

If this was his only copy, maybe she’d saved a few of his Swans from certain ruin, but what about the pages she’d been forced to leave behind?

“What’s going on?” she asked as the car slowed.

“It’s that damn Black and White party,” he grumbled.

Traffic completely stalled. The mess of cars and bodies Jane had contended with when she left the Plaza was now blocking her route back in.

“How far away are we?” she asked, knee bouncing.

“Half a mile, maybe?”

Her watch spelled it out for her: ten minutes remaining. The pages crinkled as she shoved them back into her pocket. She didn’t have time to be neat.

“I’m good here.” She thrust a wad of bills into the front seat.

The driver stared down at the money and back at her with a gaping mouth. Jane didn’t spare him a backward glance as she raced toward the hotel. She was never much of a runner, but she might have rivaled Usain Bolt in that moment. If he wore a gown, mink coat, and stockings, that is. Pedestrians grumbled and cried out as she ran by. She couldn’t be sure of it, but she thought she might have even knocked someone’s cane out of their hand.

This momentum carried her down the street and up the red-carpeted stairs. With all the bodies milling about, and the general shock factor of seeing this woman running full speed, she was able to slip inside without being stopped. Her luck was running out as quickly as her time, though, and she practically collided with a drunken Truman Capote.

“A runaway socialite?” he asked in that high-pitched voice of his. “Or a party crasher?”

A few people around him snickered with laughter, and Jane smiled along with them.

“Truth be told, Mr. Capote, I’m a fan,” she lied, “one that is in desperate need of a bathroom, if you please.”

She began to navigate around him, but he stopped her with an outstretched arm. Jane cringed away, not wanting to feel his touch. Especially not as his bland smile didn’t reach his too-wide gaze.

“Ah, ah, ah,” he tutted, moving to stand in front of her again and slurring, “I’d like to learn my admirer’s name before she scurries off into the night.”

His lisp was prominent, and it made him seem more nefarious somehow. Jane couldn’t help but think he reminded her of a cartoon villain all dressed up in a suit and tie. The only thing missing was a handlebar mustache and a cigar clenched between his teeth.

“I think you should let me pass,” she said with a venomous sweetness.

His smile faltered. “Is that so?”

Jane bore into his bleary-eyed gaze, voice dropping in warning.

“Unless you’d like to discuss Answered Prayers.”

He took a step back as if slapped, and Jane took the opportunity to slip away. His fingers grasped clumsily for her wrist, but she yanked out of his grasp. She felt dizzy with success, drunk on power, and when she burst into the bathroom to find Agatha pacing back and forth, she pulled her into an uncharacteristic hug.

“I guess you got what you came for?” Agatha asked, laughing.

“Nope,” Jane said with a grin, pulling out a handful of stolen chapters, “but I think I might have saved a few swans.”

Agatha pulled Jane into the stall and sighed with relief. “Twenty-seven seconds to spare.”

Pop.