Walkabout: The Long, Daring Winter of the Cat

The winter of 1862 to ’63 was an eventful one for the wealthy inhabitants of Brooklyn Heights. Whilst the Civil War raged on to the south, social life in Brooklyn was more or less as it had been before the battles began. It was a brisk winter, and when the socialites weren’t out learning to ice skate on frozen ponds in Brooklyn’s suburbs, they were enjoying each other’s company in the parlors and men’s clubs of the Heights. This winter would be special, too, because there was a new and handsome young man in town. He was wooing the ladies and impressing the men, although none of them knew yet how impressive he could be. He told them his name was Charles H. Grant.

He was a Scotsman, he said, by way of Baton Rouge, and a civil engineer. A twenty-two year old man of means, he had had been all over the world for work and pleasure, including the South and Cuba. The war had curtailed some of his travels, and while he was in Cuba a year or two before this story, he had made the acquaintance of the son of a respected minister, the Rev. Mr. Windsor of Summit Street, Brooklyn. Young Windsor had gotten along splendidly with Grant, and invited him to come to Brooklyn. He would always have a home in the Windsor household. A couple of years later, Grant showed up at the Windsor door. They welcomed him in, and treated him like a son, introducing him to Brooklyn’s Society set.

Everyone liked Charles Grant. He was around five feet, nine inches tall, was handsome with a baby face, on which sat a thick moustache. He was slightly balding, but that only made him more ordinary, and he fit right in with the younger society crowd. He was an athlete, an expert ice skater, and was quite popular at local skating events. He was well dressed, polite, and engaging in conversation. He had a quiet manner about him that put people at ease. The older set was as taken by him as the younger, and he seemed quite eager to settle down in Brooklyn. He even got himself engaged to a local young lady; one who it appeared had a budding career as an operatic soprano ahead of her.

As the winter progressed, and dinner parties, soirees, and other social events took place in people’s homes, a disturbing trend was emerging. Soon after these parties, the host was robbed. Sometimes the thefts took place a few days later, but sometimes, hosts were finding out that they had been robbed while guests were still in the house. Party guests were being robbed in their homes, as well. Of course, none of the high society guests were suspected at all, but there was definitely a burglar on the loose in Brooklyn Heights. A thief so brazen, he could break in while guests and staff were present only rooms away in the house.

As more and more robberies took place, patterns emerged. The houses all had grape arbors or some kind of trees or garden structures that could be climbed to access upper story windows. The thief always only took small objects that could be easily carried, such as money, diamonds, jewelry, watches, and small silverware. And he seemed to know where everything was, went right to it, and left as silently as he came in. This thief was as smooth and quiet as a cat.

The police had their theories, one of which was that the thief had entered during a party, perhaps dressed as the help, at a time when extra servants would be hired to take care of the party guests. Although the thief had to be a man, a woman could be letting him in the back door. Servants at these parties soon found life much harder than it already was, with both police and hosts watching their every move. But in spite of extra security, the thefts continued. In the dead of night, one of Brooklyn’s wealthy could wake up to find the cat burglar slipping out of their room into the darkness.

It happened to several people that winter. Thomas Hunt, on the corner of Remsen and Henry was robbed. So was William Richards, on Hicks, near Clark. The Gothic House, on Remsen and Clinton, an upscale boarding house run by Mrs. Dimon, was robbed, as well. There, the burglar entered the rooms of stock broker George Myers and made off with a gold watch and chain. Myers woke up in time to see a shadowy figure slip out of his room and over the edge of the balcony.

In nearby South Brooklyn, at Charles Christmas’ house, on Henry Street and Second, the homeowner woke in the middle of the night to the sound of someone in the hall. “Who’s there?” he called. A low voice calmly and softly answered, “It’s me.” Christmas relaxed and went back to sleep, and woke up to find he and his family had been robbed. That same evening, Mr. and Mrs. Waring, a block away on First, had earlier returned from a neighborhood party. Mrs. Waring had taken off the diamond necklace and set of diamond rings she had on, and left them on the bureau.

She woke up in the middle of the night to see a man standing at the bureau. She woke her husband up, and he ran after the figure, only to have him disappear out of a rear window, down the side of the building and out into the night. He had dropped two of the six rings he had taken, and both Warings told the police that the man had been of average height and wore a mask. It had been so dark, they couldn’t see anything else.

The final robbery took place at the home of Nicholas Van Brunt, who lived on Clinton Street, near Pacific. He was robbed one night after a party, and among the things the thief stole was a fur collar, which had been the gift of a dear friend. Van Brunt wanted it back, and circulated flyers all around town with a description, advertising a reward. A few days later, a furrier on Fulton Street near the ferry told police he had received such a collar, brought in for a re-lining. The owner was going to come back and pick it up in a few days. The police finally had what they were waiting for, a trap. They settled down to wait for the man to come back.

A week passed, and nothing happened. Finally, a young man came by the furrier’s and exited with a small package. Detectives Frost and Corbin approached him. “How do you do, sir?” Detective Frost asked. “I do not know you, sir,” Charles Grant replied in his usual quiet manner. He dropped the package and tried to run, but was overpowered by both detectives and handcuffed. As they led him up Fulton Street, he broke away, somersaulted in a spectacular back flip out of their hands, and ran down Concord Street to Washington. The officers were right behind him, and managed to corner him in a back yard. The chase was over.

Grant was hauled off to City Hall for arraignment. He was wearing the watch chain he had stolen from George Myers, and had a large stick pin with a diamond on it in his lapel. That diamond was from Mrs. Waring’s necklace. He was also carrying a large Spanish dirk. A few days later, he tried to escape again. It was a warm Sunday, and the windows of the jail were open. Guards found Grant in his cell with lime on his hands. A search turned up a homemade chisel and some bricks missing from the wall. Grant told them he had heard his lady love singing in a choir, the sound wafting through his window, and he wanted to join her. They were not moved.

Since he had been caught red handed, he began telling stories. He told of how he had been spotted robbing one house, and had run across the roof of the porch next door, and let himself into that house. As the police were running around looking for him, he had stayed in the parlor, watching the entire thing. Another time he had emerged from a robbery and was on the street, shoeless. He saw a watchman coming down the street, and he had slipped behind a large carriage stone. The watchman had stopped at the stone, sat down and took a break, smoking his pipe. Grant had been inches behind the oblivious guard, who finished his smoke, got up and walked on.

At his trial, Charles Grant pleaded guilty to nine indictments of grand larceny. He was sentenced to twenty years in Sing Sing. After two years there, he tried to escape and failed. In retaliation he was sentenced to heavy labor on the chain gang at the iron mines in Clinton. He was there only a few days working on the chain, when he suddenly dropped his pick, clutched his chest and fell down dead. He was twenty-five years old. The career of the suave and charming cat burglar of Brooklyn was over.

In subsequent years, after the war, more details about Charles Grant emerged. Before the war he had traveled throughout the South, posing as a rich young Southern gentleman. He left a trail of unsolved burglaries and broken hearts behind him. He had finally been caught in New Orleans, and was in prison when the Civil War broke out. When General Benjamin Franklin Butler occupied the city, he had opened the doors of the prisons, and Grant had been set free.

He first traveled to Cuba, where he had befriended the son of Brooklyn’s Rev. Windsor, and that’s how he got to New York. Police also found out that he had a fence in Cincinnati, where he sent all of his loot, far from where it would be spotted for resale. His fence then sent him the money, which he had used to support his lifestyle and his lies. Although there were burglars before and since, very few had the panache and the prowess of Charles Grant. Unfortunately, this cat burglar did not have nine lives.