put in the satchels, maybe papers and letters. I put the package for him on the upper shelf of the broom closet. It was too high there, for my wife to see, although they try to make her look bad at the trial, because they claim the shelf was low and she cleaned in there and she should see it. But she never did. Anyway. After a while there were rags and things on the shelf, covering up the box, and I forgot all about it. Fisch, he told me he would be back again in two months.”
“But you never heard from him again.”
“Oh, but I did. He wrote me a few times…and then, in March or April, from his brother Pincus I get a letter saying Isidor have died. Pincus asked me, in his letter, as he knew I was a friend of Isidor’s, to look after his brother’s financial business in this country. So I wrote and told Pincus how we stood in the stock and fur business.”
From the expression on Hauptmann’s face, I could tell there had been discrepancies.
“Fisch have told me that he got bank accounts and a safe-deposit box and that he also got ten thousand dollars in some company that bakes pies. Also lots of furs. And that a friend owed him two thousand dollars. But when I start to look around after Isidor have died, I find that the pie company is a fake and that Fisch owes the friend eight hundred dollars, and that another friend he owes four thousand dollars. I could find no furs, except the four hundred skins at my house, which are not worth half what he told me. So I am all mixed up.”
“So you opened up that little box in your closet, and…”
“No! I have forgot all about that box. I go to Fisch’s lawyer, who tells me there is no money, nothing valuable in the safe-deposit box. And I give up.”
“You gave up?”
“Yes. But three or four weeks before I get arrested, it has been raining, like tonight…and the water comes in the broom closet and as I am cleaning it up, I run across the box, soaking wet. When I look, I find it is full of money! Oh ho, I say to myself-this is where Izzy’s money has gone. What he has saved up, he has put in gold certificates. I put the money in a pail, and took it to my garage, where I dried it and hid it like the police found it, except for the few bills I have already spent. I did not put it in the bank, because with gold certificates, I think I should have trouble.”
“You helped yourself, because Izzy was into you for, what? Seven grand?”
He nodded. “Because he owed me money and have tried to cheat me, I see that money and feel it is largely mine.” He shook his head, sighing heavily. “Could I have known that money was Lindbergh baby money? No! The gas station man have testify that I say to him when I gave him that bill, ‘I have a hundred more like that at home.’ Would I say that if I knew that these bills maybe could take my life some day?”
“But you lied to the cops about the money.”
“Because I have gold certificates, and it is illegal! I knew I would get in much trouble if they knew I had so much gold money, and besides, near the money in my garage I have hidden also a pistol which I know I am not supposed to have.”
“Do you think Isidor Fisch was involved in the kidnapping, or anyway, in the extortion?”
He shook his head slowly, hopelessly. “I don’t know, Nate. I wish I did. I know, when I ask around about him, I find he was not the man I thought. He was a crook. Maybe he was trading in what they call ‘hot money.’”
There were footsteps in the corridor.
“Pincus, Izzy’s brother, wrote me to say that shortly before Isidor died, from his bed of death, he called out for me-he seemed to want to say something about me. But he was too weak. He took to his grave that which would be of great help to me now.”
Warden Kimberling’s stocky figure-now in a gray business suit, the black slicker gone-appeared beyond the iron bars. “Mr. Heller, just a few more minutes.”
“Would you mind checking on my secretary, Warden? See how she’s doing?”
He nodded.
As he moved through the door, I saw that whenever that door opened, Hauptmann got a nice clear view of the electric chair, covered in white.
“Six men have walked by me, going to that room, since I come here,” he said with no apparent emotion. “Some of them silent, some of them crying, some even scream.”
I didn’t know what to say to that.
The door closed, the warden presumably having a little chat with Evalyn.
Hauptmann’s hand settled on my shoulder again, less tentatively now. “Nate, I am glad you’re not the pal of Jafsie.”
I laughed. “That old bastard drives me bughouse.”
“He came to see me, you know.”
That threw me. “Here?”
“No. At the cell in Hunterdon County jail. He ask me if I have athletic training. I tell him yes. He ask me if I have won any prizes, and I tell him sixteen or seventeen in Germany for running. Then it look like he was going to cry.”
“He didn’t claim to recognize you?”
“He call me ‘John’ many times, though I correct him. He say if I know anything, I should confess, because there was no connection between the money and the kidnapping, and I would clear myself and himself. He say the police were treating him roughly. But he never said I am the fellow-and when he left, he ask could he come see me again, and I say ‘yes.’ But he never did.”
The door to the death chamber opened and gave us another glimpse of the muslin-covered chair as Warden Kimberling approached, saying, “It’s time, Mr. Heller.”
I stood. Hauptmann and I again shook hands. His eyes, which had been so cold, were warm. His smile was warm.
“I think you might help me,” he said.
“I’m going to try,” I admitted.
“You should believe in God, Nate. I know He will never permit some persons to commit a murder on me.”
“Murders do happen, Dick.”
He laughed, and some bitterness crept back in. “Yes-the poor child have been kidnapped and murdered, so somebody must die for it. For is the parent not the great flier? And if somebody does not die for the death of the child, then always the police will be monkeys.” He shrugged, his smile was a humorless, fatalistic smirk. “So I am the one who is picked out to die.”
There was nothing to say to that. I gave him a tight smile, a little pat on the shoulder, and got the hell out, the door clanking shut behind me.
Evalyn, sitting on the bench, all in black, truly seemed in mourning now; she’d been taking notes, my rich little secretary, the pencil worn to a nub, her face tear-streaked.
She stood, wobblingly, and came into my arms. “That poor man,” she said. “That poor man.”
The warden was looking on from the doorway, uncomfortably.
“Let’s get our coats,” I told her.
From the cellblock, I heard someone say, “Damn.”
I let go of Evalyn and moved toward the warden and stood in the doorway and looked out at Hauptmann, one last time, a white face behind gray bars.
“At least he suffer not long,” he said, looking up.
I stepped out into the corridor and glanced up; and saw the small gray form of the bird motionless against the wire.
30
This neighborhood, at the far edge of the Bronx, had the small-town flavor of many a big city’s outlying sections. Most of the houses were two-family, two-story wood-and-stucco jobs with neat little lawns, often with a weed-patched vacant lot next door. Hauptmann’s residence-at 1279 East 222nd-was no exception: a two-and-a-
