Girl Waits with Gun (33 page)

“But why would Mr. Ewing claim responsibility for crimes he didn't commit? He might have been in Mr. Kaufman's gang, but he didn't do it all himself. He couldn't have.”

Sheriff Heath shrugged, and then winced from the pain of moving his shoulder. “Money. I think Kaufman has offered him a sum of money in exchange for confessing to crimes he did not commit. It's worth at least a thousand dollars to Kaufman, not to mention the exposure.”

“Or he's threatened him.”

“Maybe a little of both. I have to assume Kaufman knew that Ewing would get caught. He's the weakest animal in the pack. Easy to sacrifice.”

I leaned back and closed my eyes. I couldn't believe that, after all that had happened, Henry Kaufman might get off without so much as a rebuke from the courts, simply by bribing someone else to take the blame.

“But I have one bit of good news,” he said. “We're calling in a handwriting expert from New York. William Kingsley. He's an authority on the scientific study of penmanship. He's going to look at the letters and try to connect them to Kaufman.”

“I don't see how that could help us,” I said. “They were all printed in block lettering.”

“Oh, he's got a method, even when someone tries to disguise the handwriting. He's winning cases. There's just one thing. He wants us to gather writing samples not just from Ewing and Kaufman, but from other parties involved in the case. I'd like all three of you to come down and give a sample.”

“But why would we write the letters?”

“He just wants to rule out anyone who might be accused of writing the letters themselves to create a sensation.”

“And would we be accused of throwing bricks through our own windows? Running down our own buggy?”

“It's only a formality.”

The kitchen door opened, and Norma, Fleurette, and Deputy Morris shuffled down the hall. They looked half asleep.

“I'm sorry we kept you,” I said, rising to my feet. “You must be wanting to get home.”

“I thought there was some trouble with the road,” Fleurette said. “Shouldn't they stay the night?”

Both men stiffened in surprise at the suggestion, as did Norma.

“Thank you, Miss Fleurette,” Deputy Morris said, “but that won't be necessary. The road is very slow going because of all the ruts in it and the new moon. But now that we are warm and dry, the drive will be more tolerable.”

As they went out the door, Sheriff Heath thanked Fleurette for her services as a nurse and Norma for the coffee. To me he said, “Tomorrow, Miss Kopp.”

WE WERE WAITING ON THE FRONT PORCH
when Sheriff Heath arrived the next morning. The sun had come out, and the air, while still cold, smelled damp and green.

“I don't approve of us riding around in automobiles,” Norma said.

“I should like to learn how to drive one, and I wonder if the sheriff would teach me,” Fleurette said. “I was just looking at a charming motoring cap in one of my magazines that I think would suit me.”

“Don't bother the sheriff,” I said. “He's doing us a favor by bringing us to the station himself. I'm sure he's very busy.”

Sheriff Heath brought the car to a stop in our drive and jumped out, grinning, to open the door for me. Norma and Fleurette settled in behind us.

“You're in high spirits for a man who was shot last night,” I said.

“We got him. And now he faces an assault charge for shooting at an officer of the law.”

“You caught the thief after you left our house last night? In your condition?”

“Oh, not Morris and me. No, we went right home to bed. But one of the men in the posse tracked him all night and brought him in just before dawn. I deputized that fellow on the spot. We could use more like him.”

“I'm sure you could.”

The men from the dairy were taking advantage of the sunshine and finishing the work on the road, spreading a new layer of crushed stone and pressing it down with a roller. They stepped aside to let us through, although I know that the tires of the automobile only made the road more rutted and pitted. “We should get the county to come out and oil this road,” Sheriff Heath said, half to himself. “This macadam is only good for buggies and bicycles.”

“If you know a way to get the Board of Freeholders to pay for it, I'd like to hear about it.”

“I wish I did. I'm fighting them for every penny right now. They put up that jail at a cost of six hundred thousand dollars but didn't finish it. I had to petition them for sanitary drains and windows that can't be picked open with common tools. There's no laundry facility and no money for me to issue uniforms to the prisoners. You can't imagine what a mess it is.”

“Haven't the Freeholders seen it? Aren't any of them on your side?”

“I haven't offered them a tour,” he said, smiling.

“Well, perhaps you should. Or show them some pictures. Doesn't anyone have a camera?”

“I suppose I do.”

We drove along in silence for a minute. When we bounced over a large pit in the road, his face wound up in pain.

“What did the doctor have to say about your shoulder?”

He didn't look away from the road. He probably wanted to forget being subjected to the amateur nursing efforts of the Kopp household last night. Finally he said, “Mrs. Heath has examined the wound carefully and given it a fresh bandage.”

“And she approves of you going right back to work today?”

“She does not.”

I wondered what it must have been like for Mrs. Heath to awaken in the night and find her husband shot in the shoulder.

“I think I agree with your wife. You should have stayed home today.”

He shrugged and grinned. “The criminals don't stay home, Miss Kopp. You know that. Mrs. Heath knows it too.” Nothing could ruin his good mood. It was amazing to see what catching a fugitive could do for his disposition. I was cheered myself by the news.

The sheriff turned around to speak to Norma and Fleurette. “This is merely an exercise to satisfy Mr. Kingsley's rigorous method. No one suspects the Kopps of writing the letters,” he said.

“I would think not,” Norma said.

“His method is very scientific, the way he looks at each letter and how it's made. He can tell how hard a man presses a pen against the paper, and he knows the difference between how you write a letter at the beginning of the word or in the middle of it. He's winning all kinds of cases in New York. This is all we need to get our Mr. Kaufman convicted.”

“He's not our Mr. Kaufman,” Norma said.

“I think he is ours after all this time,” Fleurette said. “He is our very own personal Black Hander. Most girls don't have one.”

Sheriff Heath gave her a grave look. “You mustn't make a joke of this.”

“We've been telling her that all along,” I said. I turned to scold Fleurette yet again. “Sheriff Heath and his men sacrificed their own safety to guard our house. Don't let me hear you make light of it again, especially at the courthouse.”

She shrugged and looked out the window. I wondered if we had worked too hard to protect her. She felt so utterly secure that she seemed to believe no harm could ever come to her.

As we drove into Hackensack, it seemed that the sun had brightened the spirits of the entire town. Schoolchildren were skipping rope in the playground, mothers were out walking with their babies, and shopkeepers were lingering outside their storefronts with cigarettes. I thought I could see buds breaking on the cherry trees, but that might have been my hopeful imagination.

AT THE COURTHOUSE
Deputy Morris took charge of us and led us to an empty room where we were to wait our turn. “I'm afraid they're running behind,” he said. “But now that the sheriff's back, I'm sure things will move along.”

Still we waited for the better part of an hour. I'd brought a book, Norma had her newspaper, and Fleurette just fidgeted and complained that no one told her to bring something to keep herself occupied.

“I'm telling you now,” Norma snapped at last. “When you go places, bring things to keep yourself occupied. There.”

After an interminable wait, Deputy Morris returned and brought us down the long paneled corridor to the entrance to a courtroom. The door was closed and a few of Sheriff Heath's men stood guard. They looked at us nervously.

“The girls aren't to see him,” one of the guards said to Deputy Morris.

“I thought he was finished.”

The guard shook his head. “He's still in there yelling and pounding the table and kicking up a fuss. Never seen a man so obstinate. He's not coming to stay with us, is he?”

Deputy Morris frowned. “I don't want him under our roof any more than you do, but if a prison term is what he deserves, that's what he'll get.”

“Are you talking about Henry Kaufman?” I said. “Is he in there?”

The men looked at us in surprise as if they'd forgotten all about us. From inside the room came the sound of chairs scuffing around on the floor and men arguing in low voices. One of the guards leaned against the door.

Deputy Morris gestured down the corridor. “Ladies, why don't we just go back and wait.”

Just then the door burst open and the guard was knocked off his feet. Henry Kaufman pushed past him, red-faced and wild-eyed, strands of hair plastered against his forehead with sweat. I was standing in front of Fleurette. Before anyone could react, he lunged at me.

“You! You're behind this!” he roared. He rushed at me but I pushed back, shoving him against the wall just as I had the previous summer. The only reason his head didn't hit the wall with the same satisfying crack is that two officers were already on me, tugging at my shoulders and slowing my momentum.

“Take your hands off her,” Morris shouted, which elicited a round of smothered laughter from the spectators. Henry Kaufman may have been the aggressor, but I had him pinned and the officers couldn't pull me away from him.

For just a second, Henry Kaufman and I stared each other down. I'd been running from this man for the better part of a year, but now I wanted him to see me. I wanted him to look into the face of the person he'd been tormenting. But although his eyes were forced in my direction, there was a black emptiness to them. They could have been two cold stones for all the humanity they revealed. He may have once been a petulant and spoiled child, but he had become a drunk and deranged man, and I saw in his face little possibility of redemption. That only made me want to shake him harder. Maybe I could knock loose whatever horrible thing was wedged inside of him.

He looked around wildly when he realized that the officers had let go of my arms. They were going to let me have him. I had gathered up his collar in one hand and used the other hand to press his shoulder against the wall.

“Not a word,” I said in a low voice meant only for him. It thrilled me to have him in my grasp. I felt like a hawk about to devour a fish.

I heard a rustle behind me and looked around to see Sheriff Heath standing in the doorway, wearing an expression I could not read. No one had ever stared at me as intently as he was at that moment. He seemed to be mesmerized.

In the calmest voice I could muster, I said, “Sheriff Heath, has he given you your writing sample?”

He blinked in surprise and then smiled slowly. “He has not, Miss Kopp. He's been uncooperative.”

I looked down at Mr. Kaufman, who was squirming under my grip. “Go and do what the sheriff says,” I said. “I'll be waiting right here.”

I gave him another hard push against the wall and shoved him toward the doorway. The sheriff clasped him on the shoulder and guided him back into the courtroom, then shot one last strange, still look at me before closing the door.

Once inside, we could hear Mr. Kaufman yell, “What's going to be done about that? I want charges brought up against that lady.”

The deputies gathered around the door to hear.

Mr. Kaufman growled something unintelligible, and Sheriff Heath replied, “Now, who would ever believe that you'd have any trouble fighting off a lady, Mr. Kaufman?”

HENRY KAUFMAN
did make a handwriting sample that day. When the door opened and Sheriff Heath indicated that all was well, I let Deputy Morris lead us away so we wouldn't run into him again. At last it was our turn to sit in the courtroom with the sheriff and write out our copies of the letters. I hadn't seen the letters since I had turned them over to him. It was unsettling to read them again, and even more unsettling to write out the very words that had been used to threaten us.

If you don't pay we will fire your house. We know your horse and wagon.

We will trap you or burn you.

Have you ever been to Chicago? We believe a girl of your talents would find a nice place for herself with no trouble at all.

Fleurette's hand shook a little as she wrote that line. I watched her face as she bent over the paper and I thought about all the hours Norma and I spent teaching her to write her letters. She copied out poems and stories, wrote notes to her uncles in Brooklyn, and composed messages for Norma's pigeons to carry. Mother taught her to write in French. Francis showed her what little he remembered of musical notation. As I watched her, I couldn't help but see the little girl she used to be, concentrating on her studies, not a nearly grown woman cooperating in a criminal investigation.

AS WE WALKED DOWN
the courthouse steps with Deputy Morris, we met a guard holding a prisoner by the arm. It was George Ewing in shabby brown overalls. His limp was worse as he hobbled up the stairs.

I moved to put myself between him and Fleurette, and spun her around to face away from him. He'd threatened to kidnap her. I didn't even want him to see her.

Deputy Morris hurried us past him, but it was too late. Mr. Ewing shouted after us, “Is that you? Constance Kopp? And your sister?”