Better Dead (19 page)

“I do. Lena and Ethel—the other ‘Ethel' in the family.” She smiled. “Sometimes at family gatherings, things they get confusing, two Ethels.” The smile faded.

“Have either of your daughters commented on the table?”

“Oh yes.”

“What have they said?”

“Nice table!”

“You said the members of your family didn't go to the courthouse to attend the trial.”

“Too hard. Too painful.”

Was it possible none of the Rosenberg family, beyond Julius and Ethel, knew of the significance of the missing console table?

“Forgive me, Mrs. Rosenberg,” I said, “but … do you read and write?”

She paused, clearly embarrassed. “Not English.”

“But your daughters do?”

“Certainly!”

“Did
they
follow the trial in the papers?”

“No, no, no. Too upsetting. Why put yourself through this kind pain?”

“Did they visit their brother where he was being held?”

“Yes. Good sisters.”

“Did they keep up with the court proceedings in that way, do you think? Getting reports from Julius?”

“Oh no! They speak of personal things. Family things. Why talk about sadness? Why get more
shroyft
?”

Right. Why get more
shroyft
?

I said, “You mentioned your son's attorney, Manny Bloch.”

“Nice man. Lovely person.”

“He's been in this apartment?”

“Yes, he would come to take the boys to see their mama and papa at … where they stay.”

She couldn't bring herself to say “prison.”

“So Mr. Bloch didn't linger?”

“Didn't what?”

“Didn't stay long?”

“No. Not long.”

“You said he picks you up to take you to visit your son.”

“He does this. Very nice.”

“You never had him here for a meal, say.”

“No. Do you think I should have?”

“So he never mentioned your nice table, said anything about it.”

“Why would he?”

I sat forward. “Mrs. Rosenberg, I think that nice table of yours may be a key missing piece of evidence.”

“Piece of what?”

“A clue. Something to help your son and his wife.”

“This is possible how?”

“It just is. If I'm right, I'll explain further, in as much detail as you like. For now, I'd just like your permission to take some pictures of the table tomorrow. And possibly—and this is important—to take it away and keep it somewhere safe.”

She had been quietly nodding all through that, even as she looked ever more bewildered. “All right, Mr. Heller. If that would help Julius. But if it does?”

“Yes, Mrs. Rosenberg?”

“You have to give it back to him and Ethel. It
is
their table.”

*   *   *

We excused ourselves and Natalie and I had a quick powwow near our discovery.

“What now?” she asked.

“I'll call my local man at the A-1 branch office,” I said, “first thing tomorrow. Honey, this is really heating up.”

She nodded, excitement dancing in the dark eyes. Then she frowned in thought, and gave a finger snap. “There's something else we can try. I know it's been a long day, but if you're up for it…”

“What?”

She raised a cautionary hand. “Let me just see first, before I get you all excited.”

I grinned at her. “And you know how easy it is for you to get me all excited.”

She gave me a crinkled-chin smile in return, then called out to our hostess, asking if there was a phone in the apartment. There was, in the kitchen, and Natalie went off to use it.

I helped myself to another macaroon and some tea, then returned to my armchair and told Mrs. Rosenberg that we'd call her before coming by tomorrow morning, and that I would probably not be alone for the visit. I explained that Bob Hasty ran my local branch office and that he would likely accompany me and possibly bring a professional photographer.

Five minutes or so later, Natalie returned, golden-brown hair bouncing on her shoulders; she wore a small, self-satisfied smile. She gestured to me to rejoin her at the drop-leaf table and I excused myself to Mrs. Rosenberg and went.

“So excite me,” I said.

“What's this do for you? Ruth Greenglass has agreed to talk to us.”

“You're kidding.”

“Not a bit.” Natalie reached in her small purse and withdrew a tiny address book. “I just called her. She's still at the same number on the Lower East Side. Thought she might have changed it after all the publicity, but no.”

“When can we see her?”

“Right now.”

 

CHAPTER

11

Natalie had said Ruth Greenglass would see us “right now,” but getting from Washington Heights to the Lower East Side took forty-five minutes. When no cab had availed itself, Natalie and I made the trek by subway, where in my Dobbs hat and tailored suit I must have been an invitation to dine to prospective muggers. With the nine-millimeter under my arm, however, I felt I could risk it.

The ground floor of the shabby Rivington Street tenement—with its mask of fire escapes and checkerboard of lit and unlit windows—was home to an electrician's shop and a neighborhood grocery. Both were closed at this time of night—it was going on nine-thirty—though nearby bars provided the street with some rowdy milling color. Natalie commented idly that David's mother lived around the corner on Sheriff Street and Ruth's father's dry-goods store was just down the block.

Four creaking flights of barely lighted stairs took us to the spongy landing where Ruth's door awaited, but it took only two knocks to summon her. And she was something of a surprise, considering the surroundings.

Ruth Greenglass had taken the opportunity to spruce up, knowing how long the trip from the Heights would take. Her deftly applied makeup included bright red lipstick, not unlike Natalie's, and she wore a long-sleeve filmy white rhinestone-buttoned blouse (slip peeking through), a black patent-leather belt, and a black-and-white horizontally striped skirt, presumably an unintentional echo of old-fashioned prison uniforms.

I'd expected a dowdy housewife, but this was a good-looking woman, buxom but petite, nearly pretty in an Andrews Sisters kind of way; her dark hair was fashionably styled, upswept waves in front, rolled bun in back. Her smile was surprisingly warm as she offered me a regal hand, which I clasped briefly, though for a fraction of a second I considered a half bow.

She raised a red-nailed finger to her full red lips and whispered, “Little angels are sleeping.”

She opened the door for us and we stepped into a living room that seemed ill-suited for such a nicely dressed, well-groomed hostess. The secondhand furnishings in this dismal, paint-peeling space made Sophie Rosenberg's apartment, with or without a drop-leaf table, look palatial. The narrow kitchen she walked us to was primitive at best: exposed pipes, bare sink, ancient stove, and a claw-foot bathtub. Having grown up on the West Side of Chicago, I knew in a cold-water flat the proximity of the tub to a hot-water source was a necessity.

The smell of coffee greeted us. She led us to a small scarred table—one of its sides snug to the wall—covered by a simple white cloth with red trim; an ashtray, book of matches, and pack of Chesterfields served as a centerpiece. No door separated us from the hallway, so we kept the volume low. Kiddies were sleeping, and the youngest one—a girl—probably wasn't school age yet.

The small attractive woman stood between Natalie and me where she'd seated us and rested a friendly hand on our nearest shoulders.

“You're Mr. Heller,” she said pleasantly, her voice a low timbre.

I said I was and nodded.

To Natalie she said, “A surprise hearing from you, dear, after all this time.” Not chilly but not warm, either.

“I'm sorry to be such a stranger,” Natalie said with a nervous smile. “I bet those two of yours have grown.”

“Like weeds. Something David is missing out on, I'm afraid.” She swung her dark-eyed gaze around. “Coffee, anyone?”

We were all in favor of that and she served us up. I put sugar and milk in mine, Natalie the same, our hostess taking it black. She finally sat, offering us a smoke that both Natalie and I turned down. Our hostess lit up a Chesterfield, inhaled deep, held it, then thoughtfully exhaled a gray-blue cloud away from the table.

“It's generous of you, Mrs. Greenglass,” I said, “to see us at such short notice, and at this late hour.”

“Actually this is better than earlier,” she said. “Barbara and Steve can be handfuls, and Stevie has homework while Barbie has to be kept amused. Being a parent is a full-time job, and I
already
have another one.”

Natalie said, “You're working?”

She exhaled smoke through the teeth. “Typist in a secretarial pool. Somebody has to support the family.”

That was the opening I was hoping for. “Must have been a terrible shock,” I said, and sipped the coffee.

“Excuse me?”

“When they sentenced your husband to fifteen years.” I gave my head a single sympathetic shake.

Her pleasant expression hardened at the thought of the injustice of that. “I didn't expect it, I admit,” she said. “Fifteen fucking years—Steven will be twenty, Barbara sixteen! So unfair. So very unfair.”

But maybe not,
I thought,
as unfair as railroading your sister-in-law into the Sing Sing death house.

I said, “It may not be that bad. There's always parole.”

Her glistening red upper lip curled in contempt. “Our attorney told us that if we told them what we knew, and fully cooperated? Then David would get a suspended sentence. If the judge was in a bad mood, he said, the worst we could expect was David getting maybe three years.”

“No question about it,” I said with a small matter-of-fact shrug and sigh. “You were double-crossed.”

“But what can I do about it?” she asked, the hardness gone.

She
was
attractive. I could see why she was apparently the only person on the planet that David Greenglass gave a damn about, besides himself and maybe those slumbering kids down the hall.

“Well, Ruth,” I began, then stopped as if afraid I'd overstepped. “May I call you Ruth?”

She tamped cigarette ash into the tray. She made her smile go pleasant again. “Please. And do you prefer ‘Nathan' or ‘Nate'?”

“Nate's fine.” We'd keep it casual. Another sip. “Did Natalie tell you why I wanted to chat?”

Ruth nodded. “She said you're a private investigator working for a group trying to get clemency for Ethel.”

“That's not
exactly
right. I'm looking for new evidence, new witnesses.”

She turned sharply to Natalie. “
You
said that—”

“Please,” I said, holding up a hand. “I'm not here to cause any difficulty. I think you might want to consider coming forward, but—”

The dark eyes flared. “Coming forward!”

“Just listen.” I was as soothing and folksy as Arthur Godfrey on the radio. “All I ask is one cup of coffee worth of your time.”

Her expression grew guarded. “… All right. I'll listen. One cup only.”

I smiled with all the warmth I could dredge up. “Understood. No question about it—the government went back on their deal with you and David. You played ball, all the way. And, yes, you got immunity. But your husband sure as hell didn't get any favors. How close do you and David stay in contact?”

“He writes twice a week. I'm frankly not as good about it as he is—maybe once. There's just nothing much to say. I leave the kids with Mother and go to Lewisburg by train once a month. Why do you ask?”

I flipped a hand. “I just wondered if he might have mentioned me. But it must be too soon. You see, I visited him at his cell recently.”

The full lips twitched a bitter half smile. “And did you ask
him
to come forward? And come forward about
what
, I might ask?”

Natalie's gaze was going from Ruth to me and back again, as if watching a leisurely but intense tennis match.

I had another sip of coffee. “No, my approach to your husband was different. I'm afraid I used an old investigative technique to get him to talk freely with me.”

“What technique is that, Mr. Heller?”

“Please. ‘Nate.'”

“What technique is
that,
Nate?”

“I lied to him. No, that's too harsh. I led him to believe that I was working undercover for an interested party in the federal government.”

Of course, I hadn't really lied to David about that—at least not where Senator McCarthy was concerned. But I couldn't cop to that in front of Natalie, now could I?

Ruth stabbed her cigarette out in the ashtray. Her pretty face hardened into something significantly less attractive. I could tell she wanted to toss my ass out right now, but she needed to know what David had spilled.

I told her. Told her that he'd admitted that neither he nor she had mentioned the Rosenbergs in their first statements to the FBI. That he had no memory of Ethel typing up the atom bomb notes, and that in fact he thought Ruth had done it. That she and David had pretty much said whatever Saypol and Cohn told them to.

Finally I said, “That Jell-O box yarn was cooked up by Roy boy, wasn't it? It didn't exist till two weeks before the trial.”

She stared at me stonily. “Was it recorded, your little talk with my husband?”

I shook my head. “Strictly off-the-record. I like to know things. It tells me what evidence to look for. Hell, I know your husband isn't going to change his story at this point … at least not unless
you
do. You have nice legs, Ruth, but I guess we all know who wears the pants.”