Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?

by Jack Martin

  The girl did not notice her adoptive mother looking proudly at her. She was writing in a notebook, periodically consulting a high-school level physics textbook, concentrating completely, seemingly impervious to the heat. The teacher was glad that she had formally adopted her, despite the objections raised by her lack of a husband. She had been married in her twenties, but there had been no children before her husband went to the Great War and found a nameless grave in France, and she’d never felt the need to remarry—did not feel the need now. She was certain her late husband would have been proud to be father to the intelligent girl at the dining room table. The smile faded from the teacher’s face with thoughts of the future. The girl had a brilliant mind, but she feared it was destined to be wasted. There was barely enough money for the two of them to survive; nothing left over to save for college. Perhaps there would be some sort of scholarship, but, honestly, the best her daughter could hope for would be to find a good man who would appreciate her mind. Most likely it would be some farmer who would keep her fed and pregnant on some hard-scrabble land for the rest of her life.

  Unexpectedly, there was a brisk knock at the screen door. The girl looked up from her work with an expression of terror. It broke her mother’s heart to see how nervous she was. There was really no need. The people in Commerce were friendly and decent, and aside from some violations of the Prohibition laws, not inclined to crime. In fact, people hardly ever locked their doors. But a year ago, the girl had held her father as his life bled from him on a hot, dusty street. The experience had left its cruel mark on her.

  Telling the girl in a bright voice not to worry, that she would see who was there, the teacher went to the screen door and turned on the porch light. Seeing nobody at the door, she opened the screen and peered around. She saw nothing but a paper bag at the door. Frowning, she picked it up and took it inside. She told her daughter that it had been some kind of prank, and the girl resumed her studies. The teacher sat herself in a living room chair to examine the contents of the bag, and was barely able to contain a cry of amazement and wonder. Bundles of currency, mainly fifty-and one-hundred-dollar bills, fell into her lap. A folded note also fell out. Opening it, she read the following:

  I have looked into your background and find you a fit guardian for the daughter of Constable William Campbell. Enclosed you will find $20,000 for her support and education. There is no need to report this, if the money concerns you. No one has a better right to it than you, and no one will be pressing a claim for it.

  There was no address or signature on the note, which had been neatly printed. Tears began to trickle down the teacher’s cheeks. She could not imagine who her benefactor was, but she now knew there was continuing education in her daughter’s future.

  Four houses down on the opposite side of the street, a figure looked at the teacher’s bungalow for a long time, then walked to the next block, got in a Hudson convertible, and roared off into the night.

  It all seemed unreal to Earl Long. Here he was sitting in Huey’s office behind Huey’s desk, seeing a regular stream of Huey’s friends and supporters. Even Governor King, who had ignored Earl during Huey’s life, was now humbly sitting across from him, asking what he wanted done as to this, that, and the other. It didn’t seem right; Huey had always called the shots, and Earl had never imagined it could be any other way. Still, one could get used to such power, thought Earl guiltily.

  “So, Mr. Long, we’re going to need a lot of money—cash, untraceable—to keep our majority in the legislature next year. And I hate to think what a national campaign would cost us.” It was not lost on Earl Long that Governor King was no longer calling him ‘Earl,’ or the occasional ‘Huey’s idiot kid brother.’

  “I’ll see what can be done,” replied Earl. “We won’t need as much as you think. With Huey gone, there’s no presidential campaign. We only need money for the Louisiana elections and to help elect some friends of ‘Share the Wealth’ in other states. I’ll run the trap lines and see how much we can expect.”

  “Well then, I’ll be getting along,” replied the Governor as he rose from his chair. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Long.” He took his considerable bulk out of the room, closing the door behind him.

  Now that he was alone, Earl Long decided to find out just how much was in the deduct box. As he had done on numerous occasions when Huey was alive, he opened up the hiding place and nearly passed out from the shock of seeing it was absolutely empty—no large tin box, no mounds of untraceable cash. Then he noticed it was not entirely empty; there was a small piece of paper in the empty space. With trembling fingers he drew it out. On the paper, in plain block letters, it said:

  THE CITIZENS OF THE UNITED STATES SEND THEIR THANKS.

  Dropping the paper from his nerveless fingers, Earl Long collapsed back into the large desk chair and passed out.

  Mrs. Belasco was at her desk in the library, rushing to finish some important correspondence. Very special guests were due at any moment, and she had no intention of depriving herself of one minute of the . . . unusual entertainments those guests provided. She frowned at a quiet knock on the closed door, and irritably said, “Come in.”

  The elderly butler entered, carrying a medium-sized package wrapped in brown paper. “My apologies, Mrs. Belasco, but this just arrived, brought here by a special courier. I thought it must be important.”

  “Put it here on my desk and then leave,” she said gruffly. The old man did as he was told, softly closing the door behind him. The moment he was gone, she took her gold-plated letter opener and cut away the paper, only to find a neatly stacked block of currency, made up of carefully bound stacks of tens, twenties, and fifties. Although she would have a precise count done later by one of her accountants, she estimated there was about $50,000 cash in this bundle. There was no letter or note.

  Bierce. She leaned back in her chair and gave a silvery, chilling laugh. She wondered how he had come into such a sum, and laughed again. Frankly, she had considered the original amount a gift, never expected to see a penny back from the government-salaried investigator. Well, tonight she was going to have a reason to celebrate.

  Again, there was a polite knock at the library door.

  “Come in,” she said.

  The elderly butler again entered the library, this time with a badly concealed look of disgust, tinged with fear. Belasco found that amusing, considering the varied things the old man had seen in his many years of service to her.

  “Mrs. Belasco, your guests have arrived.”

  “Show them into the special room in the basement. Tell them I will need several minutes to get prepared.”

  Ana Cumpanas stared with hollow eyes at the institutional green walls of the interrogation room that the immigration officer had locked her into, and uttered a vile curse in Roumanian. Despite the promises of Agent Bierce, she had been picked up and processed for deportation back to the barbaric hellhole that General Antonescu had made of her homeland. She knew that today was the day. Any moment, an immigration officer would walk through that door, handcuff her, and take her to the train station for the long trip to New York City, where she would be placed on some rusty steamer for the month-long journey to the land of her birth. She could easily imagine being met at the dock in Varna by men from Antonescu’s Iron Guard. She didn’t want to imagine what would follow.

  The door flew open and, to her utter surprise, Harry Bierce entered the room. Before she could utter a word, he said, “I keep my promises, even if it involves some minor corruption. You are free, Mrs. Cumpanas. Come with me.”

  She staggered to her feet, and followed Bierce down the corridor and into an elevator. The car opened on the ground floor. Neither of the two guards on duty tried to stop her. They simply gave a nod of recognition to Bierce, then pointedly looked away. Bierce led her out onto the street and down two blocks to where his Hudson convertible was parked. The agent held the passenger door open for her. Still stunned by the change in her circumstances, she gingerly enter
ed the sporty car. Bierce then went around to the driver side and vaulted into the seat without opening the door. He hit the ignition and merged the powerful automobile into downtown Chicago traffic.

  Having been silent since Bierce had entered the interrogation room, Cumpanas finally found her voice. “Agent Bierce, I don’t get what’s going on? Where are we going?”

  With his free hand Bierce reached into his inside coat pocket, withdrew three envelopes, and tossed them in her lap. “First things first. You are no longer Ana Cumpanas. You’re Helena Klein. You’re still Roumanian, but you were born in Brasov, not Bucharest. One of the envelopes contains your naturalization papers. They will withstand any reasonable scrutiny.”

  Her head spinning, she said, “But … but they have ordered my extradition for today. When I don’t show up—”

  “That is taken care of,” interrupted Bierce. “As it happens, another Roumanian woman was awaiting extradition. She ran a business that, ah, relieved women of unwanted pregnancies. I have paid her a considerable sum to agree to be you. The same venal official who has provided you with your new papers has altered her records to show her as Ana Cumpanas.”

  In her many years as a prostitute, and then a madam, she had seen and heard of many things, but never anything like this. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “The second envelope contains a thousand dollars cash,” interrupted Bierce again. “That should support you until you have established your new life. The third envelope contains a first-class train ticket to Los Angeles, and a letter of recommendation to the head of costuming at a major film studio. I once provided a very great service for her, and she will employ you as a favor to me. The skills you demonstrated repairing my clothes in the hospital proved to me you will do well in such a job, which will not provide wealth but will give you more than enough to live on, and is free of taint of the criminal underworld.”

  The car roared past a long line of dejected men and women, waiting patiently for their turn at a soup kitchen. Shortly thereafter the train station came into view. Bierce brought the Hudson to a smooth halt before the main entrance.

  “What if I just decide to turn in the train ticket for a refund, and start up my business as before?” she said, looking at Bierce speculatively, a slight smile on her lips.

  Bierce turned and looked right back at her with an intensity that startled her. “That will be your choice entirely. I believe you have never really had a good choice before you in your life. Now you have one. I hope that you will choose wisely.”

  The woman who was now Helena Klein frowned. “Why are you doing all of this for me, really?”

  Bierce took a deep breath as a look of profound sadness and devotion passed over his features. “Because you remind me of a woman I once loved.” He swiftly grabbed her face in both hands and planted a deep kiss on her lips. Just as quickly, he broke off the kiss, reached across her and threw open the passenger door. Wordlessly, she stepped out of the Hudson and closed the door. Bierce roared off, never looking back. She then turned to look at the entrance to the train station and took her first steps toward a new life.

  Franz von Papen was terrified as he entered Heinrich Himmler’s inner sanctum, but struggled hard to control his fear. When he saw Rheinhard Heydrich was also in the office, standing behind and to the left of the seated secret policeman, it became more of a struggle for him to conceal his terror. Yet somehow, he managed.

  Himmler was tapping a file that lay open on his desk with a pen. The expression on his face was bland, as always. He did not invite von Papen to sit. Instead, he launched straight into business.

  “The affair with Long has not ended very well, has it? It even appears that Mr. Noyes, our valuable New England contact, committed suicide out of disappointment and chagrin.”

  “There is more than meets the eye to the death of Noyes,” replied von Papen in a carefully neutral voice. “His suicide took place before the murder of Senator Long. In any event, I cannot recommend that Germany rely on what is left of his organization. I met certain of his … key people. My recommendation is that they can in no way be trusted.”

  Himmler emitted a small, exasperated sigh. “So, we are back to relying on Vice President Garner. I am not sure he can be counted on to support the goals of the Leader.”

  “Did you meet with Garner on your way home, as I told you?” asked Heydrich in an icy voice.

  “Yes, there I am more hopeful. It is true he does not approve of many of the Leader’s internal policies, but he is a very dedicated isolationist, and wants no involvement in any future European war. He would never agree to be controlled by us, but his foreign policy positions would align with Germany’s long-term interests, should the Leader resort to war. Of course, he is now demanding money, a great deal of money, to support a run for the American Presidency in 1940. He knows we now have no one else to turn to.”

  Himmler nodded. “Given that you could not have anticipated Long’s assassination, you have done well enough. I will report that to the Leader. I will also recommend that he appoint you our ambassador to the Vatican. The Pope looks down his long, Catholic nose at the Party and its leadership and does not have good relations with our current representative. Since you are a well-known Catholic from the old aristocracy, you should do much better.”

  Von Papen struggled hard to keep his face from showing the relief he felt. “I will be pleased to represent Germany to the Holy Father.”

  “One final thing,” said Himmler, “the Leader would like you to apply for membership in the Party. He feels that our representatives abroad should indicate their solidarity with the current regime.”

  “I will serve Germany in any honorable way I can, but I will never join the Nazi Party. Never. You may tell the Leader that.” To von Papen’s horror, the words fell from his mouth without conscious thought.

  “No matter the costs to yourself and your family?” asked Heydrich in a voice that sounded amused and enraged at the same time.

  Von Papen felt as if a pit yawned before him, but it was too late to take back his words. In truth, he did not wish to take them back. “No matter the cost,” he said in a voice near a whisper.

  Himmler glanced at Heydrich, then turned his attention back to von Papen, his lips curled in a faint, benign smile. “The Leader thought you would say something like that. He has informed me that it is not mandatory that you join, so long as you continue to serve Germany. Two days from now, you are to meet the Leader to receive your formal commission to Rome. In the meantime, you are dismissed. Go home to your family.”

  His body trembling ever so slightly, von Papen bowed to the secret policeman, clicked his heels, and left Himmler’s office, a slight stagger to his walk. After the door closed, Heydrich turned to his master and said, “The Leader is really going to let that ridiculous old aristocrat get away with such insolence?”

  “Do not question the Leader’s judgment. He sees that some usefulness can still be garnered from von Papen.”

  “And should he cease to be useful at some time in the future?”

  “Then he will be yours,” replied Himmler.

  Heydrich smiled broadly, showing his white, sharp teeth.

  Harry Bierce sat in a wing chair of his DuPont Circle apartment living room, staring moodily at a framed picture over the fireplace. It was of a woman dressed in the style of the 1880s, flanked by two teenagers, a boy and a girl. The woman was tall and erect, the streaks of grey in her long, dark hair adding, instead of detracting, from her exotic beauty. She stared boldly into the camera, a lovely, enigmatic smile gracing her lips. The resemblance to Ana Cumpanas was slight, but it was there. The teenagers also stared directly into the camera. It was hard to say why, but their expressions indicated cheerfully cruel intelligence.

  Bierce sighed, then turned his attention to the large tin box that sat on the floor to the left of the fireplace—the famous “deduct box,” the disappearance of which was generating rumors throughout the nation. He felt some shame fo
r having taken it, as he had been raised to regard thievery as strictly dishonorable. Regardless, it would not be possible to return the money to the state employees from whom it had been extorted. And since he would never allow the remnants of the Long political machine to retain it to further their corrupt goals, he had decided to dedicate the money to the benefit of the country.

  Now, thoroughly convinced that it was only a matter of time until Germany again was a considerable threat to the United States, Bierce had tried to alert the relevant authorities. Although not long back in Washington, he had already talked to the heads of the Army and Navy Intelligence, who had called him an alarmist. He had talked to Army Chief of Staff Douglas MacArthur, who also dismissed his concerns, although MacArthur’s aide, a middle-aged captain named Eisenhower, had listened with a thoughtful, concerned expression on his face.

  Bierce had even obtained an interview with President Roosevelt, who’d been informed by Director Hoover of Bierce’s role in saving his life and expressed his sincere gratitude. But he condescendingly assured Bierce that America could contain the Nazi menace by providing aid to England, France, and Russia.

  Bierce was disappointed, but not despairing. Since official Washington would not take him seriously, he would use the money from the deduct box to set up his own, private intelligence service. He would then deliver up priceless information when those in Washington finally awoke to the threat. According to Mrs. Belasco, her brother was already in contact with the Nazi inner circle and, much to Bierce’s surprise, had shown a willingness to inform on their plans. Maybe there was some real humanity there. He would have to find a way to contact him directly without having to go through Mrs. Belasco, though.

  There were more immediate things to accomplish. He could hardly leave such huge sums of cash lying about his apartment. He would have to open a number of safe deposit boxes and banking accounts in various names. And before that, he needed to make his final report to Director Hoover. Bierce stood up, placed his fedora neatly on his head, and headed out on the long walk to Bureau headquarters.