Though the sentence mandated that Roland’s transfer be accomplished within ten days, Sheriff Grell, in consultation with Bartow Weeks, decided not to wait. At approximately 1:00 P.M., just a few hours after the sentencing, a closed carriage drawn by two horses rolled into the prison yard. Inside his cell, Roland—who had just consumed a last catered luncheon of pork chops and boiled potatoes—bid a genial farewell to Warden Hagen. Then, with his right wrist cuffed to Deputy Kelly’s left, he was escorted into the waiting vehicle.
By that point, a crowd of an estimated two thousand people had congregated outside the prison. As the carriage passed through the wide-flung wagon gate, they surged forward, hoping for a glimpse of the nation’s most famous criminal. Two dozen officers under the command of Police Captain Titus fought to keep them back. Once the vehicle made its way through the mob, the driver applied his whip to the horses and the coach went clattering up Elm Street.
Forty minutes later—after slowing down at Madison Square to give Roland a chance to view the Dewey Arch he had read so much about—the vehicle arrived at Grand Central Station, where another horde had gathered at the main entrance. At Sheriff Grell’s direction, the driver pulled the coach around to the exit on Forty-second Street, where the party quickly alighted and passed through the baggage room and onto the train.
Still handcuffed to Kelly, Molineux was led to the smoking car, where his father and older brother, Leslie—who had arrived a half hour earlier—were waiting. “Hello, my boy,” said the General, reaching out his right hand. Noticing the steel bracelet shackling his son to the deputy, the old man mustered a smile and said, “Well, my boy, I suppose I will have to shake you by the left hand.”
“That’s all right, Governor,” said Roland, grasping his father’s extended hand and giving it a squeeze.
Reaching into the inside pocket of his coat, the General then extracted a leather case and offered cigars to Roland and his guards, all of whom gratefully accepted.
Outside on the platform, as a squad of policemen struggled to maintain order, an enormous throng pressed close to the train, straining to peer through the windows. Reaching up his free left hand, Roland pulled down the curtain, then settled back to read the newspapers his father had brought him. He was much amused by a front-page illustration in the Evening World, showing him with his nose stuck in the air as he denounced James Osborne. “Look at this,” he chuckled. “They always make me look as if I were trying to balance a broomstick on my chin.”
In the meantime, a steady parade of railroad employees—clerks, conductors, engineers, brakemen, ticket takers—began to troop through the car “like the stream of humanity that winds itself around the bier of a dead hero.”1 The car became so crammed with these curiosity seekers that Captain Price, in charge of the station house in the depot, posted guards at either end with orders not to admit anyone without a ticket.
Moments before the train started, Roland’s attorney George Gordon Battle hurried on board. The car being full, General Molineux gave up his seat and perched himself on the lap of his oldest son, Leslie, where he remained until the train reached Tarrytown.
At every stop along the way, dozens of men and women—many of whom had purchased tickets just so they could get a look at Roland—marched down the aisle. Some paused to bid him good luck. Roland was unfailingly polite to these well-wishers. For the most part, however, he did his best to ignore the gawking procession. He chatted easily with his father, brother, and lawyer, or peered out the window, commenting on the beauty of the Hudson River landscape. When the walls of Sing Sing finally came into sight just after 3:00 P.M., he “looked at it unconcernedly and yawned.”2
So many people had gathered at the station to see the prisoner disembark from the train that it seemed to one observer “as though the entire town had turned out.”3 Three coaches were waiting to transport the party to the prison. A half dozen reporters from the New York City press made a rush for the first, while the General, Leslie, and lawyer Battle climbed into the second. As they sped off, Sheriff Grell and his deputies led Roland to the rear car of the train and hurried him into the third carriage, which followed at some distance behind the others.
Another horde of locals, many armed with cameras, was milling around the entrance of the prison when the first two vehicles arrived. Principal Keeper James Connaughton was there, too, waiting to escort the prisoner inside.
Stepping down from his carriage with Leslie Molineux close behind him, George Gordon Battle introduced himself to the keeper, then, gesturing at Roland’s older brother, said, “This is Mr. Molineux.”
“All right, Molineux,” said Connaughton, “come along with me.” Grabbing Leslie by the arm, the burly keeper hurried him through the crowd and down the big stone stairway, where a sentry swung open a barred iron gate. In another instant, Leslie was hustled inside the prison and the gate clanged shut behind him.
Connaughton marched the baffled man into the reception room, where a state detective named Jackson was seated at his desk.
“Here’s Molineux,” said the keeper, releasing his hold on Leslie.
“That’s not Molineux,” said Jackson, who had seen Roland on several occasions. “Molineux’s a slim fellow, without a beard.”
“I’m his brother,” said Leslie to Connaughton, whose face had gone instantly red.
“Oh hell,” said the keeper, grabbing Leslie again and ushering him unceremoniously out of the room. Just as they approached the barred iron gate, Roland and his escort appeared on the opposite side. The gate was opened again, Roland and his warders were admitted, and the brothers enjoyed a laugh over the comedy of errors before Leslie was let outside.
The gate had just banged to again when the General appeared. Peering through the bars, he called out, “Roland!”
Roland, who had been freed from his handcuffs, stepped up to the gate and extended his right hand between the bars.
“Good-bye, Governor,” he said, giving his father’s hand a hearty shake.
“Good-bye, my boy,” said the General, his voice husky. “God bless you.”
As Roland was led away, the old man turned and mounted the stone steps, shaking his head and saying softly, “Well, well, well.” With Leslie and Battle beside him, he returned to his coach and was driven back to the station, where he and his companions took the 4:41 train back to the city.
By then, Roland Molineux—freshly bathed and dressed in his prison suit of black sackcloth—was already in his cell in the Death House.4