“No! You’ll see, Schuster! You’ll see the cement sidewalk at the end of yer half-kike nose if’n this whole t’ing ain’t turned right around today in my favor. Now go. Git outa here and make this right!’’
Fingy angrily settled down to a pile of work, forgetting the telegram.
◆◆◆
At Detroit, the General supervised as porters loaded the crate-coffin into the Buffalo-bound train’s baggage car. Once safely locked down, the General deboarded. He and Dr. Huxley walked along the platform in an extremely stressed state toward the depot office. They were thrown off-kilter by the unexpected sight of two frantic cadets racing toward them.
A distraught Thomas Banta reached Wheeler first.
“General Wheeler! Can it possibly be true? Has Peter died?”
The boys saluted.
“Yes lads, I’m terribly afraid he has. Peter tragically developed pneumonia and passed away during the night. Dr. Huxley did all that he could.”
“Why didn’t you wake us, sir?” Thomas Banta sobbed loudly, drawing attention. “You shoulda called my father! He’s the most qualified doctor in Buffalo!”
Dr. Huxley appeared to be insulted by Thomas’ implication.
Jordan cried, “Pete’s my own brother! You shoulda woke me up! I got the right to know! To be with him! I’m his kin!”
“Cadet Jordan!” commanded the General. “There’ll be none of that! My duty is to Peter’s real family, and to follow their wishes that he be sent home immediately on the train! Now you boys get back to campus!”
Jordan was stunned by the General’s excluding him for not being a “real” family member. He hung his head.
“Where is he, General? I need to see him! Is he in that baggage car there?” Banta demanded.’
“Banta! Leave here immediately! Both of you. That’s an order!’’
The boys saluted, tuned and left.
The General and the doctor watched to make sure they were on their way before entering the building to speak to an agent. Banta turned in time to see them disappear into the depot. He halted.
“Come on. Me and you are getting on that train with Pete!”
“Jesus, Banta,” cried Jordan. “The General will have our hide! We better not! Let’s wait until we hear from my stepfather! He’ll tell us what to do!”
“Jordan, you’re a coward! You’re Pete’s own stepbrother! How can you allow Wheeler to tell you what to do with your own kin just lyin’ dead there in a fucking baggage car!”
Jordan was deeply conflicted. Reluctantly he decided to do as the General ordered.
Banta, opposingly, followed his heart.
“Pete’s my best friend! He’ll not be taking his last train ride all by himself in some filthy baggage car with trunks full of people’s stinky knickers! I’m goin’!”
Thomas Banta turned on his heels and returned to the baggage car, entering surreptitiously.
Jordan on the other hand was the sort who didn’t dare disobey orders. He headed back out to campus on the streetcar.
As the train pulled out Banta located the crate. He wrapped his arms around it and sobbed, “Oh Pete, Pete! Now what am I gonna do?”
He barely let go of it for the entire seven hour trip, nor did he pause in talking to his best friend.
“I didn’t want him to feel like he was alone,” he confessed to his mother later. “I couldn’t bear to think he might’ve been left to lie there in that car like just a common piece of freight for seven hours, frightened and lonesome and wondering why he’d been abandoned.”
◆◆◆
Fingy Conners checked his pocketwatch. It was 11:30 a.m.
He stopped working, got up, and put on his coat.
“Are you leaving, Boss?” asked Editor Grimm.
Yeah, Grimm. I got some business t’ take care of an’ I won’t be back til after lunch!
‘Okay, Boss. I’ll let Schuster know.”
On his way to he press room Grimm passed Schuster.
“The Boss went to do errands. Said he be back about one.”
“All right.”
One hour later the phone on Fingy’s desk rang. Editor Schuster entered Fingy’s office to answer it.
“Buffalo Courier, Editor Schuster speaking.”
“I have a long distance call for Mr. William J. Conners,” said the operator.
“Yes this is his office,” replied Schuster.
“Go ahead, sir,” she replied.
“Hello,” said General Wheeler, “is this Mr. Conners’ office?
“Yes sir it is,” Schuster replied.
“This is General Harris Wheeler at the Orchard Lake Military Academy in Michigan. I must speak to Mr. Conners at once on an extremely urgent matter!”
“Mr. Conners has stepped out. May I be of service, General?”
“Sir, Mr. Conners’ son Peter has been quite ill with pneumonia. I sent a telegram hours ago but have not yet received a reply. I was not able to secure a telephone line through until just this very minute. Mr. Conners must come here at once!”
“Oh my! I will go and fetch him myself, General. Right away!”
“Please hurry, sir. We fear this young man may not live through the remainder of the day.”
“Oh God, no! I will hurry! Thank you!”
The General, shaking and pale, hung up and wiped his sweaty brow. So far, so good, he thought to himself.
Schuster frantically rifled through the papers on Fingy’s desk. He found the unopened telegram, grabbed his coat and flew out of the office in a panic.
At the Iroquois Hotel Fingy raised himself from the barber’s chair, handed the mother-of-pearl handled mirror back to the barber, then stomped out. He headed for his next errand.
Editor Schuster vaulted down Main Street trying to locate Fingy Conners. He ran inside the barber shop at the Iroquois Hotel.
“Mr. Conners left here twenty minutes ago,” the barber explained.
“Did he say where he was going after, Joe? It’s crucial that I find him right away! His son is very ill!”
“Let me see… he said something about the tailor, and cigars, and, uh… the diamond merchant, I think.
Schuster ran down the busy street to the tailor, then the cigar shop.
On his way to the diamond merchant, Fingy Conners passed police headquarters. As he did so, Alderman Sullivan and his brother were just returning to Headquarters from the Crowley Brothers Mortuary just up the street. The brothers gulped at the second awkward coincidence.
“Fingy! I’m glad I ran into you,” said JP. “Things are very concerning now with the labor strike spreading and all and I…”
“Later. I got things to do.”
“But…” The alderman sighed with relief as Fingy ignored him and disappeared into the crowd.
“Well, he obviously doesn’t know,” said JP. “This plan of yours might actually work, Jim.”
Just then two laborers walked past. One slammed hard into JP’s shoulder.
“Best you remember who it was what voted you into office, Alderman. T’wasn’t that Fingy Conners asshole, that’s fer sure. It was us laborin’ men wot got yous in.”
“Mind your manners there boys, or I’ll be walkin’ yous right into the freezer!” scolded Jim, brandishing his handcuffs. The men moved on.
Jim turned to JP and said, “That there weren’t no good sign. This strike is only goin’ to get worse, I’m predictin’.”
While Schuster continued rushing around downtown asking everyone he encountered if they had seen Fingy the Boss returned to his office. Remembering the telegram, he went through his mail. Not finding it he walked out into the newsroom.
“Grimm. Where’s Schuster?”
“Don’t know sir! When I returned from the press room he was nowhere to be found.”
“Did yous touch anyt’ing on my desk, Grimm? That telegram? Where’d it go?”
“No, boss. Not me! I didn’t step one foot in there! Honest!”
Fingy returned to h
is work. Thirty minutes later, Schuster flew into the newsroom and spotted Fingy at his desk just as Conners picked up the ringing telephone. Terror filled Fingy’s face. At the same moment Schuster, dangerously out of breath and near collapse, ran into Fingy’s office, telegram in hand.
Fingy dropped the telephone and shouted frantically.
“Schuster! My boy is terribly ill! Get my wife on the telephone! Have Jones get my carriage ready immediately! Grimm! Call Dr. Banta! Hurry! Hurry!”
One hour later Fingy rushed onboard a westbound train with his wife and Dr. Banta just as the train from Detroit pulled in. The coffin-crate was quickly offloaded within sight of the Conners party. Seeing it, and regarding it as a bad omen, Fingy crossed himself and turned away. The stress of the situation was making his head pound. The very same second Fingy had looked away, uniformed Cadet Banta stepped into view among the heavy crowd. Fingy didn’t see him. However, Dr. Banta caught a brief glimpse, and not believing his eyes, rose to investigate.
“What the hell ye lookin’ at, Banta?” scolded Fingy.
“Uh, I… I thought I just saw my Thomas!”
“Yer seein’ t’ings, Banta! Thomas wouldn’t never leave Peter’s side, especially bein’ sick! They’re closer than brothers! What’s holdin’ this goddamn train up? Porter! Porter!”
Dr. Banta sat back down with a troubled look on his face. As the train pulled out Fingy began to have a panic attack. He hyperventilated so direly that his wife Mary began to fear for his survival. Dr. Banta did his best to calm him. He had brought sedatives as a precaution. He gave Fingy an injection.
The Crowley Brothers signed the receipt as the crate carrying the sandbags and Peter’s military paraphernalia was wheeled up with Thomas Banta closely guarding it. The morticians were alarmed. They recognized the boy.
“Excuse me. Are you the undertaker?” asked Thomas Banta.
They drew him off to the side away from the porter and bystanders where their conversation could not be overheard. The Crowleys kept their voices barely above a whisper.
Uh, yes. Yes we are,” said Tom Crowley. “Who are you?”
“I’m Thomas Banta, Dr. Banta’s son. Pete Conners’ best friend. I can’t believe he’s gone!”
“Shhh! Please keep your voice down out of respect, young man!” Dan Crowley whispered.
Banta lowered his voice. “My heart feels like it’s breaking, sir! I need to be going along with him! We’re partners!”
“Thomas, you can’t,” replied Dan Crowley. “We have to prepare Peter for viewing. You’ll be able to see him after we’ve accomplished our best work. He wouldn’t want you to see him in this kind of condition, son.”
“We got a pact, Pete and me, to always stand up for each other! I’m not letting him out of my sight. Not for one second!”
Tom Crowley in his kindest yet firmest manner said, “Thomas, quiet down. Don’t make it necessary for us to summon a police officer. We have important work to do. Private, respectful work. You understand that, I’m sure. We must do our very best for the grieving family. Don’t you agree?”
Thomas Banta didn’t respond. He just stood there bereaved, motionless,
The undertakers left Banta behind as they departed with the crate. He waited until they were well ahead, then followed them stealthily. He watched from behind a pillar as the porters loaded the crate into a Crowley Bros. Undertakers wagon. The address painted on the side read 145 Franklin St.
The wagon was met at the undertakers’ by the alderman, his brother Detective Jim Sullivan, Captain Mike Regan and Detective John Geary. Dan Crowley’s expression told them something was wrong.
“We got real trouble,” Dan said.
“Whaddya mean?” asked Regan
“Peter Conners’ friend Thomas Banta was at the depot. He’d gotten aboard the train and rode all the way to Buffalo with the crate. So now we have one more person to worry about.”
“What did he say, Dan? I mean, about the crate?” queried Regan.
“Nothing actually. He seemed to have no doubt that the boy was inside of it, if that’s what you mean.”
“That’s good. Very good,” schemed the alderman. “As long as he believes Peter was in this crate, we should be able to control this.”
Once they had brought it inside the decoy coffin was opened and the sandbags removed. Jim and Geary took the bags outside and piled them behind the building.
Banta arrived and approached with stealth. He secreted himself. He watched curiously as the sandbags were brought out and disposed of. He sneaked up to the building after the officers reentered. He peeked into the basement window. It was grimy with dirt and the lighting inside the basement was dim, making it hard to discern with any certainty what was going on there. He was perplexed witnessing what appeared to be the men dressing a naked lifeless individual that lay on a steel table, then place it inside an empty pine crate like the one he had accompanied. He squinted trying to see better. He dared not wipe the window lest he draw attention to his presence. A folded pile of cloth items was arranged at the decedent’s feet and the lid closed.
Tom Banta had not been able to see clearly enough to understand precisely what he had just witnessed. He assumed the body was that of Pete. But why would it have been placed back into the shipping crate?
As the police officers prepared to leave, Banta, aware his cadet uniform stood out like a sore thumb, prepared to run off before he could be spotted. But something stopped him for a moment. Banta noticed that on an adjacent table another man lay there, his face covered by a towel. He looked to be of similar physical dimensions as Pete. Banta had a sick feeling in his gut that something was just not right. Was that Pete there on the table, or was Pete the man they had placed in the crate? Or neither? He thought it best to get out of there. He was tired and hungry and grieving. In need of solace, he hopped on a streetcar headed toward his parents’ home. His uniform elicited both scowls and admiration from his fellow passengers.
When the policemen were just about to depart, Geary, regarding both corpses, had a sudden disturbing thought as his eyes rested on the dead body of Johnny Murphy.
“Oh no. You don’t think it was the Murphys what might have…?”
“I sure hope not—for the Murphys’ sake!” scowled Regan.
“Did you make arrangements with the coroner, Mike?” asked Dan Crowley. “I don’t want to get into no trouble.”
“Yeah, Dan. Everything’s taken care of. Don’t worry. He owes me. No one ever need speak of this. For the sake of peace in this city we gotta do everything in our power to keep this to ourselves.”
“None of us is gonna say nothin’,” assured Jim Sullivan. “That’s for sure. But the ones what done this, let’s hope they’re not so stupid as to boast of it.”
“Surely they realize that talking about it would only drop tragedy atop the heads of their entire family,” concluded JP. “I would imagine once they’ve had some time to think about what they’ve done, they’d be in fear for their very lives right about now. As for the General at the boy’s school, he’s got everything he’s ever worked for to lose if word ever gets out. Let’s just keep our fingers crossed that everyone plays his part.”
◆◆◆
Tom Banta walked up the drive to his parents’ house. He had not brought his key. The door was locked. He rang the bell. Edna the servant girl answered.
“Mr. Thomas!” she exclaimed. “We weren’t expecting you! Are you ill? Did they send you home from school?”
Thomas entered the house.
“No, Edna, Is my mother at home?”
No, Mr. Thomas. She’s gone to see her sister in Dunkirk. I’m waiting for her to telephone because of the terrible news…”
Edna’s voice trailed off. “Mr. Thomas, why aren’t you with your friend Pete? Haven’t you heard? Peter Conners is very ill! They say he has pneumonia. They think he may die! Your father is on the train for Detroit with Mr. Conners right now as we speak.”
Thomas’ confusi
on increased.
“What do you mean, Edna?”
“Mr. Conners received a telegram tellin’ him to hurry to Michigan because his son was very ill with pneumonia, so he left with your father just two hours ago! ”
“What? You must be mixed up. You’re saying this happened only two hours ago?”
“Yes, Dr. Banta stopped here at home when he received an urgent call from Mr. Conners with the terrible news. He rushed out of here to meet Mr. and Mrs. Conners at the train depot to accompany them to your school. Let’s pray that your father can save poor Peter!”
Just then Captain Regan and Jim Sullivan knocked soundly on the Banta family’s front door. Thomas Banta answered.
“Thomas Banta?” Captain Regan inquired.
“Yes? Can I help you?”
“Please step outside, Thomas.”
“Yes? What is it, Captain?” questioned Thomas, closing the door behind him. Edna craned her neck to see what was going on.
“Thomas, are your parents home?”
“No sir, but I…”
Regan interrupted. “Thomas, we’ve come to warn you that your entire family is in terrible danger. You must take this situation very, very seriously. You and your parents’ and sisters’ lives are being threatened by strikers due to your family’s close association with the Conners family. You’ve heard about the serious labor troubles here of recent?”
“Yes. But...why? My family has nothing to do with that!”
“I know it doesn’t make much sense, Thomas, but that’s what happens when things start to go out of control. People lose all sense of right and wrong. They can’t get to Fingy Conners, so they look for someone they can get to, and they been lookin’ at you and your family. The police were concerned when they saw you at the rail depot today because the strikers saw you there as well. You have to be very guarded, stay out of sight and keep your mouth shut. We’ll do everything we can to protect you and your family, but we can’t be everywhere at once. Understand?”
“Keep my mouth shut? About what, Captain?”
“We’ll do our best to protect you, Thomas” pledged Jim, “but the only way to keep your family safe is for you to keep whatever suspicions you have to yourself.”
Murderers, Scoundrels and Ragamuffins Page 45