Above the Fold
A Bomb in the Box
Crime shouldn’t pay and neither should businessmen.
That appeared to be the moral stance adopted by Dwight C. Wheeler, owner of the Acme Shear company in Bridgeport, Connecticut. For months, whispers passed at Chamber of Commerce meetings hinted that a gang of extortionists was targeting local industrialists. On August 11, 1920 it was Wheeler’s turn. He received a letter suggesting that he pay $15,000 if he didn’t want his plant bombed.
Wheeler ignored the threat.
A couple of days later, another letter. Smarting from Wheeler’s lack of response to their opening threat, the gang increased the demand to $20,000. Wheeler was to leave the money in a box in a vacant lot on Lexington Avenue.
This time Wheeler took the letter to the police.
Police Superintendent Flanagan proposed a stakeout: he would position officers around the lot who would catch the culprits when they arrived to collect the box. However, since this approach lacked panache, Flanagan added a twist. He commissioned a local gunsmith to rig a trap in a wooden box. A pistol, with the lightest of hair triggers, was attached to the bottom of the box. The gunsmith connected a string to the trigger and anchored the loose end to a heavy stone beneath the box. If the box was lifted, the string would trip the trigger and fire the pistol.
Then, to make the Rube Goldberg contraption complete, a red flare — similar to the warning device used at highway accidents — was positioned in front of the pistol barrel. The box was left in the lot. Fourteen police detectives, disguised as workmen, staked out the street, waiting for the culprit.
Shortly after midnight, Luigi Papilla, the gang’s mastermind, crept into the lot and wrapped his fingers around the box. When he picked it up, the pistol fired a blank round, which caused the flare to explode into an incandescent burst of light. Luigi was momentarily blinded by the fireworks. When he regained sight he saw fourteen pistols pointing at him.
He surrendered.
Caught red-flare-handed, Papilla confessed to the extortion attempt. The police trapped the entire gang—eight blackmailers—as well as a healthy stash of dynamite.
It makes one wonder why police officers no longer demonstrate the creativity of Police Superintendent Flanagan.
Regular Features
True Crime Files: Murderer Revealed in a Dream
For Ida Anderson, the decision to move into Mark Wilkins’ Elmhurst home made complete sense. Wilkins’ wife was away, off to the East coast to have her baby; Wilkins had plenty of room in the house he owned near Oakland, California. It sat in a quiet neighborhood; flowers filled the well-tended gardens in the front yard. It was November 1907, the sun lit a blue sky, all appeared well.
Appearances deceive…
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Via Romea Germanica XIII: Trento, Italy to Levico Terme
On a grey, cloudy morning, with rain threatening, we bid adieu to Trento. According to the guidebook, today was supposed to be the last of the significant hill climbs in the first half of the Via. After Levico Terme, the terrain would either trend downhill, or (through the Veneto) be flat.
As a special feature for any Camino de Santiago veterans reading this account, I would like to add a few observations about some of the differences we have noted between the Via and the Camino Frances, which Mary and I walked two years earlier.
Solitude may be the most striking difference between the two routes. On the Camino, from the moment we boarded the train to St Jean Pied de Port, we were surrounded by peregrinos. The Camino Frances, with its 100,000+ pilgrims each year, is awash in fellow travelers. It definitely had a community spirit, and it was often difficult to walk for any extended time by yourself. Wherever you were, there was always a backpack (or several) in front of you.
In monastic terms, the Camino Frances is the city, while the Via Romea is the desert. Thirteen days into our trek, and we have yet to meet another pellegrino. We have crossed paths with day hikers and bicyclists, but no one walking to Rome. Were we not together, we could walk long days without speaking at all. If you are a highly social person, and need the distraction of talking to help take your mind off the miles while you walk, the Camino Frances is probably a better choice.
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Oyster Burger Chronicles XIII: Bob’s Chowder Bar & BBQ Salmon, Anacortes, WA.
Founded in the late nineteenth century on the northern edge of Fidalgo Island, Anacortes, Washington, is a modest little town most famous for its ferry terminals. It is the principal point of debarkation for vehicles riding into northern Puget Sound’s San Juan Islands. Anacortes is, ultimately, a stepping stone to something better.
It wasn’t supposed to be that way. One of the town’s founders, Amos Bowman, thought that the site would someday host the New York of the West. He lobbied hard to convince railway planners to make his proposed city (named after his wife, Anne Curtis) the western terminus of the Northern Pacific Railway.
Unfortunately, the railroad magnates had other plans and the line eventually took a southern route, ending in Tacoma, Washington. Bowman’s dream came apart and the second New York became a sleepy town.
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Mid-February brought a couple of weeks of settled sunshine to Spokane. Daily temperatures drifted into the fifties. It was a false spring. As I arrange the March edition of What’s New in Old News, snow is falling outside my window. An arctic cold front has pushed south, depressing both temperatures and spirits.
With the end of the month, Vladimir Putin decided to bring his own chill from the east. Amazingly, as I write, the brave people of Ukraine are giving that amoral, dead-eyed shark a bloody nose. May the patriots prevail. May Vlad’s tanks bog down in ropy Ukrainian mud.
May spring bring something to laugh about.
See you again on April’s day of jesting.