Poor Box Suprise

New York Patrolman, James O’Donnell, spread the pale-yellow powder along the metal tray and closed the wooden lid of the box. The mechanism clicked.

“Most ingenious” said Deacon Cassidy, thrilling at the prospect of pyrotechnics.

” It is a mix of potassium chlorate, aluminum, and sulfur,” said officer O’Donnell, “known as flash powder in the trade.”

“The modern invades our lives”, said old Father Morris with a sigh, “and the lord moves in mysterious ways.”

“As do the Sunday offerings”, said Deacon Cassidy, for whom the pilfered Poor Box was a thorny problem. Sensing ambition, the archbishop entrusted the scheming young clergyman with fiscal responsibility for St. Joseph’s.

“Well, this should do the trick”, said officer O’Donnell, “just be careful that you don’t open the lid without first releasing this catch”. He pushed a small brass lever up and down.

“It is a clever contrivance, Mr. O’Donnell,” said Father Morris, “I hope it proves harmless.” Father Morris looked askance at the trap.

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Sergeant Walsh of the Highbridge Police Station was unmoved, “you cannot catch a thief without the strong arm of the law. Does it trip him, grab him or knock him about the brainbox?” Walsh ruled the Bronx precinct with a hard and heavy hand, scornful of the Commissioner and the constant flow of innovations from his office.

“Sir, it is an experiment at present,” said O’Donnell, on the defensive but he would not be overawed by Walsh’s bullying, “it will raise the alarm and capture a likeness, tripping and catching with evidence, if you will”.

Detective Mahoney, the brains to Walsh’s brawn, observed in O’Donnell a future lawman of a different breed, “this entire contraption is of your own design?” he inquired.

O’Donnell nodded energetically, sensing an ally, “it is a photo-detection camera,” he said, proudly.

“Do you think it has application beyond the poor-box?”, said Mahoney.

“I think it could be of use in the new department stores”, said O’Donnell, a little wild-eyed.

Sergeant Walsh laughed aloud. Mahoney was more circumspect; it was a time of rapid change.

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Services at St. Joseph’s concluded late in the afternoon. The Shrine of the Sacred Heart was barely visible in the flickering glow of the votive candles, in the gloom beneath the vaulted ceiling. Hunched over, shuffling along in greasy ragged clothes, Charles Callan paused near the altar. The silverware had been stored away.

Callan padded across the north transept to the poor box that was attached to the wall. It was dark and silent; the timing seemed opportune, but the same caper had gone awry at St. Stephens, where he’d taken a heavy bruising.

Callan opened the Poor Box and snatched its contents. There was a flash of uncanny lightning and a muted explosion, which drummed his skull, deafening him. He cowered, crossed himself before the altar, and scrambled across the nave, recovered his footing, then fled through the heavy doors of the Church pursued by the wrath of the almighty and the stench of sulfur.

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Deacon Cassidy was supping in the rectory adjacent to the church. New York was like a granite quarry that summer, so the muted explosion he ignored, but not the unfamiliar buzzing of O'Donnell's electric bell! He dropped his utensils and ran from the rectory, into the street.

On the other side of the church, Detective Mahoney was shooting the breeze with Sergeant Walsh in the Police Station. “I’ll be damned”, said Mahoney at the sound of rumbling thunder from next door, “that must be O’Donnell’s trap!” Mahoney grabbed his hat, Walsh grabbed a bully-stick, and they hustled outside, followed by Mahoney and three burly patrolmen that he recruited from the front desk.

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Callan stumbled out of the church, careened down the steps and weaved unsteadily along the street, where he was confronted by flailing robes of the Deacon, who flew at him like an angry black crow. Callan, ears still ringing, blanched and nearly fainted; had he opened the gates of hell? Was this Satan come to take his soul? He pivoted only to be barreled over by a squad of uniformed patrol officers coming from the opposite direction. A uniformed man bundled Callan onto the sidewalk, another knelt on his chest, and snapped handcuffs to his wrists. Sergeant Walsh knuckled him about the side of the head, just for good measure.

“What have we here, then?”, said Walsh, removing coins from Callan’s jacket pocket, “have you stolen money from the poor-box?”

“It wasn’t me Sir, you are mistaken. I ran when I heard the Godforsaken thunder and felt the ground quake beneath me”, said Callan.

“We’ll see about that”, said Walsh, yanking the man to his feet like a rag doll, “you’re coming along with us.”

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Patrolman O’Donnell arrived soon after sunset, accompanied by the sour-sweet scent of dark-room chemicals. He looked mighty pleased with himself as he entered the Interview Room, carrying an oblong package wrapped in brown paper.

“He denies that it was him”, said Mahoney, pointing to the cowed Callan, “but he had $3.88 in coins in his pocket and the poor-box was empty”.

“Well, we have the proof here Detective”, said O’Donnell, who placed the package on the table, removed the wrapping to reveal a photographic plate on which Callan’s face, a bright white oval of open-mouthed astonishment, stared back at them.

Callan, seeing his own ghostly likeness on glass, trembled uncontrollably.

“This is astonishing orchestration of phenomena,” said Mahoney, who turned the photograph first one way, then another, “so lifting the lid ignited the powder, triggered the camera and rang the rectory bell, all at once! My hat is off to you, Sir”.

O’Donnell looked pleased.

Sergeant Walsh picked up the photograph and examined the photograph. It was Callan, caught like a wild animal in a coil spring trap. “Do you intend to press charges, Reverend?” said Walsh.

Callan, head bowed, heaved and he sobbed in silence. Much of what had transpired was lost on the man - the flash, the muffled explosion, the flying robes of the vengeful priest, the sudden and improbably abrupt arrival of a posse of lawmen- and now, here, improbably confronted by his own spirit likeness on a plate of glass. He was as good as dead, whether shoveling ashes on Rikers Island, or stuck with a shiv in a dark alley.

Deacon Cassidy weighed his prospects for advancement in the archdiocese, “Yes, we will press charges against this man”.

Even Walsh, inclined to an Old Testament concept of justice, was surprised. Callan was a beaten man.

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The Times ran the story of Callan’s apprehension in the Wednesday edition.

“I am not sure this casts St. Joseph’s in the best light?” said Father Morris “we appear vengeful and lacking in charity and grace”.

“Father, there is no room for sentiment these days. We have a duty to the parishioners, whose generosity should not be taken for granted,” said Deacon Cassidy.

“Well, the story is buried near the court news, so perhaps it will blow over,” said Father Morris.

“There you are mistaken, Sir. It is a front-page story in the Post, which includes a photo of the thief, caught red-handed! News of our success, and of the young policeman's invention, has spread like the Spanish flu. The bishop himself called to congratulate us, and he expressed keen interest in the machine. There has been an outbreak of pilfering... St. Stephens, St. Patrick's...”.

Father Morris was dismayed; his new Deacon was a curmudgeon. “What of this Charles Callan, the unemployed patternmaker? He seems a sorry fellow, …. Do we know the night court’s decision?” said Father Morris.

“His fate is out of our hands”, said Deacon Cassidy.

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“Callan is senseless with fear”, said Sergeant Walsh, “He is free to go, but he is quivering in the corner of the cell and refuses to leave. I have half a mind to dump him on the sidewalk outside the Rectory".

Mahoney was reading the newspaper. “Apparently O'Donnell's mechanical detective is being tested by the banks downtown” said Mahoney, “could this be the future? Might we one day live in a world that is under constant surveillance? With camera’s snapping, flashes of lightning, bells ringing, scaring us all witless?”.

“I very much doubt that”, said Walsh, “there are thousands of Poor-Boxes, thousands of banks. It is an impossible undertaking to place mechanical detectives in every location”.

"Let us hope you are right, lest we share the fate of this Callan fellow, and find ourselves out of work and destitute!"

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June 25th, 1928