And finally, on Joe's suspicion that Old North Church did not chime, we called and had this confirmed. Old North was silent. Great for lanterns in the window, but not for chimes. We called Trinity. Also silent. That left us with Park Street, except the bells didn't remotely sound like those in the Park Street belfry. Then I solved it.
"Listen again," I said. "You'll hear that the bells aren't spaced evenly. It doesn't go bong, bong, bong. It goes bong, bong,… bong. Two and then one. It's a ship's bell, don't you see? It's sounding three bells."
"Three o'clock?"
"No. It would be, uh, five-thirty. Eight bells is four, then it starts all over again with a new bell for every half hour. Three bells is five-thirty in the evening. That would explain the heavy street traffic too."
"I didn't realize the North End was so close to the harbor," said Brian.
"Right smack dab on it," said Joe, "except that it's mostly hidden by all the crowded buildings. But there's no indication in the log that Johnny went back there after his last job."
"You remember two of the jobs had a star after them. That meant they weren't completed. One was for my dental work, which is why Johnny called me in the first place. The other unfinished business involved the public library and a party in the North End."
"Uh-huh. And at the end of the day he went back to the North End to complete that errand, and he was carrying your lab work too. He called to say he'd be late, and right there on Hanover Street, or nearby, he realized he was being followed. And I bet the party in the North End is named Andy."
Joe got on the phone and rasped out a series of commands to Ten-Ten Comm. Ave.
1. He wanted the location of all phone booths in the North End near busy streets. Considering their rapid disappearance in favor of phone "enclaves," this wouldn't be difficult.
2. To check my theory, he requested information from Massport on any large vessels moored, anchored, or in transit near the North End on the day in question.
3. He called Sam Bowman at Dependable Messenger Service and requested further details on Johnny's errand to the library and the North End. Sam said he'd call back shortly with all the dope.
"Let's get coffee," said Brian, and while we sat in the police squad room and sipped, Joe's headquarters called back and gave us the location of four phone booths that would answer the set of variables he had described. They also said Massport had given them the names of three big ships in the vicinity of the North End on the previous Friday. One, a cargo container vessel named Dunmore Hughes No. 8, out of Bantry Bay in the Republic of Ireland, was making her way down the Mystic River channel from the Charlestown port terminal to Boston Harbor at exactly three bells.
Then Sam Bowman called back. We went back to Brian's office, where Joe took the call. His face clouded over. The big brown eyes took on a steely hard squint, and the mouth turned down at the corners. He was unhappy about something.
"Sam, say those two names again please, real slowly." He scowled.
"Uh-huh. Yes, I know them. They're very familiar. I just wanted to make sure. It's just that when I hear those two names, Sam, I get a knot in my stomach and want to slug somebody. What? You don't understand? Well let's see now, what happens to you when I say Scottsboro Boys?"
Through the receiver end of the phone Brian and I could hear faint yelling and cursing, even though the phone was pressed to Joe's ear.
"Well I thought so. So you see how it upsets me when I hear the names of Sacco and Vanzetti."
"Sacco and Vanzetti?" said Brian.
"Sacco and Vanzetti!" I said.
"Sacco and Vanzetti," reaffirmed Joe, who hung up and sat down wearily. He picked up his mug to take a sip; his hands were trembling. None of us said anything for a while. Then Joe spoke.
"Johnny's errand was to retrieve a portion of papers and effects willed to the Boston Public Library by the late Dominic Santuccio, a lawyer in the North End and a second-generation Italian-American. The papers and effects all concern the Sacco-Vanzetti case."
He stopped there and sipped again. His hands were still shaking. We nodded at his statement, as if listening to a university lecture. He continued.
"I met Dom a few times in connection with court cases and Italian-American functions and benefits. Nice guy, and rich. His obsession was collecting and verifying documents and evidence relative to the case. Like most of us he was certain the men were framed. He hoped to write a book proving their innocence and restoring their reputations. He was not popular with a lot of establishment people for wanting to do this. He died three months ago of cancer and never got the chance to do it."
"Yeah, I remember reading about him," said Brian. "What do you mean, us? You said that like most of us he was certain they were framed-"
"I mean us Italians, naturally. And also anyone who feels sympathy for the working-c1ass immigrants in general. Sacco and Vanzetti committed no crime; they were radicals who questioned the system and fought for workers' rights, so the system big shots had them executed. So it's, ah, no surprise that I get a little upset when I even hear the case mentioned."
"I'm glad to hear you've got the case so goddamned buttoned up," said Brian, who was swiveling his chair around, back and forth,"because I've read about a lot of evidence that says they were guilty. Guilty as all hell of murder and armed robbery. The only reason, in fact, that a lot of idealists and artists thought they were railroaded is because of the propaganda stirred up for them by the Communists and Wobblies."
He leaned back and swiveled like a semaphore. If he was trying to get a rise out of Joe, then it worked. "
"Oh yeah? Well what about that blackguard and murderer Michael Collins? Bloodthirsty pig- it's a good thing. De Valera had him murdered, even though it was a double-cross. Of course, what would you expect from-"
"Don't you ever call Michael Collins a murderer," snapped Brian. "And don't ever accuse Eamon De Valera of killing him. Why I'd-"
"Now hold on a minute, you guys. Can't we just discuss- "
"Sacco and Vanzetti were doomed from the start. The mill owners and industrialists wanted them dead. Demanded their death. The trial was a mockery. Evidence was altered. Witnesses were led. A new trial would've-"
"Bullshit, Joe. You can't argue with a ballistics test. At least one fatal bullet was fired from Sacco's gun. Lots of reliable witnesses identified Vanzetti as one of the gunmen. When they were arrested, both men lied about what they had been doing. Both men were armed, too, with weapons like those used in the holdup."
Joe slammed his palms down on the table and jumped up, shaking his finger at Brian's face.
"Hannon, you don't deserve to be a police chief if you believe all that crap. There's a logical explanation for each of the things you mentioned, and the fact that they were even issues at the trial and turned against the men proves a conspiracy to obstruct justice. And as for that bullet, it's a direct misquoting of the witness summoned. A lie!"
"All I know is what I read, Joe."
"You don't know much. Those poor guys were tried and convicted not because of what they did, but because of what they were: working men, radicals, foreigners… Italians."
Then Brian really muddied the waters by remarking that maybe that wasn't so far off the mark, considering that Italians practically invented crime in America.
To which Joe replied- shouted back is better, actually- that ninety-eight percent of Italians were peaceable and law-abiding, and if Brian implied, directly or indirectly, that they were violent, he would personally take Brian's head off.
To which Brian replied- shouted back is better, actually- that the Irish never, as commonly supposed, looked for a fight, but if Joe wanted to start something with him, he personally knew of a place in Southie where seven or eight strapping young Sons of Erin would take delight in performing the Kilkenny two-step on Joe's face.