Smoke & Mire

In his 13 years in the New York fire department, Gerard W. Purcell spent as little time as possible climbing ladders and sliding down brass poles. By becoming financial secretary of the Uniformed Firemen's Association--the A.F.L. union which represents smoke eaters below the rank of lieutenant--he avoided duty, drew an extra $100 a month, and got the use of a shiny red automobile and a chauffeur. He also assumed the job of promoting the annual Firemen's Ball.

This was a heady experience; he found himself commanding the services of a special unit known as the Major Disaster Squad. Though the squad was officially charged with anticipating and preventing major conflagrations, it actually served a vastly different function. Its 60 hand-picked members, luxuriating in the regime of Mayor William O'Dwyer, were all "real pushers," who could "put the arm on anybody"; they did nothing for months but sell tickets to the Firemen's Ball.

In a City Garden. Purcell, a handsome, heavy-jawed bachelor of 38, was a man of lively imagination. He quickly decided that there was no reason that this magnificent sales organization should be check-reined by the relatively cramped space in Madison Square Garden--a hall which seated 17,000 when it was cleared for the ball. In both 1948 and 1949, as a result, he grandiosely ordered 54,992 tickets printed up. His uniformed salesmen (who got a 20% commission in 1948, 25% in 1949) sold them like hotcakes.

Of course, like many another man of ideas, he had his troubles. As early as 1946, the association's financial officer, a big ex-Sing Sing guard named Frank A. Mott, began complaining about Purcell's methods. But the mayor's pal, Frank Murphy--$12,000-a-year chief of staff of the department--fixed that. He sent down an order which forced Mott to work during the hours when association meetings were being held. Mott also began getting threatening telephone calls.

Purcell bigheartedly took over Mott's duties as well as his own, and things went on swimmingly again--although nobody knew just how swimmingly until last week, when Purcell's true genius was exposed to public view. District Attorney Frank Hogan hauled him into General Sessions, charged him with larceny. Approximately $138,000 worth of ticket money from 1948 and 1949 was missing.

After the Ball Was Over. Purcell denied everything. But it soon became obvious that if he was telling the truth, he had done more with his $4,150 annual wage than any fireman in history. Records showed that he had helped finance a Flushing bar & grill for his brother-in-law. There were definite indications that he had been involved in promoting a housing project, a six-day bicycle race, and a scheme to sell 40,000 Christmas trees to firemen and their relatives.

Like many another well-heeled man about town, Purcell had also gotten into show business; he had established a firm called Star Management Co. and was managing a string of nightclub singers. He helped promote one of them, a buxom and glad-eyed lass named Terri Stevens, by getting her named Miss Firefighter of 1950. Singer Toni Arden, who was appearing at Houston's Shamrock Hotel last week, said he had presented her with $4,000 worth of gowns. Singer Madelyn Russell announced, dimpling prettily, that he had given her lots of "good advice" about her career.

It's Off to Work We Go. Fire Commissioner George Monaghan reacted to all this sprightly news by hurriedly calling association officers back to duty, and starting a full investigation of the matter. The new scandal also set off another round of shake-ups in city departments which had been jittering nervously ever since the cops ran afoul of the big Brooklyn gambling expose (TIME, Oct. 9).

The D.A. began an investigation of four Sanitation Department unions. The city council considered a law which would force policemen to give 30 days' notice before retiring--and thus prevent their resigning to avoid testifying without immunity before a grand jury.

The cops were not abashed. Headquarters immediately leaked a rumor intended to intimidate the council--that 2,000 bluecoats would quit en masse if the law was passed. The firemen--at least on the surface--struck the same defiant pose. The association not only gave Purcell a vote of confidence, but decided to continue his salary out of union funds and kick through with all the money he needed for his defense.

This week the D.A. added a little more fuel to the fire. He announced that another $135,000 was missing from the U.F.A.'s funds and pointed an accusing finger at the union's President John P. Crane. When Crane refused to sign an immunity waiver, he was summarily fired from the department. But, said Crane, the loyal firemen would also make up his salary out of the union treasury.

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