Smith’s letters went unacknowledged. Then, just as he despaired of ever seeing justice done, R.B. Bennett was thrust into office and soon had to contend with tin and tarpaper shacks springing up everywhere and with farmers who called their necessarily horse-drawn Model-Ts “Bennett buggies”. When thousands of the unemployed marched on Ottawa, Bennett was convinced that the country was teetering on the edge of a revolution. Unable to supply bread, he provided a circus. The Gurskys were arrested in Montreal, charged with the evasion of customs duty and excise tax. Prominent photographs of their mountainside mansions began to appear in newspapers. Reporters revived interest in the unsolved murder of Willy McGraw.
The government put together an intimidating flotilla of lawyers to prosecute the case, the captain on the bridge Stuart MacIntyre of Morgan, MacIntyre and Maclean. Bert Smith proceeded to MacIntyre’s office directly after his train from the west arrived at Windsor Station. MacIntyre heard him out and then met with his colleagues, his disappointment self-evident. “Unfortunately,” he said, “the guy’s not physically blessed, but an obvious nonentity who practically foams at the mouth at the mention of Bernard Gursky and is also out to get Bouchard, a member in good standing of both the St. Denis Club and the St. Jean Baptiste Society. Putting him on the stand is going to be risky.”
The Gurskys also assembled a formidable legal team, shrewdly comprised of one lawyer, Bernard Langlois, who was a French-Canadian, and another, Arthur Benchley, with impeccable Westmount connections, their tactics orchestrated by Moti Singerman, who would never question a witness himself.
The trial, presided over by Judge Gaston Leclerc, the former chief bagman for the Quebec Liberal Party, got off to a promising start, so far as the Gurskys were concerned. MacIntyre, opening for the Crown, charged that the Gurskys had conspired to violate the statutes of a friendly country, smuggling liquor over the longest undefended border in the world. Langlois countered that it would be incredible for the courts of the province of Quebec to administer the laws of the United States. “If the prosecution wishes to charge the Gursky brothers with smuggling, let them prove it.”
But in order for the Crown to make their case it was essential for them to have bank documentation proving that millions of dollars had passed between Ajax Shipping, the Gursky-owned company in Newfoundland, and Gibraltar, a Gursky family trust. However, the RCMP raid on McTavish headquarters had been too late, the account books having been lost in a fire the day before.
Things took a turn for the worse once Solomon moved into the witness stand. Pressed about his activities as an alleged bootlegger, he asked MacIntyre, “When you invited people to dinner at your seaside cottage on the Cape, during Prohibition, did you usually serve your guests carrot juice or cocktails?”
“What possible concern is that of yours?”
“I’d like to know what I missed—if anything.”
Had Solomon ever met with Al Capone? Yes. Longy Zwillman? Yes. Moe Dalitz? Yes again. “But,” Solomon said, “I have also met with Joan Miró and George Bernard Shaw, but I am neither a painter nor a writer. I have talked with your brother in Ottawa more than once and I am not a bigot.”
Judge Leclerc cautioned Solomon, not for the first time. MacIntyre, sorting through papers, feigning confusion, asked, “Can you tell me if the name Willy McGraw means anything to you?”
Before Arthur Benchley could protest that the question was irrelevant, Solomon replied, “He was a friend of mine.”
That night a distraught Mr. Bernard, dismissing his chauffeur, took to the wheel of his Cadillac and drove out to Ste.-Adèle. Judge Leclerc was waiting for him there, having reluctantly agreed to open his country place, Pickwick Corner, the grounds landscaped and the interior decorated to honour his somewhat skewed notion of a country squire’s cottage in the Cotswolds. True, the walled rose garden had been a failure, the rhododendrons had also yielded to frost, but there was a wishing well. Each spring, a host of golden daffodils. And the beautifully sculpted yews bordering his croquet lawn clearly showed the hand, according to one visitor, of a master choreographer.
Mr. Bernard joined Judge Leclerc in the living room, the fireplace wall adorned with paintings of the fox hunt, another wall lined with a grouping of backlit pewter plates and jugs. Both men sat in leather armchairs, Judge Leclerc filling his pipe with a fragrant mixture of tobacco imported from Fribourg and Treyer, in the Haymarket, his briar acquired from Inderwick’s. “Bernard,” Judge Leclerc said, smoothing his hairbrush moustache, tugging at his ascot, “we’ve jolly well got to give them something.”
“How come Jules Omer Bouchard, making maybe five grand a year, owns a big house in Hull and another in Florida and an estate in the Gaspé, eighteen-year-old nieces coming out of the woodwork everywhere, if he isn’t accepting bribes?”
“Jules is for it, anyway, the poor bloke, but that won’t be nearly enough.”
Mr. Bernard unlocked his attaché case.
“And that won’t do it, either.”
“Look here, you little prick, I go to jail, so do you.”
“By Jove, are you threatening me?”
“Sure I am.”
“Stu MacIntyre’s keen for blood. If he wins this case he can choose between being the next minister of justice or a seat on the Supreme Court.”
“What could he have against me?”
“Not you. Solomon. He tried to pick up Diana Morgan in that hotel he bought down here and he’s been after her ever since, his intent undoubtedly priapic.”
“I don’t know about that, but he’s got nooky on the brain that one. I’ll tell him to stop. Consider it done.”
“That young lady is a thoroughbred. She’s a granddaughter of Sir Russell Morgan and a niece of Stu MacIntyre’s. I hope to succeed MacIntyre as Master of the Ste.-Adèle Hunt Club. I would be the first French-Canadian to be so honoured. Fancy that.” Judge Leclerc brought out a decanter of port and two large snifters. “Did Solomon order McGraw killed?”
“Oh, no. I couldn’t.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“My own brother.”
“We’ve bloody well got to feed them something.”
“Callaghan?”
“Not enough.”
“My own flesh and blood.”
“I understand.”
“What could I get? Worst case.”
“A heavy fine.”
“I can handle that.”
“And possibly ten years in prison.”
The next morning Bert Smith was called to the witness stand, realizing a dream that had sustained him night after night for years, gnashing his teeth in bed, raging, waking in a sweaty tangle of sheets. In his mind’s eye, given his day in court, Smith smote the Gurskys as David had Goliath, not with five smooth stones but with the truth. Then, the governor-general intervened on his behalf, reinstating him in customs and excise, the new chief investigating officer, seated in Bouchard’s chair. But now, stepping up to be sworn in at last, dizzy, his throat dry, he was mortified to hear the squeak of the new shoes he had purchased for the occasion. His shirt collar choked, but he didn’t dare loosen his tie. Although he had been to the toilet twice already his bladder was fit to burst. His stomach rumbled and he feared he might soil himself right there. Desperately trying to summon up MacIntyre’s detailed instructions, instead he could only recall their lunch together at Delmo’s, Smith, terrified of being caught out in a gaffe, waiting for the distinguished lawyer to order, mumbling, ”I’ll have the same, thank you, sir,” to the waiter. Then disgracing himself, realizing too late that he was buttering his bread with the fish knife, his embarrassment compounded when MacIntyre magnanimously followed suit.
Responding to the simplest question, determined to please MacIntyre, such a fine gentleman, Smith instinctively raised a hand to his mouth to hide his snaggle-teeth, then, asked to speak up more clearly this time, he lowered his hand abruptly, blushing and flustered. Sliding in sweat, stumbling, all the speeches he had rehearsed again and agai
n were lost to him. He heard himself talking, those were his lips moving, but he had no idea what he was saying. In fact, bleeding vitriol and incoherence in equal parts, painfully aware of MacIntyre’s impatience and the grinning simians on the press bench, he did manage to blurt out that the accused, in the presence of his brothers and Tim Callaghan, had offered him a bribe of fifteen thousand dollars to let three American bootleggers go free. Then, even as he warmed to his tale, he grasped that MacIntyre, obviously annoyed, was distancing himself from him. “Thank you very much, Mr. Smith.”
“But—”
“I have no more questions.”
Later MacIntyre, pontificating in his boardroom before the firm’s most recent law graduates, would explain: “I knew I never should have allowed that malignant little man to testify. No sooner did he take the oath than I felt the ill-wind on the back of my neck. You see, boys, it was no use. There wasn’t anybody in that courtroom who hadn’t once been stopped and had his baggage searched by just such a punctilious little turd.”
MacIntyre’s questioning of him done, Smith was suddenly aware of somebody else swimming into focus, the portly Langlois, raising titters as he established that Smith was a Boy Scout leader who didn’t drink or smoke. And probably, Langlois ventured, didn’t have a sense of humour either or he would have realized when he was being teased by Mr. Bernard, a well-known practical joker.
“No bribe was offered,” Mr. Bernard testified, “but Smith came to the warehouse office when we happened to be checking out the contents of our safe, our monthly receipts out on the desk, maybe fifteen thousand dollars, and winking at my brothers, nudging Callaghan, I happened to say, hey, kid, how would you like some of this money? You could get those teeth fixed. Buy a pair of shoes that didn’t squeak …”
Laughter rose from the reporters.
“… treat your Boy Scout troop to ice-cream sodas. Maybe take out a girl for once. Wowee!”
Morrie said, “I can’t help but feel sorry for Mr. Smith, really such a nice, polite boy, but it was all a misunderstanding.”
Callaghan swore that no bribe had been offered in his presence.
And then Solomon took to the stand, aware of Smith sitting there, rocking in place, a hand held to his mouth, his eyes empty.
“Am I correct in saying,” MacIntyre said, “that you asked to speak to Mr. Smith alone?”
“Yes, but he wanted a witness.”
MacIntyre chuckled.
“So Callaghan stayed behind,” Solomon said.
“And was present when you warned Mr. Smith not to testify against you?”
“I did not warn him. I advised him not to testify.”
“But to take the money that was still on the table?”
“To take it or leave it, as he saw fit.”
“And then,” MacIntyre said, smiling at the witness over his reading glasses, “possibly you even said unto him, All these things will I give thee, if thou wilt fall down and worship me.”
Judge Leclerc looked up, amazed. Before Langlois could intervene, MacIntyre continued, “If you recognize the quote …”
“The New Testament?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know about you, Mr. MacIntyre, but I’ve always found sequels something of a disappointment, especially Matthew.”
“Just who do you think you are to say a thing like that?”
“I am that I am, if you recognize the quote.”
Judge Leclerc hastily adjourned the court, announcing that it would reconvene at the usual hour the following morning.
And that night a troubled Mr. Bernard drove out to Ste.-Adèle again, where the judge was waiting.
“Guilty or not,” Mr. Bernard said, “it goes against my nature to turn in my own brother. I’d rather take my medicine like a man.”
“More’s the pity.”
“But if MacIntyre really, really wants to get at the truth I suggest that he get in touch with this man,” he said, passing him a slip of paper. “He will be arriving at the Windsor Hotel tomorrow afternoon.”
A couple of days later, Stu MacIntyre, questioning Solomon again, seemed to wander without point, defence lawyers leaping up to protest the irrelevance of his queries, Judge Leclerc overruling them, displaying uncharacteristic patience and good humour.
“I take it,” MacIntyre said, “that you are something of a gambling man?”
“Yes.”
“Horses?”
“Yes.”
“Snooker?”
“On occasion.”
“Like the night you sent Willy McGraw down to the railroad station, where he was killed by unknown gunmen?”
Arthur Benchley shot out of his seat, infuriated. Judge Leclerc, taking his point, reprimanded MacIntyre. MacIntyre apologized and was then allowed to proceed.
“Poker?”
“Yes.”
“As a matter of interest, for high stakes?”
“I’ve got a feeling we’re going to see a surprise witness here.”
“You haven’t answered the question, Mr. Gursky.”
“Just because you indicate a garden path, sir, doesn’t mean I have to follow it only to be confronted by a liar.”
Following a caution to the witness from Judge Leclerc, MacIntyre put the question to Solomon again.
“For high stakes. Yes.”
“Didn’t you once wager your father’s general store, as well as a good deal of cash against—”
“You’re forgetting the blacksmith’s shop and Charley Lin’s two rooming houses.”
“That as well then, against the deed to the Queen Victoria Hotel, then the property of the late Willy McGraw?”
“Yes.”
“Did you win?”
“Fortunately.”
“My own card-playing is limited to the occasional rubber of bridge, so please correct me if I’m wrong, Mr. Gursky, but I would imagine in games played for such stakes it is crucial that the players trust each other to both honour their debts and play strictly according to the rules.”
“What you lack in subtlety, sir, you do make up for in prescience.”
“Would you please—”
“Answer the question?”
“Yes.”
“You are correct.”
“Am I also correct in assuming that if a player were suspected of cheating he would no longer be welcome at the tables?”
“If you are looking for a game, sir, I could arrange it. Outside the confines of this courtroom, I’m sure you wouldn’t dare play with a stacked deck.”
“Would you please answer the questions as they are put to you, Mr. Gursky.”
“Yes, an unscrupulous player would soon be discovered and find himself persona non grata at the tables, to say the least.”
“So had somebody threatened to compromise your no doubt enviable reputation as an honourable player it would have been a serious matter?”
“A very serious matter.”
“That’s all for the moment, Mr. Gursky, and I do thank you for the patience and of course the unfailing courtesy of your replies.” But as Solomon got up, MacIntyre motioned for him to sit down again. “Sorry. Just one more thing. Going back to that game in which you were lucky enough to win the Queen Victoria Hotel—”
“From the late Willy McGraw?”
“Yes. From the late Mr. McGraw. Can you tell me did you use new playing cards?”
“Yes.”
“And where were they purchased?”
“Why, from A. Gursky and Sons, General Merchants.”
Charley Lin wasn’t summoned to the stand until late in the afternoon. He averted his eyes as he waddled past Solomon, who smiled and whispered something that made Charley stumble and then turn to the judge to protest that he had had a long journey and did not feel well.
Judge Leclerc, noting the late hour, adjourned the court, asking Mr. Lin to resume the stand at ten the next morning.
But the next morning Solomon Gursky did not turn up in court at the appointed ho
ur and was not to be found at home, either. He had met with Mr. Bernard the previous evening, according to Clara Gursky, the brothers quarrelling bitterly, and then he had gone out for a stroll at six in the morning and hadn’t been seen since.
“Did he take a suitcase with him, Mrs. Gursky?”
“No.”
It was late in the afternoon before the RCMP established that Solomon had taken a taxi to Cartierville airport and flown off in his Gypsy Moth with the raven painted on the fuselage.
Bound for where?
North was all Mr. Gursky said.
Where north, for Christ’s sake?
Far, he said.
Refuelling in Labrador, it was later discovered, heading still farther out in appalling weather conditions, a whiteout predicted.
The next day’s newspapers featured page one photographs of the late Willy McGraw, lying in a puddle of blood on the railway station floor. There were interviews with Charley Lin. Photographs of Solomon seen seated with “Legs” Diamond in the Hotsy-Totsy Club; Solomon standing on a corner of Third Avenue, kibitzing with Izzy and Moe, the fabled Prohibition agents; and, finally, a photograph of Solomon in his flier’s uniform, standing before his Sopwith Camel, on an airfield “somewhere in France.”
Reporters speculated that McGraw had discovered Solomon was playing with marked cards acquired from his father’s general store. Fearful of exposure, or possibly responding to blackmail, Solomon appointed McGraw manager of the Duke of York Hotel in North Portal and then had him murdered, his own alibi foolproof.
RCAF search planes hunted for Solomon’s Gypsy Moth, which seemed to have disappeared after refuelling in Labrador, where the mechanic who had serviced the plane was sharply questioned.
“Didn’t he tell you where he was heading?”
“North.”
“We know that, damn it, but where?”
“Far, he said.”
A bush pilot, consulted by the RCMP, said that the day Solomon had taken off nothing else was moving, because it was as good as flying through a bottle of milk. In a whiteout, he explained, there is absolutely no horizon, and even the most experienced pilot, riding it out, wheeling and turning, his sense of gravity gone, is inclined to fly upside down into the ground. And that, he felt, is what happened to Gursky somewhere in the barrens, where only an Eskimo had a chance to survive.
Solomon Gursky Was Here Page 47
