by Allan Levine
“My aim is to keep you honest, McCreary, as impossible a job as that is,” Klein said coolly.
That comment elicited a hint of a smile from Allard.
“So you do have a sense of humour, Allard?” Klein asked.
Before Allard could respond, McCreary, muttering to himself, walked towards the group of constables searching for evidence beside the railway shed. “I want a report, now,” he said loudly.
Sarah’s sitter, Molly, had finally shown up at the store at two thirty in the afternoon and offered to take the children back to the Klein house. Sarah was slightly annoyed with the sixteen-year-old girl and did not have the patience to listen to her convoluted story about her grandmother’s missing cat. She kissed Bernice and Mel as they left with Molly, instructing the girl to give the children milk and biscuits when they got home, and returned to her work.
It had been as profitable a day as she had anticipated. Betty Kingston had purchased two suits, a new navy blue piquetine and pebble-grey tweed. The outfits, fifty dollars each, were not entirely to her taste—“too blaah,” as she had put it—but she said that she required them for the various social engagements she had to attend with her husband. In addition to the dresses, she bought three skirts, a white cloche hat, and an assortment of powders, vanishing creams, pan sticks, lipsticks, and mascaras. In total, her bill came to nearly $200, more than Sarah usually sold in a week.
Betty then insisted that Sarah join her for tea and cake at Eaton’s elegant Grill Room.
“I just can’t close the store in the middle of the afternoon, Betty,” Sarah had pleaded.
“Nonsense, my dear. Who’s to say anything about it? Thanks to me, or rather my Nicholas, have you not had a profitable day?”
Sarah laughed. “Yes, I have.”
“So what’s the problem, then? Come, we need to talk,” Betty said, taking hold of Sarah’s arm.
Fifteen minutes later, the two women were on the fifth floor of Eaton’s department store seated among the other ladies enjoying mid-afternoon tea and Dundee cake. This was not a dining room Sarah frequented. Everything about the Grill Room—its oak-panelling, wrought iron chandeliers, well-appointed carpeting, crisp white tablecloths, and formally attired waiters—gave the distinct impression that this was an establishment which catered to Winnipeg’s wealthy elite, and definitely not the wife of a Jewish private detective who lived in the North End. Even though she was with Betty Kingston, Sarah’s face flushed. She immediately felt as if various sets of eyes were staring at her.
“Ignore them,” said Betty, lightly touching Sarah’s arm. “They’re actually looking at me, rather than you. I’m what you call a gold digger. You should hear the gossip about how I tricked innocent and naïve Nicholas into marriage. The story would make a wonderful play, though I can’t decide if it would be a tragedy or a comedy.”
Sarah smiled. “I can assure you, I’ve never thought anything about it. And trust me, if either one of us has a past to conceal, it’s definitely me!”
Betty chuckled and patted Sarah’s hand. “I know all about you, my dear. I think you’re very brave.”
“Yes, there’s no escaping it. I worked in a brothel and I kind of enjoyed it. Until Sam gave me a new life, that is. I owe him everything.”
A waiter with a thin moustache and tailored black suit interrupted the conversation. He set down a silver teapot and served each woman a slice of Dundee cake filled with raisins and topped with almonds.
“You’ll enjoy this,” said Betty. “If we were here for dinner, I’d have the chicken pot pie. Simply delicious.”
“I hope you don’t mind me saying so, but you are curious,” said Sarah.
“How so?”
“You’re young and beautiful, lively and funny…”
“So why did I choose to marry a stuffed-shirt like Nicholas, a man more than twenty years older than me with teenage children?”
Sarah grinned. “I suppose that’s the question, yes.”
“I grew up in a nice neighbourhood in Toronto. My father’s a stockbroker. He was out of the house each weekday at eight o’clock and home after six. My mother, who died in the flu epidemic, had his dinner on the table. She lived her life for me and my younger brother. I can’t say that she wasn’t happy, but that’s the way it seemed to me. Life, I think, has to be more than a bunch of dinners on the table and the occasional social outing. Life has to be gay and filled with exceptional moments. Not just hard work and sitting there waiting for your husband to come home.”
“And Nicholas Kingston was your answer?” asked Sarah.
“Hard to believe, I know. But he has a marvelous sense of humour and he adores me for who I am. He promised never to try to change me and he hasn’t yet. I only had to agree to be at his side for balls and pageants and other society affairs and in exchange I can spend an afternoon purchasing what I choose at shops like yours. And besides…” Betty paused and glanced in every direction. “The sex is wonderful,” she whispered, giggling.
Sarah smiled. “I can understand that.”
“After three children, you’re still in love with your husband?”
“I am, yes.”
“Not wishing to pry…”
“Well, go ahead, I did.”
“Why that loud argument with that gentleman who visited us earlier?”
“You could hear?”
Betty nodded. “Hard not to.”
“I apologize for that. It’s a very long story and so far does not have a happy ending.”
“I have all the time in the world,” said Betty, sipping her tea.
“I made a foolish mistake and for the life of me, I can’t tell you why. Or, perhaps, it will make perfect sense to you. The so-called gentleman is Saul Sugarman. I’m sure you’ve heard of him.”
“Yes, Nicholas has mentioned his name, but not in a pleasant way,” Betty said, lowering her voice. “He’s quite the businessman, I hear. Involved with the liquor trade.”
Sarah nodded. “That’s putting it lightly. Saul and his brother Lou, a much kinder man, are very wealthy. They first owned hotels and later began selling whisky. They’ve done very well. Maybe I should be selling liquor too. For some months, business at the shop has been slow, like everywhere else in the city. I wish I had a lot more customers like you,” she said with a smile, “but unfortunately that’s not the case. Things were not good. When it appeared I might have to close, in walked Saul. His office is also in the Boyd Building. He and I exchanged pleasantries, and, I must admit, I flirted with him. We got to talking and then, much to my surprise, he offered me a deal: an investment in the shop. I would pay him back without interest whenever I could afford it. Sam warned me about him. We argued about it, though in the end we both finally agreed that I had no choice but to accept Saul’s help. At the time, I told Sam he was wrong. That Saul was genuine in his desire to save the shop. Yet now I know I misjudged his intentions. Several weeks ago, I was working late, restocking. Saul showed up with a bottle of whisky. I was tired. He was charming. We had a drink and then another one. I honestly don’t recall exactly what happened. I have replayed the scene in my head many times. We were laughing and he gently rubbed my cheek. And then before I could do anything, he leaned in and kissed me. And, for moment, I kissed him back. But I quickly pushed him away and asked him to leave, which he did.”
“Sounds innocent enough to me,” said Betty.
“I don’t know. A few days went by and I was troubled. Sam kept asking me what was wrong. I kept saying nothing and then…”
“You didn’t tell him, did you?” asked Betty, shaking her head.
Sarah shrugged. “He wouldn’t stop, so I told him.”
“From what I know of your husband’s reputation, I imagine that didn’t go well.”
Sarah sighed. “No, not at all. He’s been angry ever since. There was so much yelling that I just
left for a few days. It was impulsive and foolish, I know that. Worse, I didn’t tell him where I was, which naturally made him angrier. I’ve tried to explain it to him, but he won’t listen.”
Betty sat back in her chair. “Men are stubborn and pig-headed, though I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that.”
“You don’t!”
“Do you still love him, Sarah?”
“I do, of course.”
“Then don’t give up on him. He’ll come round.”
“I hope you’re right. I can’t lose Sam,” said Sarah, her eyes welling.
Betty patted Sarah’s right hand. “Now, now dear, let’s finish this cake and then order another piece.”
By eleven o’clock in the evening, the only people out on the streets of Winnipeg were stragglers from the last theatre and movie performances of the day and the usual motley collection of drunks, beggars, men making their way home from the Point Douglas brothels, and would-be thieves and muggers.
Bill McCreary, as irritable as he normally was after a long day of work, turned onto Portage from Donald Street, pushing out of his way a trio of young drunks who had the misfortune of being in his path. One of the dishevelled young men went crashing to the sidewalk, while his two friends abandoned him, running in the opposite direction as fast as their wobbly legs could carry them.
“Damn fools,” bellowed McCreary. “Where’s a cop when you need one?” He left the drunk lying on the sidewalk and continued on his way.
When he reached the Boyd Building, he banged on the front door and the night watchman jumped up from his desk and let him in. McCreary mumbled hello, proceeded to the elevator, and rode it up to the fifth floor. This time of the day, there was no elevator operator so McCreary had to pull the cage door shut and work the lever himself. A few minutes later, he found Saul Sugarman alone in his office.
“I was hoping that secretary you keep around here, the blonde with the legs, might still be here,” said McCreary, sitting down in a leather chair opposite Sugarman’s desk.
“You mean Miss Kravetz?” asked Sugarman with a chuckle. “She’s gone home long ago. You’re old enough to be her father, by the way.”
“Yeah and…”
“And nothing. I know she’s a choice bit of calico.” Sugarman opened a panel on the wall behind his desk, took out a bottle of Gooderham & Worts Special Rye Whisky, and poured two glasses. “Here, have a swig of this, McCreary,” he said, handing the detective a shot.
“It’s not that panther piss that your brother concocts.”
Sugarman smirked. “Lou’s homemade brew has not been bad of late. Not like that famous first batch he tried that turned purple. Just try this. Very smooth.”
McCreary grabbed the glass and gulped down the whisky. “You’re right, Sugarman. It’s smooth, and I needed that. I presume you’ve heard from Lou about the shooting at the station today.”
Sugarman nodded. “Of course. My sister and her children were nearly killed,” he said, his voice rising. “It is nonsense! How could something like this have happened? It’s not part of the plan, that’s for damn sure. Do you think it was that pain-in-the-ass preacher Vivian? That’s what Lou thinks.”
McCreary removed a thin cigar from his inside jacket pocket, took a wooden match from a silver container on Sugarman’s desk, and lit it. He took a deep drag and blew a puff of smoke upward. “Might’ve been. I have a man trying to find him. He wasn’t at his home. But we’ll find him by Friday at the latest, I promise. You know Klein was there?”
“Yeah, I heard. I told Lou to hire him. It’s fine. He could prove useful, but not for the reason he thinks.”
“I sure hope you’re right. I have my men in Vera on the lookout for that young Jew who’s working with him. Geller, I think his name is.”
“Yes, it’s Geller. He’s young and inexperienced. There’s nothing to worry about. But I have a man there, too: Sid Sharp. I’ve already sent a wire to him with instructions to keep an eye on the kid.”
McCreary took another drag on his cigar and stared at Sugarman for a moment. “You shouldn’t underestimate Klein, Saul. He’s capable and he knows how to solve a case. I can vouch for that. His problem is that he thinks no one else is as smart as he is. He saw something else at the station, but didn’t tell me about it. Still thinks I’m an idiot. But I know all about it.”
Sugarman opened a sterling silver cigar box on his desk, took one out, chopped off the end with a silver cutter, and lit it. He handed one of the cigars to McCreary. “Here, this is a lot better than the cheap tobacco you’re smoking.”
McCreary took a whiff of Sugarman’s cigar, smiled, and put it carefully into his jacket pocket.
“So what did Klein see?” asked Sugarman.
“You won’t like it.”
“I don’t like it already.”
“Two of Rosen’s men might be in the city and from what my source tells me, the shooter might have been aiming at them rather than your brother.”
“Is it reliable?”
“The conductor on the Minneapolis train. I’ve been dealing with him for years, an old guy named Pete Buchelle. The two men were on his train. Swears he saw the whole thing unfold.”
“God damn it.” Sugarman banged his hand hard on his desk. “Who does he think he is?”
“Irv Rosen, that’s who,” said McCreary, pouring himself another shot of whisky. “He doesn’t answer to you, me, or the American government for that matter.”
“So who the hell was shooting at them?”
“I have some thoughts on that, too, but let my men look into that further.”
“There’s a possibility,” said Sugarman, scratching his chin. “Seems unlikely, however.”
“You want to tell me what the hell you’re talking about?”
“Not right now, McCreary. But, here, I have a gift for you in honour of you being named head of the provincial police.” Sugarman opened his desk drawer and pulled out a brown envelope. He slid it across the desk towards McCreary.
The detective opened the envelope. Inside was a stack of bills. “That’s generous of you, Sugarman … but…”
“But what?”
McCreary finished his whisky and helped himself to another of Sugarman’s cigars. Without saying another word, he stood up, tucked the envelope in his jacket, and walked out of the office.
6
One by one, the men marched silently into the small house. George Dickens had not been physically fit enough to fight in the war because of a bad knee, but now he truly felt like a soldier. An office clerk for the Standard Grain Company, he had a mission to rid Winnipeg and the world of alcohol, the evil drink and the cause of misery, poverty, and wrecked marriages. He owed this renewed sense of purpose to one man, his “General,” Reverend John Vivian, “the battling preacher.”
Like the other men, Dickens had been sent instructions yesterday: he was to report to 1774 Belmont Avenue at eleven o’clock on Thursday morning. And he was to bring his hunting rifle. He had been forced to call in sick at work, but such was his loyalty to the reverend. His wife, Maggie, as much or more of a supporter of the anti-liquor crusade, had encouraged him to do so.
The isolated, white, wood cottage on the corner of Belmont and Salter was about a mile from Bannerman Avenue and civilization. Dickens had initially wondered why the reverend had chosen this rural location as opposed to the more comfortable confines of the house on Sherbrooke Street near Ellice Avenue where the group usually convened. But Dickens understood that when Vivian gave an order, he was to be obeyed, no questions asked. The war on drink demanded it.
There was hot coffee on the wood stove in the kitchen and Dickens poured himself a cup. So, too, did several of the other men.
“Anyone know what’s going on?” Dickens asked the man with the neatly trimmed moustache standing beside him.
This older ge
ntleman also poured himself a mug of black coffee and motioned for Dickens to follow him into the cottage’s parlour. There, standing in the middle of the modestly furnished room, was John Vivian.
No matter how many times Dickens saw the Methodist preacher, his heart always skipped and his palms instantly became sweaty. The reverend had a definite presence. To Dickens, Vivian exuded the wisdom of a Biblical prophet: calm, measured, righteous, and unwavering. A towering figure in a time of increasing depravity was how Dickens frequently described him.
Vivian surveyed the room, staring intently at each of his men. As his piercing gaze landed on Dickens, he could feel the hair on the back of his neck tingle. Dressed in a stylish, three-piece black suit with a white shirt and a black tie with small, white speckles in it, Vivian at first said nothing. His thick, short, auburn hair was parted almost in the middle. He had high cheekbones and deep-set, brown eyes. His jaw was firm like that of a boxer. He was both a handsome man and a determined one. Twenty years ago, after his older brother, while hunting near Lake of the Woods, had been accidentally shot and killed by an intoxicated hunter, Vivian dedicated his life to halting the trade in liquor and shutting down as many saloons as he could.
“It is prosperity against poverty, sobriety against drunkenness, honesty against thieving, heaven against hell,” Vivian declared.
Several of the men in the parlour nodded.
“Who is to blame for this tragedy? This calamity that is destroying otherwise good men and women everywhere?” He did not wait for a reply. “The saloon owners and the liquor profiteers. And the worst of these sinners are the Sugarman brothers, Jews, of course, who live off the weakness of others. They have no interest in humanity, only in the almighty dollar. They now are lawbreakers, sending their vile liquor across the border. They deal with the criminal element.”
Dickens and the other men shouted, “Yes!”
“The Sugarmans and others of their ilk must be stopped, one way or the other! Are you ready to stand with me? Are you ready to do the Lord’s bidding? To do what is necessary?”
