by Allan Levine
McCreary took the telegram back from Nash and re-read it. “Early this morning, there were two other shootings, one in Crystal City, not far from Vera, and the other in Carnduff, Saskatchewan. Two men were killed, one in each town. The owner of a hardware store in Crystal City and a café operator in Carnduff.”
“That’s terrible, of course. But what has Mrs. Nash so upset?”
McCreary took a last drag of his cigar, blew the smoke in Klein’s direction and butted it on the edge of the desk. “You know where these two towns are located, Allard?”
“Well, Crystal City I know is south of Winnipeg, close to the US border. Not sure of Carnduff.”
“I’ve been through there,” said Nash. “It’s in southern Saskatchewan, about twenty miles from the border as well.”
“That’s right. And, as it turns out, both men were selling booze to bootleggers,” said McCreary. He turned to Hannah. “Mrs. Nash, I think you and I are taking a train trip in the next few hours.”
14
Klein left the police station trying to sort out what he had heard. He was not certain whether or not George Dickens was responsible for the shooting at the synagogue or the train station but he was sure of one thing: Dickens was hiding something from them. His calm manner did not fool Klein for a moment. Still, as he dodged the Saturday morning Main Street pedestrian traffic, the key question swirling in his head was the same as it had been for the past few days: could Reverend John Vivian have contrived all that had occurred? Moreover, in light of the recent killings in Crystal City and Carnduff, was the reverend’s anti-liquor crusade so extensive that he had plotted murders outside the city, including in Vera? Could Vivian be that fanatical and ruthless? Klein’s initial feeling was that, yes, he could.
Or was there another explanation, as he had thought from the beginning of this case: that everything that had gone on was somehow linked to Irv Rosen’s bootleg operations and that quite possibly someone—Dominik Vitale or his sidekick, Vinny “the Pick” Piccolo, in Chicago seemed like the most logical suspects—was trying to drive Rosen from the lucrative business? That theory could explain the attempts on the Sugarmans. But Klein would have to learn more about the two recent killings. Who were the bootleggers these liquor traders were dealing with?
He had one other idea on how to figure this out. It was probably futile, yet he decided that he had little to lose. Sarah frequently pointed out that as a detective, Klein’s unrelenting stubbornness was both a strength and a liability. There was always a fine line between being persistent as opposed to plain obstinate. Klein knew that bothering certain individuals, especially those with real or imagined power, could backfire. “No one likes a nuisance,” Sarah repeatedly warned him. True enough, thought Klein, as he reached the Canadian Northern telegraph office, but sometimes being a nudnik produced results. He grabbed a pencil and wrote a message:
To: Rosen c/o Ratner’s, 102 Norfolk Street, New York, NY. Vera, Crystal City, Carnduff, Winnipeg. Need to speak with you soonest. Klein.
Klein considered asking about the two thugs, Paulie and Richie, who he believed were Rosen’s men, or at least associated with him. Why were they still in the city and why were they so concerned about Klein’s investigation that they showed up at his house? But, Klein knew, too, that Rosen had to be handled with great care; asking too many questions would merely anger him. Keep it simple, thought Klein, as he handed the clerk the telegram, and maybe Rosen would provide the answers he was seeking.
It was, of course, possible that Paulie and Richie’s presence had nothing to do with the shootings, that the recent violence indeed had been masterminded by Reverend Vivian, and that there were other issues between Rosen and the Sugarmans that required the intervention of the gangsters. Either way, Klein wanted to find that out for himself. Another conversation with those two was needed, one in which his wife and children were not present and that Klein could control. Late last night, he had wisely sent a note to Melinda with a request to keep an eye out for Paulie and Richie and to notify him at once if they showed up at her house or any other brothel—which he was certain they would sooner or later. Not only did the ladies of Point Douglas possess many talents, but most of them were loyal and discreet. Paulie and Richie did not have a chance.
As the train meandered south of the city, Hannah was grateful for the short pause in the investigation. She eyed McCreary in the seat opposite her. He had his nose in the Saturday edition of the Free Press and, much to her surprise, had not said as much as a word to her since they boarded. He was a boor to be sure, but she had always respected his skills as a detective.
Hannah did have a few thoughts about what had transpired in Crystal City and Carnduff and how they might be connected to Max Roter’s murder in Vera. And she was prepared to share them with McCreary whenever he asked. However, for the moment, she opened the book she had brought with her from Calgary and started reading.
“The Beautiful and Damned. What the hell kind of title is that?” asked McCreary.
Nash smiled. “It’s by a young American writer, F. Scott Fitzgerald. His second novel.”
“Never heard of him.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
“So, is it any good?”
Nash was slightly taken aback by the question. “You’re really interested?”
“I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t,” said McCreary, lighting a cigar.
“Actually, you’d probably like it. There’s plenty of drinking, smoking, and carousing.”
“Sounds interesting,” said McCreary. He drew heavily on his cigar and blew the smoke upward. He stared at Hannah for a moment as she continued reading her book. “So, what is it between you and Klein, Mrs. Nash?” His tone was calm as if he was asking her about the weather.
She quickly looked up at him. “There’s nothing between me and Mr. Klein,” snapped Nash, her face reddening. “That’s rather forward of you.”
“I meant no disrespect. I figure we’re on the train. It’s quiet and you might want to talk of it. I think it’s on your mind.”
“You do?” said Nash, her voice more easy. “Okay, McCreary. I do like Sam, I won’t lie to you. And I suspect it’s obvious.”
“It is.”
“But it’s not what you’re implying. He’s a married man with a family. The fact is, I respect his abilities as an investigator. Though I’m sure you hate to admit it, Klein’s instincts about a case are usually correct.”
“He would have made a decent cop, I’ll grant you that. But if he wasn’t married…”
“And if I was the Queen of England, I wouldn’t be sitting here having this conversation with you.”
That comment brought a slight smile to McCreary’s face. “Fine, let’s talk business. What do you know about a Chicago gangster named Vinny Piccolo?”
“I’ve read reports about him. Dangerous and volatile. Parents were Italian immigrants and he was born in New Jersey. He’s now twenty-five years old and has been involved in racketeering and prostitution since he was a teenager. A few years back, he got into a fight at a New York City saloon with a thug by the name of Tony Abruzzo. If memory serves me correctly, Piccolo came after Abruzzo with an ice pick, which is why he’s fittingly called ‘the Pick.’ But Abruzzo didn’t back down. He slashed Piccolo across the face with a knife. Left him with a nasty scar. Last year, Piccolo started working for Dominik Vitale in Chicago, overseeing his operations. Vitale and Piccolo were likely involved in the murder of ‘Blue Eyes’ Anthony Cellini, who tried to stop Vitale from bootlegging once Prohibition was in place. You think these two gangsters are somehow mixed up in what’s happened?”
“You win the prize, Nash. That’s it exactly. My best hunch is that we’re caught up in a booze and gangster war between New York and Chicago. Maybe between the Nate and Irv Mob, Nate Katz and Irv Rosen, on one side and Vitale and Piccolo on the other. We need to find out more abou
t the two men killed in these towns. See who they were dealing with.”
“Makes sense,” said Nash. “Tell me, aren’t the Sugarmans selling liquor to the Rosen group?”
“They are and I agree. It’s quite possible that this feud is behind what’s gone on in the city.”
Thirty minutes later, the train pulled into Vera. Sergeant Sundell and two of his men were standing on the platform waiting for McCreary and Nash.
“Commissioner,” barked Sundell. “Good to see you again, sir.” The two provincial police officers beside him smartly saluted as well.
“At ease, gentlemen,” said McCreary, awkwardly returning the salute. At that moment, he wondered how he had got himself into this position, policing the province when he would much rather have been back in more familiar territory in Winnipeg. “Sundell, I think you know Mrs. Nash from the Alberta Provincial Police. She’s here to assist.”
“Good to see you again, ma’am,” said Sundell.
“Yes, Sergeant. I recall your recent visit to Calgary at the conference about American Prohibition.”
“Bootleggers and booze. There’s no end to this madness.”
“Not madness, Sergeant, merely greed, insatiable greed.”
Sundell nodded. “If you’ll follow me, we can speak more freely at headquarters.”
Late on a Saturday afternoon, Vera was busy—at least as busy as a town with less than 800 residents could be. A half-dozen horse-drawn wagons were parked in front of the hardware store and there were even a few Ford trucks crawling down Main Street leaving a cloud of dust as they passed.
“Just a normal Saturday here,” said Sundell. “But folks are getting kind of anxious about the general store still being closed. They’re tired of travelling to Emerson or Dominion City for groceries, me and my men included. Any idea when the store will be open again?”
“Can’t say that I do. Up to the family, I suppose. But I’m sure something will be done very soon because there’s a lot of booze in that warehouse. And right now, the bootleggers are finding their stock somewhere else,” said McCreary.
“Which might explain what happened in Crystal City and Carnduff,” Nash added.
Vera’s provincial police office, if you could call it that, was a small room connected to the back of the post office. Inside there was a wide slab of wood propped up by two sawhorses, which served as a desk and a couple of wobbly old chairs. In the far corner of the room there was a cast-iron, wood-burning stove at least twenty years old.
“The government didn’t give you much of a budget, McCreary?” asked Nash with a slight grin.
“You noticed. And this is nice compared to some of the other rural headquarters I’ve visited.”
“I’d offer you both coffee, but with the heat, I didn’t want to start up the stove. The café across the street serves a decent cup, however,” said Sundell.
“Later. First give me your report. What have you learned about the two latest killings?” asked McCreary.
Sundell picked up some papers on the desk. “It’s all in here, sir. The name of the individual shot and killed in Crystal City is Cornelius Jasper, who runs a hardware shop but was also selling liquor in small amounts to a bootlegger based in Munich, North Dakota. His wife found him by his liquor storehouse. So far, there are no witnesses. No one saw or heard anything according to Michaels who handled the investigation. It’s the same story in Carnduff. I received a telephone call from a Constable Lipton. Angus Briggs was the café owner who was murdered. According to Lipton, his throat was slashed. Again, no one saw or heard anything. But like Mr. Jasper in Crystal City, Briggs was dealing booze with a bootlegger in Sherwood, North Dakota.”
“Tell me, Sundell, is there anything in the report about who the bootleggers are connected to?”
“As a matter of fact, there is,” said the sergeant, flipping the page. “The bootlegger from Munich is reputed to be Clive Molloy, a small-time hood and known to be an associate of Dominik Vitale, the Chicago gangster I’m sure you’re familiar with.”
“Interesting,” said McCreary, looking at Hannah. “And the one in Carnduff?”
“Mr. Briggs was being supplied with liquor from the Sugarman brothers through a third party in Regina. We’re not certain of the Sherwood bootlegger’s identity yet. But the Saskatchewan police are fairly certain that he’s mixed up with a ring of liquor traders operating out of Bismarck who send their liquor on to Rosen’s men in Minneapolis.”
“So, it seems you’re correct, McCreary. There’s a bootlegger war going on,” said Nash.
“Seems so,” said McCreary. He struck a match and lit a cigar. “What else, Sundell?”
“Only one other curious thing. Not sure if it means anything.”
“Go on.”
“The investigations in Crystal City and Carnduff turned up one fact. The same travelling salesman or drummer was visiting and staying overnight in each town on the very nights of the murders. Name is Henry Woodhead. Seems he travels by car as far west as Medicine Hat as representative for Cole’s Wholesale Company in Winnipeg peddling small hardware items like shovels and garden utensils as well as pots and pans and the like.”
“Cole’s Wholesale. You sure about that?” asked McCreary.
Sundell glanced down at the report. “Yes, that’s it. Cole’s Wholesale on McDermot Avenue.”
McCreary looked at Nash. “Didn’t George Dickens say he purchased a shovel from Cole’s Wholesale? And isn’t Cole connected to Vivian? Maybe we have this wrong, Mrs. Nash. Maybe I was right the first time and the reverend is responsible. I’d like to speak to this Mr. Woodhead. Do you know where he is now, Sundell?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
“You gonna tell me, Sundell, or keep it a secret.”
“That’s what I was about to tell you, sir. Mr. Woodhead drove into Vera about an hour before you. He’s staying over at Mrs. Tillsdale’s rooming house.”
15
Sid Sharp, wearing the only suit he owned—dark grey but somewhat tattered—politely acknowledged the doorman in his impeccable red uniform with gold lace trim. Awkwardly holding a bouquet of red, pink, and yellow roses, he stepped into the imposing main entranceway of the Royal Alexandra Hotel. He immediately felt uncomfortable and for good reason. In class-conscious Winnipeg, the Royal Alex was part of a world in which Sharp, born on Flora Avenue in the North End to Russian Jewish immigrants, was definitely not a member.
Ever since the Canadian Pacific Railway opened the hotel in 1906 on the north-east corner of Higgins Avenue and Main Street, its majestic brick and granite exterior that personified Winnipeg’s lofty aspirations symbolized wealth and opulence as well as the CPR’s corporate power. There was no finer hotel in western Canada and for business travellers and tourists alike, the Royal Alex was the first choice of where to stay while visiting the city.
Sharp scanned the magnificent and spacious Grand Rotunda, a fine example of classical Edwardian architecture, which echoed the similar design of the CPR station directly across the street. The high ceiling in the rotunda was distinguished by gold-bordered, octagonal compartments, while the key feature of the lobby was its thick, white columns with finely engraved gold etchings at the top, resembling the laurel wreaths worn by Roman emperors. Rows of soft, brown leather couches and an assortment of chairs, wood tables, Persian rugs, and green foliage accentuated the rotunda’s splendour.
Naturally, late on a Saturday afternoon, the hotel was busy. A long line of recently arrived travellers were checking in at the front desk. Other guests made their way to the Grand Café for cake and coffee. In the Tea Room, small groups of women—several meticulously outfitted in pink and yellow, flowered and plain organdie dresses and others in darker, silk-embroidered charmeuse dresses—enjoyed a late afternoon music performance by the hotel’s pianist, violin, and cello players.
Nearby, their husbands, busines
s executives in the city for work and social engagements, relaxed on the leather couches and chairs, smoking cigars and discussing politics and grain and stock prices. Various opinions echoed through the rotunda on the number one topic of the day: how the Panama Canal, one of the true wonders of the modern world, would impact Winnipeg’s status as a railway, grain trade, and wholesale centre.
The canal had been completed in 1914, but the war had prevented it from being fully used. More than one businessman pointed out that owing to the canal, during the past two years Vancouver’s port had been busier than ever. One rather loud gentleman asserted that Vancouver, whose population was increasing at a steady rate, would overtake Winnipeg as the country’s third largest city.
“That would be a damn shame,” the gentleman declared to the half-dozen executives surrounding him and hanging onto his every word. “The railways and grain trade put this city on the map, but it will be a canal built in mosquito-infested Panama that’s about to change that. And, as usual, blame the bloody Americans. Teddy Roosevelt is the one who engineered the $350 million project in the first place.”
In search of the elevators, Sharp first approached the hotel’s main staircase. With its marble and bronze railings, the staircase was wide enough for a visiting royal couple to feel right at home. He moved passed a bride and groom posing for a photograph and then changed direction when he saw the row of elevators to his left.
He asked the smartly uniformed attendant to take him to the fourth floor. In his rush and excitement, Sharp, who was usually more astute, failed to notice Alec Geller, not so conspicuously watching his every move from the vantage point of the news stand.
“Beautiful day outside, isn’t it?” remarked the elevator operator.
“Yeah, it is,” muttered Sharp.
“I’m sure your wife will like those,” the operator said, motioning to the bouquet of roses.
Sharp ignored the comment. The elevator stopped at the fourth floor and he started walking to his left. He was looking for room 412, which was halfway down the hall. Taking a deep breath, he knocked twice. The door opened and there stood Joannie Smythe, resplendent in a flowing, baby blue, lace-trimmed chiffon negligee.
