by Allan Levine
“Sid, you’re a darling,” she said as he handed her the roses. “I do hope you were discreet.”
“I was. It’s busy downstairs. I’m quite certain no one paid any attention to me.”
“Good. Come in, please,” she said, taking his arm and leading him into the room.
“You … you look beautiful,” he said with a gulp. “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, in fact.”
Joannie blushed. “That’s very sweet of you to say.” She moved closer to him and kissed him lightly on the mouth.
Sharp could barely control himself. He grabbed her with his large hands, drew her to him, and kissed her again with all the passion he could muster. She undid the top button of his shirt, took his hand, and led him to the bed.
Reading a newspaper, or at least pretending to do so, Geller positioned himself on a comfortable chair from which he had clear view of the elevators. An hour passed and still no sign of Sharp or Joannie Smythe. As he sat there, he tried to fathom how a lout like Sharp could wind up in the room of a beauty like the married Mrs. Smythe. Discounting Sharp’s sexual prowess, which he sincerely doubted, Geller figured that there had to be another reason for Mrs. Smythe to risk her marriage on someone of Sharp’s ilk. Geller just didn’t know what it was. And as Klein had told him more than once: of all the mysteries of the world, the most difficult one to solve is why two people might be attracted to each other.
At long last, one of the elevator doors opened and out stepped Sharp with a stupid grin on his face. Behind him was Joannie Smythe. He briefly looked at her. She seemed to not acknowledge Sharp though Geller was certain that he detected a slight farewell nod. Sharp turned and walked briskly to hotel’s main doors and into the street.
Mrs. Smythe paused to fix her black cloche hat. Not that Geller was an expert on women—far from it, as Shayna frequently reminded him—but as soon as Sharp was gone, he noticed that Mrs. Smythe’s expression became sombre, even anguished. A minute or so later, a man approached her. Geller instantly recognized him; it was George Dickens. He moved close enough to the two of them so that he could eavesdrop on their conversation without being seen, as both Dickens and Smythe might recognize him.
“Mr. Dickens, good, you’re on time,” said Joannie.
“Everything okay, Mrs. Smythe? You look upset,” said Dickens.
She waved her hand. “It’s nothing I can’t handle.”
“What are my instructions?”
She took out a piece of paper from her purse. “You’re to go to this address, a house on Arlington Street. There’s an elderly woman I know who lives there. Her name’s Mrs. Waters. She’ll provide you with a bed and food until it’s time. George, it’s important that you not be seen. I know that will be difficult, but it’s crucial. Do you understand?”
“I do. I won’t disappoint you or the reverend.”
“I know you won’t. Here’s some money. There are Bucknam & Walmsley taxis across at the station. Take one to Mrs. Waters’s house. Now go. And George,” she said, touching his arm, “God speed.”
“You’re certain of this, Alec? Joannie Smythe told George Dickens to hide out in a house on Arlington?” asked Klein.
“I know, it sounds crazy, but she’s working with Vivian and Dickens. At least, that’s what I gathered,” said Geller. “However, I’m quite sure that Sharp paid her a visit in her room before she met with Dickens.”
The two men were sitting on the steps of Klein’s home, while the children played on the grass in front of them.
“Mel, leave Niecee alone. Right now,” ordered Klein. Little Mel sheepishly did what his father told him. “If you’re a good boy, I’ll let you listen to the radio in a little while. You’ll be able to hear someone very good playing the piano.” That definitely got Mel’s attention as well as Bernice’s.
“Yes, Niecee, you can listen too. Just behave, both of you.”
Klein lit a cigarette and pondered the full meaning of what Geller had told him. “This is yet another example proving that some people have layers that must be peeled back before you can arrive at the truth of the matter.” Klein flicked the wooden match onto the grass. “The beautiful Mrs. Smythe clearly is more complicated than we both thought. As I see it, there are two questions that we need to answer. The first is what’s Vivian up to with Dickens? And why is it so important that he stay out of sight? The only answer I can think of is that there may indeed be a plan to go after the Sugarmans. And if that’s the case, then my second question about what the hell Mrs. Smythe is doing with Sharp, one of Saul Sugarman’s shtarkers, is also answered.”
“She’s using him to get at Sugarman,” offered Geller.
“That would be my guess. I believe, Alec, what we have going on here are two separate plots against the Sugarmans, one taking advantage of the other.”
“I’m not following you, Sam.”
“Let’s assume that despite what the police believe, Vivian was not in fact responsible for the shootings at the station or the synagogue, nor was he involved in Max Roter’s murder. These events are instead connected to a bootleggers’ war going on between Rosen and one of his competitors, likely in Chicago. And the Sugarmans have been caught up in the middle of it. This could explain Max’s murder as well as why those two thugs have been in the city and threatening me. Rosen likes to do things his own way and our new friends, Paulie and Richie, are here to make sure of that. I’d imagine that they are trying to find the mystery shooter before he finds them.”
“And the reverend? What’s he got to do with this?”
“He’s very clever, I’ll grant him that. If my hunch is correct, then Vivian has figured out what’s going on and is merely making the most of the opportunity presented here.”
Geller popped up from the step. “Get Dickens to finish off the Sugarmans and wait for the police to blame it all on the bootleggers.”
“It’s as perfect a situation as you can ask for.”
“So what’s next?”
Klein dropped his cigarette butt on the sidewalk and stamped it out. “I have asked Melinda and her ladies to watch out for Paulie and Richie. Sooner or later, they’ll spot them. I will speak to Joannie Smythe and find out more about why she’s joined Vivian. And I want you to search out where Dickens is hiding.”
“I’ve checked Henderson’s already. There’s no person or family named Waters listed on Arlington Street. The house must belong to someone else, maybe someone connected to the reverend. That would make the most sense. I will get on it, Sam. Now, if you don’t mind, I have to get back to Shayna. We’re catching the vaudeville bill at the Pantages, a comedy burlesque from New York.”
“Yeah, Sarah and I used to do that before we had those troublemakers,” he said, motioning to his children. “Freda, Bernice, Mel, in the house. Now.”
“Can we listen to the radio, Daddy?” asked Bernice.
“We’ll see.”
“Hooray,” they cheered. They knew that when Klein said “we’ll see,” he really meant, “yes.” The trio halted what they were doing and marched in a row up the steps, saluting their smiling father as they passed.
“Alec, can you wait a minute? I need you to do something for me on your way downtown. I want to send a telegram to Hannah Nash in Vera.”
“Well, McCreary, I don’t know about you,” said Nash, leaving Mrs. Tillsdale’s rooming house, “but I’m fairly certain that Henry Woodhead’s not guilty of any murders in Manitoba, Saskatchewan, or anywhere else for that matter.”
“I agree. That was a bloody waste of time,” said McCreary, lighting a cigar. “And I never want to hear one more word about drummers, jobbers, agents, or the struggles of life as a travelling salesman.”
Hannah grinned. Their conversation with Woodhead, a short, balding, and anxious man, was pleasant enough. He had indeed educated them both on the intricacies of stocking a prairie gene
ral store and the art of drumming up business. After repeated questioning, Woodhead had confirmed that he had known Max Roter and had recently conducted business with him as well as the two men killed in Crystal City and Carnduff. But he also insisted that he knew nothing of the shocking violence that had occurred and was as stunned as everyone else in each town when news of the murders were publicized. More to the point, he asserted over and over again that he was not in any way connected to Reverend John Vivian and knew nothing about his employer, Adam Cole, associating with the reverend. Hannah believed him as did McCreary eventually.
“I think it’ll be difficult to tie Vivian to Roter’s murder and to the murders in the other towns, McCreary. My feeling is your first thought was correct: that the shootings are related to an internal battle between the bootleggers. It’s the only thing that can explain these deaths,” Nash said.
McCreary took a deep drag on his cigar. “Appears to be the case. But that means it’ll also be a lot harder to stop.” He checked his watch. “There’s a train in about two and a half hours back to the city. Last one tonight. I say we head back and let my men follow up. Sundell’s a good man.”
“That’s kind of you for saying so, sir,” said Sergeant Sundell, walking up behind them.
“What is it, Sundell?” asked McCreary.
“I have a telegram for Mrs. Nash. Arrived about twenty minutes ago.” The sergeant handed Nash the slip of paper.
She read it quickly and looked up. “Sergeant, where might we find Dr. Lewis?”
“Doc Lewis, he lives in a house over on the edge of town, just past the grain elevator.”
“Why do we need to speak to the doctor?” asked McCreary. “We could be having dinner.”
“A favour for Sam. He needs some information. Says it’s related to what’s been going on in the city and it might prevent another shooting.”
McCreary raised his eyebrows. “Well, if Sam Klein ‘says so,’ then by all means…”
Dr. Zachariah Lewis lived in a large, white house with a picket fence. There were two tall oak trees in the front and a bountiful vegetable garden in the back. The home served as both his medical office and residence. He shared it with his wife, Penelope, who was confined to a wheelchair. More than a decade ago, she had been trampled by a runaway horse. Penelope had been born on a nearby farm and though Lewis would have preferred to live in the city, he consented to practicing medicine in Vera to make his wife happy.
“So let me get this straight,” said McCreary, rolling his eyes. “Klein wants us to ask the doctor about Joannie Smythe’s medical history. Because he says she’s mixed up in some scheme being hatched by Reverend Vivian, who we just decided did not have anything to do with the murders here or in the other towns. Does that sound right?”
“That’s the problem with you, McCreary. You’re one of the best detectives I’ve worked with, but sometimes a case is like a Chinese puzzle box: there are many layers to it and it is not always clear immediately how each layer fits together.”
“As long as we’re on the ten forty-five train, be my guest.”
Hannah walked up the steps to the porch and knocked on the door. A moment later, it opened.
“This better be an emergency. It’s been a long day,” said Dr. Lewis.
“Hello, Doctor. We’re not here for any treatment,” said Nash. She introduced herself and McCreary. “We won’t keep you long. We just have a few questions for you. It has to do with the shootings here and elsewhere, including in Winnipeg, that you may have heard about.”
“I was about to tend to my wife. She’s resting in the other room, but if it’s only a few questions, please have a seat on the porch and we can talk here,” said Lewis, showing them two chairs. “Now, what can I do for you, Detective and Commissioner?”
“You know Mrs. Joannie Smythe?” asked Nash.
“I do, of course,” replied Lewis.
“She’s a patient of yours?”
“I can’t say. But since I’m the only physician in the town, I’ll let you both draw your own conclusions. Let me ask you: why do you want to know about Mrs. Smythe? Has she been hurt? Is she in trouble?”
“Not yet, but we believe she’s in danger or may put someone else in danger. That’s why we need you to answer these questions. Has Mrs. Smythe ever been attacked or hurt by her husband?”
The doctor’s eyes widened. “Again, I am not at liberty to say anything about this. It would be against the oath I’ve taken as a physician. Doctor and patient confidentiality is sacred, as I’m quite sure you both know.”
“Yes, I do,” said Nash, glancing at McCreary. He pointed to his watch. She was quiet for a moment and then turned back to the doctor. “Why do men abuse their wives?”
The doctor mulled over the question for a moment. “To assert their power, I suppose. Women now might have the vote, but they give up everything, their legal rights in particular, as soon as they marry. Some men who feel inferior need to make that clear from time to time. Do you know in Canada, under provincial law, that even if a husband deserts his wife, the law will compel him to give her financial support only if she’s pure and virtuous in the eyes of the state? That means that she can never be seen in public or private with another man. Absurd, would you not agree?”
“I would, yes.” Hannah, herself, had gone through several legal battles to assert her own property rights after her husband had died.
“The other main problem, and the reason for the spate of shootings, are related entirely to liquor. However, too often, liquor is used as an excuse for domestic violence—a rather convenient excuse, I’d add. The fact is, some men are brutes and use whisky as a crutch. It’s quite pathetic, really. I’ve seen enough heartache to last me a lifetime.”
“One last question, Doctor, on which I’d like to hear your view. Why would a women stay with man who abuses her? Why not just divorce him?”
“A difficult question, but an easy answer, I’m afraid,” said Lewis. “It’s not only that divorce is frowned upon. In a small town like Vera, seeking a divorce is perceived as an attack on God and the church. Most women I know cannot handle the humiliation. And the fear of what would happen to them is genuine. Thus, they unfortunately conclude that it’s wiser to remain in an unhappy, even volatile marriage than face the wrath of the community gossipmongers and an unknown future. But I have to add that from what I understand, the situation is changing. More women are opting for divorce. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”
“Doctor, one final question, please,” said Nash.
Dr. Lewis nodded. “Go on.”
“Would you agree that an abused woman who finds the courage to fight back is capable of just about anything?” asked Nash.
“Are we speaking generally or specifically about Mrs. Smythe?”
“I don’t know, you tell me.”
Dr. Lewis was silent for a moment and then gazed into Hannah’s eyes. “Yes, I believe she’d be capable of being very unpredictable, possibly dangerous. This would particularly be the case if this woman was being guided by a third party, someone who offered her the security and salvation she was seeking. Do you understand, Detective?”
Nash nodded her head. “Thank you, Doctor,” she said, turning to McCreary. “I believe we have a train to catch.”
16
The sun was setting by the time Klein arrived Sunday evening at Lou Sugarman’s home on Scotia Street near Luxton Avenue. The impressive two-storey brick house was set back from the street and faced the Red River. Built in 1900, Sugarman had owned the property for eight years. The front lawn was shaded by an assortment of maple, elm, and fir trees. And there was a large, navy blue davenport on the porch where Lou and Rivka enjoyed spending a quiet evening—providing the mosquitoes did not harass them too badly. The home had four bedrooms and the only thing missing, Lou liked to joke, was the sound of children. Lou hardly needed such a big house, bu
t as he told Klein, he had to do something with his money and investing $12,000 in a scenic Scotia Street property seemed like a smart idea.
Klein was eagerly greeted by a group of men assembled in front of the house who had come to pay their respects to Max Roter and his family. He recognized most of them: Arkady Kessler who ran the steam bath on Dufferin and McGregor where Klein liked to unwind; Manny Morroznik, a genial pharmacist and talented piano player; Hymie Plotzer who owned a dry goods shop on Selkirk Avenue and often supplied Jewish general store merchants with supplies; Norman Lunger, a kosher butcher; and garment factory owner Moses Asner, the definite macher of the bunch. Anti-union and a staunch believer in market forces, Asner got rich off the work of his underpaid tailors and seamstresses, mainly Jewish immigrants or the children of immigrants. During the strike of 1919, he had sided, vocally at least, with the Committee of One Thousand and refused to hire back those employees whom he deemed “Bolshevik hooligans.” A wealthy bachelor, Asner lived in a swanky room at the Royal Alexandra Hotel.
“Make way, gentlemen, Mr. Sam Klein has arrived,” announced Kessler. “You haven’t been in for a shvitz lately, Shailek. I’m sure you could use one.”
“No time, Arkady.”
“I don’t doubt it. Shootings and murders. What the hell’s going on? This isn’t Russia, for God’s sake. I just hope that Lou makes it. Rae says that his eyes opened briefly this morning, but then he went back to sleep.”
“He’ll make it. Lou’s as tough as they come.”
“Maybe so,” said Asner, “but anyone who makes all of their money selling whisky is only asking for trouble. You think Max was killed for any other reason?”
Several of the other men sighed. “Asner, not here,” said Kessler. “His widow’s in the house. This is a shiva; have some decency.”
