by Allan Levine
“Now, as I said, I’m going into the house.”
On his back, the constable reached for his revolver.
“Put that away, Parsons, you fool. Didn’t I tell you to let Sam Klein through?” bellowed Allard.
“I’m sorry, sir. I guess I didn’t hear you,” said the constable, dusting off his uniform trousers.
“Thanks, Allard,” said Klein. “You think he would’ve shot me?”
“He just might’ve. Come on, McCreary and Nash are already here. They’re speaking with Melinda. You still haven’t heard anything about your kid?”
Klein shook his head. He could barely breathe.
The house was upside down. There was blood everywhere. The parlour rug tapestries and sofas were covered in red splotches. The bodies of Paulie and Richie were still lying in the middle of the floor with white sheets stained in red covering them. Dr. Jake McDonald, who had assisted the police for more than two decades, was standing over the corpses, searching the room for anything that might aid the investigation.
Allard led Klein through the kitchen. Lulu and Martha were huddled together by the table. Martha was shaking and whimpering like a puppy. Lulu was smoking a cigarette and gazing into the distance. Though both women knew Klein, neither acknowledged him. They moved into the back office and Klein locked eyes with Melinda. Standing beside her were McCreary and Nash.
“Sam, I’m glad you’re here,” said Melinda, hugging him. “How’s Sarah? I’ve been sick about what happened. I know Niecee will turn up soon.” Melinda was never one to be emotional, yet the kidnapping and the shooting left her drained. Tears streamed down her cheeks.
Klein gently eased her back. “Tell me what happened.”
“She doesn’t think they had anything to do with taking your kid,” said McCreary.
“Is that true, Melinda?”
She nodded. “Honestly, Sam, when I spoke to them about it, they truly had no idea what I was talking about. I swear to you, they didn’t take her or know who did.”
Klein’s heart sank. If Melinda was correct, then where did that leave him? His mind raced. Who had Bernice? And why?
“Then who shot Paulie and Richie?” asked Klein.
Hannah stepped forward and related what Melinda had told her. “We’ve spoken to the women they were with.”
“Lulu and Martha in the kitchen?” asked Klein.
“Yes. Martha is too shaken up to talk but Lulu provided us with a good description of the shooter. We all think it’s likely that this must be the shooter from the railway station and the synagogue. Except this time, he didn’t miss.”
“So did Lulu help identify him?” asked Klein.
“She did. McCreary thought her description of the culprit sounded familiar. He had a constable drive back to the station to get a mug shot. We showed it to Lulu and she positively identified him as the shooter,” said Nash.
“So who is it?”
McCreary reached into his jacket pocket and handed Klein a sheet of paper. Klein looked at it and his jaw dropped. “Frankie Taylor. He’s the shooter.”
“Amazing, ain’t it,” said McCreary.
“But that’s impossible. Why would Taylor, who works for Rosen, like Paulie and Richie did, kill them? And why would he go after the Sugarmans? It doesn’t make much sense unless, I suppose, Taylor’s now working for someone else.”
“My thought exactly,” said McCreary. “This might also explain the death of the storekeeper in Vera.”
“Taylor double-crossed Max Roter,” said Klein.
“He must’ve. We need to find that son of a bitch right now before he leaves the city.”
The next morning, Sarah roused herself from the chair in front of the window. The house was still quiet. Rivka was asleep upstairs in Freda’s room. Around two o’clock in the morning, she had lain down beside her niece to comfort her and eventually fallen asleep. Walking into the kitchen, Sarah found Klein sleeping at the table. The ashtray next to him was full of cigarette butts. She thought of waking him, but she knew that he’d be furious with her for what she was about to do. She knew that Rivka would stay to help Klein with the children. She decided to let Freda sleep as late as she wanted to and miss school that day.
The sense of panic that had overwhelmed her had curiously vanished. She had awoken with a renewed sense of purpose and cautious optimism; she felt in her heart that Bernice would be returned unharmed. She had to be.
Sarah slipped quietly out of the house, leaving a note for Klein and Rivka on the telephone table that she would return in a few hours. When she reached Main Street, she hopped on a downtown streetcar and forty minutes later was at the Boyd Building. She took the elevator up to the fifth floor and walked towards Saul Sugarman’s office. Shayna had not yet arrived for the day. There was a flickering light behind the door where Saul worked. She steadied herself, took a deep breath, and walked in.
Sugarman was studying several pages of a document. He glanced at Sarah when she entered, but did not acknowledge her. Then he resumed his work. She stood before him in silence for a full minute, before she lost her patience.
“Saul, do you know why those two men who were in my shop the other day took my daughter? Where is she?”
Sugarman glanced at her. “I’m sorry about your daughter, Sarah. Truly I am, but I have no idea who has her or where she is.”
“But those two men … you knew them didn’t you, Saul? That’s why they listened to you the other day when you told them to leave me alone. It had to have been them…”
“I know who they are, yes. They’re connected to someone in the States that I’m doing a business deal with. But, Sarah, you haven’t heard yet, have you? Didn’t that husband of yours tell you yet?”
“He told me. I know all about it. They were shot and killed at Melinda’s last night. Who are they, Saul?”
“Their names are Paul Backhouse and Richard Tazman.”
“Do the police know who killed them?”
“I’ve heard rumours.”
“That’s all you have to say?” said Sarah, her voice breaking up. “My God, what if those two men took Bernice. Now they’re dead and she could be trapped, alone somewhere.”
Sugarman reached for Sarah’s hand, but she pulled it away. “It doesn’t seem likely,” he said. “A constable I spoke to who was at the brothel told me that before the shooting these men had spoken to Melinda and denied they had anything to do with the kidnapping.”
“If that’s so, then where is my Bernice and why hasn’t the person who took her contacted us for a ransom? Unless they’re not interested in money. It’s too terrible to think about.” She buried her face in her hands.
“Sarah, don’t cry. Trust me, this’ll turn out okay. Let me look into it further. I know lots of people, some not so pleasant, who might have information. I might be able to find out something.”
With tears in her eyes, she looked warily at Sugarman. She knew he was untrustworthy, but what choice did she have? “If you can find her and bring her back to me, Saul, I’d be forever in your debt.”
Sugarman didn’t say anything, but his eyes glistened in the morning sun shining through the window.
“Daddy, breakfast!” Mel cried out. But he got no reaction from his father.
“Here, let me try,” said Freda, pushing her young brother aside. “Daddy, wake up.” She tugged at Klein’s arm.
He immediately lifted his head and awoke in a fright as if he was having a nightmare. “What is it? What’s going on?” he muttered. Wiping his eyes, he could see Freda and Mel standing in front of them. Mel was smiling, but Freda was glum. He smiled at both of them. “Don’t worry, honey, we’ll find her. Now where’s your mother?”
“She’s not here,” said Rivka, walking into the kitchen holding Sarah’s note.
Klein took it from her, read it, and looked back at his si
ster. “Where could she have gone at seven in the morning, especially with everything that is going on? I need to get downtown.”
Rivka put her hands on his shoulders. “I’ll give the kids breakfast and stay with them. I’m sure whatever she’s doing, she must think it will help to find Bernice.”
Klein said nothing. He was less optimistic than his sister and filled with a sense of dread about Bernice and now Sarah.
Despite scouring the city, the police had been unable to locate Frankie Taylor. Allard had men posted at the CPR station and the Union Station on Main and Broadway, but still there was no sign of him. After sleeping on it, Klein felt even more strongly than he had last night that Taylor might be the key—the key to explaining Max Roter’s murder and the shooting attempts on the Sugarmans. This was assuming Klein’s working theory was correct: Reverend Vivian and George Dickens, now with the likely assistance of Joannie Smythe, had not yet acted on their plot to eliminate the brothers. They, too, would be stopped in due course before they could carry out their improbable scheme. Most critically, and regardless of a lack of evidence, Klein’s instincts told him that Taylor also knew something about Bernice’s disappearance. Or, at least, that’s what he needed to believe.
Freda and Mel were finishing the porridge Rivka had made for them and Klein was having a cup of coffee and a cigarette when there was a loud knock on the front door.
“Maybe it’s Niecee. She’s come home,” said Freda, clapping her hands.
“Both of you stay right there,” Klein ordered.
“I’ll keep an eye on them, Shailek,” said Rivka.
Klein very much doubted that it was Bernice, but it could be the contact from the kidnapper he had been waiting for. His stomach churned. He felt like he was drowning, struggling with all of his might to keep his head above the water, yet ultimately unable to. He grabbed the handle of the door and yanked it open. A messenger boy about fifteen was standing on the stoop.
“You Mr. Sam Klein?”
“I am,” said Klein. This was it, he thought, information about Bernice.
“I have a telegram for you—please sign here,” said the boy.
Klein scribbled his initials and the messenger gave him the telegram. His hands were shaking. He tore open the envelope and read it.
Look for Taylor at 247 King Street. Rosen
His heart sank. Nothing about Bernice, though apprehending Taylor was almost as important. He knew he had to go to the police station immediately.
Frankie Taylor paced back and forth in the small, dingy room. He felt like a caged animal at a zoo; he was trapped with nowhere to go. The boss had ordered him to ditch his Model-T in a back alley off Pacific Avenue and he had done so reluctantly. He was then told to proceed to an address on King Street, a Chinese laundry.
When he got there, the owner, a friendly-enough Chinaman named Lee, escorted him to the room in the back where he was to remain until the morning. The place made Taylor very uncomfortable. He had heard the stories of such laundries being infested by vermin, though, poking around, he could plainly see that Lee’s establishment was clean. Nonetheless, the sooner he was able to leave the better, he thought.
He was to have been picked up at six and driven out of the city. But six o’clock came and went and the driver and car had not shown up. He was angry as well as anxious, yet he had been instructed not to phone anyone, the boss in particular. Taylor figured the police would be watching for him at the train stations. So he was stuck in this room full of noxious smells—soap, sweat, and other strange odours he had no clue about—until he could figure out another escape plan. Worse, he was forced to listen to the three male workers manning Lee’s vats of boiling water and ironing boards. They spoke rapidly in Taishanese which to Taylor merely sounded like annoying gibberish. Lee, whose English was barely understandable, had offered him tea, but he found the strong, sweetly floral smell of the drink unappealing. The same went for the tangy pork—at least that’s what he thought it was—and fried noodles—“worms,” he and his friends derisively referred to them—he was given. How he yearned for black coffee and eggs and bacon.
Had he not been so careless and clumsy, he would have been out of Winnipeg long ago. Instead, he had had to improvise. Paulie and Richie had finally got what they deserved. One of the Sugarmans was in the hospital and possibly dead already, and the other one would meet his maker soon enough. The boss had said there were to be no loose ends and Taylor had no doubt that that would be the case.
He knew that he was playing a very dangerous game. Double-crossing Rosen and Katz was more than risky; most of his associates would have told him it was a death sentence. Maybe so, but this was war and to his mind he had picked the winning side—and not coincidentally, the side that had offered him the most money. He had his own plans and running booze from towns in Manitoba to North Dakota for the next decade was not in the cards.
He sat down on the rickety bed, picked up his shotgun, and held it tight. Where the hell was his driver? Was he the one now being double-crossed? His problems, he knew, started that night in Vera ten days ago when Roter was killed. He had explained to the boss what had happened, though he got the feeling that his side of the story was not entirely believed. And then when he failed to carry out his assignment as efficiently as he should have, there was another long distance, profanity-filled reprimand.
Staring at the four dusty walls, he realized that he could not stay in this fleabag laundry much longer. Sooner or later the cops were going to find him. There was only one other person in the city who could assist him. The boss had warned him never to contact him, but what choice did he have? He walked out of the room and saw Lee in a cloud of steam surrounded by huge sacks of clothing, bed sheets, and tablecloths.
“I need a telephone,” said Taylor.
The laundry owner looked at him but clearly did not understand what he was being asked.
“A telephone. To make a phone call,” Taylor said slowly.
“Telephone, yes, yes,” Lee finally said. “At front of store.”
He led Taylor past a row of shelves on which the clean, folded laundry was wrapped in brown paper. And next to the shelves, there was an older-style wall telephone. He lifted the receiver and cranked the black handle on the side.
“Hello, may I help you?” said the female operator.
“Connect me with A6592.”
There was a pause, a few clicks, and then Taylor heard a voice.
“Hello.”
“Reverend Vivian, this is Taylor.”
21
Taylor heard nothing. “Reverend, did you hear me? It’s Taylor,” he repeated.
Another few seconds passed, and then he heard the sound of the distinctive deep voice.
“Operator, are you still on the line?” asked Vivian. There was no reply.
“I don’t think she’s there,” said Taylor, his tone impatient.
“Taylor, have you lost your mind? What are you still doing in the city? And why would you call me?”
“I’m in trouble. I don’t know if the boss double-crossed me or not. But whoever was supposed to pick me up this morning didn’t show. You heard about the shooting at the brothel last night?”
“Yeah, I heard. Congratulations, you finally hit your target. What do you want from me? Do you realize what would happen if anyone found out we were speaking? You’ve put the whole plan in jeopardy by your stupidity.”
“I told you, there’s no one else I can turn to. Reverend, I’m desperate. I need you to arrange transportation for me to get out of the city. I’m in a Chinese laundry at 247 King Street. Can you help?”
There was another long pause. Vivian was furious. He had purposely and cautiously managed this operation with the utmost of care. There was much at stake, not the least of which was a payoff that he could never have imagined. Keeping Joannie Smythe and George Dickens focussed and comm
itted was paramount. Their devotion and faith in him and the cause could not be questioned. He wanted nothing to do with Taylor, but he wanted the boss to find out what was going on even less. That would only lead to further questions he would rather avoid. And he had no desire to become embroiled in gangster politics. If Taylor was in hot water, then there wasn’t much he could do for him. At the same time, the thought of Taylor captured by the police and interrogated was inconceivable. He did not trust him and in his view, the risk of Taylor squealing like a stuck pig was too great. In short, he had no other choice but to assist him.
“Give me thirty minutes and a black Oldsmobile will be in front of the laundry. Until then, stay where you are and for God’s sake, don’t make any more telephone calls.”
Vivian hung up the receiver and for the first time in a long time he was stricken by a sense of panic. He knew he had to be the one to drive Taylor; entrusting this task to anyone else was far too risky. He would have to move up the timetable. He picked up the receiver again and dialled the number to the Royal Alexandra Hotel. Mrs. Smythe required new instructions.
Alec Geller was back in the lobby of the Royal Alex and he wasn’t happy about it. He had wanted to be out on the streets searching for Bernice. The idea of her as a captive made him sick to his stomach. And he knew, as Klein must have, that the longer there was no contact from the kidnappers, the less likely it was that she would be found alive. That was too terrible to contemplate. Yet Klein had insisted that he resume his stakeout of Joannie Smythe at the hotel. He had promised to notify Alec if there was any news about Bernice. So Geller sat in a corner of the Grand Rotunda pretending to read the newspaper and waiting impatiently for Mrs. Smythe to make her next move.
He didn’t have to wait long. Glancing up, there she was, her red hair flowing onto an olive-and-white-checked summer dress with a wide, white collar. One look at the tension in her face and he knew that something had happened. She moved gracefully across the lobby and nearly every man in the hotel noticed her.
