by Albert Jack
Meanwhile the garage on North Clark Street—the site of the infamous events—was demolished; the area is now a landscaped car park for a nursing home. The infamous wall Moran's men were shot against was dismantled, sold at auction, and shipped to Canada, where it was rebuilt in the toilets of a Vancouver theme bar, the Banjo Palace. When that business closed down, each brick of the famous wall was sold off, as macabre souvenirs.
The St. Valentine's Day massacre itself remained a mystery until recently. The true events of that fateful night were discovered long after the deaths of everybody involved. In January 1929, Jack “Machine Gun” McGurn, one of the Capone mob, was making a telephone call on the street when Peter and Frank Gusenberg's car drew alongside. When the two Moran mobsters recognized McGurn, they opened fire, but missed him, which was to prove a major error for the brothers. Capone and Bugs Moran were struggling for control of the bootlegging business in Chicago, and the tension between them had begun to degenerate into street warfare. But with many other mobsters muscling in on the action, it was sometimes unclear who was responsible for which act of violence. This time there was no mistake. McGurn knew exactly who had tried to kill him.
Capone was already aware of the might of Moran's army and a month or so earlier had secretly discussed with an associate how to eliminate the “Moran risk.” When he was allegedly warned he would “have to kill a lot of people to get to Bugs Moran,” Capone joked that he would send plenty of flowers. So when “Machine Gun” McGurn approached his boss with a plan to avenge the phone-booth shooting, Capone saw the perfect opportunity to start eliminating Moran's gang, from the bottom up.
With the boss's authorization, McGurn created a six-man team, headed by Fred Burke, with the intention of luring the Gusenbergs, with as many of Moran's other henchmen as possible, into a trap. Burke, a little-known Capone man at the time, invited the brothers to a warehouse meeting, claiming to have many crates of hijacked bootleg whiskey for sale.
Both Capone and McGurn left town to make sure they had watertight alibis. The meeting was to take place on the night of February 14, and, with more of Capone's men placed as strategic lookouts along the surrounding streets, the plan swung into action. Four of McGurn's gang pulled up at the deserted garage, watched by Moran's lookouts, who, deciding the coast was clear, signaled for the seven-strong Gusenberg gang to approach. But after they were inside, two more of McGurn's gang dressed as Chicago police officers approached in a stolen patrol car. Moran's lookouts fled the scene, fearing a police bust, while Capone's remained in place, on standby in case the real police should arrive.
Inside the garage, the fake patrolmen found the suspicious-looking group and ordered them to drop their weapons. All of the gangsters complied, believing their captors were the relatively harmless police force, many of whom were already on the Mob's payroll anyway. However, as they lined up, Capone's four men peeled away, leaving the seven Moran men alone against the wall. Within a split second the gangsters dressed as policemen opened fire using two Thompson submachine guns. They were quickly joined by the remaining gangsters, who pumped bullets into their surprised and defenseless rivals. All seven–James Clark, Adam Heyer, Johnny May, Al Weinshank, Frank and Peter Gusenberg, and Dr. Reinhardt Schwimmer— were left either dead or bleeding to death on the garage floor. The gunfire attracted the attention of residents in the street, but they were soon comforted to see two uniformed policemen in a patrol car “arresting” those responsible. But when neither of the policemen was ever seen again, it led to one of the bloodiest murder mysteries the world has known, and ultimately not a single conviction was ever secured.
Three crimes committed over the past century
that continue to baffle police
One evening in 1974, building workers in Indianapolis employed by the Dowling Construction Company securely locked up the site, leaving a steel demolition ball dangling from a crane more than two hundred feet above the ground. When the operator arrived for work the following morning, he climbed the crane and took his seat in the cab before he noticed the steel ball was missing. It had completely vanished. A thorough search was made and statewide appeals for information were issued. To this day, police officers are puzzled by the theft. No trace of the demolition ball—at nearly three tons in weight, not easy just to slip into one's pocket—has ever been found.
At 10:30 P.M. on the evening of March 9, 1929, Mrs. Locklan Smith heard the sound of screaming coming from the building next door, a small laundry at 4 East 132nd Street in New York. She immediately called the police, who searched the deserted premises until they came across a small, securely locked room at the back. Unable to break in, officers finally managed to gain access by lifting a small boy through a tiny window; he then released the bolts to the door from the inside. In the room lay the body of the laundry owner, Isidore Fink, who had been shot twice in the chest and once through the left hand. Powder burns indicated the gun had been fired at point-blank range, and yet no gun was found in the room.
Isidore had not committed suicide, he had been murdered, although cash in the safe and in Fink's jacket pocket suggested that robbery was not the motive. At first the police believed the murderer must have made his escape through the window, as Isidore always securely bolted the doors from the inside when he worked alone at night. But not only would the window have been too small or awkward to get through (unless the murderer had been a dwarf or a small child), it also did not explain why the killer hadn't simply unbolted the door and walked out through that instead. Others suggested Fink had been shot through the window, but tests proved the powder burns would only show if the gun had been fired from a distance of a few inches, so unless the murderer had twelve-foot arms, they would have to rule that idea out too. No other clue was ever found, and two years after the death of the unfortunate Mr. Fink, the New York police commissioner, Edward P. Mulrooney, was forced to declare the incident an “unsolvable mystery.”
At some time between June 28 and July 6, 1907, a person or persons unknown walked into the strong room of Bedford Tower in Dublin Castle and stole the Irish crown jewels, said to be worth PS250,000 at the time. Whoever stole them must have had keys, as no locks were broken and there was no sign of a forced entry. How the thieves could have gotten hold of a set of keys is a mystery in itself, as the sole key holder was Sir Arthur Vicars, the Ulster king of arms, who was out of the country at the time. Staff calculated it would have taken between fifteen and twenty minutes to remove the jewels from their individual cases before the thieves made their escape. During this time, none of the four heavily armed guards on duty noticed anything out of the ordinary, and despite a lengthy investigation by Scotland Yard, no trace of the crown jewels has ever been found.
Thanks in the first place to all my friends at Harry's Bar in Cape Town (Cafe del Mar in Camps Bay) for making me so welcome, including James and Melanie Van Vuuren; Tammy Green; the McKenzie sisters, Michelle, Clifflyn, and Heather (what a pool party that was); the twins Melanie and Candice (another story); Freddy Tshibala (Freddy the barman) for the Swahili translation; and of course the big man, Jerry.
At home in South Africa, thanks to Patrick Jones, my man in Cape Town; and to the housekeeper, Miss Ellie, who looked after me so well on the Cape. And special thanks to Margeaux Dawe, Juanita Slabbert, and Madame Zingara—what a last night we all had.
To Beth Lang and the pool boy Ferg Walker for keeping me company for a while—and, obviously, for looking after the pool—and Jon Riley for sitting around doing absolutely nothing over Christmas in Cape Town. Peter Gordon must get a mention again, and I remember why this time, but I can't tell you as it would only embarrass him. Respect to Troy Kyle, a wonderful South African writer who must surely be published soon. Thanks also to Erika Hearle down Guildford way for making my last effort her book of the week.
To Sandra Howgate for the great illustrations, and to the team of Jill Schwartzman and Lea Beresford (editorial), Evan Camfield, Emily Votruba, and Lynn Anderson (copyediting), Richard
Elman (production), Dana Maxson (publicity), and all the bookstores. Where would we be without you.
Finally, and most importantly, to you the readers who enable me to write for a living. To show my appreciation, this book is dedicated to each of you personally, so write your name neatly on the dedication page.
ALBERT JACK has become something of a publishing
phenomenon with his huge bestsellers Red Herrings and
White Elephants and Shaggy Dogs and Black Sheep, clocking
up hundreds of thousands of sales. Fascinated by
discovering the truth behind the world's great stories,
Albert has become an expert at explaining
the unexplained. And besides that, he loves a good story …
When not engaged in research, he lives somewhere
between Guildford, U.K., and Cape Town, South
Africa, where he divides his time between fast living
and slow horses, neat vodka and untidy pubs.
2009 Random House Trade Paperback Edition
Copyright (c) 2007 by Albert Jack
All rights reserved.
RANDOM HOUSE TRADE PAPERBACKS and colophon are
trademarks of Random House, Inc.
eISBN: 978-1-58836-869-0
www.atrandom.com
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