by Allan Levine
“Yes!” the men said loudly again.
“Come, now let us pray,” said Vivian.
The preacher and those in attendance bowed their heads, while Vivian recited the Lord’s Prayer.
Once the meeting had ended, Vivian motioned for Dickens to join him in a small alcove of the parlour to the back of the house.
“How are you, George?” asked Vivian.
“I am well,” replied Dickens, rubbing his sweaty hands. “How may I serve the cause today?”
“You’ve heard what happened at the train station yesterday?” asked Vivian, speaking softly.
Dickens nodded. “I’ve heard conflicting reports.”
“The police are searching for me. They believe I was responsible. That I sent someone to kill Lou Sugarman.”
Dickens’s eyes widened slightly, though he remained silent.
“Do you want to know if that’s true?” Vivian continued.
“No, no. I’d never question you…”
The preacher put his hand on Dickens’s shoulder. “There’s nothing to fear, my son. If the Sugarmans are to die for their sins, then it’s God’s will.”
“That must be so,” said Dickens.
“I plan to visit the police soon, however.”
“Do you need me to accompany you?”
Vivian smiled. “Thank you for asking. But it is probably better if I go alone. I have nothing to hide. George, you trust me in all things?”
“You know I do.”
“Yes, of course. In a few days, I may require your services. You must do as you are told without any questions or hesitation. Can you do that?” asked Vivian. His voice was steady and self-assured.
Dickens stood at attention. “I am your servant, always,” he said, staring straight into Vivian’s eyes.
“That’s good, George, very good. I knew I could count on you,” Vivian said, grasping Dickens by the shoulders.
Alec Geller stared out the window at an endless vista of pasture, cows, and forests of trees—a panoply of maples, oaks, cottonwoods, and jack pines. All he could think about was Shayna Kravetz and his rendezvous with her at her office yesterday afternoon. He knew that they were being careless, that she surely would have been fired had they been caught by her boss, Saul Sugarman. Nevertheless, the image of her sleek body was imprinted on his brain and it excited him. As the coal-powered train meandered south of Winnipeg towards Emerson at thirty miles an hour, Geller shook these thoughts and momentarily dozed, only to be jarred awake as the train jerked to a stop first in La Salle and then in Osborne, Morris, and Gretna before turning west towards Vera.
He nodded off again and nearly missed his stop when the train rolled into Vera. Leaping from his seat, he pushed his way past the conductor and jumped from the car just as it started moving again.
Standing on the wooden platform in front of the small station, he got his bearings. To his right, close to the platform, was the towering Standard Grain Company elevator, the most important structure in any prairie town. To his left was Vera’s bleak Main Street, the same as a hundred other “main streets” in a hundred other Canadian towns. There was the requisite post office, telephone exchange office, livery stable, drugstore, bakery, barbershop, Chinese café, and Presbyterian Church, by far the grandest building in the town. Across from the church, he eyed Roter’s General Store, closed because of tomorrow’s funeral.
Klein had told him to contact a friend of the Roter family, the grain elevator manager named Jack Smythe, with whom Rae Roter had entrusted the keys to the store and liquor warehouse. Alec planned to remain in Vera until Friday evening, staying the night at a rooming house operated by a Mrs. Tillsdale on Railway Avenue. He could then take the six o’clock train back to the city. Klein had given him five dollars for his room and food expenses. He wasn’t sure what he’d find, perhaps nothing, but he prided himself on his ever-expanding abilities as a private detective—a Sam Klein in the making, as Geller liked to joke with Shayna. At least she was impressed.
Geller stepped off the platform onto a cement sidewalk. This surprised him as he was certain that Vera would still have wooden walkways. That’s progress, he thought to himself, further inspecting the hard surface.
“You won’t find anything down there, boy.”
Geller looked up to see a broad-shouldered man in a dark suit and high boots with a black Stetson that matched the shade of his thick handlebar moustache and unbroken eyebrow. “Maybe not,” Geller said, standing up. The man was about a head taller than he was.
“You know who I am?” the man asked.
Geller stood back and cockily looked the man up and down. “I’d guess that you’re a provincial cop.”
“That’s exactly right, kid. Sergeant Duncan Sundell.”
“Sergeant, a pleasure to meet you,” said Geller, extending his right hand.
Sundell pushed it away. “Listen, kid, I know why you’re here. You work for that Hebrew detective, Klein. Name is Alec Geller. That so?”
“That’s so. And what of it?”
“I was told you were coming.”
That hardly surprised Geller. He knew of Klein’s relationship with McCreary. “Your new commissioner let you know, I suppose?”
“You mean Interim Commissioner McCreary.”
“That’s right,” said Geller, momentarily looking downward. “He doesn’t much care for my boss.”
“I wouldn’t know anything about that. But I do know that you’re here to poke around about the Jew storekeeper’s murder,” said Sundell, moving closer to Geller so that the two men were only inches apart.
He may have been young, but Geller was not easily intimidated, even by a burly provincial police officer. He stood his ground and looked straight ahead, directly into Sundell’s eyes. “Maybe. Maybe I’m just visiting. Never been to Vera before.” He knew that response was bound to goad the sergeant, but in that moment, he didn’t care.
Sundell flinched first and took a step backward, tipping the front of his hat up. “You think you’re as clever as your boss, don’t you? Listen, I have my men here. We’re doing all the investigating that needs to be done. There’s no mystery. No need for you to be bothering the good folks here. This was a robbery and shooting, almost certainly by the bootlegger who gave the storekeeper…”
“Mr. Roter,” interrupted Geller.
Sundell stared at Alec for a moment, his singular eyebrow furrowed. “Yes, Mr. Roter. As I was saying, we believe Mr. Roter met with a bootlegger from Hampton…”
“I believe Taylor is his name,” said Geller, his tone matter-of-fact.
“… That he met with a bootlegger named Taylor who gave him money for a shipment of liquor and that Taylor later returned to steal his money back. The case, as they say, is closed—or will be shortly.”
“Interesting theory, Sergeant, but as I said, I’m only visiting.”
Geller began moving past the officer when Sundell grabbed him hard by his left arm. “That smart-ass mouth of yours will get you in serious trouble one day, Geller.”
“I’ve been told that,” said Alec, trying to wiggle free.
Sundell tightened his grip. “Now listen to me, boy. I’m going to say this once and once only. You’re free to visit Vera, this is Canada after all, not Revolutionary Russia. But if I find out that you’re anywhere near the crime scene or get any complaints that you’re bothering anyone in this town, I’ll put you on the next train myself. And it won’t be a pleasant trip back to the city.”
Geller pushed back as hard as he could and was able to escape from Sundell’s clutches. “Why’s that exactly?” he asked, catching his breath. “Why won’t it be a pleasant ride home?”
“Because you’ll be black and blue,” Sundell retorted, pushing Geller to the sidewalk. “We’ll be watching you.” The officer turned and marched back down the street.
; Geller picked himself up. He was shaken, though not injured. Admittedly, his pride was more hurt than his body. He had always been able to take care of himself—at the orphanage and on the street. This tough cop was something else, however.
Nevertheless, it was curious, he thought, dusting off his trousers. One important piece of wisdom that he had learned from Klein was to put yourself in your opponent’s shoes, to think like he did. Why would Sergeant Sundell go out of his way to antagonize him? Why not just ignore him? Surely, Sundell didn’t really believe that he could frighten him enough so that he’d run back to Winnipeg with his tail between his legs? Either Sundell was a foolish cop or there was more to this murder than he was letting on. And Geller’s initial impression was that Sundell was not a stupid man.
Shaking off his encounter with Sergeant Sundell, Geller found his way to Mrs. Tillsdale’s home on Railway Avenue. The house, like most in the town, was compact but comfortable. There was no electricity or running water, but the kitchen was bright and inviting and there was hot, strong coffee warming on the wood stove. Mrs. Tillsdale offered him cup and though Alec had other business to attend to, he sat for a few minutes. In that brief time, he learned that the small and slight grey-haired woman’s first name was Grace and that she had lived in Vera for most of her life. She had been a widow for about five years, since her husband Cecil died in a farm accident.
As he gulped down his coffee, Geller listened politely to Mrs. Tillsdale’s stories. When he asked her about the death of Max Roter, all she could do was shake her head in disbelief. “A tragedy,” she said, adding that there had not been a murder in Vera for a decade, ever since Norman Fielding had mistakenly shot and killed his son-in-law, Ed. “They were both stone-cold drunk. Nothing worse than the bottle,” Mrs. Tillsdale said. “Now poor Mrs. Roter has to suffer because of liquor as well.”
Geller thanked Mrs. Tillsdale for the coffee and told her that he’d return for dinner around six. She promised him a hearty meal of roast beef and potatoes. Leaving her house, he headed back to the railway station. His destination was the Standard Grain Company office and a visit with Jack Smythe.
The sun was hotter now. Alec removed his jacket and walked slowly down the dusty street, saying “hello” or “good afternoon” to every person in Vera who crossed his path. It was much friendlier here than on the streets of Winnipeg, he thought, where it was usually best to avoid eye contact with strangers. The warm weather that improved his mood also made him oblivious to the fact that an unsavoury-looking character with a dark beard and bowler hat had started following him the moment he left Mrs. Tillsdale’s.
Alec moved past the station and up the three stairs leading to the Standard Grain office, about twenty feet in front of the elevator. He was about to knock when he heard the shouting.
“God damn you, Smythe! You’re a thief and always have been.” The deep voice was loud and angry.
“You’re a fool, MacGibbon. I’ve told you a hundred times, this is how it works. I’m offering you the best street price I can. Now, if you don’t like it, take your bloody grain and business somewhere else.” The second voice Geller could hear was calmer but stern.
“You’ll rot in hell like the rest of the speculators and leeches who suck us dry,” said the first voice.
“Get out of my office, MacGibbon, now!” yelled the second man.
Geller gently opened the door and came face-to-face with whom he presumed was MacGibbon, a heavy-set man of medium height wearing dark blue overalls and a straw hat. When Alec did not move fast enough, MacGibbon pushed him out of the way, causing Geller to stumble to the ground.
“Hey, mister, what’s going on?” asked Geller, picking himself up.
“You were in my way, kid. I don’t have time for this shit.”
“You need to learn some manners.” But MacGibbon wasn’t listening. He started his truck and immediately drove away. “Asshole,” Alec muttered to himself.
“You don’t know the half of it,” said Jack Smythe. “You must be Geller? I was expecting you.”
“Yes, I am. Sorry about that…”
“About calling Fred MacGibbon an asshole? Don’t worry, that describes him perfectly,” Smythe said with a chuckle. “He’s just another farmer who has no clue as to how the grain business works. He thinks because cash wheat is trading at the exchange in Winnipeg for a dollar and twenty-five cents a bushel, that’s the price he should receive. That’s impossible. There’re shipping and storage costs. I offered him a dollar-ten instead, really about five cents higher than I should’ve, and he thinks I’m trying to rob him. You might’ve heard that farmers like him have got the federal government to undertake another official inquiry?”
Geller did not follow the grain business news and said nothing.
“Like everyone at the Winnipeg exchange, farmers like MacGibbon think that the banks and railways are all out to fleece farmers,” continued Smythe. “It’s bullshit, always has been. But, my apologies Geller, I know you didn’t come all the way to Vera for a lecture about the grain trade. Come in and sit down.”
Smythe’s office was dominated by a large, chestnut-coloured roll-top desk. With the cover up, Geller could see that the slots on the back of the desk facing him were filled with letters and paper slips. Files and papers were strewn about and stacks of yellow newspapers tied with twine sat on the floor collecting dust.
“It’s a mess. My wife has offered to tidy it up but, believe it or not, I like it just as it is. Now, I know you want to speak to me about poor Max.”
“You were friends with Mr. Roter?”
“I was, yes. My wife Joannie and his wife Rae are dear friends. And if you live in Vera, there’s nowhere else to buy groceries than at Roter’s General Store. Everyone has had to go to Emerson or Dominion City for food supplies. It’s just a terrible tragedy, that’s all I can say.”
“When did you last see Mr. Roter?”
“That night when it happened, in fact. We were at the store, as we usually are on a Saturday night. We were having a good time. We bid goodnight to Rae and Max and that’s the last time I saw him.”
“Do you have any idea what happened to him?”
Smythe sighed. “Connected to that liquor business, I’d wager. I know that’s what the police think, at any rate.”
“Yes, I’ve met Sergeant Sundell.”
“He’s a decent enough officer. Does a good job in these parts.”
“Let me ask you, Mr. Smythe. The sergeant seems to think that it was a bootlegger named Taylor who might be involved in the robbery and shooting.”
“Yes, I’ve heard that. I wouldn’t be surprised. Ever since the Americans started with prohibition, every Manitoba town along the border, Vera included, has had its share of trouble. Bootleggers with their big cars and guns showing up day and night. There’s a lot of money to be made with booze. I tried to warn Max that it was a dangerous business, but he said he had no choice in the matter. Something about family obligations. I hope this helps you,” said Smythe, standing up. “Now I must get back to work.”
“No, of course. I apologize for taking up so much of your time. I was told you have keys for me.”
“I do, yes.” Smythe reached into a corner slot on his desk and pulled out a ring with several keys on it. “This smaller one will get you in the store. And the others are for the locks on the liquor warehouse in the back. Do you need me to escort you there?”
“No, that’s kind of you, but I can look around myself and then return the keys. Probably best to go later this evening when there’s less of a chance of anyone else around, especially the police. In my earlier chat with Sergeant Sundell, he made it clear that I was to stay away from the crime scene. Not that such a warning has ever stopped me before…”
Smythe smiled. “Let me have a word with Sundell. I’m sure I can assist you.”
“I’d appreciate that,” said Gell
er. “I’ll return them in the morning before I return to the city.” He shook Smythe’s hand and left the office.
As soon as Geller was gone, Smythe opened a side door behind a large panel near his desk. “You can come in now, Sid. You know I don’t feel good about this at all…”
Sid Sharp removed his bowler hat and stroked his beard. “Relax, Smythe. Sugarman’s paying you for your time.” He pulled out a handful of bills and threw them on Smythe’s desk. “I heard the whole conversation. You did just fine. Just leave the kid to me.”
For about an hour and a half, Geller walked up and down Vera’s Main Street. He spoke to just about everyone of importance in the town: Mr. Richardson, the undertaker and reeve, Fred Lum at his Chinese café, and Joe Hendricks, the owner of the hardware store. Everyone liked Max Roter. They expressed the same concern Smythe had about the dangerous liquor trade. And not one person had anything to add about the crime.
At Linda’s dress shop, he was introduced to Joannie Smythe. Geller was immediately taken with Joannie’s striking appearance, though he found it odd that she was wearing a blue and white floral, long-sleeved dress on such a warm day He chose not to ask her about it and instead told her what he was doing in Vera. She insisted on speaking to him further, naturally devastated by what had transpired, and mentioned to Alec that she was taking the Thursday evening train to Winnipeg so that she could attend Max’s funeral on Friday afternoon. Her husband, she added, was unable to accompany her due to business obligations. Klein had taught him to be thorough so he decided to probe further about the Roter’s marriage. At first, Mrs. Smythe was aghast and reprimanded Geller for his impertinence. But when Alec explained that as an investigator he had to explore every angle, she was more receptive.
“Max and Rae adored each other,” she explained. “They loved their children and any idea of impropriety on either of their parts is entirely unthinkable.”
Geller listened closely and though he believed what she was saying, there was something about Max Roter’s all-too-perfect life that gnawed at him. Maybe he was being overly suspicious? Or perhaps he was merely hoping to find something that would impress Klein. He wasn’t sure. He just had this gut feeling, which he honestly could not explain, at least not yet, that there was more to Max Roter than he had been led to believe. He readily conceded that it didn’t make sense considering what everyone in the town had told him about Max. Still, he wanted to consider this further before he said anything to Klein about it.