The Bootlegger's Confession

by Allan Levine

“Does that include sending someone to shoot at the Sugarman family at the CPR station?” Allard asked, leaning across the table.

  “Before I answer that question, I have one for you,” said Vivian, gesturing with his right hand. “What is Mr. Klein doing here? Is he now a member of the Winnipeg Police Department?”

  That comment brought a slight smile to Klein’s face.

  “He’s not,” scoffed McCreary.

  “He’s here at my request,” explained Allard.

  Vivian was silent for a moment. He stared at Klein and then at Allard. “I see,” he finally said. “Fine, then. Have it your way. I’ve nothing to hide. What would you like to know?”

  “Where were you Wednesday afternoon?” Allard asked.

  “Working at my office on Sherbrooke. I am leading a parade down Main Street in three days to protest the liquor and brothel trades. For too many years, this city has been as close to Sodom and Gomorrah as is possible. Public drunkenness is an abomination and fornication in the name of greed is rampant. Families have been ruined. It must stop.”

  McCreary rolled his eyes, but said nothing.

  “So you didn’t send one of your men with a shotgun to the railway station?” asked Allard.

  “I most certainly did not. However…”

  “However … what, Reverend?” said McCreary sharply.

  “If I may continue, Detective, without being so rudely interrupted?”

  “Continue, please,” said Allard, glancing at McCreary.

  “I was going to add that if some calamity has befallen one of the Sugarman brothers, then it is God’s will.”

  “It’s God’s will for young children to be shot at?” said Klein. “Is that what you think?”

  “Klein, please,” said Allard. “We had an agreement.”

  Vivian waved his hand. “No, no harm done, Detective. I’m happy to address Mr. Klein’s question. Of course, I would never condone violence against children. As I said, I had nothing to do with what took place. But the liquor trade is evil and so are its practitioners. If anything terrible happens to anyone, even a child associated with the Sugarmans, then those two bear the full responsibility for that calamity.”

  Allard held up a piece of paper that was sitting on the desk. “You did call them ‘the devil’s sinners who were destined for Hell.’ It’s right here from a newspaper article.”

  “That’s accurate and I stand by those words.”

  “So perhaps you tried to make this happen?” asked McCreary.

  “Gentleman, I have answered all of your questions,” said Vivian, rising from his chair. “I have absolutely no knowledge of the shooting at the CPR station. Am I free to go? Or do I need to summon my lawyer?”

  Allard looked at McCreary and Franks. “Any other questions for the reverend?” Both detectives shook their heads. Allard turned to Vivian. “Very well, Reverend. I would ask you to remain in the city in case we have to speak to you again.”

  Franks stood up to face Vivian. “Though I support your intentions, Reverend, I am concerned about your methods. You’re free to hold your parade on Monday, but tell your men to leave their clubs and shotguns at home.”

  “There will be no trouble from us,” said Vivian. “I will guarantee it.”

  “I’ve heard that before,” mumbled Klein.

  Vivian left the room and Allard shut the door.

  “What do you think?”

  “He knows something,” Klein said. “He’s not told everything.”

  “As much as I hate to admit this, I have to agree with Klein,” said McCreary. “He’s hiding something.”

  Allard turned to Franks.

  “As I said, the reverend’s intentions are sincere,” said Franks. “He truly does want to uplift this city. But he’s a zealot and in my experience, zealots can be dangerous, very dangerous.”

  A knock at the door interrupted the conversation. “Ah, yes, that must be my guest.” Allard stepped to the door and opened it. Klein’s eyes widened and his face flushed.

  Standing in the entrance was policewoman Hannah Nash.

  8

  Alec Geller felt like he had been kicked in the head by a horse. He was in pain; there was no mistake about it. His eyelids flickered before he gradually opened them, yet everything was blurry. All he could make out was the outline of a face, an elderly woman’s face. She was smiling at him.

  “Where am I?” he whispered.

  “Easy, Alec. Try not to move. You’ll be okay. The doctor has checked you and you’ll recover,” said Grace Tillsdale. She gently squeezed Alec’s left hand.

  Behind Mrs. Tillsdale, Geller could now see two men. The first he did not know. The second man he recognized immediately as Sergeant Duncan Sundell of the provincial police. His face was firm, tight, and tense. Geller looked back at the woman. “Mrs. Tillsdale, right?”

  “Yes. You have had … an accident. You’re in my home now and safe.”

  “Geller, I’m Doctor Lewis,” said the first man. He was bald with a thin beard and was wearing a brown suit. A stethoscope hung around his neck. “You’ve been hit very hard on the head. Frankly, had Sergeant Sundell not found you as quickly as he did, you might’ve succumbed to your injuries.”

  “Died?” exclaimed Geller.

  “That’s right, son. Now, you need to rest for a few days at least.”

  “Thanks, Doc. But I have to get back to the city.”

  “I wouldn’t advise that for at least seventy-two hours. By then, I think you’ll be strong enough to travel. But you should see your own doctor in Winnipeg as soon as you return. Do you understand?”

  Geller shook his head. “Three days. It’s a long time to do nothing.”

  “I’ll keep you company, Alec,” said Mrs. Tillsdale. “And you won’t believe some of the comings and goings in this town.”

  “Good, so that’s settled,” said Dr. Lewis, packing his bag. “Now I have to leave you. Rebecca Johnson is about to go into labour and it’s a twenty minute auto ride to her farm. I’ve left Mrs. Tillsdale with everything she needs to nurse you back to health. Take a Bayer tablet of Aspirin twice a day and drink half a teaspoonful of sal volatile in water and you should feel much better. And if those fail, then try this,” he said, pulling a bottle out of his black kit. “Hean’s Tonic Nerve Nuts. These will enrich and purify your blood and nourish your nervous system. A shot of whisky once or twice a day also gets the blood flowing again. And, of course, rest. My fee is five dollars, which you can leave with Mrs. Tillsdale.”

  “I’d like to speak with Mr. Geller alone,” said Sundell once Dr. Lewis had departed.

  “Of course,” said Mrs. Tillsdale. “But be kind, Sergeant. Alec has been through a lot.”

  Sundell forced a smile. “I wouldn’t think of upsetting dear Alec.”

  As soon as Mrs. Tillsdale left the bedroom, Sundell shut the door. He sat down at the chair close to Geller. “Didn’t I tell you to stay away from Roter’s store?” As Sundell spoke, he tightened his fists.

  “The store, yes,” said Geller, his voice rising. “I remember now.”

  “What do you remember? Tell me exactly.”

  “Very well. I obtained the keys to the store and warehouse from Mr. Smythe.”

  “Yes, I know that already. I’ve discussed this with Mr. Smythe. He says that he was just carrying out the wishes of Mrs. Roter. But go on.”

  “It was dark by the time I arrived there. I let myself in and looked around the store. Then…”

  “Then, what? What happened?”

  Geller paused for a moment. He remembered quite clearly what occurred next. That before he was attacked, he was in Roter’s back office and that he had found a bundle of papers. Klein had taught him that it was usually best to keep certain facts to yourself until you could figure out what they meant. Sharing information with the police, th
erefore, had to be considered carefully. Wiser, he thought, to not say anything about the papers just yet.

  “I walked to the back of the store and then I must have been hit on the head,” said Alec.

  “That’s it?” asked Sundell. “That’s all you recall?”

  “Yes. I’m afraid so.”

  Sundell’s eyes narrowed and he leaned even closer to Geller. “Think about this, please. When you were in the store, did you hear the sound of a car engine—one that was powerful?”

  “It’s all kind of hazy. But I don’t think so. Why?”

  “Someone else mentioned it to us. I believe that this American bootlegger named Taylor may have returned last night. And he might have been the one who nearly killed you. He was the last known person to see Max Roter alive. That much I’m certain of.”

  “Why would he attack me?”

  “Why indeed, Mr. Geller. That’s the question, isn’t it? And be assured, I will find out the answer one way or the other.”

  “I have some tea for you, Alec,” said Mrs. Tillsdale, knocking on the bedroom door.

  “I’d love some,” said Geller, beckoning her to come in. “And I’d love to hear some of those stories about the town you promised to tell me.”

  Sundell abruptly stood up. “Tea and stories,” he mumbled. “You’d better watch yourself, kid.” He tipped his hat to Mrs. Tillsdale and marched out of the bedroom.

  “Mrs. Nash, I’m so glad you’ve arrived,” said Detective Allard. “You know, Detective, I mean, Commissioner McCreary…”

  “Interim Commissioner,” McCreary barked. “But it’s good to see you again, Mrs. Nash.”

  Hannah smiled. “From you, I will take that as a very big compliment.”

  “It was actually McCreary who recommended I contact you,” said Allard.

  “Is that so?” said Nash.

  “As much as I hate to admit this Nash, no one knows as much about the bootlegging business as you do,” said McCreary.

  Nash mockingly touched her heart. “Commissioner McCreary, I’m touched. You’ve changed for the better.”

  “And this is Detective Edward Franks, the department’s efficient morality inspector. And I don’t know if you are acquainted with Sam…”

  “Yes, we know each other,” said Nash. Her face was as flushed as Klein’s. “In fact, we worked together a few years ago during the Strike. That nasty business with Metro Lizowski … Sam, how are you?”

  Klein was rarely speechless, but he was truly stunned to see Hannah. His heart was pounding and his palms were sweaty. Images of that evening three years ago when they kissed bombarded his head. She looked better, if that was possible. Her brown, curly hair that she had worn short was now somewhat longer. Her eyes were still dark and large, but her slender figure was more inviting than he recalled. In his view, she had not aged a day in three years.

  “I’m good,” he finally stammered. “It’s a pleasant surprise to see you again.”

  A hint of a smile crossed her face and her eyes widened. Klein then smiled as well.

  Without being too obvious, she glimpsed at his face. He was still as captivating to her as he ever was. He was lean and fit and it immediately struck her that he exuded an even more seasoned demeanour than he had when she first met him.

  “If the introductions are now out of the way, maybe we can get down to business,” said McCreary. “Allard, I haven’t all day here.”

  “No, of course not. My apologies. Mrs. Nash, please have a seat for a moment.”

  Nash sat down in the chair that had been occupied by Reverend Vivian and joined Allard, McCreary, and Franks at the table. Klein again stood with his back against the wall. He watched Hannah intently—the way she pushed a strand of hair away from her face, her delicate cheekbones, and, above all, her moist and full lips.

  “Gentlemen, owing to an agreement with the Calgary Police Department, where, as you know, I’ve been a detective since I moved to Calgary in 1919, I’ve been with the Alberta Provincial Police for about a year now. My assignment was to work with the APP to stop as much as possible the shipment of Canadian liquor across the border to the US.”

  McCreary snorted. “Not bloody likely.”

  “I agree. So far we’ve failed. Mostly, it’s the fault of the Americans. They put prohibition into effect but have refused to spend much money to police it. As you well know, along the border, especially in the more isolated towns here and in Saskatchewan and Alberta, it’s a return to the Wild West. And I don’t say that lightly. Rum-running on the Great Lakes has also been a terrible problem, though that, thankfully, is someone else’s headache. I can tell you that the federal government is screaming about this, not so much because of the booze traffic, but because the rum-runners are returning to Canada with cheap American clothing and tobacco and literally millions of dollars in custom duties are not being paid to the treasury. From what I understand, corruption in the Customs Department is rampant. There’s a rumour that the Chief Preventive Officer in Quebec has a house in Vermont and a bank account with two million in it. Not bad for a guy making less than fifteen hundred a year. But as I said, this is not my or your immediate concern. What is, however, is that in the past fourteen months in prairie towns close to the border, there’s been a spate of robberies and four murders, five now with the one in Vera last week.”

  “Any pattern in these crimes that you can share with us?” asked Allard.

  Nash nodded. “Yes. At least five of the robberies involved American bootleggers, usually rival ones, robbing the Canadian liquor salesmen of money paid to them by other bootleggers. And that’s also the case in three of the other murders. One in Carway has not been solved yet, but I’m quite sure there’s a bootlegger in Babb, Montana who’s involved. We’re working with US Federal Prohibition Agents on this case and I’m confident the culprit will be apprehended shortly. However, it’s clear to me that Canadian liquor sellers have been caught up in a bloody gangster war. And it will only get worse. What can you tell me about the robbery and murder in Vera?”

  “McCreary, you want to answer that?” asked Allard.

  “Sounds possible,” said McCreary. “This morning I received a telegram from an MPP sergeant in charge of the investigation. He believes that a bootlegger named Frankie Taylor was most likely involved. Though in this case, it wasn’t a rival thug. The view is that Taylor simply was greedy. He wanted his booze for free so he came back for his money and took it, killing the storekeeper. Here’s a mug shot of him we got from the police in Minneapolis, when he was arrested for getting into a fight at a saloon some years back.”

  McCreary passed around a sheet. In the black and white photograph, Taylor was wearing a light-coloured suit with a vest and wool knit tie. His dark hair was slicked back, though it still stood up slightly at the front. But it was the gaze in his eye—angry and hostile—that everyone looking at the photo immediately noticed.

  “Looks like a real charmer,” said Allard.

  Nash glanced at it for a moment and then passed it to Klein. “What’s your interest in this, Sam … Mr. Klein?” asked Hannah, rubbing her hands together.

  Klein looked at the mug shot, handed it back to McCreary, and cleared his throat. There was a tiny bead of sweat on his forehead. Despite his best efforts to remain calm and collected as he always tried to be when he was around the police, Hannah’s presence definitely unnerved him. “I’ve been retained by the storekeeper’s family to investigate. The family, I suppose, doesn’t quite trust McCreary and his men to figure this out.”

  “That’s bullshit, Klein, and you know it,” retorted McCreary.

  “McCreary, your language, please. There’s a lady present,” admonished Franks.

  “That’s fine,” said Nash, smiling. “I’m quite used to Commissioner McCreary’s colourful language.”

  “The fact is, Klein,” Franks continued, “the store
keeper was married to the Sugarmans’ sister and was doing their bidding in this filthy bootleg business. They have made thousands of dollars off this trade, and probably a lot more. You may be a skilful private detective, Klein, but I am in agreement with McCreary on this. Your clients are the real troublemakers and Max Roter was fully responsible for what happened to him. Why is it, by the way, that you people are mixed up in this? The only answer is money.”

  “That’s quite enough,” said Allard. “With all due respect, Detective Franks, there are many liquor traders who are not Hebrews. Is that not correct, Mrs. Nash?”

  “That’s true. I wouldn’t go on blaming Jewish people alone for supplying bootleg liquor. I can tell you that there are Brits, Scots, and Irish men involved as well.”

  “So what would you suggest, Mrs. Nash?” Allard asked.

  “Yeah, I’m all ears,” said McCreary. As much as he accepted Nash’s expertise in the liquor trade, permitting a woman, even a smart policewoman, to dictate strategy was difficult for McCreary to swallow.

  Nash, who was used to dealing with obstinate men, paid no attention to McCreary’s remark. “If Mr. Klein can arrange it,” she said, glancing at Sam, “I’d like to speak to one or both of the Sugarmans. They may know more than they think about the Vera murder.”

  “Klein, can you arrange such a meeting?” asked Allard.

  “If you can wait a few days until the shiva … the time of mourning is nearly done, I believe. I can bring in Lou Sugarman. His brother Saul, I don’t know about. He and I are not on the best of terms.”

  “Figures,” said McCreary. “How many enemies do you have in this city?”

  “A few, but I’d wager your list is longer than mine,” said Klein.

  “Good, then we are settled. I will continue to investigate the shooting at the CPR station and keep an eye on Reverend Vivian. I presume, McCreary, you want to work on the Roter murder, so Mrs. Nash can assist you with that,” Allard suggested.

  “Glorious,” said McCreary.

  “That’s a good idea. I plan to be in the city for about a week,” said Nash. “And what of Mr. Klein?”