by Allan Levine
“Since Mr. Klein is not a member of this department, he’s free to serve the interests of his clients as he sees fit,” said Allard.
“That suits me fine,” said Klein. “Not that I wouldn’t have done that under any circumstances.”
“Then it’s settled. Does anyone have anything else to add before we adjourn this meeting?” Allard asked.
“As a matter of fact, I do,” said McCreary. “Klein, this news is for you.” He held up a telegram. “I suppose I should have told you this earlier. Sundell also reported to me regarding an incident last night in Vera. That kid who works with you…”
Klein’s body stiffened. “Alec Geller, what of it? Did something happen to him?”
“He’ll survive. But he was roughed up a bit last night. Got hit hard over the head. He’s resting now. Sundell reports that the kid was found in the store where he was warned not to go.”
“I’d better phone him at the rooming house,” said Klein. “Does your man have any idea who attacked him?”
“Not certain yet, but it’s possible this bootlegger, Taylor, our suspect for the Roter murder, might have been in Vera last night. I don’t have all the facts yet.”
Klein said nothing more. He walked briskly out of the interrogation room and through the squad room. He was at the top of the stairs when Hannah grabbed him by the arm.
“Sam, wait, please. I wanted to speak with you privately for a moment.”
“I’m sorry, Hannah. I didn’t mean to rush out. It’s just that I’m responsible for that kid they mentioned and I want to ensure that he’s all right. Probably foolish of me to have sent him to Vera alone.”
“I understand. The bootleg business can be dangerous… It’s good to see you again, Sam. You look well.” Her face reddened slightly.
“And you. I’d be lying if I said I haven’t thought about you many times,” he said, lightly wiping another bead of sweat off his forehead.
“And I you, too,” Nash said with a smile. She gently touched Klein’s hand. “How are your children? You have three now?”
“They’re a handful, that’s for sure.”
“And Sarah?” she asked gingerly.
Klein immediately took a step back. The last thing he wanted to do was discuss his recent troubles with Sarah with Hannah Nash. “She’s fine. Busy with her store and the kids,” he said in a matter-of-fact manner.
There was a momentary awkward silence. Nash could sense his discomfort. “Perhaps, before I leave the city again, we can have that coffee I think you promised me once.”
Klein nodded and took a short breath. “I think that would be possible. Hannah, let me ask you, do you really believe that this bootlegger Taylor robbed and killed Max Roter?”
“I’ve only read the report, of course. But it does seem likely, yes. Why, you don’t think so?”
“You remember Alfred Powers, don’t you?” asked Klein, leaning up against the railing.
“Of course, I was sorry to read in the newspaper about his passing.”
“He was a wise man. He taught me about Ockham’s razor. You know what that is?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.
Nash shook her head. Her heart was pounding faster now. This was the side of Klein’s personality she liked most: his passion, drive, and curiousity.
“Let me tell you, then. William of Ockham was an English philosopher who lived in the fourteenth century. As Alfred explained it, Ockham believed in simplicity. And that the simplest theory almost always makes more sense than the one that’s complicated.”
Nash settled herself. “I’d agree with that,” she said, as if she was speaking to a fellow officer. “I can think of many cases I’ve worked on when the simplest explanation proved to be the correct one in solving a crime. Find a murdered woman and the odds are her husband or someone she knew killed her.”
“Exactly,” said Klein.
“So what’s troubling you then, Sam?” she asked more cautiously.
“How do you know something is troubling me?” His body tensed up again.
Nash shrugged. “Just a guess. You don’t think that this bootlegger is the one who killed Mr. Roter?”
“I suppose I don’t.”
“It’s the simplest explanation.”
“I know that, but there’s something else going on here. Maybe it’s connected to the shooting at the station. I’m not saying Taylor’s not involved, but my gut tells me there’s more to this. Ockham’s razor just might not be the answer this time.”
Klein was about to leave the station, when he heard someone calling his name. He turned around and saw McCreary standing in a secluded area of the hallway.
“What do you want?”
“I want to speak to you, Klein.”
“Haven’t we talked enough today?”
McCreary beckoned him to come closer. “There’s one more thing.”
Saul Sugarman touched the spot on his face where Sarah Klein had slapped him. The pain had vanished quickly, but his anger had not. No one, certainly not a woman with her past, he thought, treats a Sugarman like that—and in public. It was only his good fortune that no passers-by had seen the incident and told the newspapers. With yet another story in the morning paper about Max’s murder being linked to bootleggers and the family’s lucrative liquor business, he hardly needed a negative article about his personal life. But he also knew that this matter between him and Sarah was not finished. He wasn’t about to let her have the last word.
“Mr. Sugarman, a telephone call for you,” said Shayna Kravetz. “I know you’re getting ready for the funeral. Should I take a message?”
Max’s funeral. Sugarman detested attending synagogue at the best of times. At the moment, he had many more important things to do than listen to a rabbi go on about Max’s so-called virtues. But for the sake of family peace, for Lou and Rae, he also knew he had no choice: he had to be at the Shaarey Zedek at two o’clock.
“Who’s calling?” asked Sugarman.
“The operator says it’s long distance from Mr. Sharp.”
“Put the call through to my office and shut the door.”
Sugarman picked up the telephone on his desk and unhooked the receiver. “Sharp, is that you?”
“Yes, it’s me,” said Sid Sharp, his voice soft and crackling.
“Well I can barely hear you so speak louder.” At the best of times, telephone calls from outside the city limits were tricky. And even if you could hear, the odds were the operator was listening in on the conversation. So Sugarman was well aware that discretion was required.
“My apologies,” said Sharp, speaking louder. “There’s been a development here.”
“I already know about it, Sharp. What the hell happened? I was clear in my orders.”
“It wasn’t me, Saul. I had nothing to do with it.”
“So what happened?”
“I kept an eye on him and Smythe gave him the keys and told him to go to the store in the evening like we told him to.”
“But you weren’t there to manage this problem? Why the hell not?”
The line was silent.
“I got distracted.”
“You got distracted?” repeated Sugarman. “What does that mean? What were you doing?”
“I made a mistake. I wasn’t watching the time and I was … let’s say I was meeting with someone else.”
“For God’s sake, I pay you good money.” Sugarman knew exactly what Sharp meant. The fool had found a woman in Vera. “So who were you ‘meeting’ with when you should’ve been watching him?”
“Can’t say right now.”
“You can’t say… What about this Taylor? I’ve been told that he might have attacked the kid.”
“I’ve heard that as well. To be honest, I’m not certain. Do you want me to stay here for a few more days?”
&nb
sp; Sugarman thought about it for a few moments. “Do you think you can do your job there and not get distracted again?”
“I’m sure I can, Saul. It won’t happen again. I’ll give you a report in a day or two.”
“Very well. But don’t disappoint me, Sid, or you’ll live to regret it. I have too much invested in this for you or anyone else to mess it up,” said Sugarman, ending the call.
He should’ve known better than to send Sharp to Vera. Sid could never keep his dick in his pants and for some reason, which Sugarman could never fathom, women, especially married women, found Sharp’s rough and swarthy demeanour appealing. He would give Sid another chance to figure out what happened to Geller, while he worried about the latest events in Winnipeg. Quite possibly the shooting at the CPR station was not perpetrated by that moralizing pain-in-the-ass Reverend John Vivian, as McCreary believed. The reverend may have had nothing to do with it. Saul decided to send a coded telegram to New York and await further instructions.
9
The Shaarey Zedek Synagogue on Dagmar Street stood proudly across from the magnificent Romanesque Carnegie Library. Both buildings had been erected before the Great War. While the synagogue was not as stately as the library, Klein always felt that the four columns guarding the synagogue’s entrance emanated the power of the Almighty. Sarah laughed at him when he pointed this out, but that’s what he sensed—and as just about everyone in the community knew, Sam Klein was by no means religious. If he attended Shabbat services five times a year, it was a lot. Nevertheless, he found the synagogue spiritual and haunting.
Wearing his finest black suit, a gift from Sarah on his thirty-ninth birthday last year—he later learned that she had spent nearly thirty dollars, a small fortune, at Ralph’s on Main near Logan Avenue for the hand-tailored worsted suit—Klein stood on the walkway in front of the synagogue. Methodically, he scrutinized the faces and mannerisms of each person arriving for Max Roter’s funeral, looking for anything out of the ordinary. But he was having trouble concentrating.
Life, he understood, took many twists and turns. The very same morning when he decided that reconciling with Sarah was paramount, Hannah Nash walks back into his life. It was like holding one ace in draw poker and drawing three more—twice in a row. It never happened. And while meeting Hannah again took him back to that night in 1919 when they had kissed, he also knew that it could never happen again. He might not have wanted to admit how hypocritical he had been earlier when he was angry with Sarah for her encounter with Saul Sugarman, but now there could be no more excuses.
In any case, he had come to pay his respects to Max and to ensure that his family as well as Lou, with Rivka by his side, remained safe. As everyone began to enter the synagogue, he noticed an attractive, red-headed woman walk up to Rae Roter and embrace her.
“Joannie, it’s so nice of you to make the trip to the city for this. You’re a good friend,” said Rae, hugging the woman.
Someone from Vera, thought Klein. It might be worth his time to seek her out.
He was momentarily distracted by the sound of a vehicle pulling up on Dagmar. Looking behind him, he saw the cream-coloured Rolls-Royce and his body immediately tensed up. Saul Sugarman strode towards the members of his family as if he was King of England. He said nothing to Klein but stared at him with disdain in his eyes. Klein could barely contain his own resentment. He knew that such hostility was wasted and that his anger was only making him miserable. And to make the situation odder still, the target of his wrath was the person who was technically employing him at the moment. Nevertheless, if he could have wringed Sugarman’s neck, he probably would have.
He wished Geller was with him. He could have used a second set of eyes and the kid always lifted his spirits. But he had spoken to Alec and he seemed to be recovering, which was great news. Geller had told Klein about the bundle of papers he had found before he was knocked out—despite the fact that the telephone operator may have been listening in on their call. It was unfortunate that Alec had not had a chance to examine the documents, Klein thought later. According to what Geller had told him, the attacker had taken the papers. Alec had smartly not said anything about them to the police, which in Klein’s view was to their advantage. Clearly, whatever the papers contained, someone did not want Geller reading them. Whether they also had relevant information pertaining to Max’s murder remained to be seen. As much as Klein did not relish the idea, a trip to Vera might be necessary in the near future. That red-head might be helpful in this regard.
Klein stood outside waiting for the last few stragglers to enter the synagogue and then he followed them in. The closed wooden casket sat on a black metal stand in the synagogue’s small lobby. Two thick, white candles flickered on a table beside it. Tiny gobs of wax from the dwindling, dripping candles gradually hardened on its surface.
In the silence, Klein took a black silk kipah from a basket on a nearby shelf and stood for a minute contemplating the thin line between life and death. Max Roter had a loving wife and family and now he was gone. His involvement in the liquor trade had undoubtedly killed him, though a full accounting of that fateful night still had to be determined. Klein, however, couldn’t decide whether his hostile feelings towards Saul Sugarman were impairing his detective instincts. If Frankie Taylor was indeed guilty of the crime as the police suspected, then Ockham’s razor was applicable once again and there was nothing more to it. So why, Klein wondered, did he have a gnawing feeling that this case wasn’t that straightforward?
Entering the sanctuary, Klein found a seat in a pew near the back and sat among the men. Like other Winnipeg synagogues, male congregants sat together on the main floor and the women were seated in the balcony on the second floor. The separation, so Klein had been taught many years ago as a student at after-school cheder lessons, dated back to biblical times and was essential so that true prayer could take place without distraction. In any event, this was the way it had always been, despite occasional protests from more progressive Jews who argued that men and women should be allowed to sit together. This, naturally enough, included his sister Rivka, whose voice had to be heard on every issue, big and small.
Klein acknowledged several of the men he knew, who shook his hand or nodded at him, and waited in the uncomfortable silence for the funeral service to begin.
Across the street, George Dickens, carrying a long canvas sack, stopped to admire the arched entranceway to the Carnegie Library. Looking upward, he could see a carved pediment incorporating the crest of Manitoba with the distinctive Red Cross of St. George on a white background and below it, a graceful bison, which once roamed the Great Plains in great numbers. Above the archway, flanked on both sides by stone cartouches, were the etched words, “History & Literature” and “Arts & Science.”
Dickens entered the grey limestone building and climbed the marble staircase into the library’s main hall. He stopped and got his bearings. At the reference desk speaking to a female librarian he noticed Mary Turner, a busybody who lived with her husband Harold down the street from him and Maggie on Furby. His body immediately tensed up. He had no desire to speak with her, certainly not at that moment. He anticipated that there would be a polite exchange of greetings, followed by questions that he would not and could not answer. She waved at him and started moving in his direction. But he pretended he did not see her. It was rude, he knew, though necessary. He doubted he fooled her. Nevertheless, perhaps sensing his uneasiness, she stopped, pursed her lips, fixed her hat, and walked instead into the ladies’ reading room, not looking at him again. A few seconds later, she disappeared from sight. His shoulders slouched again. He headed in the opposite direction to the large men’s reading room, where he was certain that Mary Turner or anyone else would not bother him.
With his sack securely by his feet, Dickens sat down in a comfortable chair. From a tall stand, he removed a wide newspaper fastened to a decorative wooden stick. He scanned the library’s l
atest copy of the Illustrated London News, dated May 30, 1922.
On the third page was a sketch of the recent trial at Old Bailey of disgraced newspaper magnate and financier Horatio Bottomley. Four months earlier, as Dickens read, Bottomley, who was also a Member of Parliament, had been charged with twenty-four counts of fraud for the misappropriation of an alleged £170,000 from his Victory Bonds Club. According to the accompanying article, Bottomley had used club members’ financial contributions, funds which were supposed to be used to purchase government bonds, to finance his own business interests and lavish lifestyle. Predictably, Bottomley had denied the charges, yet the jury had taken only twenty-eight minutes to find him guilty on all but one of the charges. On May 29, he had been sentenced to seven years of penal servitude.
Dickens was hardly surprised. Bottomley had a well-known fondness for expensive champagne. It was the evils of drink that really did him in, thought Dickens. Closing the newspaper, Dickens took out his pocket watch and checked the time. Fifteen minutes later, he did it again. Fifteen minutes after that, he popped up, checked to see that no one in the library was watching him, and headed back to the main staircase and up to the second floor.
Out on Dagmar, a black McLaughlin Buick pulled up in front of the Shaarey Zedek and parked behind Saul Sugarman’s Rolls-Royce. At the steering wheel and wearing his white fedora was the tall man who had arrived on the train from Minneapolis. And beside him in the passenger seat, also wearing a fedora and a shoulder holster with a pistol, was the man with the black eyepatch.
“You sure that piece is necessary?” asked the taller man, Paul Backhouse, otherwise known as “Paulie the Plumber.”
“Just takin’ precautions,” replied Richard Tazman, who was known far and wide as “One-eye Richie.”
“The boss…”
Richie cut Paulie off. “I know what the boss said, but the other day we nearly bought it. I don’t intend for that to happen again. You know I always follow orders, but this job is kind of nuts.”
“Well, we do what he says. As long as the boss keeps paying me, I’ll do whatever he tells me to.”