The Bootlegger's Confession

by Allan Levine

“You’re the commissioner of the provincial police, for Christ’s sake. I thought your duty was to stop the Sugarmans’ liquor trade, not abet it.”

  “I haven’t time for this, Klein. Now stay out of my way or I’ll have you arrested.”

  “You certain you want to do this, Commissioner?” Nash asked.

  “No more questions,” McCreary said sharply. “Get the hell out of the way! Now!”

  At that, Allard and Nash parted and Sugarman moved passed them towards his car. As he was climbing in, he sneered at Klein a second time. A moment later, the Rolls-Royce pulled away.

  When Sugarman was out of sight, Klein smiled at McCreary. “You like that line? Accusing you of being on the payroll?”

  “Yeah, real clever,” said McCreary with a laugh.

  Allard and Nash looked at each other in disbelief.

  “Would one of you please tell us what’s going on?” asked Allard.

  “Sugarman thinks he owns me. That’s what’s going on,” McCreary said. “But he doesn’t.”

  “After questioning the Reverend Vivian, McCreary and I spoke,” Klein continued. “I told him about the two thugs who arrived from Minneapolis the day of the railway station shooting, who, as it turned out, he already knew about.”

  “You mean the two men who tried to run us over?” asked Nash.

  “Exactly. We think they’re working for Irv Rosen,” said Klein.

  “The other night, I tried to get Sugarman to explain to me what was going on, but he was cagey,” said McCreary. “He did give me an envelope of cash for my troubles, however. Don’t worry, Allard, the money is in a safe place. It’ll be used in the case we’re building against Sugarman. But all in good time.”

  “So what about these gangsters? Rosen’s men, you say?” Allard asked.

  “More than likely. But so far they’ve eluded my men,” said McCreary.

  “You both could’ve let us in on what was going on,” said Nash.

  “I suppose,” said Klein, smiling warmly at her. “But what would be the fun in that?”

  McCreary walked away to speak with one of his MPP constables who had been waiting patiently for him. The officer was standing off to the side, speaking with a woman.

  There was a cry from the street.

  “Shailek, Shailek, are you all right?” Sarah ran up to Klein and threw her arms around him. “I was told you were shot,” she said, breathing heavily.

  “I’m fine. Still in one piece,” said Klein.

  “I was in the store when Betty Kingston came running in to tell me that she’d heard you’d been shot. I left her there and her chauffer drove me here,” she said, pointing to a gleaming blue Lincoln parked on Dagmar with a uniformed driver standing beside it. “But I’m so relieved you’re not hurt. I don’t know what the children would have done. Or me.” Sarah threw her arms around Klein again and hugged him. Then, noticing Allard and Nash watching them, she stood back. “I’m sorry, I’ve been rude.”

  “Not at all, Mrs. Klein,” said Allard. “We’re happy Mr. Klein has not been injured today as well.”

  “Lou Sugarman was shot, but not seriously, I think,” said Klein.

  “That’s awful. Who would do such a thing?”

  “We are attempting to determine that, ma’am,” said Allard.

  There was a momentary pause. “You going to introduce me, Sam?” asked Hannah.

  “Of course. My apologies … I … wasn’t…” Klein turned to his wife. “This is Detective Hannah Nash. She’s visiting us from Calgary. Assisting the MPP with this case.”

  “I see, very nice to meet you Miss, or is it, Mrs. Nash?”

  “Mrs., but please call me Hannah, Mrs. Klein.”

  “It’s Sarah.”

  Nash nodded.

  “Is this your first time in the city?” Sarah asked.

  “No, not at all. As a matter of fact, I used to work for the Winnipeg department.”

  “I’m sure I mentioned Mrs. Nash before,” said Klein, rubbing his hands together. “She was the first policewoman in the city. She helped with the case during the strike involving Metro Lizowski.”

  “Yes, of course. Please forgive me Mrs. … I mean, Hannah. I do remember. And my husband has spoken of you before.”

  “Has he?” Nash said with a tight smile.

  Sarah returned the smile. Both women guardedly glanced at the other, while Klein fidgeted with his hands.

  “Now that all the pleasantries are finished, can we get back to work?” said McCreary, who had returned. “Mrs. Sam Klein, always a pleasure to see you.”

  Sarah grinned. “It’s been a while, McCreary. You’re looking as spry as ever.”

  “Do you have some news?” asked Allard.

  “I do.” McCreary motioned for the MPP officer and the woman he was speaking with to come closer. “This is Officer Newhouse and Mrs. Mary Turner. Mrs. Turner was at the library and she saw something you might find interesting. Go ahead, ma’am, please.”

  Mary cleared her throat. “Yes, as I told the officer, I was across at the library before and after the shooting started.”

  “Yes, and what did you see?” asked Allard.

  “A man I knew. He was carrying a sack large enough to hold a rifle. When the shooting ended, I saw him rush from the library.”

  “And who is this man?” Allard inquired.

  “He’s a neighbour. My husband Harold and I live on Furby near Westminster. He and his wife, Maggie, and their son, Charles, live about six houses away.”

  “His name, ma’am, please,” said Allard.

  “George … George Dickens.”

  “He’s one of Vivian’s men,” said McCreary.

  With McCreary in the passenger seat and Klein and Nash in the back, Allard steered his department-issued, new 1922 black Essex with white-walled tires up Main Street. He turned right on Portage Avenue and headed west, puttering along at twelve miles an hour. At Donald Street by Eaton’s, he deftly manoeuvred around a stalled horse-driven milk wagon, avoided hitting a small group of pedestrians who were not paying attention to traffic, and then was compelled to slam on the brakes when the driver of a Model-T pulled away from the curb without bothering to check for oncoming autos.

  “Someday people in this city will figure out how to drive,” muttered Allard.

  “Traffic signals are the answer. They’re in use in the States already,” said McCreary.

  “I don’t know. Won’t that slow things down even worse?”

  “Eyes on the road, Allard. You’re going to run over someone.”

  In the backseat, Klein wasn’t entirely certain why he was there. He had ushered Sarah back to the Kingston’s chauffeur-driven car and assured her he’d be home by six o’clock for Shabbat dinner. Allard had then asked him to accompany him, McCreary, and Nash to Dickens’s home. All three believed that Dickens could tie Reverend Vivian to the two attacks on the Sugarmans, despite some evidence to the contrary. He had hesitated. Klein always did his best work alone—apart from the recent and timely assistance offered to him by Alec Geller. And as much as he appreciated Allard’s invitation to be part of the official police investigation, he knew that he had to proceed carefully. Being identified too closely with the likes of McCreary could backfire and taint his reputation as an independent operator.

  But he had acquiesced. Though he still was not convinced that Dickens, or Reverend Vivian for that matter, had anything to do with the attempts on the Sugarmans, and even less with the murder of Max Roter, he was curious about what the police might learn. Plus there was Hannah Nash. Other than a memory of a fleeting kiss, there was nothing between them, nor would there be in the future—of that he was certain. He was in love with his wife. And yet, he still could not help himself. A half-smile from Hannah urging him to join the investigation and he couldn’t say no.

  “So you
really think that this Dickens was the shooter?” Klein asked. “I was certain the shots came from the third floor of that house beside the synagogue.”

  “I had constables check it out,” replied Allard. “The property belongs to a woman named Johnson. She wasn’t there and the house was locked up tight. At the same time, my men found evidence that someone had been by the window facing the synagogue on the second floor of the library. The window was open sufficiently for a rifle to have been used. And one of librarians assured us that the window is always kept closed. So it seems to me that Dickens likely was the shooter and no doubt acting on Vivian’s orders. The reverend was lying to us.”

  Klein nodded, but didn’t say anything.

  “Sam, you don’t think Dickens or Vivian are involved?” asked Nash.

  “I don’t know. Something isn’t right. I still want to speak to those two thugs who got away. They are the key to this.”

  “Or Saul Sugarman,” offered McCreary. “He’s a lot of things, but he’s not a fool. I can assure you, he knows what’s going on.”

  Allard accelerated the car as soon as he passed Spence Street.

  “You’re going to miss the turn onto Furby,” warned McCreary.

  “Never happen. But hold on.”

  As the car approached the corner of Portage and Furby, Allard turned the car sharply left, barely avoiding an oncoming eastbound streetcar. Nash, who was sitting behind McCreary, flew into Klein, who caught her. He held her for only a second. She fixed her hat and smoothed out her skirt and quickly moved back to her side of the car. As she did so, her left hand lingered on Klein’s right hand before she pulled it away. He pretended not to notice.

  “My word, Detective, perhaps you should slow down. I nearly pushed Sam out the door.”

  “Apologies, Mrs. Nash. I forget just how powerful these vehicles can be.”

  Allard pulled up in front of ninety-nine Furby Street, where George and Maggie Dickens lived. Another Essex with three constables and one of McCreary’s MPP officers lurched to a stop directly behind them. McCreary ordered the men to search the back of the red brick two-and-a-half-storey house. A short, white picket fence surrounded the property. Klein noticed a young boy looking at them from an upstairs window.

  “Must be the son, Charles,” said Nash, noticing the boy as well.

  “Charles Dickens? Really, that’s his name?” scoffed McCreary.

  “That’s a lot to live up to. Maybe the parents are fond of the author,” offered Nash with a shrug.

  The front door of the house opened and a short, stout woman with a slim, long nose and over-sized ears emerged. Her hair was short and tangled and she was wearing a light red sweater, white blouse, and tan skirt, covered by a brown apron tied around her waist.

  “Are you Maggie Dickens?” Allard inquired, introducing himself.

  She nodded. “I am. What’s this all about? Why are there constables in my backyard?”

  “Is your husband George here, ma’am?” asked Allard.

  “Why? Did he do something wrong?”

  “Please answer the question.”

  “No. He’s not here. Left this morning for work as usual.”

  “Where does he work?”

  “Downtown at Standard Grain office, room 276 in the Grain Exchange building. Now, will you please tell me what this is all about?”

  “It’s an ongoing investigation, Mrs. Dickens. We believe your husband may have some information about a shooting that happened earlier today on Dagmar.”

  Maggie Dickens held her cheeks. “A shooting. Not George. He’d never be involved in something like that.”

  “Does your husband own a rifle?” McCreary asked, taking over the questioning. His tone was much harsher than Allard’s.

  “He does, yes. Likes to hunt outside the city, like lots of people.”

  “And what of his relationship with Reverend Vivian? Can you tell us something about that?”

  “Reverend Vivian’s a great man. He’s trying to save this city. I’m very proud of George for taking up the cause against the bottle.” The front door opened again and young Charles came out.

  “Everything okay, Mom?”

  “It is, dear, never mind. Go back inside.”

  “The boy not in school today?” asked McCreary.

  “He wasn’t feeling well. Now if there’s nothing else, I’d like to tend to my son.”

  “Anyone have any other questions for Mrs. Dickens?” asked Allard.

  “Yes, I have one,” said Klein, stepping forward. “Mrs. Dickens, do you know if your husband has ever visited the town Vera near the US border?”

  Maggie shuffled her feet and looked downward at the grass. “He has, yes. His company has an office there. Occasionally he travels to Vera to work with the elevator manager who lives there, Mr. Smythe.”

  “I see. Has he been there recently?”

  “As a matter of fact, he took the train to Vera last week. Stayed for a few days.”

  “When did he return?”

  “Early Monday morning. But I don’t see how…”

  “That’s fine, ma’am. I have nothing more to ask,” said Klein.

  Nash looked at Klein, though remained silent.

  “If you speak to your husband, Mrs. Dickens, please tell him to telephone me at A6568,” said Allard. “Will you remember that? As I said earlier, it’s very important we speak with him as soon as possible.”

  Maggie nodded and went back inside her house.

  The three constables appeared and reported that they had found nothing suspicious in the backyard. Allard suggested that everyone return to the station. It was too late in the day to check for George Dickens at the Grain Exchange building and he doubted he would be there in any case. A visit to the Standard Grain office would have to wait until the morning.

  Maggie Dickens peered around the curtained window and waited for the police to depart in their automobiles. When she was certain they were gone, she reached for the telephone and dialed a number.

  “Hello, its Maggie. Yes, they’re gone now. No, I didn’t tell them anything. But we might have a serious problem.”

  11

  As soon as Klein entered the General Hospital, he was hit by the pungent odour of carbolic disinfectant, a smell that numbed his nostrils. Since the influenza epidemic of 1918, which had taken the lives of more than 1,200 Winnipeggers, hospital officials were fanatical about keeping the facility clean and germ-free. Everyone from doctors and nurses to custodians were instructed to do their part to protect the hospital from infection. Above all, that meant the liberal use of carbolic disinfectant—each day, every day.

  Klein made his way to the emergency clinic in search of his sister. Late on a Friday afternoon, the hospital was busy as usual. Groups of visitors, women and men, mingled about while several nurses outfitted in white—caps, ankle-length dresses, smocks, and shoes—manned a desk by the front of the room. Every so often, doctors in white coats with stethoscopes around their necks appeared, ushering patients in and out of hospital rooms. One man complained of a belly ache while another more elderly gentleman had a nasty cut on his hand. Drops of blood from the gash dripped onto the floor. A young physician rushed to assist him and quickly wrapped his hand in a bandage.

  Two women sat off to the side coughing incessantly and everyone else kept their distance, including Klein. Tuberculosis was a common ailment in the city and it was said that when you entered the hospital with the disease you rarely came back out.

  Once Klein had left the Dickens’s home, he had asked Allard to detour down Sherbrooke to Bannatyne, so he could stop at the hospital to check in on Lou Sugarman.

  During the ride over, another heated discussion ensued on the possible involvement of Reverend Vivian in everything that had gone on. Allard was fairly certain that Vivian and Dickens could be linked to the shootings a
t the CPR and the Shaarey Zedek, possibly even to what happened in Vera. Maggie Dickens admitted that her husband was visiting the town when Max Roter was killed, suggesting a possible connection. If Vivian was determined to put the Sugarmans out of business, Allard argued, perhaps he also intended to disrupt their cross-border bootlegging operation. Still, he agreed with the others that at this point, this was only conjecture. Klein decided to keep his thoughts to himself on any possible linkages between Max’s murder and the shootings in Winnipeg.

  Klein was only in the emergency clinic a few minutes when Rivka arrived.

  “Shailek, I am so glad you’re here,” she said, hugging him.

  “How is he?” asked Klein, lighting a cigarette.

  “The doctor said that the bullet that hit his arm went right through. He should be fine, thank God. Come, they’re bringing him back to his room soon.”

  Rivka led her brother up the stairs and down a long, sterile hallway to a room just past the nurse’s desk. As Klein and everyone else in the city knew, money was a factor in obtaining decent healthcare. Doctors and hospitals charged the rich varying amounts depending on what they believed the patient could afford. It was the reason some physicians had annual incomes of $4,000 compared to hospital cleaning women who made less than $500 a year. If you were wealthy like Lou Sugarman, you could recover in a fairly comfortable private room.

  Klein nodded at the two police constables stationed outside the room by the doorway who permitted him and Rivka to pass.

  Rivka sat down at a chair by the window looking out at Olivia Street. “I’m glad they’re here. What if the shooter comes looking for Lou here?”

  “He won’t,” said Klein. “Too dangerous. He’d likely figure the police would be here. Isn’t anyone else from Lou’s family here?”

  Rivka shook her head. “They’re still at the cemetery, but Rae said she would come straight here. Saul, too, maybe. If he does come here, Shailek, you must promise me that there’s to be no arguing or fighting. It’ll only upset Lou. Will you promise? Please.”

  “You know the expression, vos in der kort?”

  Rivka smiled. “A bad person is capable of doing anything bad.”