by Allan Levine
Klein looked into Sarah’s eyes and shook his head. He wasn’t all that surprised by her questions about Hannah. She always had been perceptive. Whatever Sarah sensed, there was no point in discussing it further; his encounter with Hannah Nash three years ago was a pleasant memory and part of his past. His present and future were Sarah and the children.
He undid the buttons of his shirt and undressed. The June air outside was thick and sticky and the second floor of the house was particularly hot. Sarah got into bed and covered herself with a thin sheet. Klein slid back into bed and wrapped his arms around her. Within a moment, they kissed deeply and passionately.
13
The downtown safehouse was not a house at all, but a room located on the second floor of a dry goods warehouse close to the corner of McDermot Avenue and Princess Street. The property belonged to Adam Cole, a wholesale supplier of pots, pans, utensils, small hardware items, and assorted knick-knacks to shops and stores throughout the city as well as the country. He was also another of Reverend John Vivian’s devoted disciples.
On Christmas Day, 1920, Cole, his wife, Hilda, and their four-year-old son, Luke, were travelling home in their automobile from a party in Stonewall, where Hilda’s parents lived. Close to the city limits, a car, coming from the opposite direction and driven by Ted Thompson, twenty years old and drunk, crossed over to the wrong side of the road and crashed head-on into the Coles. Thompson broke his arm and was severely shaken. Similarly, Adam and Hilda were only slightly injured, but the impact threw young Luke from the vehicle. Ever since that tragedy, Cole had been one of Vivian’s most avid supporters.
George Dickens’s hands shook as he pried open the back door to Cole’s warehouse. For the past few hours, he had been hiding out at a café in St. James where he knew everyone minded their own business. Still, after he had telephoned Hilda Cole, who had relayed the message from his wife Maggie that the police were searching for him, his anxiety level had increased dramatically. Every time a new customer had come into the café, Dickens nearly panicked.
Calming himself, he followed Vivian’s protocol and made his way to Cole’s warehouse.
The back room was dark and Dickens feared that he had misunderstood the plan.
“Anyone here?” he called out. He took a few steps forward and walked right into a pile of wooden crates. A few seconds later, a lantern flickered on from a room about twenty feet ahead.
“In here, George,” said the distinctive voice.
Dickens’s heart beat faster. It was Reverend Vivian. Following the light, he carefully plodded his way through the maze of crates filled with wool, bolts of cloth, and a high stack of brushes and brooms. He poked his head into a small room and there, sitting in a chair at a wooden table, was the reverend, his face and features illuminated by the lantern. He motioned for Dickens to sit in the stool opposite him.
“You’ve had a busy day, George,” said Vivian.
“It was the craziest thing you’ve seen. I was in the library at the time we had planned. And I was about to fire a few shots, just to scare the Sugarmans as you had told me. But then…”
“There was someone else after them.”
“Yes,” said Dickens, wiping the sweat from his brow with his handkerchief.
“That’s the price you pay for doing the devil’s bidding. And Satan will follow the Sugarmans to their graves, for they are sinners beyond redemption.”
“But now the police think that I was the shooter,” said Dickens.
“Yes, George, I’m well aware of everything that has gone on. You must trust me. Can you do that?”
“Always. You know I have absolute faith in your judgment in anything to do with our battle.”
“I know you do. So this is what I want you to do. Tomorrow morning at nine o’clock sharp you will meet my attorney, Graham Powers, at the main entrance to the Central Police Station. You’ll bring your long sack with you…”
“My sack with my gun…”
Vivian held his hand up. “Please let me finish. In the other room, close to the exit, is a crate of shovels. Take one with you and place it in the sack. You’ll tell the police, Detective Allard no doubt, that prior to visiting the library you had purchased the shovel from Cole’s Wholesale. Here’s the receipt dated today.” He handed Dickens a slip of paper. “If asked, Cole will verify the purchase. You’ll then tell the police that you merely wandered up to the second floor and opened the window because you weren’t feeling well. It’s as simple as that. Mr. Powers will handle any other questions or concerns. I expect everything will go smoothly and you’ll no longer be a suspect in this incident.”
“And then what am I to do?”
“Yes, we’re not quite done with the Sugarmans yet.”
From the other room, the sound of the back door could be heard creaking open. Dickens immediately stood up and grabbed a wooden pole leaning on the wall behind him.
“That’s quite unnecessary, George. I know who it is. We’re in here,” Vivian called out into the darkness.
A moment later, Joannie Smythe walked into the room and Dickens relaxed.
“Mrs. Smythe, I’m so glad you can join us. You, too, have had an eventful day, I presume,” said Vivian.
“I have indeed.” Gone was her vivacious and alluring smile. Her hazel eyes were fixed on Vivian and her lips were pursed tightly together.
“You know Mr. Dickens, of course.”
Joannie nodded. “Yes. It’s good to see you again, George, even under these trying circumstances.”
“So what’s the news from the hospital?” asked Vivian.
“Lou Sugarman remains unconscious and the doctors and nurses are monitoring his progress. Have you any idea how this could’ve happened?”
“I’ve heard rumours, but I’d rather not speculate further at the moment. It only matters that these events at the railway station and the synagogue will serve our larger purpose. You must put aside your feelings for Mrs. Roter and think of what we are trying to accomplish.”
“I am with you, Reverend … in everything.”
Vivian stood up and lightly took Joannie’s hand. “Always remember that a bottle of whisky is responsible for the appalling abuse you’ve had to endure these many years.”
“How can I serve you?”
“Mr. Dickens will speak to the police tomorrow morning so that he can be cleared as a suspect in today’s shooting. He’ll then meet you at your hotel. I assume you have Mr. Sharp under control?”
“I do, though it’s been difficult.”
“We all appreciate your sacrifice, Joannie. Your friendship with Sharp will prove useful, you know that?”
Joannie cringed slightly. “As I’ve said, I’m prepared to do my part.”
“I know I can count on you. I want you to keep George safe and prepare him for the coming task. That should take place in a few days.”
“The coming task?” asked Dickens.
“We have a golden opportunity, here, George. No matter what happens, this other party who has been causing so much havoc will be ultimately blamed. I’ll ensure that. We’re free to do not only what is necessary, but what is just.”
Dickens, his eyes wide, stared at Vivian and Joannie.
“That’s correct, George. You are going to send Saul Sugarman back to his Maker. For as it is written in Romans, chapter six, verse twenty-three: the wages of sin is death. Always remember that.”
Saturday morning brought another day of warm and pleasant temperatures. By nine o’clock, the sun was already hot in the deep blue prairie sky and Winnipeg was alive with activity. The streetcars were full ferrying shoppers to Eaton’s, FW Woolworth Company, Robinson’s Clothes, and other downtown stores; the merchants and clerks who would faithfully serve them; factory workers; and lucky ones rushing to the CPR station to catch the early train to Winnipeg Beach for a day of sun at the lake
and some fun on the town’s boardwalk rides.
Winnipeg had long been a city divided between the “haves” and the “have-nots,” as the bitter General Strike had made clear. But the lines, once fairly distinct, were shifting. A growing middle-class was challenging the rule of the traditional elite who ran city hall and even the children of immigrants were beginning to assert themselves in ways that made the White Anglo-Protestant majority increasingly nervous. Hence, among the Saturday shoppers were Ukrainian women from the North End who enjoyed venturing beyond Selkirk Avenue and a small contingent of middle-class Jewish women from River Heights who opted to skip synagogue services to get an early start.
Automobiles, too, increased the morning traffic, many chauffeuring refined ladies from their homes in Crescentwood, Wellington Crescent, and even as far as the city of Tuxedo. There was no class distinction when it came to these women. They were the wives of grain, banking, insurance, and business executives, planning to spend several hours shopping at Hollinsworth and Holt Renfrew, among other high-end stores they frequented. Then, close to one o’clock, their chauffeurs would drive them the short distance to the Royal Alexandra Hotel for a leisurely lunch at the Grand Café. Grilled Pacific halibut steak or hot-loaf of homemade fois gras with green peas were two lunchtime favourites.
Those fortunate enough to be on the guest list for the four o’clock wedding of Graham Powers’s daughter Jean to Wilson Edmunds, the son of Graham’s law partner Charles Sinclair, at the Holy Trinity Church would have to cut their shopping day short in order to prepare for the celebration later in the afternoon and early evening.
The wedding, which was only hours away, was the reason Graham Powers was pacing in front of the main entrance to the Central Police Station. When he informed his wife, Julia, that he had business to attend to for a few hours on the day of their daughter’s wedding, she was not pleased. But Powers could not refuse Reverend Vivian’s request to accompany George Dickens when he turned himself in to the police for questioning. Since he had left the crown’s office and went into private practice with Charles Sinclair, the reverend was one of his most important clients and one who always paid his legal fees on time. Wedding or not, he could not jeopardize this relationship.
Powers was dressed in a grey suit, too hot for the weather yet he never would have conducted business wearing anything less formal. It just wasn’t done. That was a rule he had learned from his late father, Alfred, one of the great lawyers in the annals of the Winnipeg legal establishment. Graham might not have agreed with his father on most issues—in truth, they bickered about everything from the time Graham was seventeen and especially once he became a lawyer—but proper business attire was not one of them.
Powers checked his watch; it was ten past nine. He looked in the direction of Main Street and there, walking towards him, was George Dickens.
“You’re late, Dickens, and this is not a good day to be late,” said Powers.
“My apologies, sir. I didn’t sleep well last night and misjudged how long it would take to walk here.”
Powers eyed Dickens up and down. “You don’t look very well, Dickens. You look tired and your face is pale and white. In fact, if I was a detective, I would say that you were guilty of something. Are you?”
“Absolutely not,” Dickens stammered. “It’s just the heat. And I have lots on my mind.”
“Well, clear your head, right now. You have to answer the questions you are asked in a way that will leave no doubt about your innocence. The reverend said you were capable of doing this. Is that true?”
Dickens nodded. “I’ve done nothing wrong. Please, let’s get this over with.”
Dickens followed Powers into the station. He was indeed as nervous as Powers had suggested. Reverend Vivian had insisted that he stay the night in Adam Cole’s warehouse. There was a small, uncomfortable, metal-framed bed on the second floor of the building where he could sleep. Yet, following further discussion with the reverend and the charming Mrs. Smythe about the task ahead, sleep proved impossible. He knew he had nothing to hide regarding what had happened in the library, other than a white lie about his true intentions. That he could manage. What he feared were more probing questions about his views on the Sugarmans and his connection to the reverend that could make the police suspicious. If ever there was a time to be calm and collected, this was it.
Powers and Dickens found McCreary waiting for them at the top of the stairs.
“We’ll talk in here,” said McCreary, leading the two men into the same interrogation room where Reverend Vivian had been questioned a day earlier. There waiting for them were Detectives Allard, Nash, and Klein.
Powers was taken aback. “I thought this was to be a friendly chat. Mr. Dickens is happy to answer your questions. But I’d like to know why a private detective is involved in this.” He glared at Klein.
“Graham, it’s been a while,” remarked Klein.
“Mr. Klein is consulting on this case with the approval of Chief Newton. Any objections?” asked Allard.
“I suppose not. Sure hope you know what you’re doing. My experience with Mr. Klein is that when he’s around, more problems arise.”
“I couldn’t agree with you more,” said McCreary, lighting a cigar.
“Well, I take that as a compliment, Graham. I’m proud to say that your father felt much differently.”
“Mr. Dickens, please sit here. Mr. Powers, you can take the chair next to him,” said Allard.
For the next hour, Allard, taking the lead in the questioning, reviewed Dickens’s movements on Friday and how he wound up at the library at the time of the shooting. With a coolness that even surprised him, Dickens explained how he had decided to play hooky from his job as a clerk at the Standard Grain Company and do some work around his house. He said he had purchased a shovel at Cole’s warehouse and showed Allard the receipt. This was what he was carrying in the long sack at the library and which he presumed his neighbour Mary Turner had seen him with. On a whim, he had decided to visit the library, unfortunately at the time when the shooting took place across the street at the synagogue and when he ran into the bothersome Mrs. Turner.
“It’s a good story, Mr. Dickens,” said Allard.
“It’s not a story; it’s the truth,” Dickens pleaded.
Powers leaned forward. “As I’ve told you, Mr. Dickens had nothing whatsoever to do with the shooting. Is he free to go now?”
“Not quite,” said Allard. He looked back to Dickens. “Tell us, please: what is your relationship with Reverend Vivian?”
Dickens glanced at Powers for support. “Go ahead, George,” the lawyer advised.
“The reverend is a great man. I serve him and the important cause he fights for: the abolition of the liquor trade.”
“Isn’t it true that Adam Cole, the owner of the wholesale company where you allegedly purchased the shovel, is also one of the reverend’s avid supporters?”
“I believe that’s true. So what of it? He’s a good man and I only deal with men of high morality.”
“I assume that Reverend Vivian, you, or Mr. Cole wouldn’t have been too upset if the shooter had, in fact, killed both Sugarmans?”
“I can’t speak for the other two. I don’t condone murder. But the Sugarmans have chosen the path of the devil. Their fate is sealed.”
Klein shook his head. “May I ask a question, Detective?”
Allard looked at McCreary. “This is your vaudeville show, Allard, don’t look at me,” McCreary scoffed.
“Go on, Klein,” said Allard. “But keep it short.”
“Thank you. I want to ask you about your recent trip to Vera.”
“I thought we were here to discuss the shooting yesterday. What does my client’s out-of-town business have to do with anything?” asked Powers, his voice firm.
“Mr. Powers, it’s not a problem. I can answer the question,” said D
ickens. “I was in Vera last weekend for business. My boss, Mr. Kingston, asked me to review the operations there with Jack Smythe, who runs the grain elevator in Vera. It’s as simple as that.”
“And you were there from Friday until Monday, is that right?”
Dickens nodded.
“You’re aware that Max Roter, the husband of Rae Roter, a sister to the Sugarman brothers, was robbed and killed late last Saturday evening.”
“Of course I know of it. Everyone in town was talking about it.”
“It’s a terrible thing, isn’t it?” asked Klein.
“Again, as I understand it, Mr. Roter was also involved with the liquor trade. I’m afraid his fate was sealed as well.”
“So you didn’t have anything to do with his death?”
“That’s it, Allard, McCreary. We’re out of here,” declared Powers, standing.
“No, I’ll answer,” said Dickens. “Mr. Klein, I have absolutely no knowledge of this crime. But as I said, it wouldn’t surprise me if it had something to do with Mr. Roter’s connection to the bootlegging business.”
Powers looked at Allard. “Detective, unless you’re planning to charge my client with a crime, we are now leaving.”
“We’re not charging him with anything, but we might like to question him again so I’d appreciate it if you could keep me informed if he is planning to leave the city again.”
“I’ll consider it,” said Powers, grabbing Dickens by the arm and leading him out of the room. On the way out, they passed a constable who was out of breath, holding a telegram.
“Spit it out, Jenkins,” Allard ordered.
“Yes, sir. I … I have a telegram for the commissioner,” Constable Jenkins said, handing the piece of paper to McCreary.
McCreary read it quickly and gave it to Hannah Nash. “My word,” she said.
“What is it? What’s happened? Will one of you please tell me?” asked Allard.