The Bootlegger's Confession

by Allan Levine

  Taylor took a deep drag on his cigarette. “It’s quite a story.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure. We all want to hear it.”

  “A few months ago, I learned about a secret meeting that took place in New York called by Rosen and Katz. Sugarman was also there.

  “Who told you about it?” asked Allard

  “It’s not important. I have my sources,” said Taylor.

  Allard eyed Taylor. He wanted to know everything the bootlegger did. But he also did not want to become embroiled in an argument about what was probably a minor point. He decided to let it go. “All right, Taylor, continue.”

  Taylor leaned forward. “I found out that Rosen had this plan, a goofy plan if you ask me, to take over all bootlegging operations from New York to Minneapolis. And that included all the liquor coming into Chicago. He had amassed more than $250,000. Sugarman was supposed to come up with another $200,000 and become the chief supplier. He told Rosen he’d expand his warehouses and set up new ones in every border town he could.”

  “A bootlegging monopoly, in other words,” said Allard.

  “That’s right.”

  “Did Rosen tell you about it later?” asked Allard.

  Taylor nodded. “Not in so many words. But he did tell me to be ready for something big that was happening which would shake up the businessness permanently. I didn’t ask him too many more questions.”

  “I guess Piccolo wouldn’t be happy about that?”

  “No. He wasn’t supposed to find out until everything was in place, but someone, and I’m not sure who, told him. In the first week of May, one of his men contacted me. I confirmed what he knew and he offered me a lot of dough, a hundred grand. How could I turn that down? The only condition was that I had to switch sides and get here to bop Sugarman. Paulie and Richie weren’t supposed to be in the city. When the boss found out, he told me to bop them, too. I just didn’t count on Rosen figuring out what I was up to so soon. Stupid, I guess.”

  “I guess. What about Max Roter? The night you picked up booze from him, you were already on Piccolo’s payroll? You took the liquor and then you came back to kill him and take the money you had given him?”

  “No, that’s not what happened. I didn’t kill Roter. Piccolo wanted me to, that’s true. I talked him out of it. Believe it or not, I liked Max. We had a profitable arrangement. I picked up the booze from Roter’s warehouse like usual and gave him the cash. Then I drove off and took the cases to Hampton. I thought Rosen was getting suspicious and I wasn’t ready to let him know that I had gone over to Piccolo. Besides, it wasn’t a huge shipment. When I heard what happened to Roter, I was as surprised as anyone. I even went back to Vera a few days later to nose around, though I couldn’t find out anything. I don’t know who killed him or why.”

  “Is there anything else you’re not telling us?”

  “Isn’t that enough?”

  “Is there anyone else in the city on Piccolo’s payroll? Anyone else gunning for Saul Sugarman?”

  Taylor looked down at the floor for a moment. “No, there’s no one else. It was just me. Listen, if you don’t protect me, then I’m a dead man, done for. No one speaks about Piccolo to the police or goes against Rosen and lives to talk about it. No one.”

  “What do you make of that, Klein?” asked Allard, turning his automobile right onto Main Street. “Never heard anything like it before. But if anyone could pull off such an improbable scheme, I guess it would be Rosen.”

  “I have a confession of sorts, too. It was Rosen who told me where we could find Taylor. Sent me a telegram,” said Klein.

  “I figured you might’ve been in contact with him. You must admit that it’s out of character for him to do that. Why tell us about it? Why not just finish off Taylor himself?”

  Klein shrugged. “Only Rosen knows the answer to that. It may be part of his larger scheme. Who the hell knows what he’s thinking. However, if he wants to eliminate Taylor, trust me, he’ll find a way.”

  “I suppose. Even if he goes to prison, he won’t last a day unless he’s placed in solitary.”

  “I wouldn’t count on him being safe in solitary either. Dangle a bit of cash in front of a low-paid prison guard and that would be that. I am a bit surprised however.”

  “About what?”

  “Rosen’s smart, I’ll give him that, but his scheme has some holes in it. It would’ve taken a lot of muscle and money to make it work. From what I know, there are hundreds of gangs in Chicago making big money out of bootlegging—not only Piccolo and Merv Callaghan’s North Side Gang, but many, many others. He would’ve had to pay them all off or get rid of them. If you ask me, Piccolo finding out what was going on may have prevented an all-out gang war. Now it’s just Rosen and Piccolo trying to kill each other. A few more dead bodies will show up, but sooner or later they’ll sit down and negotiate a treaty.”

  “No choice, I suppose. Damn Prohibition. Haven’t those American politicians figured out yet that they’ve dug themselves into a deep hole from which there’s no escape?”

  “As I like to say, sometimes smart people do stupid things. Speaking of which, you going to speak with Sugarman about this?”

  “I am. He must’ve known all along what was going on. He merely chose not to tell us.”

  “No matter what Taylor says, Piccolo might still be after him.”

  “Agreed.”

  “And what about Roter? If Taylor didn’t kill him—and I don’t think he did—then who the hell did? McCreary says that his men have come up empty. No one in that town is talking.”

  Klein stared out the window of the car as they passed Selkirk Avenue.

  “Hey Klein, you listening to me?”

  “Sorry, I was thinking about Bernice. If I don’t hear something soon … I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

  “I can’t begin to understand,” said Allard.

  He turned the car left onto Cathedral Avenue, crossed Salter, and pulled up in front of Klein’s house. Standing on his porch were Alec Geller and Joannie Smythe, and they both looked frantic.

  23

  Klein jumped from Allard’s vehicle, his head spinning. “Alec, what is it? Did you find something about Bernice? Tell me.”

  “Easy, Sam. We might have some information about where she is.”

  Sam looked at Joannie. “What do you know about this, Mrs. Smythe? Please, say something. Why are you here?”

  She looked at Klein and Allard. “I … I think your daughter’s in Vera, or at least she was. She may be in the city by now. Oh dear, I’m not certain.”

  “In Vera? With who?” asked Klein.

  “Maybe we should go inside,” said Allard.

  Klein opened the front door and led everyone into his parlour.

  “Now, please Mrs. Smythe, from the beginning. Why do you think Bernice was in Vera?” asked Klein as calmly as he could.

  “Last night I received a telephone call from a friend of mine, Grace Tillsdale. She runs a rooming house in Vera. She told me that someone brought a little girl named Bernice matching your daughter’s description to her house. She was given instructions to keep the girl inside and paid for her services. Mrs. Tillsdale had heard about the kidnapping and she realized who exactly she had. She was going to call the provincial police…”

  “Allard, we have to tell McCreary. He can contact his men…” said Klein.

  “Wait, please Mr. Klein, there’s more. She’s not there anymore. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Early this morning, Mrs. Tillsdale telephoned me again and told me that Bernice was gone. That someone had picked her up and may be driving her back to the city. The little girl’s unharmed, I do know that.”

  “That’s twice you used the word ‘someone,’ Mrs. Smythe,” said Allard. “Who exactly are you referring to? I believe you know.”

  Joannie stared downward. “I do, ye
s. It was my husband, Jack. He’s the one who took Bernice to Mrs. Tillsdale’s and he’s the one who drove her back to the city.”

  “Your husband? Why would he have done that? Why would he have kidnapped my daughter?” asked Klein.

  “It has to do with money, I’m afraid. Jack owes a lot of money. And if he was offered a fee in exchange for taking your little girl, then he might have done it. He’s desperate and trying to stay out of jail, but that’s probably impossible now.”

  “Do you know who he’s working for?” asked Allard.

  “I don’t, but whoever it is, they must be paying Jack a lot. Since he started drinking … It hasn’t been good between us for a while.”

  “Did your husband murder Max Roter or have anything to do with it?”

  “Jack kill Max? That’s impossible. They were friends.”

  “Did you ever think your husband could be involved in the kidnapping of a five-year-old child?” Allard asked pointedly.

  “No, of course not, but commit murder for money … I can’t conceive of such a thing.”

  “Tell us the whole story, Mrs. Smythe. We need to know.”

  “This is not a story with a happy ending like the fairy tales you read to your children, Mr. Klein. I don’t know the exact details of what Jack did. But from what I have gathered, he lied to his employer, Mr. Kingston, about a land purchase. He then used the company’s money to speculate in the grain market and lost all of it. I believe it’s about $25,000, perhaps more. He’s been trying to figure out a way to repay it. The last time we spoke about this, Mr. Kingston was starting to ask many questions, which made Jack drink more and…” She covered her eyes with her hands.

  “He hit you, didn’t he?” asked Klein.

  “Sam, that’s an indecent question,” said Alec.

  Tears were streaming down Joannie’s face. “Yes, yes. I should’ve left him, but the humiliation is too much to bear.”

  “Instead you found Reverend John Vivian. Isn’t that so?” asked Klein.

  “When I first met the reverend he offered me the peace of mind I was searching for. So strong and devoted. I can only describe it as intoxicating, being in his presence. He convinced me that the evil of drink must be destroyed at all costs. And I believed him. I still believe him.”

  “What did he ask you and George Dickens to do?”

  Looking at Allard, she hesitated for a moment. “The reverend wanted to take advantage of the attacks on the Sugarmans. He knew that we could strike and it would be blamed on someone else. Or so I believed at the time. Mr. Dickens was to kill Saul Sugarman. That was the plan.”

  “And why tell us this now?’

  “Because … because the reverend’s a liar. He deceived me, Mr. Dickens, and all of his followers. The other day I learned from Mr. Cole that Reverend Vivian had taken money from a gangster in Chicago, a man who supports the bootlegging business, and that he is doing this man’s bidding. In other words, he sold his soul for thirty pieces of silver as Judas did to our Lord Jesus Christ.”

  “Piccolo? Vivian’s working for Piccolo?” said Klein, looking at Allard.

  “Mrs. Smythe, what happened to Dickens?” Allard asked.

  “He’s gone. Maybe back to his wife, I’m not certain. When Mr. Geller tracked me to the house on Arlington where George was hiding, we both decided to put a halt to this insanity. Especially when I learned about Mr. Klein’s daughter.”

  “If what you say is true—that Vivian’s been paid by Piccolo to murder Saul Sugarman—then won’t he go through with it?”

  “I believe he will, yes.”

  Sarah had absolutely no desire to open her store. She was beside herself with worry and had no interest or patience in dealing with the mundane questions posed to her by her customers. Did it really matter if the trimmed summer hats came with a ribbon colour other than white or that the embroidery on the silk dresses were too elaborate? At the best of times, these petty shopping queries annoyed Sarah. Today, with nothing but Bernice on her mind, she couldn’t bear them.

  But Betty Kingston had convinced her that it might be a good distraction from the constant worry and she offered to help her and keep her company. She and Betty had only got to know each other well recently. Yet Sarah had decided that her new friend truly was the “unflappable” flapper, as she had dubbed her. Sarah had never met someone so optimistic. Then again, Betty did not have a care in the world. Her doting husband ensured that she had everything her heart desired. From her earliest days in Winnipeg, Sarah had always believed that a hefty bank account was an integral element of perpetual happiness. Betty’s joy and gregarious lifestyle certainly reinforced that view.

  “Never mind those dumbdoras,” whispered Betty, rolling her eyes in the direction of two “misses” who had been in the store for more than a half hour trying on dresses and middies. “They’re not going to buy anything.”

  “So you’d like that pongee middie? Only two dollars,” Sarah said to them.

  The young women, probably nineteen and stenographers in nearby offices, giggled like schoolgirls. “Too much, I’m afraid, on our pay cheque,” said one of them. “We have got to get back to the office or we’ll be fired.”

  “Dumbdoras. Told you so,” said Betty.

  Sarah gave Betty a hug. “I don’t know what I would’ve done without you today.”

  “Well no one likes being Edisoned for eight hours a day by tomatoes or face stretchers.”

  That comment brought a smile to Sarah’s face. “I honestly have no idea what you say half the time, but it does make me laugh. And I need that right now. Being Edisoned? You mean being asked lots of stupid questions?”

  Betty nodded.

  “But what’s a face stretcher?”

  “You know who Irene McRae is?”

  “Of course, she comes into the store often.”

  “And how does she dress, in your opinion?”

  “A bit too much rouge and powder and she prefers the latest fashions for younger women.”

  “Exactly. She’s thirty-five, not married, and tries to look twenty-two. That, my dear, is a face stretcher.”

  “Betty, you are terrible. You slay me, as I think you’d put it.”

  The door of the shop opened and Sarah turned around abruptly to see who it was. Her shoulders drooped when a female customer walked in.

  Betty lightly grasped her hand. “You’re waiting for that bad egg Saul Sugarman, aren’t you? You’re hoping that he might help you find Bernice? I’m afraid I wouldn’t put any faith in him or that happening.”

  “I know, you’re right. I’m desperate,” said Sarah, choking back tears.

  On cue, as if he was an actor in a stage play, Saul Sugarman strutted into the shop. He ignored Betty Kingston and stepped close to Sarah. He did not look like a man with good news to share.

  “You have nothing to tell me, have you?” Sarah asked, dejected.

  “I don’t. I spent a few hours calling around to people who might know something. But no one could tell me anything of value,” said Sugarman.

  “I was praying…” said Sarah, looking down.

  “I know you were. The world’s an ugly place, Sarah. Who knows why anyone does anything. Greed, corruption, envy, it’s all out there. Sometimes people are merely bad because they don’t know any other way.”

  Betty glared at Sugarman, her jaw clenched. But she said nothing. She was not certain if he was telling the truth or not. But she knew that antagonizing him with further questions would only make matters worse and upset Sarah even more.

  Sarah moved closer to Sugarman. “If you learn anything else, please contact me at once. I don’t think I can stay here much longer. I have to get back to my family.”

  “Of course, I understand.” He turned, looked dismissively at Betty, and strutted out of the shop exactly as he had entered it.

 
“I’m sure that slimy devil is trying to help you, Sarah,” said Betty. “But honestly, and I know this is a terrible thing to say, if whoever’s trying to put a bullet in that man succeeds, you won’t find me crying about it.”

  By eight o’clock that evening, Klein had heard twice from Allard, though he had nothing positive to report. Neither Jack Smythe, who possibly had Bernice, nor Reverend Vivian had been located despite a city-wide police search. Allard had assured him his constables would not stop until his daughter was found.

  To make matters worse, Sarah had yet to arrive home. Klein had telephoned Sarah’s shop at about three, but there was no answer. Sarah must have closed the shop early. Klein had fed Freda and Mel—thankfully his friendly neighbours had brought over cheese, bread, and herring—and got them ready for bed. Still Sarah was absent and Klein was starting to worry.

  He was upstairs with Freda when he heard the front door open.

  “Sarah, where have you been?” asked Klein, embracing her.

  “I’m sorry, Shailek. I decided to walk home from downtown and I must’ve lost track of time. I sat by the river for a time. I don’t know, I guess I was hoping to see Bernice.”

  “This morning you went to ask Sugarman for help, didn’t you?”

  “What can I say? He says he tried, but he knows nothing.”

  Klein raised his eyebrows. “Someday you’ll understand that he’s been toying with you. And now he’s using our missing daughter to play with your emotions.”

  “I’m no fool. I know what he’s doing. I had to try. I don’t think I can stand another minute of this. We’re never going to see her again,” she said, collapsing into a chair beside her.

  Klein took both her hands in his. “Don’t say that. The police have a new lead. We found out that she was taken to Vera.”

  “What? Is she there now?” asked Sarah, quickly standing up.

  “No. She’s gone but she might be in the city. The police are looking for a suspect. She was alive and well this morning. We know that.”

  “In Vera. Then, as I’ve feared, this all has to do with the case you’re working on. With Max Roter’s murder.”