Rum Bullets and Cod Fish
The year is 1924 and Prohibition is spawning a new breed of
criminal. Rum runners. Jerome Conway is the undercover investigation officer
whose job it is to uncover the ringleaders behind the illegal importation of
liquor from St. Pierre, Miquolon, and the Caribbean destined for distribution
to the US based mob. His task is a complicated and dangerous one which leads
him into the dark corners of illegal activities and the underbelly of society.
If he is to be successful in his quest and emerge unscathed, Conway will need
to be smarter and quicker than the felons he is chasing.
Excerpt
The November night sky was clear, black,
moonless; the only lights a myriad of brilliant white stars glinting like so
many pinholes in an ebony canvas. Beneath them the sea rolled with long
three-to-five-foot swells pushed by a fresh nor'easter wind; which was unusual
for this time of year. The small fishing boat plowed its way over the sea at
ten knots, riding up and down with an easy roll.
Ken Joudrey stood at the wheel, his trained
eyes looking from the small magnetic compass set in the frame of the woodwork
to the window of the wheelhouse, straining to see any sign of a signal in the
blackness.
“’Ere,” he called without looking away.
“You ‘bout done?”
“Yeah,” his younger brother, Bill, yelled
as he finished pulling the heavy tarpaulin off the wood covered five by five
hatch. “You see anythin’ yet?”
“No. Hurry up an’ git yer arse up forward
to look out.”
“Yeah, yeah, keep yer pants on.”
The boat was a forty-five-foot inshore
fisher powered by a rebuilt diesel motor out of Ingramport on St. Margaret’s
Bay. It usually trolled heavy cod lines for haddock and pollock from wooden
casks set on deck, but it was getting harder to make a decent living from fish
these days. Normally there would be at least four men on board. But not
tonight. Tonight, they were not out here for the fish; tonight they were on
their way to collect a bigger cargo and more money. Illegal liquor.
They had been running liquor from ships
offshore for about seven months now and were doing quite well...so far. It was
risky business running liquor, especially this far out from shore, with the
constant pressure from the Canadian Customs patrol boats that were always
trying to catch them.
“Everythin’s ready,” Bill said as he
entered the tight wheelhouse.
“Good. Take the torch an’ git up top an’
start signallin’. Ya knows da drill,” Ken said. “We should be close by now.”
“Okay.”
Ken reached for the throttle and pulled it
back about a quarter of the way, slowing the boat to about eight knots. The
boat responded quickly to the drop in speed by reacting to the swells more
acutely.
A few minutes later, Ken spotted a quick
glint of white light in the darkness. A second later, Bill banged on the roof.
“Did ya see that? There, about three points off to da port.”
“Got it,” Ken called out as he pushed the
throttle forward and steered for the light.
Ten minutes later, he was manoeuvring the
boat alongside the schooner on the lee side. Bill tossed a bow line to a crewman
on the schooner while Ken went and secured the stern. Almost at once, the work
of transferring the cargo commenced as the schooner’s crew began slinging cases
of whisky and rum in cargo nets over the rail. Ken and his brother, with the
help of two men from the ship, stowed the cases on deck in the shallow cargo
space that normally held fish. Thirty minutes later, two hundred and twenty
cases were piled on deck: twenty-six-hundred and forty bottles of booze at
thirty dollars a bottle equaled seventy-nine thousand two hundred dollars. Bill
and the two men covered the load with a heavy tarpaulin, securing it to the
gunnels.
Ken was on the schooner with the captain.
He had taken a strongbox filled with hundred-dollar banknotes from inside the
boat’s cabin and handed it to the man, who opened it and thumbed the notes.
“Looks okay,” he said in a thick New
England accent. He was obviously a Gloucester fisherman. “Good luck on yer run
back.”
“T’anks,” Bill said. “By da by. Ya didn’t
see or ‘ear any a CPS patrol boats did ya?”
“No. Least not in da last two days.”
“Okay. I’ll be away den.”
He slipped over the rail, stepping on the
covered cargo hatch cover and headed for the wheelhouse.
“Okay, Bill, let go lines.”
Minutes later, he was increasing his speed
and spinning the wheel to a heading that would take them towards Halifax
Harbour and their final destination, a spot on the Northwest Arm. Within
minutes the schooner dropped out of sight behind them. He looked down at the
compass waiting for the heading he wanted before easing off the wheel. As was
the custom when running the liquor, he left his running lights off until he saw
the lights of the outer harbour buoys.
The boat was handling with more difficulty
now that she was headed into the wind and battling the swells. It cut through
the water at about seven knots due to the increased weight from the cargo. The
trip would take just over an hour if everything stayed as is.
He was about twenty minutes into the run
when his brother leaned inside the wheelhouse.
“We gots trouble,” he said.
“What?” Ken asked, looking quickly over his
shoulder.
“I t’ink dere’s a patrol boat back dere. I
‘eard its engine.”
“Shit. Go back to the stern an’ keep an eye
open. Yell if ya see anythin’.”
Bill disappeared as he pushed the throttle
hard, trying to get a few more revolutions out of the motor.
Minutes later he heard Bill yelling from
the stern. Then...his heart stuttered.
“This is CPS Patrol boat Beebe,” a voice
blared out of the darkness; the speaker obviously using a megaphone, as a beam
of light suddenly lit up the stern. “Heave to and shut down your motor and
prepare for inspection. If you do not comply, we will open fire.”
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” Bill said as he
came into the wheelhouse. “Whadda we goin’ to do?”
“No choice,” Ken said, resigning himself to
his fate. “Can’t outrun ‘im an’ ain’t ‘nough time ta dump the cargo. Shit.” He
reached out a hand for the starter and flipped a switch, killing the motor.
He knew what he was facing. He had seen the
Beebe soon after it was stationed in Ingramport. For now, his fate was in the
hands of the law. He and his brother stepped outside the wheelhouse with their
hands up just as the cutter eased alongside and three CPS officers scrambled
over the rails. Two more men stood at the ready on the cutter, holding rifles.
Ken Joudrey stood silently as the men began
to untie the secured tarpaulin. All he could think at that exact moment was
someone in Halifax was about to have a bad night. An expensive bad night.
“It’s liquor,” one of the men said to the
skipper on the cutter as he held up a bottle of dark rum. “Looks like a coupla
hundred cases.”
“Okay,” the skipper said. “Cover it up and
prepare to take the helm. We’ll head for Halifax and turn this lot over to the
Mounties.”
“Aye, aye sir.”
“You there,” the skipper called to one of
the men holding a rifle. “Bring those two on board and shackle them. Put them
in the main cabin. I’ll see to them once we get under way. Then go tell the
radioman to report in that we’re returning to port and request to have the RCMP
waiting to take this load and these men into custody.”
“Yes sir,” one of the men said pushing the
brothers toward the cutter.
As the two crossed over the rails Ken
thought he heard someone say, “Looks like the informant was dead on.”
Ken and Bill Joudrey were sitting on a
leather settee with their backs against the bulkhead in the main cabin of the
cutter. Their wrists were bound together with iron braces coupled by six inches
of linked chain. A table was secured to the deck in front of them. On the
opposite side of the table, a crewman sat staring at them. He had a pistol
holster attached to his belt.
“This ain’t yer night lads,” he said with a
smirk on his face, breaking the silence.
“Piss off,” Bill snarled which caused Ken
to kick him under the table, an unsubtle signal telling him to shut up.
The Sambro light flashed off the port side,
signalling they were nearing the harbour entrance. The helmsman could just make
out the outline of Point Pleasant at the southern tip of the city. He checked
his heading, making sure he was in the channel. The other boat was forty feet
astern and following in the cutter’s wake.
“Make for the Government Wharf,” the
skipper ordered once they passed between George’s Island and the seawall. He
raised a pair of binoculars that hung around his neck. “Good. The Mounties are
there with a truck.”
An hour later, the Joudreys were sitting in
a cold cell up in Rockhead Prison. They were formally charged with the
smuggling of illegal contraband under the Prohibition Act and would face a
judge later that day. Their precious cargo was off-loaded and taken to a secure
warehouse to await destruction.
As it happened, just at the moment they
were being processed into the prison two men were being let out. One of the
men, Len Purcell, saw them, which was lucky for them since he also worked for
Allister Fenwick as his middleman and knew Ken Joudrey. Purcell was waiting
outside the gate for his ride to come and pick him up.
Once his ride arrived, he told the driver
to get him to a telephone. The driver headed for a nearby corner grocer where
Purcell got out and went inside.
“You got a phone?” he asked the old man
behind the counter.
“There,” the man said, pointing at the back
wall.
Purcell headed for the phone and lifted the
receiver off the hook and dialed.
“Boss,” he said when the call was answered.
“It’s me, Lenny.”
“What the hell are you doing calling me at
this time of day?” Fenwick snapped.
“Look, I jus’ got cut loose from da Rock
an’ I seen the Joudreys bein’ taken inside in shackles.”
“What? What did you say?”
“Da Joudreys. Dey been arrested.”
“Damn it. Right. Listen closely. Nose
around and see what you can learn then get back to me right away, do you
understand?”
“Yeah.”
“Go.” Fenwick snapped and hung up.
He hung up and walked back to the front of
the shop, pausing long enough to drop a dollar banknote on the counter.
“Thanks.”
Purcell called back around four o’clock.
“What did you learn?” Fenwick asked.
“Word is the CPS got a tip ‘bout a boat
makin’ a run. Seems whoever spoke to them knew enough ‘bout where the schooner
was waitin’ to make its delivery. Anyway, they captured the Joudreys with the
whole shipment. One a’ my mates sez he seen them off loadin’ a coupla hundred
cases down at the Government Wharf ‘round ‘bout eight this mornin’. The
Mounties took the lot away in a truck.”
“That’s it?”
“Yeah,” Purcell said.
“You say one of your contacts said
something about the CPS being tipped off. How does he know that?”
“Knows one a’ the crewmen on the cutter
that captured them who sez they got a call.”
“Did he say who made the call?”
“No.”
“Okay. You did good. Keep your ears open
for any more information and see if you can find where the Mounties took the
cargo.”
“Yes sir.”
Fenwick hung up the phone and sat back in
his chair. ‘An informant,’ he thought; ‘odd, usually the people outside the
city are quite helpful to the runners.’ But, for now, the main problem he had
to deal with was to try and find out where the cargo had been taken, and to get
the Joudreys out of jail, which would be simple enough. All it needed was a
phone call to his barrister. The other problem would require help from a higher
authority. Fortunately he knew just who to call.
It was an unusually mild day for November,
despite being overcast, probably because of the light wind blowing onshore from
out of the southwest. Barrington Street was busy as usual with cars, trucks,
and trams. Pedestrians crowded the sidewalks likely taking advantage of the
fair weather to visit their favourite shops.
I had been summoned to Halifax by my boss,
Walter McCarthy, head of the Customs Preventive Service on the east coast,
headquartered here in Halifax. I was his main ‘trouble shooter’ in dealing with
the rampant smuggling going on, especially in illegal liquor. My name is Jerome
Conway, Jerry to my closer contacts. I was employed by the Canadian Government
as a Customs agent however for the last couple of years I had worked
exclusively for McCarthy as his personal investigator operating out of the small
outports up and down the coast. But today, I was on my way to a special meeting
at headquarters. I had new orders to report to Halifax for re-assignment to a
new case, although I had no idea what it would be. The meeting was to be held
at the Department of Marine and Fisheries building in Halifax.
* * *
I joined the Customs Preventive Service in
1920 shortly after the Americans declared their Prohibition Act. At the time I
was employed with the Toronto Police with five years’ service. Word had come
around that a government agency was looking to hire men with police training.
It was rumoured that this agency was a good place to work, offering more
challenges and faster promotion than the police force, so I applied and was
accepted. I was thirty-one at the time. Since signing on, I quickly proved
myself and was promoted to Investigator.
Four men sat around the large oak table in
the meeting room; two on one side, one sat opposite them, and the fourth man
sat at the head of the table. The two men on one side were dressed in uniforms;
one was with the Provincial Police, the other in the uniform of the Royal
Canadian Mounted Police. The man sitting opposite them was dressed in mufti, as
was the man sitting at the head of the table.
The man in mufti was John Lee; an American
representing the Bureau of Prohibition which was attached to their Department
of Justice. McCarthy, at the head of the table, was with the Canadian Customs
Preventive Service. He was the one responsible for calling this meeting.
Walter McCarthy was fifty-five with white
hair and thick bushy eyebrows, he was a career civil servant and politician, a
product of the English school system. At present, he was serving as the
District Chief Preventive Officer for Halifax. He had been ordered to chair this
meeting by his superiors in Ottawa.
At the moment there was a heated, and at
times animated, discussion going on between the two police officers and the
American. They were arguing over the problems arising from the illegal liquor
business that was going on unchecked in both their countries.
“Gentlemen,” McCarthy said, rapping his
knuckles on the top of it. “This is getting us nowhere. We already know what
the problems are and the need to find a solution. This is not the time for
fighting over jurisdiction.”
The three men stopped talking and turned to
look at McCarthy.
“Alright,” John Lee snapped. “What do you
propose?”
“Yes sir,” Phillip Jacobs, the Mountie
added. “What do you suggest? Matt and I would really be interested.” He was
referring to the man beside him, Matt Murphy.
“Well, it just so happens that I may have
an answer for all of you.” He pushed a button on the intercom sitting on the
table and a moment later the door opened, and a man stepped inside.
* * *
“Allow me to introduce Jerome Conway. He is
one of our investigators currently working the St. Margaret’s Bay area with
numerous small fishing villages along its shores and key points of contact for
the runners. I have called him here to meet with us because he will be the
fifth member of our group. Take a seat,” McCarthy said, gesturing me to an
empty chair next to Lee. “The man sitting beside you is John Lee; an agent with
the American Bureau of Prohibition. The others I believe you know.”
I reached across the table and shook hands
with Jacobs and Murphy then took Lee’s hand as I sat down beside him.
“Now that everyone is here allow me to
outline my plan,” McCarthy said. “But first, I want each of you to read this
before we begin.”
He passed a copy of a single sheet of paper
to each of us.
“As you see, two nights ago one of our
cutters, acting on an anonymous tip, intercepted a runner carrying a
significant amount of contraband alcohol that the runners received from a
vessel sitting outside the three-mile limit. It is estimated to be valued at
approximately eighty thousand dollars.”
“Bloody hell,” Murphy said.
“Quite so. I think that this might be just
the break we have been waiting for.”
“How so?” Lee asked, setting the piece of
paper down.
“As you know, the biggest problem we have
been dealing with has been the support these runners have been enjoying from
the local communities, including here in the city.”
“Uh-huh,” Lee said. “We have a similar
problem back in the States.”
“True, but the difference is that the
support here is voluntary, not coerced.” He was alluding to the influence the
mobsters and gangs exercised in the States. “As I was saying, we have an
opportunity here to infiltrate their operations and perhaps even identify the
key people at the top.”
“I’m guessing that is why Mr. Conway is
here?” Lee said, giving me the once over.
“Precisely. He is one of the Service’s best
investigators. And no one knows this traffic or trade better than him.”
“Hmm. Okay. Tell us your plan.”
I think now would be an excellent time for
each of you to tell us what your involvement has been in dealing with the
liquor trade. Perhaps you should start,” McCarthy nodded to Phillip Jacobs.
“Right,” Jacobs said, leaning forward. “Our
main focus has been on shutting down the landing areas where the runners have
been delivering the liquor. Unfortunately, we haven’t been having a great deal
of success: too many places, not enough ships, or manpower. In spite of that,
we have managed to intercept and confiscate over ten thousand cases and barrels
of liquor as well as seizing a number of boats so far this year. Most of the
cargoes came from the French islands of St. Pierre and Miquelon off the
southwestern coast of Newfoundland. Ottawa has been working with the French
Government to deal with the problem on the islands. We have been working
cooperatively with Matt here and the Provincial Police on trying to follow the
liquor once it lands.” He turned to look at Matt Murphy.
“That’s right,” Murphy said, taking over at
this point. “Unfortunately, it has proven to be a difficult endeavour. These
people are either well insulated within their various communities,” he said,
looking at McCarthy, “or they are well connected...politically.”
“So what you’re saying is you don’t know
who these people are?” Lee asked.
“Not exactly,” Murphy continued. “We know
some of the players, particularly in the small out ports and villages along the
coast but, like I said, they are protected by their fellow fishermen and
families. No one will talk. We know they’re landing the liquor and caching it
somewhere but so far, we haven’t been able to get anything solid to make a case
to take to the Crown Prosecutor.”
“I believe your people have also
experienced similar difficulties,” McCarthy put in, looking at Lee.
“You could say that, yeah,” Lee said. “But
our situation is more dire than what you’re facing here. Our main problem has
been coming from the criminal gangs like you suggested, particularly, Capone
and his bunch in Chicago. They have been organizing, and to a great extent have
centralized their power and hold over the illegal liquor traffic, among other
things...and they aren’t afraid to use deadly force to maintain that power and
control.”
“So we’ve been hearing,” Jacobs said. “Is
it really that bad?”
“Worse. Which is why we’re hoping that
something can be done up here; before the liquor gets to the States.”
“Well,” McCarthy cut in, taking back the
conversation, “as you are aware, here in Canada our legal system and laws are
different; very similar to yours but still different. For example, we have a
completely different attitude when it comes to guns and gun violence. That is
not to say there is none, but it tends to be the exception and not the rule.
That being said, I believe that what I am about to propose might bear fruit
and, if not putting an end to the trade, we can curtail a significant portion
of the criminals’ apparent immunity to the weight of the law.”
Everyone sat quietly waiting to hear his
proposal, especially me, since it was beginning to look like I was going to be
in the thick of it.
“Simply put, we attack the problem from the
land side. To that end, I suggest setting up a small task force dedicated to
exposing the links between the criminal element and those providing protection
from capture and arrest. This group will be answerable to my office alone and
will open investigations into these connections and compile the evidence to
bring to the Crown Prosecutor for arrest warrants.”
“We tried that in New Jersey last year,”
Lee said, cutting in. “We found our man floating in New York Harbour with a
bullet in his head.”
“That is regrettable,” McCarthy said. “All
the more reason that we must try and deal with the problem as a joint effort
from this side of the border. We obviously cannot engage in any actions in the
United States and nor should we. As I understand it, your agency along with
others have been dragged into dealing with those who are actually engaged in
the trade at the street level.”
“That’s right,” Lee said. “Although there
are some people trying to ferret out the corrupt politicians and others who are
making the criminals’ job easier while making ours more difficult.”
“My thoughts exactly,” McCarthy said. “I
think that we have the same problem here and that is what I propose this group
should be concentrating on. To that end, I have requested Mr. Conway here to
join our little enterprise. I believe you have worked together before, Matt?”
“Yes sir,” Murphy said. “We worked together
down in Yarmouth about a year ago. Good to be working with you again.” He
nodded at me.
“Likewise,” I said.
“Perhaps it might be instructive to hear a
few words from Mr. Conway before we go on.”
“I gather, from the little I’ve heard, your
plan is to go after the top people running this business?”
“That is the general plan,” McCarthy said.
“Good. It’s about time we stop pussy
footin’ around these people simply because of who they are. I agree that they
should be the targets of any investigation. It won’t be easy, maybe even risky;
some of these people are highly placed businessmen and government officials,
maybe even a judge or two. Look, so far, we’ve been dealin’ with the problem
from the supply end of the business with varying degrees of success, but the
source of the liquor is still out of our control and jurisdiction in most
cases. I think you’ll agree with me,” I said, looking at Murphy and Jacobs who
nodded, “we pretty much know who is doin’ the transporting and who some of the
runners are but not so much who is runnin’ them or who owns the delivery
ships.”
“That’s right,” Jacobs said, nodding.
“So how do we tackle the problem?” Lee
asked. “I take it you have a plan and it’s going to involve the Bureau?” John
Lee said, cutting in.
I looked at McCarthy.
“As a matter of fact, yes,” McCarthy said.
“Ottawa has been in touch with Washington, and they have agreed, that in this
case, it would be to our mutual benefit to pool our resources and work
together.”
“Go on,” Lee said, sounding wary.
“You see this as a problem?”
“Not really. In fact, I think something
like this idea of yours should have been put together at the start.”
“Excellent. Then we are agreed that we
combine our respective resources and attack the problem by going after the
people enabling their operations on this end?”
Everyone at the table nodded.
“I propose that this operation be undertaken
with only those of us present here. I will direct the operation. Constables
Murphy and Jacobs will handle the routine business of investigations and
interceptions as usual. However, any intelligence or information will be
reported to me alone. Mr. Conway here will do what he does best: infiltration
and interrogation. He will report only to me. As for our American brother, I
hope that we can count on his agency to provide any intelligence from the
American side of the border.”
“That won’t be an issue,” Lee said. “When I
get back, I’ll pull together the resources from the FBI, Treasury, and Customs.
The only problem might come from my superiors.”
“How so?” McCarthy asked.
“A lot of them are politicians which means
they’ll have their own agendas so to speak and will want to know what we’re
doing. Remember, to a politician information is leverage, power. And don’t
forget, there is a strong possibility that many of these people could be on the
gang’s payroll.”
“Hmm, that could be an issue. Maybe we can work
out something between Ottawa and Washington. Good. If we are all agreed, then
let’s prepare to adjourn for now. I’ll put the plan in motion and advise
Ottawa.”
The meeting went on for another forty
minutes during which time a general course of action was laid out. In broad
terms it went as follows.
John Lee and his Bureau of Prohibition
would be responsible for acquiring intelligence on the American side as to who
the gangs were working with here in Nova Scotia. Matt and Phillip would
continue their efforts at confiscations and seizures but would also try to
source out any names of higher ups in government, business and the justice
department who might be connected to the trade. For my part, I was to work
independently by trying to infiltrate the operators running the liquor to
establish a line back to those enabling the trade.
I glanced at the wall clock for the fifth
time: it read 6:45. The meeting was just winding up, and everyone was heading
out. McCarthy asked me to stay behind for a moment instructing me to wait
outside with his secretary.
Nancy Slaunwhite was twenty-seven;
five-foot-four in her stocking feet. She had thick light brown hair that framed
her face beautifully, with high cheek bones and blue eyes. Despite the
business-like clothes she wore, she had a slender and supple figure. We had
known each for some time now. She joined the department about a year after I
did.
“Looks like something big is brewing,” she
said, looking at me. “This is coming straight from the top.” She said this as
if it explained everything, which of course it did.
“So what’s new in your life these days? Got
yourself a fella yet?” I asked, making conversation. Actually, we had gone out
to dinner once or twice before. I liked her...a lot, but she was a career woman
determined to make a success of herself. I respected that about her although I
thought it was a waste of a good woman. That kind of thinking would put the
feminists on the warpath, I thought with a smile.
“No,” she said, smiling. “You know, no time
and besides, there aren’t a lot of men who’d be happy with someone like me.”
She was right, of course. There are not a
lot of men, especially in this part of the country, who would accept an
intelligent and independent woman like her.
“So that means you’re free for a night out
then?”
“Maybe,” she said coyly. “Depends on what
you have in mind.”
I just smiled at her and enjoyed seeing the
faint traces of a blush on her cheeks. As far as I knew, I was only the second
or third man she had ever shared herself with.
McCarthy and John Lee exited the meeting
room together at that moment.
“Where are you staying?” McCarthy asked
him.
“At the Queen Hotel.”
“Very good. One of the better
establishments in the city. Are you free for dinner?”
“Yes, I am. What have you in mind?”
“I thought I would have you join me at my
club. I believe tonight is fish night. Usually very good. We can have a quiet
chat. Get to know each other a bit better.”
“Sounds good to me. What time?”
“Let’s say, seven,” McCarthy said. “It’s
not far from here; an easy ten-minute walk from your hotel. Just go down to
Hollis Street then head north. You won’t miss it.”
Thanks,” Lee said as the two men shook
hands. “Seven o’clock.”
I was about to follow McCarthy when Nancy
gestured with her hand. I glanced at her as she mouthed, “Eight o’clock.”
I winked at her then left the office with a
smile on my face as I thought of the night ahead.
“So what do you think of my plan?” McCarthy
said when we entered his office.
Not bad...if it works,” I answered, taking
a seat in front of a small wooden desk.
I had worked on a couple of past
assignments for him as his special agent. This was a fact that very few people
knew about my job.
“Quite. I am trusting that you will do your
usual best on this. What was your read on the others?”
“Matt Murphy is a very capable officer who
also has a sharp brain in his head. Jacobs. I can only say that the word on him
is he’s very good at his job and has a reputation for having no tolerance for
law breakers. I can’t speak to Lee.”
“Hm. That is my assessment on Murphy and
Jacobs as well. According to information sent down from Ottawa, our American
cousin has a formidable reputation within the Bureau of Prohibition,
particularly in regard to his dealings with the gangs. Apparently, he has had
two lethal encounters with them in the line of duty.”
“Jesus,” I said.
“Yes, well, to go on.” McCarthy sniffed, he
was a bit of a prude and somewhat religious, so he didn’t take kindly to any
profanity.
“Sorry,” I said.
“The American Justice Department, in
collaboration with sister agencies, has compiled a significant volume of
intelligence information on the gangs, their leaders, and many of their
soldiers. So he will be an invaluable source of information for identifying
possible links to people here.”
“That’d definitely help. If he can provide
us with suspected contacts here it’ll give me starting points.”
“I agree. You will, of course, operate
independently as always, with a free hand to pursue any line or lead you
unearth with the full support of all resources at our disposal. I leave it to
you how you will choose to involve Murphy and Jacobs, bearing in mind that our
special relationship should remain between us.”
“Yes sir, I understand. Do you want me to
report in daily as usual?”
“Not this time, I think. Call only if you
need something and have something specific to report. You will communicate
directly with Miss Slaunwhite, as usual. Well, I think that about covers it for
now. I have to make ready for my dinner with Mr. Lee. Good luck. Oh, before I forget,
what cover name are you using?”
“Thought I’d stick with my own this time.
No knows me here.”
“As you think best. Thank you.”
I headed out and as I passed Nancy’s desk I
winked again and said I’d pick her up at eight.
In another part of the city three men sat
in the well-appointed library of a house on Young Avenue in Halifax’s south
end. Rows of leather-bound tomes on a wide variety of subjects filled several
shelves along one wall. In the middle of the room was set a large oak table
around which were placed six matching chairs. A lamp was situated in the centre
of the table with a large stained-glass shade. Several volumes sat unopened
near the lamp. A half dozen upholstered, wing-back Morris chairs made up the
remaining furnishings along with a mid-Georgian Chippendale styled side table
laden with crystal decanters.
The men were seated in the plush
upholstered wing back chairs with a small round table near to hand upon which
sat a crystal decanter of aged Scotch whisky. Two of the men were dressed in
tailored black pin-stripe suits and shirts with silk ties. The other, a
white-haired man of about fifty-five, wore a deep red smoking jacket. His name
was Allister Fenwick, and this was his home.
Fenwick was a very successful and influential
businessman with various business interests – not all of them on the up-and-up.
He was very well connected in the upper reaches of society, including many in
the provincial government.
Born in Upper Canada in 1865 to a prominent
family, he later was sent to England to study at Oxford University where he
majored in business and economics. Shortly after returning home, he headed east
to Nova Scotia with a letter of introduction from a notable English Lord
addressed to the owner of an import company.
He married the owner’s daughter, six years
later and, as a wedding present from her father, he was advanced to the
position of Vice President in charge of international sales. He took over the
company upon his father-in law's death five years later. He was first contacted
by a member of the Capone organization with a lucrative business opportunity
involving the importing of illegal liquor from the French islands of St. Pierre
and Miquelon and the Caribbean. He took the opportunity and subsequently became
quite wealthy.
“What went wrong?” one of the men asked.
There was no mistaking his distinctive accent; he was from Brooklyn, a borough
of New York City.
“What do you mean?” Fenwick said, taking a
sip of his French Cognac.
“Ya know what I goddamn mean,” one of the
men snapped. “We’re payin’ you good money for protection from the authorities.”
Antony ‘Tony’ Caruso was a mobster working
for Al Capone’s organization in Chicago. The other man, Sammy O’Leary was from
a Boston based Irish gang. Both men were hard cases with a number of killings
to their credit. Their presence in Nova Scotia was to ensure that the illegal
liquor continued to flow into their respective markets. The fact that the two
men were together lent some weight to the rumour that Capone was trying to set
up a criminal organization based in the States which he would be the head of.
“I know what you’re paying me for, however,
even though I have a wide network of contacts within the government and local
law enforcement, even I cannot predict or prevent the actions of an overzealous
police officer.”
“So take care of him,” Caruso said as if it
were that simple.
“That is not how we handle these matters
here. Shooting a law enforcement officer is simply not done, especially if that
officer is a Mountie. It would be the same as you killing one of your federal
agents.”
“Whaddya mean? They’re still just cops.”
“The Royal Canadian Mounted Police is our
national policing agency. Think of them as being like your US Marshall Service
and the FBI combined. Killing one of them would bring down problems you could
not imagine, and we do not need.”
“Okay, I get it. But we can’t afford to
lose shipments as big as the last one. Something gotta be done,” O’Leary said,
joining the conversation.
“Something will be done,” Fenwick said,
looking at him. “I believe I have a solution that should take care of any more
missteps like this last one.”
Both men gave him a hard, dangerous look.
“It better,” Caruso said, his voice full of
menace; hard, cold. “Any more losses’ll be on you. Understand?”
“Yes.” Fenwick was smart enough to take the
Italian’s meaning and it sent a chill down his spine. He was being put on
notice that they would not accept any more mistakes or screw ups. It was time
to start looking out for himself.
Ten minutes later, he stood at the bay
window in his sitting room, looking out onto the tree lined street as the two
men drove away. The leaves were gone now, littering the street and surrounding
properties. Looking at them reminded him of death. He was not feeling
particularly happy at the moment, in fact, truth be told, he was feeling the
cold chill of fear as he recalled the implied threat made by the two Americans
gangsters. He was not accustomed to such a feeling, and it angered him; it was
beneath him somehow to be afraid.
He knew when he decided to enter the
seamier side of life that there would be risks but the lure of enormous
tax-free profits was too great. And money meant everything: power, prestige,
influence, position. These were things he knew all too well now. He was well
connected professionally, as well as politically, and he had established many
resources here and in places like Montreal, New York, and Chicago.
There would be certain risks dealing with
the mobs in the United States but none that threatened his life...until now.
Maybe it was time to reconsider his situation and look at stepping away, he
thought just as a car drove past. ‘Yes’, he said to himself. It was time to
call it a day, perhaps even consider returning to his ancestral home in England.
He chuckled softly at the thought, thinking of the kind of reception he would
receive.
He left England in his third year at Oxford
under a cloud of scandal. At the time, he spent quite a bit of time availing
himself of the seedier pleasures offered by the underworld: gambling, liquor,
women. He had overextended himself at the tables at one point and ended up
owing the house a substantial amount of money. When his father learned of it,
he cut him off from his generous allowance. However, he was able to come to an
arrangement with the criminals holding his markers that ultimately led to his
discrete resignation from the college. A year later, he was inducted into the
gang.
Then, in 1918, soon after the end of the
war, he saw the coming of what would become the Prohibition Era and recognized
an excellent money-making opportunity. He took his idea to his bosses and
convinced them that they should get in on this now. They agreed and he was sent
to Canada to set up the operation in Halifax. Within a year he had put together
a plan and armed with enough capital backing, set out. Since then he had
established a lucrative money-making operation worth millions of dollars, of
which he took a generous cut.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound
of the door opening.
“Pardon the intrusion, sir,” his manservant
said as he stepped inside. He wore the uniform of a domestic servant: a white
four button jacket, shirt with a black bow tie and black pressed pants, their
cuffs just reaching the shined black shoes on his feet. “There’s a telephone
call for you. Shall I transfer it here?”
“Yes, thank you, Mark,” Fenwick said,
without turning around.
“Sir,” the man said then quietly closed the
door as he left.
* * *
The day following my meeting with McCarthy
and a delightful night with Nancy, I was back in my room at the Waverley Inn on
Barrington Street. Around ten-twenty the front desk rang. It was Nancy calling
to say I was to come in to see McCarthy at two o’clock. Apparently, there was a
development that had some bearing on our operation. I said I would be there.
This meant I had time to look for a place to stay that was less conspicuous
than the Waverley.
What I needed was a place where I would fit
in with the locals. Then I would begin by getting in with some of the bootleggers
to get a line on their suppliers. After that, figure out who was running them.
Sounded easy enough, but I knew from past experience that not only was it not
easy, but very risky, even dangerous.
I headed out and stopped a moment to strike
up a conversation with the doorman: Ron Pottie; an Acadian Frenchman from a
place called Arichat in Cape Breton. He was an affable older man always ready
with a smile and a good word. I asked him if he knew where I might find decent
rooms in town; not too rich or flashy, just clean and quiet. He directed me to
a place owned by his brother. It was on Artz Street up by the Dockyard and
close to the harbour. He said he would call ahead if I was interested.
I met with his brother’s wife, Mrs.
Elizabeth Pottie, an hour later. She was a matronly looking woman in her early
fifties, full bodied with an ample bosom and a friendly face, rosy cheeked and
all.
The room was on the second floor at the
rear of the house with its own entrance at the top of a steep flight of stairs
rising up from the backyard. It was clean with a single bed, dresser, small
drop leaf side table with an ewer and basin on it. There was even an RCA radio.
Her husband was away fishing on the Grand
Banks off Newfoundland at the moment. We settled on a fair rent which, for five
more dollars a month, included home cooked meals. Hell, who was I to turn down
a regular home and a cooked meal! We agreed on the rent and her conditions: no
booze, no women. I said I would move in later – after my meeting with McCarthy.
I went back to the Inn and packed what
little I had; I always travel light. I headed downstairs and checked out. I
decided to have lunch before going to the office and took a corner table in the
dining room. The waiter came over and took my order: a bowl of fish chowder,
cup of coffee and fresh baked rolls. While I waited for my order to arrive, I
took out the file of papers McCarthy gave me before I left his office the day
before. They contained background information on local villains active in the booze
trade as well as a few names of some of the city’s more respectable residents
that he believed were involved as well. I raised an eyebrow when I saw a few of
the names on the list.
There were two judges, four sitting
provincial MPs and at least a half dozen prominent members of the business
community and a couple of city officials. Damn, I thought, this was not what I
expected to see; bootleggers, local criminals and the like, yes, not the cream
of the city’s elite. I saw the waiter approach carrying a tray with my lunch
and quickly closed the file, putting it back into my travel bag. The meeting
with McCarthy was looking like it was going to be explosive.
Later, at Customs Headquarters office, I
entered the outer office where McCarthy held forth. Nancy was at her usual
place behind a desk next to the glass paneled office door with the word
DIRECTOR stenciled on it. She graced me with an amazing smile when I stepped
inside.
“Hi,” I said, smiling back. I stepped up to
the desk and dropped a piece of paper on it. “This is the address of a room I
just rented for the duration. No phone. There’s one in the house. Number’s
there as well.”
“Thanks,” she said, picking up the paper
and slipping it in one of the drawers.
“Anything happen since yesterday?” I asked,
nodding at the closed door.
“Nothing special. The American was here
this morning to say good-by. He’s heading back to Washington. Other than
that...,” she shrugged.
Just then a green light blinked on her
phone, signaling that the boss was ready to see me.
“Later?” I asked with a smile.
“Maybe,” she answered coyly as I turned and
rapped on the glass then went in thinking happy thoughts. They didn’t last
long.
“Ah, Jerome,” McCarthy said from behind a
large oak desk. “Sit.”
He gestured me to one of two thick leather
chairs in front of the desk.
“Coffee?”
“No thanks sir.”
“Have you looked over the file?”
“Yes, and I have to say it wasn’t what I
was expecting to see. Surely, these people can’t be involved in this business?”
“Not involved, but suspected with good
reason,” he said. “I’ve had most of them under surveillance for some time now,
discretely of course, and have satisfied myself that these particular people
warrant more consideration. Especially the ones with an asterisk next to their
names.”
I did notice that four of the names had an
asterisk next to them when I read the file earlier.
“However, these people will not be your
primary concern. They are being handled from another direction. I gave you
their names because you need to be aware of them in connection with your actual
purpose here.”
“Which is what, exactly?” I asked.
“As you will recall, at our last meeting I
related to you and the others that one of our cutters based out of St.
Margaret’s Bay intercepted a runner two nights ago, resulting from on an
anonymous tip. The load has been confiscated and the men, two brothers, are
being held up in the city prison.”
“I remember.”
“Well, this could be an opportunity. To
that end, I have taken steps to ensure they do not make bail or release with
the Crown Attorney until I give the say so.”
“Go on, I’m listening.”
“I propose you make contact with these
brothers and maneuver yourself into their confidence.”
“Just like that,” I said with a hint of
sarcasm in my voice. I had worked with him long enough with a high record of
successful investigations that I got away with a certain amount of
impertinence.
“More or less, yes,” he said, ignoring my
tone of voice. “What I propose is to deliver you to the prison in shackles and
placed in a cell in the same block as them. Your cover will be that you were
caught trying to bring in a carload of illegal liquor from out of province.”
“That’s convenient. When and where exactly
am I to be arrested?”
“This evening. You’ll be stopped just
outside the city by two of Jacobs men. Jacobs is aware of the ploy, of course,
but not the arresting officers. You will be taken straight away to the prison.”
Looks like Nancy was going to be
disappointed, I thought, not to mention yours truly.
“Now listen carefully. I have reason to
believe that the Joudreys, the brothers, are connected to someone very
prominent in the city; a businessman or a politician, I’m not sure which, and
reports have come in about certain underworld figures arriving here from New
York in the last several days. I suspect that the local personage may be
working with the Americans. If so, then you will need to establish that
connection as well.”
“Any names?”
“There was a list of names sent from
Immigration at the entry point but none that stood out. I have asked John Lee
to check the list against the various agencies in the States for possible
identification.”
“How will I contact you?” I asked.
“The usual way,” he said.
The usual way was by telephone using a
special number that only he, Nancy, and I knew.
“One more item. If you are successful and
they take you in, remember that there is someone from their home base who
turned them in. If you can find out who that person is, you may have an ally.”
“Yes sir. That it?”
“Yes. Go to this address. There is a truck
waiting for you. From there you’ll drive to this location where you will load
four thousand dollars worth of liquor. You’ll be stopped just outside of
Bedford. Good luck.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said, standing up and
exiting the office.
Nancy looked up at me. I saw the
disappointment on her face.
“No fun tonight?” she said, noting the look
on my face.
“’Fraid not, baby. But we got a rain check,
right?”
“Anytime. Be careful.”
I had just enough time to return to my new
room and let Mrs. Pottie know that I would be away for a few days on a job. I
paid her for two weeks to keep the room available and as a place to leave some
of my stuff. She didn’t press me for information instead said she was happy I
found work so quickly.
McCarthy had arranged for Phillip Jacobs to
meet me at a location up in the north end of the city not far from my soon to
be new home: Rockhead Prison – McCarthy had a warped sense of humour. I parked
my car on a side street and went to the corner to wait for Jacobs. I didn’t
have to wait long. He pulled up to the curb and stopped.
“Get in,” Jacobs said, leaning toward the
open passenger window.
“What about my car?” I asked as he pulled
away.
“Where is it?”
“Back there on a side street.”
“I’ll have it picked up. Gimme the keys.”
I handed him the keys and gave him a brief
description of the car.
“Where we goin’?”
“The truck is parked over by the Northwest
Arm. You’ll head out on the Bay Road which will take you to Highway Three which
will take you in the direction of Yarmouth.”
“Where will your people be to make the
arrest?”
“About a mile after you get on the highway.
By the way, are you armed?” he asked.
“Yeah. Why?” I asked. “You think there’ll
be trouble?”
“Not from my people but there have been
incidents in that part of the county.”
“Like what?”
“Robberies; a couple of cases of attempted
hijackings. However, according to our reports the targets seem to be trucks
carrying regular trade goods.”
“Is that a regular route for movin’ the
booze?”
“We think so. I know some of the runners
make for Truro and beyond but most of the runs are to Yarmouth.”
“Any armed violence?”
“Luckily not yet, although we’ve been told
sometimes there have been weapons, mostly shotguns, hunting rifles, that sort
of thing. In any case, I think you’d better leave your weapon with me. Don’t
worry,” he said when he saw me hesitate, “it’ll be with me when you get out the
prison. You’ll get it back then, okay?”
“Okay,” I said, reluctantly handing him my
M1911 .45 automatic gun butt first.
“Christ, where the hell did you get your
hands on this cannon?”
“Souvenir from the war.”
We arrived at an area where several
transport trucks were parked near a small rail siding and loading dock. He
stopped the car, we got out, and he led the way to a two-and-a-half-ton rig
with a tarp covered half box.
“This is you. Here’s the keys. Remember, my
people will take you about a mile down the highway. Good luck. If everything
goes well, I’ll see you tomorrow at the prison.”
“Yeah?” I asked, looking at him.
“I’ll be one of the officers sent to
interrogate you.”
“Oh.”
We shook hands then I got in the truck and
started up the diesel motor and shifted into first gear.
Everything after that point went off as
planned without a hitch.
I was stopped by a patrol car with three
officers inside shortly after ten o’clock in the planned area. They shackled me
up and unceremoniously dumped me in the back seat of the car while one of the
men climbed into the truck and wheeled it around across the road and headed
back to the city with us following behind.
Once we entered the city, the truck turned
off onto another street. Our car continued in the direction of the prison. I
could see the outline of the prison against the night sky. It was a daunting
and foreboding place, more than enough to send chills through me.
The prison was built in the late eighteen
hundreds on land acquired from a local farmer. It was constructed of granite
and stone that had become weathered over time. An octagonal building section
rose above the walls. Once we drove through the high gates, I could see two
wings jutting out from the center building. I guessed these were where the
cells were located. Large, barred windows extended across the face of each
wing.
I was quickly processed and put into a
prison uniform then escorted by two heavy set guards to a cell. It was big
enough for one with a single cot and commode. The door was made of steel bars,
leaving no privacy to the inmate. I could hear noises from some of the other
cells; snoring, muttering and the like.
As soon as the guards locked me in and
left, I stretched out on the cot and went to sleep. It had been a long day.
The guards returned at six in the morning,
rapping their riot sticks on the cell bars. I rolled to a sitting position and
shook my head. There should be a law against getting up this early, I thought
as stood and did my business.
There were twelve of us in lock-up. Most
were in on non-serious crimes ranging from public intoxication to burglary.
By six-fifteen we were hustled out of our
cells and marched in line to the commissary for breakfast which was
surprisingly good. It had to be since all inmates were required to work while
incarcerated. I spotted the Joudreys easily enough; they looked so much alike.
I made my way over to where they were sitting and sat down opposite them.
“You’re new,” Ken Joudrey said, opening the
conversation. “When’d ya get here?”
“Last night,” I said, scooping a forkful of
scrambled eggs into my mouth.
“Yeah? What dey git ya for?”
“Who’s askin?” I said, eyeing him.
“Take it easy,” he said. “Jus’ askin’. No
‘arm meant.”
I chewed on my food for a moment then
swallowed. I picked up my tin cup of coffee.
“Caught runnin’ a load a liquor jus’
outside the city.” I glanced over my shoulder checking on where the guards
were. “Name’s Conway.”
“Joudrey,” Ken said. “Dis one is my
brother, Bill.” Runnin’ liquor ya say.”
“Yeah. I got a deuce and a half I hire out.
Got a call for from one a’ my contacts sez someone’s lookin’ for someone to
take a load ta Yarmouth. A C-note’s in it. So...”
“Know who hired ya?” Bill asked, joining
in.
“Nope. Didn’t ask. Didn’t wanna know, if ya
get me. But a hundred bucks is a hundred bucks, right? I mean, a run ta
Yarmouth pays what, fifty to eighty, ninety tops...maybe. I figured it was a
special load. So? What’s yer story?”
“We...” Bill started to say as his brother cut
him off.
“Let’s jus’ say we got caught with sumthin’
we shudna had,” Ken said.
“Hey, ain’t none a’ my business,” I said,
throwing up my hands. “How long ya been in here?”
“A coupla days.”
“No shit. I thought ya hadda go before a
judge before they could lock ya up?”
“Guess they’re busy,” Bill said.
“You guys got a lawyer or sumthin’?”
“Da people we work for ‘spose ta send
someone,” Bill said, ignoring the hard look from his brother.
“Don’t mind him,” Ken said. “E’s got a big
mouth.”
“Yeah, well, at least ya got some help. Me,
I’m on me own. I reckon I’m headin’ for some hard time.”
“You not workin’ fer anybody?” Ken asked.
“I was workin’ independent. More money.
After this I jus’ might go on a payroll with someone.”
Ken eyed me as I finished my breakfast. It
was clear he was working his way to a decision. After a few minutes passed, he
leaned forward.
“In about an hour they’ll be puttin’ us to
work. Stick close to me an’ Bill ‘ere. We been working down in da quarry. We
can talk away from the guards.”
“Yeah? ‘Bout what?” I asked.
“A job. Now shut yer yap an’ make sure ya
git on the quarry detail.”
There was a large open pit area on the
Narrows side of the prison called the Rockhead Quarry. Male prisoners laboured there,
crushing rock into an appropriate size for the city to use in many of its
construction projects. The work area was a large open lot at the bottom of a
high rock face. I saw a large crushing machine at the opposite end and a
tractor. It was then that I noticed almost all the inmates were working with
shovels and wheelbarrows.
As luck would have it, I was pulled from
the line when we were marched to the yard area for work detail assignments.
Turned out that a couple of detectives wanted to talk to me. I was escorted
into the interview room where I saw two plainclothesmen waiting for me. One sat
at the table while the other stood, leaning against the wall. I didn’t
recognize either of them, so they weren’t part of Jacobs’ crew which meant this
was to be a real interview.
They were good and pressed me fairly hard
right from the start, but I played my part and kept quiet. Forty minutes later,
a guard was called in and told to take me away. I was taken out to the
quarry where they handed me a shovel.
“Now git ta work,” the guard said as he
turned and left me alone. I scanned the area looking for the Joudreys. Once I
spotted them, I slowly made my way across past several inmates who were loading
wheelbarrows.
“Why’d they pull ya from da line?” Ken
asked, pushing his shovel under a pile of crushed rock with his foot.
A coupla detectives wanted to know who I
was workin’ for an’ where was takin’ the stuff,” I said, pushing my shovel
beside his.
“Yeah?”
“They cut me loose once they knew I wasn’t
gonna talk. Ya said sumthin’ ‘bout a job?”
“I know sumbody might be interested in a
good driver with his own rig.”
“Ain’t mine anymore,” I said, spitting on
the ground. “Confiscated it when they took me in.”
“Don’t ya go worryin’ over dat. Dis guy’s
got pull. Git it back quick enough.”
“I’m listenin’.”
“Not ‘ere, not now. Later when we git outta
‘ere.”
“Whaddya mean when we get outta ‘ere?”
“Guy we work for has a lotta pull, like I
said. He’ll git us out. If ya wanna earn some real dosh an’ git yer rig back,
then join up wit’ us. Okay?”
“If it gets me outta ‘ere an’ my rig back,
then yeah, I’m okay with that,” I said. “When ya figure all this’ll happen?”
“Soon. Jus’ stay close.”
“Hey, you two,” a guard yelled. “More work
an’ less talkin’.”
“Yeah, yeah, keep yer pants on,” Ken
muttered. We went back to shoveling the crushed rock.
Step two complete.
Later that afternoon, the brothers were
called to the warden’s office. Twenty minutes later, the guard came for me.
Turned out their lawyer finally arrived, and they convinced him to include me
in the bail.
Step three complete.
Once we were processed out and given our
street clothes, we left and were taken to a house in the city and told to stay
put, someone would be there soon to talk to us.
The house was in the west end of the city.
I couldn’t get the street name, but it was a well-to-do neighbourhood judging
from the look of the house. A two-story wooden building with a small, grassed
front yard, a couple of oak trees and a low hedge fronting the sidewalk. We
were greeted by a middle-aged couple and taken into the front parlor where we were told to wait. They offered us
tea and sandwiches which we accepted. The lawyer left ten minutes after we
arrived.
“How’d you manage to get that lawyer fella
to spring me?” I asked after the couple finished serving us the refreshments.
“We tole him that the boss would be wantin’
to talk to ya,” Ken said. “’Sides, he’s got people ‘e knows, if ya get my
drift.”
“An’ why would that be again?”
“He always needs good men, ‘specially ones
wit a truck who ain’t particular ‘bout what he’s carryin’. Why?”
“No reason,” I said. “Jus’ curious. “
‘Spose he pays good?”
“You won’t have any complaints.”
“Sounds good.” I picked up a sandwich. It
was sardine with a bit of mustard. Not a particular favorite of mine but
beggars can’t be choosers as they say.
“So? How long ya been workin’ for this
fella?” I asked casually.
“’Bout a year,” Bill said, speaking for the
first time since we got out of jail.
Ken shot him an angry look, then cut in,
“Dat don’t concern ya. If ya get on, you’ll be runnin’ on the road an’ probably
won’t be seein’ us agin.”
I put up a hand and said, “Didn’t mean ta
pry.”
“Yeah, okay,” Ken said. “Cain’t be too
careful ya know.”
“Whaddya figure we’re doin’ waitin’ here?”
I asked, changing the subject.
“Dunno,” he said. “Never did this before.
Guess we jus’ hafta sit an’ wait an’ see.”
We didn’t have to wait long. Twenty minutes
later we heard someone enter the house. The woman who brought us the tea and
sandwiches opened the door to the parlour and a man stepped inside.
He was dressed in a black pinstripe suit,
shirt, and a silk tie. He had a fedora on his head which he didn’t remove. He
looked Italian, which meant the mob. I sensed an air of death about him. I had
seen men like him before: mean; dangerous.
“You two the Joudreys?” he asked, looking
directly at the brothers. I immediately picked up on his Brooklyn accent.
“Yeah,” Ken said. “Who’s askin’?” It was
clear he had no idea the danger he was in. They had just lost a valuable
shipment of alcohol, and someone was not very happy about it.
It was just possible that this man was here
to find out why or to kill them.
The man ignored the question and turned his
eyes on me.
“Who da fuck is dis?”
“He’s wit us. We figured da boss could use
a good man wit his own truck,” Bill said.
“Hey, buddy,” Ken said. “Who da ‘ell are
ya? Did da boss send ya?”
“All you gotta know for now is I’m the man
ya gotta talk to. Now. Tell me exactly what happened to our shipment?”
“We got stopped by da Customs cutter,” Ken
said.
“Why didn’t ya make a run for it?”
“Da boat was to heavy an’ it was da Beebee
what was chasin’ us.”
“What’s this Beebee?”
“Customs cutter outta Halifax an’ da Bay.”
“Don’t you usually know where the customs
boats are before ya pick up da cargo?”
“Yeah,” Ken said. “Only dis time we musta
been told the wrong information.”
“Where do ya get this information?”
“A cousin works at one a’ da radio stations
down in da Bay. ‘E knows where da cutters are.”
“So he’s da one who gave you the wrong
information?” the man asked; his voice full of menace.
“Looks dat way, but I tell straight, he’s
no sellout.”
“You willin’ to stake yer life on dat?”
“Damn right.”
The man paused for several moments then,
turning back to me, asked, “What were you in for?”
“Runnin’ a truckload booze from Halifax,” I
said.
“Who for?”
“Dunno. Didn’t wanna know.”
“They say you have yer own rig?”
“That’s right. A Ford deuce and a half
ragtop. Although, I ain’t got it no more. It was seized when the cops picked me
up.”
“Don’t worry ‘bout that. We can get it
back. If we do dat means you’ll come work for us, got it?”
“Depends.”
“Yeah? On what?”
“Dough.”
He stared at me for a moment. “Okay.
There’ll be plenty of dough you play yer cards right.
“Then I’m in.”
He nodded slightly then turned back to the
brothers. “You two can take off an’ head back to where ya come from. Your boat
is down at pier twenty-one. When you get back, I want you to nose ‘round an’
see if ya pick up anythin’ might point to someone who ratted ya out to
Customs.”
“Ya t’ink someone...” Ken started to ask.
“Don’t know,” the mobster said, looking at
him. “Jus’ seems strange dat cutter turnin’ up at jus’ the right moment.”
“Jesus. Ain’t got no idea who wudda done
sumthin’ like dat. Most folk down home are related, see.”
“I don’t give a shit ‘bout dat. Jus’ look,
got it?”
“Yeah, yeah, sure.”
“Good. Now take off. Yer boat is down at
dat government dock.”
“T’anks,” Ken said as he and Bill stood up
and headed for the door.
After the Joudreys left, Caruso turned back
to me.
“Talk ta me,” he said, coming back to me.
He sat down on the chair recently held by Ken Joudrey and pulled out a .45
automatic, setting it on the small table between us.
“Whaddya wanna know?”
“You figure it out.”
Twenty minutes later, he re-holstered his
gun and stood up. I gave him the prepared background story I had and where I
was staying along with a phone number.
“Go back to yer rooms an’ wait dere. We‘ll
be in touch.”
Walter McCarthy sat behind his desk pouring
over the latest reports from the Patrol Cutters. The information did not look
promising: too many ships waiting offshore just outside the legal limit, too
many fishermen running between them and the coast, not enough cutters fast
enough to intercept them. The idea of Prohibition he understood, however, he
felt increasingly frustrated by the lack of support from the government that
demanded he put an end to the illegal traffic. He dropped the last page in his
hand and turned to look out the window behind him.
It was another dreary day; overcast, wet
and cold. A brief smile creased his face as he thought the weather was
appropriate today. Then, at that moment a woman’s voice sounded from the
intercom on his desk.
“Sir,” she said, “a call from Washington on
the line.”
He turned back to his desk and reached out
to the intercom, depressing a switch.
“Thank you, Miss Slaunwhite.” He then
reached for his phone.
“McCarthy,” he said into the mouthpiece.
“Walter,” John Lee said. “Did I catch you
at a bad time?”
“Not really. I have been going over the
latest reports from our offshore services. It doesn’t look too good. We have
some moderate successes, of course, but not nearly enough.”
“We have the same problem down here. But
that’s not why I’m calling. I received a call from one of contacts at the
Bureau. It looks like two mob men have been reported headed for your area. They
might even be there already.”
“I see. That’s all I need; the mob here.”
“They were able to get their names and
general descriptions. The Bureau has records on both men. It doesn’t look good,
I’m afraid. Both men are serious gangsters with several killings credited to
them. One of them is from Chicago via New York. Name of Antony Caruso, aka
Tony. The other one is from one of the Boston Irish gangs. His name is Liam
O’Leary. According to the FBI and our border services, they crossed over into
Canada four days ago in Montreal.”
“And you say they are supposed to be here
in Halifax?”
“That is the consensus.”
“Hmm. Conway will have to be alerted to
their presence,” McCarthy more to himself than to Lee.
“How is that part of your operation going
by the way?”
“He was picked up and jailed a couple of
days ago. He was put in the same cell block with two brothers who were
intercepted several days ago running a boat load of liquor. If I know my man,
he has probably made contact with them by now.”
“I hope you get the word to him about
Caruso and O’Leary. It’s a good bet if they’re in your backyard, they’re there
on business. Maybe even with one of the principal players up there. If so, then
this would be an excellent opportunity.”
“Yes, I agree. Conway is very capable of
handling himself, however, I will definitely alert him all the same.”
“Something else to consider. If they are
there to meet with their Canadian partner, then this last capture isn’t going
to sit well with them. These people aren’t forgiving, especially if it costs
them money. So be prepared for the possibility of bodies turning up. Might be a
good idea to give a head’s up to that Mountie, what was his name, oh yeah,
Jacobs.”
“Good idea,” McCarthy said. “I’ll alert him
right away. Is that it?”
“Yes, for now,” Lee said. “I’ll be in touch
as more information comes in. Good luck.”
“Thank you.” McCarty hung up the phone then
depressed the button on the intercom. “Miss Slaunwhite, will you come in here,
please?”
A moment later Nancy Slaunwhite stepped
into the office, notepad and pencil in hand. She came over to the front of the
desk and sat down.
“First thing, get hold of Constable Jacobs
at the RCMP office. Next, take this down and pass it along to Conway when he
checks in.”
I gave a detailed account of the call with
Lee concerning the two American gangsters.
“Oh my,” she said when she finished
writing. “Does this mean he’s in danger?”
“I don’t think so,” he said, noting the
look of concern on her face. “But it is best to be aware of the situation and
to be prepared. He will be fine. He is a very capable person, as we both know
very well.”
“Yes sir,” she said, standing up. “I will
get Constable Jacobs right away.”
“Oh, you better call Matt Murphy as well,
but Jacobs first.”
“Yes sir.”
She managed to reach Constable Jacobs on
her first try.
“This is Mr. McCarthy’s secretary,” she
said when he came online. “He needs to speak with you. One moment, please,
while I transfer the call.”
“Ah, good,” McCarthy said when he picked
up. “She was able to get hold of you.”
“She was lucky,” Jacobs said. “I just about
to head out. What’s up?”
“I received a call from our American
cousin. It appears there may be two known and dangerous gangsters in our city.
They may be here to meet with the local contact for their liquor shipments.
However, my main concern at the moment is what they might try when they learn
of the recent loss of product. As Lee pointed out, these people aren’t known
for their forgiving natures.”
“True. Did he manage to give you any
details?”
“Yes.” McCarthy then related the names and
descriptions of Caruso and O’Leary.
“Does your man Conway know?”
“Not yet. He has not reported in. On that
point I think in light of the present danger these men pose, we might be well
advised to make an adjustment to our strategy.”
“What have you mind?”
“Perhaps adding one more member to our team
to serve as his back up, so to speak.”
“Good idea,” Jacobs said after a brief
pause. “However, I don’t think we should start adding more people.”
“Oh?” McCarthy asked curiously.
“The more people we add, the greater the
risk of something leaking out about what we’re up to. No. I think you’re right
about covering him, but we should do it with the resources we already have.”
“Do I detect an idea?”
“Yes. Why don’t we put Matt Murphy on it.
Maybe insert him as Conway’s helper on the truck? Or something like that.”
“That’s an excellent idea. I leave it to
you to work out the details. Conway is staying at rooms up near the dockyard.”
He gave Jacobs the address and phone number of Conway’s residence. “I will pass
this along when he reports in. I think it best you call him instead of him
having your number.”
“Okay. Leave it with me. In the meantime,
I’ll have my people begin watching for those two men.”
“Good. But no one is to approach them at
this time, yes?”
“Of course. I’ll keep you updated.”
“I as well,” McCarthy said. “Goodbye.”
* * *
Ten minutes after my meeting with Caruso I
was on the street, walking in the general direction of my lodging. I was
careful to watch for any sign of being followed or watched. I spotted a corner
chemist shop up ahead and went inside. I asked for a pack of cigarettes and if
they had a phone I could use.
The clerk gave me a pack of Player’s Navy
Cut and pointed to the end of the counter where I saw a black rotary phone. I
paid for the cigarettes and stepped to the end of the counter. After a quick
look through the plate glass window at the entrance to make sure there was
nothing familiar outside, I picked up the phone and dialed.
“Mr. McCarthy’s office,” Nancy said into my
ear. The sound of her voice triggered a very nice memory.
“It’s me,” I said, all business now.
“Oh, good. I was hoping you’d call.” She
sounded serious.
“Oh? What’s up?”
“We had a call from John Lee, the man from
the Prohibition Bureau in the States?”
“Yeah? And?”
“Lee informed us that according to his
sources there are two known gangsters reportedly here in Halifax. According to
him these men are dangerous and known killers.” She gave me their names and
descriptions.
“Yeah. I already met one of them; Caruso.”
I gave her a detailed run down on
everything that happened since our last meeting.
“It looks like I’m going to get on in the
inside of their operation. Tell the boss I still have no idea who’s running
things yet or how their operation is set up. Also, let him know that the
Joudreys are out and have their boat back. They’ve been ordered to go back
home. It looks like these people think there’s a rat in the woodpile, so if he
knows who this informer is, he better take steps to cover him. If Caruso finds
out who it is I wouldn’t give a plug nickel for him seeing a new day.”
“Okay,” she said. “Just you be careful.” I
thought I detected something in her voice.
“My middle name, baby” I said. “Right. I
better get going. Caruso said he was going to call me. I’ll check in tomorrow
if I get the chance.”
“Okay.” Then the line went dead.
* * *
Nancy got up and went to McCarty’s office,
rapping on the glass panel as she opened the door.
“Jerome just called,” she said. He gestured
for her to sit down. She repeated his report in precise detail from her notes
in the pad she always carried.
“Very good,” McCarthy said when she
finished. “Looks like he’s penetrated their operation, at least as far as
passed the front door.
“Have you had any luck reaching Jacobs?”
“He’s on patrol,” she answered. “I left a
message for him to call me. I took the liberty of not mentioning your name
since you want this to be an in-house operation.”
“Very good thinking. Put him through as
soon as he calls.”
“Yes sir,” she said, standing up and
returning to her desk.
* * *
The call came in a six-thirty. I had just
finished a delicious fish chowder with fresh made biscuits with my landlady. I
was in my room enjoying the last of the tea she made when she tapped softly on
the door to my room.
“There’s a call for you, Mr. Conway,” she
said from the other side of the door.
“Thanks,” I called out. “I’ll be right
there.”
I got up and headed down the hall to where
a candlestick phone sat on a small end table. I lifted the earpiece that lay
beside the rotary dial and leaned close to the mouthpiece.
“Yeah?” I said. I knew who it would be.
“Be at the corner of...” There was a brief
pause, and I heard a muffled voice in the background, then, “the corner of
Barrington an’ Proctor at noon tomorrow. Watch for a black Talbot. Get in, keep
yer mouth shut. Got it?”
“Got it,” I said and depressing the hook on
the side, disconnecting the call. I realized from the accent that it wasn’t
Caruso.
I checked to make sure Mrs. Pottie wasn’t
in earshot then picked up the earpiece again and dialed. I knew McCarthy worked
well into the evening, so I was sure he’d pick up.
He did...on the third ring.
“It’s me,” I said. “I just got a call from
one of the gang’s people. I’m to be picked up tomorrow evening at six. I’m
guessing they’re taking’ me to meet somebody. It’s lookin’ like the plan is
starting to come together.”
“And they gave you no idea what this was to
be about,” he asked when I finished.
“Nothin’.”
“Hm. I think you are right about the plan
working, although I am not overly comfortable with you going into a meeting not
knowing what it is about.”
“Them’s the chances,” I said. “I figure
it’ll be one of two things: one, they want to know more about me; or two, they
got somethin’ they want me to do.”
“Sounds reasonable.”
“If it is about putting me to work, it
might be a good idea to be on the lookout for anyone trying to release that
truck I was using when they arrested me.”
“Why? Do you think they would try and get
their hands on it? I do not see...”
“I told them that it ‘s my truck. They
offered to get it back for me as part of their offer to join up.”
“Good idea. I will take steps immediately
to ensure I am notified of such a move. I will have Miss Slaunwhite call you.
If you are unavailable, she will leave word of some sort at your lodging.
Agreed?”
“Agreed,” I said then hung up and returned
to my room.
I had to admit I wasn’t too happy about
going into an unknown situation without my gun. Jacobs still had it. I’d have
to make a point of getting it back as soon as possible.
The next day I arrived at the rendezvous
point ten minutes early and was standing there, leaning against the stop sign
smoking a cigarette, when I spotted the Talbot coming down the street. It
slowed as it neared me then came to a stop. The driver leaned across and
cranked the passenger side window down a crack.
“You Conway?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“Git in.”
I flicked the cigarette into the street
then got in as instructed. The driver eased the clutch out and the car started
to roll away before the door was closed.
We drove north along Barrington Street then
turned onto Kenny Street. I saw the truck I was driving when they picked me up parked
beside the curb in front of a single-story wooden house. My hunch was right. I
guess McCarthy didn’t get the word soon enough.
‘Jesus’, I thought, ‘that was quick’.
Whoever was running this operation must be really well positioned to have that
much influence.
The driver pulled into the gravel space at
the side of the house and turned off the motor.
“Out,” he said. “We’re ‘ere.”
“Now what?” I asked.
“Inside.” He gestured for me follow him.
We went in through the front door. Inside,
he signaled for me to head down the hall toward the kitchen at the rear of the
house. As I neared the door, I noticed a wooden table with three chairs around
it. There was a large pot sitting on it along with a couple of mugs.
“Take a seat,” my guardian said, “’help
yourself to a coffee.”
I sat down on one of the wooden chairs,
ignoring the coffee. I pulled out my cigarettes and extracted one, lighting it
with a match. Buddy stood vigil at the door, leaning against the jamb. It
wasn’t long before I heard footsteps coming down the hall behind me.
“You see yer truck outside?” a man said
when he came in and sat across from me.
“Yeah,” I said. “I won’t ask how ya managed
to get it back.”
“Smart fella. So you still wanna work for
us?”
“That’s why I’m here,” I said, taking a pull
on the cigarette.
“Good. My name’s Lenny Purcell. I’m the one
that’ll be puttin’ ya work.”
“Okay by me,” I said. “What’s in it fer
me?”
“Ya mean besides gittin’ yer truck back?”
“Yeah, besides that,” I said.
“Two hundred a trip.”
“Plus gas?”
“Yeah, okay. Plus gas. This is your chance
to show us if you got what we’re lookin’ for. There’s a shipment comin’ in up
in Cape Breton outside Glace Bay later tonight. You hafta pick it up an’
deliver it to a place in Eastern Passage by tomorrow morning. Think ya can
handle that?”
“Yeah. No problem. That’s a long haul,
maybe seven hours up and, dependin’ on how heavy the load is, maybe eight, nine
hours comin’ back. How big a load?”
“Two hundred cases plus a half dozen
barrels.”
“Yeah, eight, ten-hour return trip,” I
said, calculating for the weight.
“I’ll be ridin’ along wit ya ta help out
with the drivin’. I know where to go both ends.”
“The company’ll be good. You done much long
distance driving?”
“Don’t worry ‘bout dat,” Purcell said,
“I’ve done enough.”
I figured this would a good time for
introductions.
“Jerome Conway,” I said, offering him my
hand. “Glad to have ya ridin’ with me.”
He accepted my hand. He had a solid and
firm handshake, and I could feel the roughness of his palm. He was definitely
used to hard work: probably fishing.
“When do we head out?” I asked.
“No later than three o’clock. We’ll be
driving straight through both ways,” he said, standing up. He pulled out a
large envelope and handed it to me.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“Half your payment. You get the rest when
the job’s done.”
I opened the envelope and fingered through
the banknotes inside: all twenties.
“Here,” he said, taking his hand out of his
pocket. It held a small wad of more banknotes. He peeled off three twenties and
passed them to me. “Gas an’ meals.”
“Thanks,” I said taking the notes.
“You need more, let me know.” He put the
wad back in his pocket. “The truck is gassed an’ ready to roll. After we make
the delivery, you’ll come back to the city an’ drop me off. If everythin’ goes
good, you’ll be hearin’ from us again for more runs. By the way, ya carryin’?”
“If I need to, why? You expectin’ trouble?”
I asked.
“Never can tell. Been a coupla attempted
hijackin’s lately. If ya got your own hardware best ya take it along. That
gonna be a problem?”
“Don’t know. I wasn’t expectin’ to sign on
where I might hafta kill someone.”
“Then don’t get stopped.”
Shit, why didn’t I think of that, I
thought, but kept my mouth shut.
I made arrangements to pick Lenny up at
two-thirty down by shipyard then headed for the truck. I made it back to my
digs and once inside called McCarthy.
“Looks like I’m in,” I said. “I’m on my way
up to Glace Bay in an hour or two to pick up a shipment for delivery back here
somewhere over in Eastern Passage.”
“Very good,” he said. “Very, very good.
Have you learned who is running the operation yet?”
“I met with someone named Lenny Purcell who
seems to be running this part of the operation, but I didn’t get the feeling he
was the top man.”
“Oh? How so?”
“Call it a gut feeling. He just didn’t come
across as someone with the kind of pull to get me outta jail and get the truck
back.”
“I see. Well, I trust your instincts. Now,
what about this shipment?”
“Three hundred cases being landed outside
Glace Bay sometime tonight. I’m guessing it’s coming in from the French
islands.”
“Most probably. Are you going up there
alone?”
“No. Purcell’s ridin’ with me; supposedly
as a second driver and paymaster. Oh yeah, another thing, it was suggested that
I carry a weapon.”
“They must expect trouble?”
“Don’t know, but we do know that there have
been a number of attempted hijackings by rival operators lately. My main
concern is what might happen if the local constabulary stops us.”
“Quite so. I will have to alert Constables
Jacobs and Murphy to bring them up to date. I am sure they can make the
necessary arrangements to lessen that possibility.”
“Good. Also, if you can reach Jacobs before
two o’clock, tell him I’d like my gun back. He can deliver it to me at my
digs.”
“Is that all?” he asked.
“For now, yeah. I’ll check in after I get
back,” I said.
“Make sure you get names when you are up
there, particularly, the name of the boat and any crewmen.”
“Yes sir.”
“Have a safe trip. Good luck.” He hung up.
It was an hour after talking with McCarthy
when Mrs. Pottie called me to the phone again. This time it was Jacobs.
“Hi,” he said when I picked up. “Hear
things are moving right along?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Looks that way. McCarthy
tell you everything?”
“More or less, yeah, unless you have
anything new to add?”
“Not yet. I’ll be headin’ out soon to pick
up my minder, a fella named, Lenny Purcell. I think he’s a local fisherman
lookin’ for extra dosh like most a’ them these days.”
“I’ll check him out. McCarthy said you also
reported there might be a possibility of gun play. What’s that about?”
“Not sure, but as you probably know
already, there’s been reports of attempted hijackin’s by rival operators.
That’s not my main worry, though. Goes with the territory. It’s the possibility
of a run in with any of your people or Murphy’s. I don’t know how far Purcell
will go if we’re stopped by any police. Mind you, if it comes to it, I can and
will deal with it. But it would help if you can somehow see to it we get a free
ride.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Jacobs said. He
sounded like he was already working on the matter.
“Great,” I said. “Oh, one more thing...”
“Your gun,” he said, cutting me off. “Where
do you want meet to get it?”
“Can’t risk it. I don’t know if I’m being
watched.” I told him where the truck was parked and suggested he swing by and
put the gun under the driver’s seat. Luckily, I had a spare key that was not
taken when I was arrested. I hung up feeling a bit better knowing the plan was
working...so far.
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