The two police officers head from the station to Yaletown on foot, a good half-hour walk. The journey would take ten minutes by motorcycle (traffic permitting), but the thought of Quam’s arms about his waist causes DS Hook’s sphincter to rise.
As Hook remembers it, the Patterson building once housed the California Wine Company, a blending and bottling plant. With the onset of Prohibition, rather than close down production entirely, the owners opted to keep the business barely breathing as the Sunset Vinegar Company, whose new mission was to turn an alcoholic beverage into a condiment and cleaning product. Perhaps inevitably, Sunset eventually fell into receivership and went belly up for good.
The visionary who brought this whole enterprise back to life was Cormac Patterson, an entrepreneur from the Prairies, who built and ran the only hotel in Shaunavon, Saskatchewan. (Sadly, Patterson’s Hotel burned to the ground, cause of fire undetermined, fully insured.)
Patterson arrived in Vancouver in 1920 and, in scouring the city for business opportunities, earned his reputation as a businessman of genius when he happened to discern that the Prohibition Act, as written, failed to mention tonics, bitters and other “cures” containing alcohol. Nor did the act make any reference to cocaine.
Patterson saw an opportunity, and pounced.
He bought the Sunset Vinegar Company and its equipment for a song, and rededicated the plant to the production of patent medicines, based on the fact that a by-product of vinegar production is ethanol, and renamed the company Druggists’ Sundries Limited. In the way that Marmite, a by-product of brewer’s yeast, became a product in its own right, the aim of Druggists’ Sundries was for its products to occupy a space in every pharmacy and every medicine cabinet.
The company’s first offering was Patterson’s Stomach Bitters and carried the branding Guaranteed To Contain None But The Purest Ingredients Compounded In A Scientific Manner. Its label featured a set of crossed skeleton keys (The Keys To Good Health), implying that the product had the blessing of both the Pope and St Peter and thus appealing to Catholics and Protestants alike.
At Hook’s previous constabulary, fellow officers bore witness to its efficacy in aiding digestion; Chief Quigley was never without a bottle of the stuff in his desk drawer, ready for use. (Of course, that was when cocaine was as legal as aspirin.)
As with any patent medicine, the efficacy of the Patterson’s product depended on consumer confidence more than it did on the ingredients themselves. Based on an old American recipe created to sidestep state temperance laws, Patterson’s Stomach Bitters consisted of aromatic oils, anise and coriander, as well as the all-important vegetable bitters, emulsified in forty per cent alcohol to preserve the medicinal properties of the vegetable extracts, and to maintain therapeutic potency. (By coincidence, its taste reminded consumers of a peaty highland Scotch.)
Patterson’s Stomach Bitters proved a resounding success. Throughout Prohibition, in many temperate homes, no evening meal would be complete without several draughts of that pleasant cordial.
As they turn onto Homer Street, the two policemen discuss strategy, with limited success.
“Constable, as a person of interest we must approach our man carefully, for he is a smooth customer.”
“Patterson is Irish, sir. The Irish are a sneaky, lazy, drunken race—but they are excellent dancers.”
“Was that a figure of speech, Mr Quam?”
“A what, sir?”
“Your reference to dancing. What did you mean by that?”
“I should say a jig, mainly. Or step dancing, with arms like posts…”
Hook chews a couple of aspirin; he feels a headache coming on.
Druggists’ Sundries Company
Home of Patterson’s Cocktails
Deliciously Palatable, Full Strength,
Satisfying and Economical
Next door to the Firestone Tire and Vulcanizing Shop on Homer Street, a windowless brick wall contains an enormous billboard advertisement, but the entrance itself needs no signage thanks to the odour of vinegar—brewery-like, but with an acidic bite that catches in the back of the throat. As the two policemen enter the unmarked door and climb the stairs, the pong becomes thicker and more pungent.
“Sir, are you sure it is safe to breathe?”
“Remember Wipers, constable. Piss in your handkerchief, cover your nose and carry on.”
“Wipers, sir? What sort of wipers?”
“Ypres, Mr Quam, was a battle in the war.”
“Of course when you pronounce it that way…”
The second floor is a lofty, factory-like space occupying the entire second and third floors of the building. Along three walls, overhead platforms support an unbroken line of kegs and a bank of fuel drums above that, underneath a series of enormous wooden vats. All of which are barely visible, thanks to a bewildering criss-cross of suspended pipes connected to a tangle of hoses, down to an elongated, U-shaped assembly counter, where men in felt hats and dungarees administer to an endless procession of bottles, to be filled, corked, labelled, packed in cases, loaded onto a gravity roller and transferred to the rear of the building, near an open freight elevator operated by rope and pulley.
As they approach the bottling station, they can hear a man shouting curses upstairs, audible despite the clatter and whine.
Directed by a tall man who is operating a corking apparatus while scratching a rash on his neck, they climb a set of iron stairs to a landing, where Quam knocks repeatedly on a thick metal door behind which is the source of the shouting.
“He doesn’t seem to answer, sir.”
“Yes, Mr Quam. Could it be because he can’t hear you?”
Quam gives him an offended look.
Hook takes a moment to chew up two more aspirin from his side pocket as though they were mints, then twists the door handle and gives it a sharp push. The door abruptly lurches open and the two policemen nearly stumble into a single room occupying a corner of the building. The decor is reminiscent of a banker’s office, with heavy oak furniture and a wall containing what look to be ledgers but may be the spines of books glued to a board, as with many home libraries.
It is the office of a man who desires respectability. Thanks to profits not unassociated with bootlegging, Vancouver contains many successful men with more money than stature, who try to compensate with their office furniture.
Semi-reclining in a swivel chair, Cormac Patterson is hollering into the telephone with the candle in one hand and the earpiece in the other. To go by his repetition of the phrase Sue the bastards!, Hook gathers that the person on the other end is a lawyer. The mention of McCurdy in this context catches his ear.
He takes a moment to size up their first person of interest in the case. Stocky, muscular and with an enormous head, our man would be handsome were it not for a long-ago broken nose, and an inflamed carbuncle on his left cheekbone that looks as though it might burst momentarily.
Remembering the itchy rash that blotched the bottling-line worker below, Hook reminds himself that the fermentation process involves fungi and germs. He blows his nose into his handkerchief and glances at Quam, who is scratching his bottom while examining a print depicting John L. Sullivan. The opposite wall contains an array of posters advertising Patterson’s Pepp (The Greatest Bracer You Ever Drank), Patterson’s Jazz Cocktail (The Mystic South American Drink), Patterson’s Tonic-Port (For Invigorating Health) and, of course, Patterson’s Silk Hat Martini Cocktail.
Patterson slams the earpiece nearly hard enough to break the cradle: “That bastard and his fecking rhymes!” Looking up, he sees Constable Quam for the first time. Rising to his full height of five-and-a-half feet, Patterson sticks out his chest like a bantam rooster who sees another male chicken on his patch: “And just who in the feck are you?”
The constable turns his attention away from the painting with a frown: “I am Constable Quam, sir, here on official business.”
“Don’t play the nance with me, boyo.” Patterson steps in front of the desk, thrusting forward the latest edition of the Evening Star: “Look at this piece of shite! Ye feckers have half the city thinking I’m poisoning me customers!”
Quam swivels his bulk in Patterson’s direction. “I’ll thank you not to address the police in that tone of voice, sir.”
“Oh so you don’t like my tone, do ye? Such sensitivity!”
“And we don’t react well to sarcasm, sir.” Quam’s eyes have begun to water.
Patterson moves a step forward, fists clenched.
Quam moves to meet him. “Sir, I’m giving you a caution.”
Knowing from experience where this exchange is headed, Hook attempts to intervene: “Mr Patterson, I assure you that our inquiries…”
Too late. In a remarkably smooth motion, Quam lands a roundhouse uppercut to Patterson’s solar plexus that has the man on his knees on the Persian carpet, retching.
“Constable, for the love of God, what have you done?”
Quam faces his superior with glittering eyes. “I felt threatened, sir. I exercised appropriate force.”
Patterson is making short rasping sounds, like a saw working through a piece of lumber.
DS Hook shoves the constable aside, kneels down beside the president of Druggists’ Sundries Limited, takes his arm and levers him to his feet and back in his chair, where he sits with his head between his knees.
“Keep your head down, Mr Patterson, sir, take deep breaths, you’re just winded is all.” Hook looks up at the constable: “Well, you’ve made a bloody mess.”
“Shall we charge him with assaulting an officer, sir?”
“No, Mr Quam, we will do nothing of the kind.” Hook’s jaw muscles have locked; he can feel his teeth about to splinter.
“Bottom drawer!” Patterson gasps. “Bottom right!”
Hook opens the drawer, removes a half-full bottle of Kilvannon and a tumbler, uncorks the bottle and pours.
“Fill it to the brim, damn ye! Surely ye at least know how to fill a glass!”
The two policemen stand by as Patterson bends over the desk, leans on one forearm and pours the contents of the glass straight down the neck, adding, “Fecking idle buffoons.”
Hook turns to his assistant. “Mr Quam, are you acquainted with the laws on police brutality?”
“Not as such, sir.”
“Thought not. Read them as soon as possible.”
Patterson pours himself another three fingers, while Hook tries to make amends.
“We do apologize, Mr Patterson, both for the press coverage and for this—this unfortunate incident.” He glares at Quam, whose expression remains firm.
DS Hook’s official apology seems to have a calming effect. With difficulty, Patterson reaches across the desk, removes a Robusto from a mahogany humidor, bites off the tip, spits it on the floor and sits back in his chair, awaiting a light. His complexion is less apoplectic now, and the boil on his cheek has faded from coal-black to maroon.
Hook lights Patterson’s cigar, then the fresh Ogden’s that has somehow found its way between his teeth. He once saw an officer drop dead after a similar blow to the solar plexus, during a fracas in the mess at Rugeley. (Sixty men in the room, and nobody saw a thing.)
“Constable, I don’t care what fucking excuse you lard it up with, if you do that again you will leave the force, either voluntarily or due to a crippling injury.”
“Sir, in all fairness—”
“Shut up, Quam. Just shut up.”
Patterson puffs his cigar, astonished at the sight of one policeman upbraiding another for punching a citizen, rather than pitching in himself.
“Well since yer here, ye might as well seat yerself.”
“Thank you, sir. Mr Quam, as you were.” DS Hook takes a seat, puffs his cigarette and tries to think of something to say. A murk of cigar and cigarette smoke settles in, masking the pong of fermenting vinegar.
Hook takes out his notebook and pencil, finds a clean page, then smiles across the desk. Just a friendly public servant seeking facts…
“If it’s of any comfort, sir, we have no indication yet that the Silk Hat Martinis in question were adulterated. Samples are at the lab awaiting analysis—aren’t they, Constable?
“As we speak, sir, they’re awaiting transfer.”
“And while we await, the brand goes down the toilet!” Patterson drains his glass, whose effects put him in a more reflective mood. “Well Jesus, it’s not as if it’s the first time.”
Hook replies, “That’s the press for you, sir. They’ll do anything for a headline.” (No need to mention that McCurdy’s information came from Hook.)
Patterson relights his cigar. Hook lights another Ogden’s. Constable Quam sneezes into the arm of his tunic, a practice acquired during the Spanish flu.
Patterson continues: “Last time, word was that we put saltpeter in the tonic so a man can’t get a boner. Sales of Patterson’s Pepp hit the dirt for two months.”
“I’m not a lawyer, sir, but surely they can be sued for slander and defamation.”
“Ha! That’s how it is with rumours. There’s no beginning or end to them. Before the saltpeter, it was said that Patterson’s Nerve Invigorator caused Parkinson’s disease. The names are similar, don’t you see. Before that, Patterson’s Relaxing Cordial turned people into dope fiends.”
“Who do you suppose is behind these attacks?”
“Who in the feck isn’t? When the province was dry, it was just the government on our arses. Now with Repeal, it’s the Drys, the Wets, the bootleggers—and worst of them all, the LCB. With Prohibition we were criminal suspects, don’t ye see, but now we’re competition.” He spits the word out as though an insect somehow flew into his mouth.
He pours himself a fresh whiskey. “Will ye have a drop for yourself, officer?”
“Thank you, sir, but we’re on duty.”
For the second time, Patterson looks up in surprise at another rare statement from a policeman’s beak.
“It seems Mr Cunning was fond of martinis.”
“Ye’re right, officer, and here’s to him.” Patterson drains his glass and pours just a splash more. “An early supporter. Gordon Cunning was that rare investor who believed in the product, and God love him for it.”
“As the minister in charge of the LCB, didn’t that amount to a conflict of interest?”
“For certain it would—if Druggists’ Sundries was in the booze business. But we’re not. We produce remedies, not liquor.”
“Would it surprise you to know that Mr Cunning had several bottles of your products in his possession?”
“Not a bit. Samples were part of the original shareholder agreement—to dodge the tax, don’t y’see.”
“And was the product delivered, sir?”
“The investors didn’t come and get it themselves, Officer.”
“Did he order your martinis specifically?”
“Aye, he was especially fond of them.” Patterson’s eyes grow misty: “Said it tasted almost like the real thing. It was his enthusiasm that first put us on the shelves. And as for investors, he brought half the Lodge in with him—and everyone made a pretty penny!”
“Can you tell me who actually put the case of product in his hands?”
“All packages were to be left at the front desk, to be delivered by a lift attendant known for his discretion. A politician in Mr Cunning’s position can’t be too careful.”
As the two policemen walk in silence down Hastings, past Leonard’s Cafe and the Strand Theatre, Quam continues his justification for punching Patterson in the stomach. “He’s an unstable personality, sir. The suspect moved toward me in a threatening manner.”
Hook stops to admire a parked Hudson Super Six with fresh new whitewall tyres. “Constable, tell me what identifies him as a suspect. Surely he’d have to be damned unstable to poison his own product.”
Quam stares down at the cigarette ends in the gutter, as though looking for inspiration. “What about the martini glass, sir? If it didn’t belong to the hotel, it belonged to somebody.”
“Such as whom, Mr Quam?”
“Did Mr Cunning bring it down with him, do you think?”
“Do you mean the way some snooker players bring their own cue to the game?”
Quam’s voice takes on the mewl of a cornered puppy. “People can be very picky about the proper presentation, sir.”
“In any case, someone must have served it to him in the ballroom.”
“That is true. There was no buffet.”
“In any case, the manager has called a staff meeting first thing tomorrow. We’ll speak to the waiter who served the victim—or more probably, we won’t.”
Quam’s eyes have started to water again. “It all seems awfully complex, sir. And we’ve not had our lunch.”
As they continue down Hastings, both policemen are grateful for the New Westminster tram, whose rumble and clang preclude further discussion on the topic, and provide Quam with the opportunity to slip into Con Jones’s Tobacco and Billiards for a chocolate bar, while Hook lights an Ogden’s under the Don’t Argue sign and observes a pair of swells in bag trousers and straw boaters that look to be made of breakfast cereal.
Seen through the plate-glass window, men in shirtsleeves bend into islands of light to make their shots, while the silhouettes of idle men lean forward with elbows on their knees, smoke rising from their fingers, a flattened cloud hovering just overhead.
Quam emerges, chewing on an Oh Henry!; Hook takes a last deep drag from his cigarette and flicks the butt into the gutter—each man, in his own way, thinking about something.
US Speaker to Address PPA Rally
Hundreds Expected to Attend
Cecil Harmsworth
Staff Writer
The Beacon
On Wednesday next, Vancouver will welcome Rev Daisy Douglas Tyler, the charismatic American temperance activist, who will address a rally of the People’s Prohibition Association at the Vancouver Opera House.
Her record makes for an impressive document.
As leader of the YWCA, Miss Tyler led the campaign that produced a Dry victory in Muncie, Indiana. She served as president of Indiana War Mothers and was the first woman vice-chair of the Republican Committee.
As a life member of the WCTU, she co-founded the Indianapolis chapter of the Anti-Saloon League. She organized the first chapter of the Queens of the Golden Mask, to mobilize women in the fight against alcohol, prostitution and wholesale immigration and to promote social welfare and racial purity—in which interest Miss Tyler founded the Indiana chapter of the Better Babies movement.
An avid campaigner for women’s sports, Miss Tyler won second place in the National Small Bore Rifle Championships at Camp Grant, Illinois, three years in a row, competing against seasoned war veterans.
As featured speaker at the annual meeting of the People’s Prohibition Association, Miss Tyler will address the evils of alcohol on many levels, from the individual drunkard and his family to its weakening effect on the white race.
South of the border, Miss Tyler has been known to draw audiences of up to fifteen hundred.
According to Reverend McDougall of the PPA Advisory Board, “Miss Tyler will reinvigorate the movement, and prove well worth her not inconsiderable fee.”
CAstle 135 speaking, Crombie residence. Are you there?
Operator speaking, CAstle exchange. I have Victoria on the line, GOvernment exchange. Complete the connection, please.
Switch
Crombie residence. Are you there?
Here is the Office of the Attorney General, Mr Crombie. I have Mr Bertram Bliss on the line. I will connect you now.
Switch
Harlan Crombie here. Are you there?
Hello indeed, Harlan. I hope you are well.
Thank you, Bertram, I am as well as can be expected, thank you.
Ah yes, of course. My sincere condolences on the passing of your wife. Allison was—
Alga, actually.
Alga was a fine, fine woman, who worked like a horse on the campaign. Much appreciated by Mr Stalker, I can tell you.
Thank you, Bertram, Mrs Crombie would be gratified, I’m sure.
And may I say, chuffed to know that the transition is going swimmingly.
Yes, indeed.
And so to the business at hand. Just to be clear, this is an unofficial call.
I quite understand. Discretion is always to be advised.
We must always assume other ears are listening.
That is my understanding as well.
Harlan, the Office believes it to be only cricket before we make a public announcement to notify all parties directly affected.
I’m aware of the policy, Bertram. I was with Mr Stalker when it was discussed.
Then let us move on. This is all in confidence, of course.
Of course.
My call is about the Liquor Control Board. It has often been said that the LCB entails too much liquor and not enough control.
I believe it was I who said that.
Quite. Jolly good. Well said.
Bertram, we have discussed the remedy. Enhanced measures on illegal sales.
Special circumstances.
A heightened response.
Measures whose provenance is not open to unauthorized persons, so to speak.
I’m familiar with closed files, Bertram. No need to spell it out further.
Quite. Jolly good. Which brings us to the reason for my call. To make a long story short, Mr Stalker has decided that you are the man to lead the effort—to give the board a new sense of mission and purpose.
Bertram, please inform Mr Stalker that I’d be honoured to serve.
There’s a good chap. It will be a bloody great challenge to ginger up public opinion—without, shall we say, overdoing it.
Aye, indeed so. In fact, the job may require an outside consultant—an expert in public persuasion.
As long as they can be trusted, Harlan. Is there someone you have in mind?
In fact, I do. Her name is Daisy Douglas Tyler. She could sell ice to an Eskimo and she has the PPA wrapped around her little finger.
Capital. Jolly good. Absolutely top drawer.