McCurdy awakens to the sound of a key in the door—obviously it’s not Miss Wickstram picking the lock again.
He settles under the covers, thinking that it is someone trying to enter the wrong room, soon to realize their error.
But no. It isn’t.
He sits upright in bed just as a short man in an expensive tweed suit marches in, grabs the reporter’s pajama shirt (tearing it nearly in two), flings him onto the carpet, inserts one knee in the small of his back precisely at kidney level and presses the barrel of a pistol against the back of his head.
“Sir, you are under arrest. You are suspected of the importation and sale of illegal liquor.”
“Are you out of your mind? In a hotel room?”
“Shut up.”
The knee digs hard into his right kidney. Another boot with a hobnailed sole is positioned on top of his head, jamming his face into the carpet and producing a continuous whistling in his ear.
He understands now. He has made an enemy of the Dry Squad. As with the piece on the royal visit, his latest column has upset certain people, and this time there is no armed American to intervene.
“Officer, just out of curiosity, where is your evidence?” He asks this through the side of his mouth, knowing the question to be a silly one; indeed, it draws a jolly laugh from the other three men in the room, and another rap in the head with the pistol.
“Never mind, officers, I know where the evidence is. It’s waiting for me at the station.”
“Shut up.” The knee probes further into the kidney, just short of causing damage.
Through the whistling in his ear, McCurdy hears boots clomping about, along with the sound of ripping fabric, of drawers being heaved open and their contents dumped onto the floor. They seem in no particular hurry; in fact, as they work they discuss sports scores.
“Gentlemen, can we talk? I’ll confess to anything you like—”
The man above him snickers and the knee bears down. “It’s not that easy, mac.” Then he turns to his fellows: “Mr McCurdy wants to confess.”
Again the other visitors join in the merriment. Everyone is laughing except for the man on the floor.
An hour later he is seated on a stool, still in his ragged pajamas, with his head between his legs, trying to catch his breath, staring down at the former contents of his stomach.
He lifts his head—gingerly, because the whistling hasn’t gone away, and one never knows about brain bleeding when one has been knocked out cold.
Stealthily gazing back and forth, he takes in a stone block wall, a barred window, a metal cot and a bucket, everything painted the colour of pus. At the end of the room he can make out a set of floor-to-ceiling bars with an oblong opening, waist high and big enough to admit a shallow bowl.
He straightens up a bit. As suspected, he is in a holding cell, in the basement of the station on Powell Street—a floor known for its soundproofing.
The officer in tweeds, the one with hard knuckles and sharp knees, looms over him. Nearby, a younger officer, a big fellow in a cheap suit, sits on the metal bunk with a sheet of paper and a pen in his lap, watching with small watery eyes.
The better-dressed officer smokes a leisurely cigarette and regards McCurdy with the dispassionate eye of a craftsman surveying work to be done.
“There. Did you see that, Constable Quam? A closed fist just between the ribs and just below the rib cage. With minimum effort, you get maximum effect.
“Remember,” he continues, sounding like a technical instructor, “it’s all about bruising. You don’t want bruising. You want the suspect to walk into court without a mark on him.”
He slaps his own stomach gently. “The softer areas don’t bruise easily, even if the innards are turned to porridge. But the face and head, they bruise more easily because there’s more blood vessels. For that, there’s a trick you can use—hand me that telephone book, would you?”
Constable Quam produces a Vancouver directory and hands it over.
The officer delicately removes the reporter’s glasses and hands them to Quam, who places them in his lap with the pen and paper. Then, placing the closed telephone book against the side of the reporter’s face, he continues the tutorial:
“You see, Constable, the key is to distribute the force of impact over a wider area, the way a boxing glove does.” And with his cigarette still dangling from his lips, he forms a fist and swings.
McCurdy flies off the stool, which overturns on top of him, and remains on the floor, semiconscious. The whistling in his ears has become a siren. The cold cement against his cheek eases the throbbing like an ice pack, but it is short-term relief, because he knows this will continue until he signs the confession form, which means signing up for a year’s hard labour.
McCurdy doesn’t like pain. If Mr Tweed Suit keeps this up, he knows he will fold like an omelet.
Dearest Gracie,
I do so look forward to your letters!
It is terribly sad that I have not been able to go to Victoria, but having one day off per week, if then one factors in five hours each way on the ferry, plus road travel, it would take the entire holiday just to get there and back, with scarcely time to visit at all!
You have been so helpful to my American friend, who is investigating the Ku Klux Klan for an organization in Indiana. Honestly, they are the most dreadful people!
(I had an altercation I will tell you all about when I see you, but which is far too embarrassing to write about, other than in French.)
As you probably know, the KKK have made quite a splash here since their arrival and are viewed as quite respectable, having secured alliances with the Asiatic Exclusion League, the Citizens’ League and the People’s Prohibition Association. They are on friendly terms with the Masons and Odd Fellows as well. It is said that they are even planning to sponsor a baseball team!
Even so, they make a peculiar sight marching down Granville, with their burning cross and their pointed hats and their Keep Canada White banner. It is hard to imagine that an upright citizen would wear such a costume—other than as a disguise, for their ranks are said to include an aldermen and even an MLA.
My friend says that they are up to no good and wishes to commend you for your service to America as well as to the province. I have no idea what it is all about really, but it sounds terribly important and, if nothing else, you and I will have something to reminisce about when we do see each other—which I hope will be soon!
Don’t worry about the files, darling. The fact that that one page involved Taggart was of great interest to a regular client; and your experience with Mr Crombie and his new, shall we say, associate, is infinitely more enlightening than whatever else is in that drawer.
Both my friend and my client are dying to know more about this relationship. If you or Gwendolyn hear any more tidings about this mystery woman, do tell!
Your loving friend,
Millie
Bootlegging “Crusade” Announced
“Crime Wave Must End,” Stalker Declares
Max Trotter
Staff Writer
The Vancouver World
In his first legislative address since his appointment, Attorney General Boris Stalker declared a “Crusade Against Bootlegging.”
In his speech, the Attorney General deplored organized criminals such as Italian immigrant Joe Celona and the Jewish Reifel family but asserted that an even more deadly consequence of this wave of alcohol crime is the corrupting influence of bootlegging on the body politic—not only in attracting foreign criminals to our province, but also in making criminals of ordinary citizens.
“No community in the province, no matter how small, is without a bootlegger who was once a law-abiding taxpayer but who has crossed the line into criminality—and in so doing, is making criminals of his neighbours.”
Mr Stalker was not available for questions, owing to legislative duties. In his place, Mr Bertram Bliss, spokesman for the Attorney General’s office, met with reporters on the steps of the Legislature for a spirited exchange.
Asked if the Crusade Against Bootlegging is not in fact a campaign to stuff government coffers with liquor profits and taxes, he replied: “I say, old chap, better to stuff the people’s coffers than to line the pockets of criminals.” Bliss added that the measure has the firm endorsement of the People’s Prohibition Association. “If they support the crusade, I should jolly well think it behooves others to follow suit.”
On whether the use of the term crusade might be seen as an appropriation of a Christian reference to describe what is really a taxation issue, Mr Bliss replied: “Perhaps you had better ask the Woman’s Christian Temperance Union, who are behind the Attorney General one hundred per cent.”