“No.”
“It hasn’t cut in on your time and energy?”
“Not whatsoever, no, sir.”
Halley’s eyes behind his round lenses were huge. “You’ve been able to amass this fortune in just your spare time—a hobby, so to speak.”
“That is right.”
“But you also find time for betting.”
“That’s the telephone.”
“That’s the telephone, too?”
“All I do is pick up the phone and make the bet. Doesn’t take five minutes.”
“When you’re betting on sporting events, Captain, where do you place your bets?”
“With a handbook at 215 North LaSalle.”
“Is this legal betting?”
“Well…no sir, it is not. Not in the strictest sense, not legal, no.”
“In your job, as the chief investigator for the State’s Attorney, would one of your duties be to raid handbooks— bookie joints, like the one you frequent?”
“Yes.”
“Have you ever done so?”
“Certainly!”
“When was the last time?”
“…1939, I believe.”
As Halley was digesting that juicy tidbit, Robinson asked, “Do you think a person with a ‘gambler’s heart’ can take the right approach in putting down bookmaking?”
“Yes.”
“And other forms of gambling?”
“Yes.”
“What is the difference between your betting on sporting events and elections, and betting on a horse race in a handbook?”
“Well…of course I don’t know what the difference is.”
“Then how can you make a distinction on whether to raid a place or not?”
Tubbo thought about that; then he offered, in what sounded like a question, “If you make a bet in a gambling place on a horse race, it is against the law.”
That one left Robinson reeling, as Kefauver leaned in and took over the questioning, starting with: “Do you know these so-called gangsters, Captain? The Fischettis and Guzik and Accardo?”
“Yes, I know them from seeing them.”
“I mean, have you ever had any relationship with them?”
“No sir. I never did.”
“No business dealings whatsoever?”
“No, sir. None whatsoever.”
“Are you under any obligation to them?”
“No. I am not.”
“Well, what do you think the problem is, here in Cook County? Our own investigators have noted numerous gambling operations running unimpeded.”
Tubbo held his head high. “There are no gambling operations now in the city of Chicago. There have been some in the county, of late, but I am satisfied, should I be elected as sheriff, that we will drive that evil element out, the same as we have driven it out of Chicago.”
Halley—properly astounded by having so outrageous a load of horseshit dumped before him—cleaved the air with that whine of his. “The charge has been made that in all your time as chief investigator, Captain Gilbert, you have not sent any major gangster to jail.”
Tubbo seemed hurt by this suggestion. “That is simply not so—besides, there is no other officer who has done that, either.”
Not bothering to stop to make sense of that, Halley pressed on. “And of course there are numerous unsolved murders in Chicago.”
Another shrug. “There’s numerous unsolved murders all over the United States.”
Halley nodded, as if that were a reasonable response. “Then, Captain, let’s talk about one unsolved murder in particular.”
“All right. If I know anything about it.”
“What can you tell us about the murder of William Drury?”
“Terrible. A terrible thing.”
“You’ve been investigating this murder. Have you uncovered anything?”
“Mr. Halley, there is no police officer gifted with a supernatural mind…. You have to understand, when these gangsters go out and kill they are as precise and detailed in their work as an architect. If a murder is committed by a mobster or gangster element, they leave no traces.”
Halley answered that speech with one of his own: “Wouldn’t the man in the street say to himself, if only Captain Gilbert weren’t concentrating on whether or not to buy and sell stocks and bonds, wouldn’t he have given just a little more thought to finding out who killed Bill Drury?”
The chin went up again. “Any time a crime is committed in the city of Chicago and I work on it, I give my wholehearted effort.”
“And that includes the murder of William Drury?”
“Mr. Halley, I have done good work. I have sent thirty-one men to the electric chair, thirteen for killing police officers. In none of those cases was one finger of criticism pointed at my conduct, other than the fact some would say, he has a lot of wealth…. Well, I haven’t bought a car since 1918, and I have no maids.”
The stupidity of that caught Halley off guard.
But Kefauver, referring to a file, picked up the thread. “We have a letter written by the late Mr. Drury, in which he makes certain charges against you to John E. Babb, your opponent in the upcoming election.”
“I’ve seen that letter. Pack of lies.”
“In it, you are described as a ‘menace’ to law enforcement. Is it true that during the period Lieutenant Drury served under you from 1932 to 1937, many topflight gangsters he arrested were speedily released or dismissed in court?”
“With all due respect to the deceased, that’s nonsense, Senator. It just shows that arresting these alleged ‘gangsters’ without any evidence to convict them is irresponsible law enforcement.”
Kefauver sighed; his long droopy face seemed very tired indeed. “Captain Gilbert—would you acknowledge that it would be natural for the public to lose confidence in a police officer who amassed such great wealth?”
Tubbo shook his head, sadly. “The failure of human nature, Senator, is that we are prone to believe evil about our fellow man…especially about a police officer.”
That gem of folk wisdom seemed to stun his inquisitors, and after a few more questions, the executive-session interrogation of the World’s Richest Cop came to a close.
As disingenuous as he’d been, Tubbo—thoroughly incompetent witness that he was—had revealed more than anyone might have expected; but—because of the closed nature of the session, designed not to embarrass the Democratic Party—the transcript would be confidential until the committee’s eventual report. Kefauver’s usual frank press summary of witness testimony would be suspended in the captain’s case. The public would not be privy to Tubbo’s testimony until weeks, perhaps months, after election day.
I’m sure Kefauver did this reluctantly; but the politics of it were unavoidable. Whether some deal with Tubbo had been cut in advance—and his “surprise” appearance was expected—or the senator instinctively toed the party line by temporarily covering up Tubbo’s testimony, I couldn’t tell you.
What neither Tubbo nor Kefauver had contemplated, however, was a certain sleazy private detective among the insiders in the gallery, a surveillance-savvy divorce dick whose briefcase contained a battery-operated miniature wire recorder about the size of a fat paperback book, with a spool handling two and a half hours without a reload. In other words, Drury’s tapes may have been missing, but Heller’s weren’t. I sold them to Ray Brennan of the Chicago Sun-Times for a grand—a fact never revealed until now—and Captain Dan Gilbert’s full committee testimony appeared in that paper on November 2nd…just in time to louse up the election for Tubbo.
I would rather have put a bullet in the fat fuck’s brain; but had to settle for just ruining him. The man who plotted with Charley Fischetti to have Bill Drury and Marvin Bas murdered lost the sheriff’s race by nearly four hundred thousand votes— and, even in Chicago, the Democratic machine was soundly trounced by protest voting from its own party, from key county offices to Senate majority leader Lucas losing to Everett Dirksen.