Ill-Fame (A Detective Harm Queen Novel Book 2) (11 page)

Ladies’ gasps punctuated the air.

This should do it, he thought. Kilbane’s criminal empire was about to turn into rubble. He turned back to the gangster triumphantly.

“You murder at will, with no fear of consequence. You strut around town like you own it. You’re nothing but a four-flushing butcher, and I was a witness to it. I saw you end a woman’s life. Blast her down with a bullet, in my arms!”

A lady in the second pew stood, screamed, and then fainted. The congregation erupted in raised voices, some pointing at the gangster. Kilbane’s body shook and his teeth rattled as he backed away from Queen, towards the opposite transept.
I’ve got this bastard
, Queen thought gleefully.

And then, a large, white-mustached man suddenly stood up, and hammered his hymnal on the pew in front of him. The crowd quieted as they identified him.

After a moment Queen recognized him too. Saint Paul Police Chief John O’Connor.

“What in holy hell is this about?” O’Connor’s voice boomed through the nave, echoing against the stained glass windows. Queen stepped forward.

“I’m a police detective, sir....”

“From Minneapolis. I know you. Harmon Queen, is it not?”

“Yes, sir, it is. This man, this farcical fakir is Jiggs...”

“I know who he goddamn is!”

Queen could feel the congregation cringe at the police chief’s ill-use of the Lord’s name. John O’Connor, however, was not a man to seem to care what others thought. He rumbled out of his pew and filled the aisle, directly between Queen and the gangster. He was a barrel-chested, intimidating bear of a man, if Queen had ever seen one. Fred Ames served as O’Connor’s Minneapolis counterpart, but didn’t have a tenth of the natural authority that this man possessed.

“Sir, I can explain everything to you personally. It’s fortunate that you happened to be here as witness to this.”

“Witness to your baseless accusations, you mean? This is not a court of law!”

“I realize that sir. It’s just that...”

“This is God’s house, you insolent son-of-a-bitch!”

Queen was stunned. What was the police chief doing? The detective was handing him Kilbane on a silver platter. He was a witness to the man committing murder.

O’Connor bulled his way up to Queen, and snarled.

“Give me your badge and gun, Queen. I’m placing your under arrest for instigating a public disturbance.”

CHAPTER 13

When Maisy awoke, she almost gagged on the rag in her mouth. She recognized the pungent ether smell, and spit it out.

Her head swam with pain, and her clothing stank with sweat. She struggled to sit up, to focus on her surroundings.

The man who had taken her came into view. He sat in a chair near her feet, arms crossed. “I’m sorry for all of this,” he said.

She realized she was on a table when it wobbled as she slipped herself off. The man reached out, in an attempt to help her keep her balance, but she pushed him away, and managed to stand up on her own.

“The chloroform was unfortunately necessary.”

“To keep me from fighting you,” she replied. Her bun had opened and fallen onto her shoulders and she pushed her hair out of her eyes.

He gave the barest of smiles. “Yes.”

She nodded. “Where am I?”

“You’re in a cave.”

“A cave?”

“Yes, a cave. This was a saloon a few years back, but abandoned now.”

I’ll be darned, she thought, as she looked at the arched sandstone ceiling above her. It was cool and quiet here. A wooden bar lined the rock wall, with benches along the opposite side. Iron light fixtures hung from above, and the dim bulbs cast a burnt orange half-glow on the rough ceiling.

“Why are the lights on if this isn’t an operating joint?”

“Mr. Kilbane keeps this place in working order for situations such as this.”

Maisy was callused enough not to be too surprised by anything anymore. She’d seen what evil men were capable of. Finding herself here, in a damp cave, after an afternoon draped over a man’s shoulder, hadn’t fazed her as it might have another, more innocent, girl. The fact that Kilbane had a hideout made perfect sense, with his line of work.

“So,” she said. “What now?”

“We wait for Mr. Kilbane,” Henri replied, handing her a glass of water from a nearby table that was stacked with plates, folded napkins and utensils.

She took it and drank quickly, relishing the relief it gave to her parched throat. She handed it back, and he filled the glass again from a bottle on the bar. After another glass, appreciated more slowly this time, she sighed, and sat down.

Henri, seemingly satisfied at her compliance, took out a small book from his vest, and taking a seat, opened it to a bookmarked page. With nothing better to do, she tried to peer over and make out the words, but they were French.

“Is that an interesting subject?”

He looked up. “To me, yes.”

“What is it about?”

“Nothing that a young lady should concern herself with.”

“You’ve written notes in the margin, and they are English.”

“I like to practice writing English when I can.”

The man seems so calm, she thought. So unlike his boss. It didn’t make sense, but little of the world did.

“May I ask you a question?”

“Yes,” he said, closing his book.

“Why do you work for him?”

“He pays me well.”

“Where is Trilly?”

“With him, perhaps?”

“So you don’t know.”

“No.”

In her experience, men liked to talk. A few of them came only to silently rut, but others? They wanted to chit-chat on the dime. Tell her about their cold wives and their business troubles. When she did encounter a quiet type she had weapons of seduction to coax words out. But she decided her wiles wouldn’t work on this one.

Henri, here, was different. Suddenly she was tired of pulling teeth.

“Is there a lady’s washroom?”

He pointed to the end of the cavern, where the dim light scarcely reached. “It wasn’t constructed for use by the female sex,” he said. “But you’re welcome to use it.”

It was probably filthy, she thought, as she stood up. She sucked in her breath and tried to gather her skirt tight as she walked past Henri, but the gap between him and the table piled with eating ware was narrow. Despite her best intentions her dress brushed over the top, carrying glasses and utensils with it.

Glass smashed against the rough floor and forks and knives bounced and clattered alongside.

“I didn’t mean for that to happen,” she said as she bent down to pick up the mess.

“No, no,” Henri protested. “Just go. I will clean it.”

Maisy walked through the bar to the washroom, feeling a mixture of pluck and dread as she pushed her way through the saloon-style doors. This all was so exciting, she admitted to herself. Her early days as a captive in Dander’s saloon had been spent cowering in corners, but she was different now. She’d been so afraid to disappoint her grandparents that she’d chosen instead, to slink into the shadows submissively. But she realized that her grandfather’s passing had freed her to care about others beside herself. Her actions were more selfless now. She had a sense of purpose, for the first time in a long time.

She turned on the sink faucet and splashed cold water on her face. It smelled of sulfur, but felt good on her tired eyes.

And then she pulled out the knife from her sleeve and tested the point.
If I’m to die today,
she decided,
then I’ll make sure I go down fighting
.

To my last breath of damp cave air.

Desperation makes a person resourceful. Baum had never been resourceful by nature, but getting clocked in the gut by that crack-faced man had awakened his brain, somehow. It had cleared the whiskey fog and sharpened his calibration. Maisy had asked for him.
Asked
for him! She wanted only one thing from him, and he was ready to give it to her, or give up his life in the process.

Despite his poor physical condition, Baum was still a police man. He had some experience in tracking suspects and had learned a lot about sleuthing matters from his friendship with Dix. It had seemed obvious to him that the tunnel would end somewhere up above, so after he’d shaken himself off in Clifford’s basement, and brushed away her offer of help, he’d made a hasty exit. Up the outside staircase that connected Washington to West Third Street he’d wheezed and huffed, and then he’d waited.

Before long, the man had appeared on the street, setting Maisy into the back seat of a carriage, and driven off. He’d watched them as they crossed the Wabasha Bridge, and after wiping off his spectacles and putting them on, could just barely see them turn, towards the base of the bluff. The added bonus was that Queen hadn’t been pursuing them. He was an idiot, Baum decided with smug satisfaction.

After making his way across the bridge, he’d walked along Wabasha Avenue, past angular industrial buildings lined up in little red-bricked rows, until he reached the steep limestone-faced walls that ridged the river.

His heart wasn’t used to this much strain and stress, and it made its displeasure known by pounding like a pile driver in his chest. To ignore the sensation, he studied the bluff as he tramped down the road. A massive building suddenly appeared, built right into the rock. Bruggemann Brewery’s malt warehouse and mill, according to the sign. This was a part of Saint Paul where the Germans brewed their beers, letting their kegs age and cool deep inside the hand-carved sandstone interiors. They drew their waters from the natural artesian wells deep below the earth. He hadn’t tried this brand, but plenty of familiar breweries operated around here, he remembered thirstily.

Another five minutes of walking and he saw the man’s carriage. It was parked outside a wide metal door that led into what he assumed was a cave. What he intended to do now, he wasn’t sure. He was alone and weaponless, and for the most part, gutless.

He had pebbles in his boot, so he walked to the curb and sat down. His foot was in pain, and slightly swollen, making the boot, which was already tight around his fat calf, even more difficult to remove. After a hard tug, he manhandled it off, and let out a sigh as his foot hit the cool air.

“What the hell are you planning, anyway?” The voice came from behind. He tried to turn, but he felt a strong grip fasten onto his shoulder and the cold metal of a gun press into his neck. He dropped the boot and put his hands up.

The person came around and into his view. He wore a well-tailored suit and had broad shoulders, and his hair was slick with oil. He was young, too, but held the gun like he knew how to use it.

“Answer my question, old man.”

“I’m just taking a walk. It’s a nice day and...”

“Can the nonsense,” the boy said. “You followed a man and a woman here.”

“H-how do you know that?”

He gave a dimpled smile that ate up half his face. “Simple. I saw what you saw, and followed your hobbling carcass across the bridge.”

“Wha-what do you want from me?”

The boy got on one knee, and looked him in the eye. “I want you to screw, Grandpa. Blaze a trail somewhere else.”

“But I c-can’t. The girl inside. I know her. She’s in danger and...”

“And you’re a goddamn dirty old client who rolled with her once and can’t get her out of your head. I know. You think she’ll give you a free poke for your attempt at chivalry?”

He leaned in, and Baum could smell citrus. “There are men with guns in there, Grandpa, and they’ll kill you as soon as look at you. Now get lost.”

Baum winced as the boy grabbed him by the fabric of his coat and hoisted him up. He felt a kick in his buttocks that made him stumble forward.

“You old men always think you can take whatever the hell you want, don’t you? You see a lady you fancy, and you can do what you please with her, is that it? To hell with you and all your patrician pals. If I find you lurking about again, I’ll have to get violent with you. Go home to your wife.”

Baum looked back and saw the determination in the kid’s eyes. The boy was far stronger than he was, he knew, and without a gun of his own it was pointless for him to argue. Slowly, he began walking, back the way he came. He strained his ears for the slam of a door or a conversation.

Nothing. When he got to the brewery, he scuttled behind a beer wagon and waited for a shout, but none came. He dared himself to turn around, set back his fat shoulders, and pivoted, just in time to see the boy pull open the door to the cavern and then drop down to all fours and crawl inside. Part of him wanted to see what would happen, but the rational voice in his head spoke more forcefully this time, and told him to stay where he was and see how things played out first.

So he intently watched.

CHAPTER 14

She was sitting again, by Henri, as he read his book under the amber electric light, when the front door’s handle clicked, and it slowly swung out. She could make out the sunshine as it streaked through the room, lighting a haze of floating dust. But no one entered.

Henri shut his book and got up.

“Stay here,” he said.

She watched him as he strode to the door, unconcerned. His wool sash, tied tightly around his waist, was knit in an intricate design of red, yellow and green. She’d never seen anything like it before. At the brothel she had seen lumberjacks who sometimes would come to Saint Paul to spend their money, dressed in colorful garb, and they always made a spectacle as they trudged up the road from the riverboat landing. But Henri wore his sash over his suit like a military accoutrement. He was all business, and very serious. She had to admit that despite being her captor, his stern, fatherly bearing was growing on her.
I actually feel safe with him
, she realized with slight astonishment.

It was with more astonishment that she watched his body suddenly drop out of her sight.

She jumped out of her chair and ran to the door. Without even thinking, she pulled the knife from her sleeve and held it out.