Ill-Fame (A Detective Harm Queen Novel Book 2) (12 page)

Behind a table, she saw him, suddenly and ferociously locked in a grip with Dick. They both commanded great strength, and they had each other by the throat, rolling and grunting on the concrete floor. Dick was an athlete in his prime, however, and took the advantage, finally flipping Henri on his back, and pinning him with a straddle.

“Dick!” she screamed, and he looked at her, his wild eyes melting at her sight.

“Nellie! Are you all right?”

Then she saw Henri reach for a chair leg, and before she could cry out a warning he smashed it onto Dick’s back with a horrible crack, showering their bodies with ragged wooden splinters. Dick had taken worse hits during his football games, he knew, but this one had stunned him for just long enough that Henri took his fist and knocked him hard in the jaw, sending him falling onto the floor.

She screamed again and rushed over to him, almost tripping over Henri and the rest of the broken chair. Dick held his hand on his bruising face and tried to shake his head.

“I thought I had the upper hand,” he moaned.

Henri stood, brushing bits of wood off his jacket. He bent over the boy and drew the gun out of his pocket. Then he looked at Maisy, and the knife she held in her hand. He walked behind the bar, and pulled out two pairs of handcuffs.

“I love you, Nellie,” Moonlight said, as Henri snapped the cuffs to his wrists, behind his back.

“I so wish you hadn’t come, Dick,” she replied. She looked at him, so miserable lying on the floor. He felt humiliated, she imagined; used to excelling at everything he did. What had he been thinking? This was a world he didn’t belong in. Was he really so innocent about the nature of evil men that he thought he could traipse in with nothing but an athlete’s constitution and somehow save the day?

And what would Jiggs Kilbane do when he learned of Dick’s attempts to free her? That was the question that most distressed her. Her plan to stick the knife into Jigg’s Kilbane’s heart was finished, and now she had to worry over Dick’s safety as well as her own.

Moonlight blinked fiercely, resolve smoldering in his eyes. “I’m going to be a policeman one day soon, Nellie. I’ve just talked to a detective in Minneapolis. He told me I’m guaranteed a spot on the force as soon as I graduate! Don’t worry, sweetheart. They can’t hurt me.”

He can’t be serious, she thought. Overconfident, yes. But not a fool.

“Henri. Don’t listen to him. He’s a thick-skulled idiot and in love with me.” She paused, and looked at Dick with apology. She felt a tug of heartbreak at hurting him again, but evidently he needed more pain to get the message. In a few minutes Kilbane would walk in, and she didn’t want the gangster to do to Dick what he did to Trilly Flick. Or easily worse, and her imagination ran wild with the potential tortures inflicted on her old flame.

“Please, just hide him,” she pleaded to Henri.

The man with the cracked face took her by her arms and pulled her away from Moonlight. He bent down, made the sign of the cross, and then slugged the boy with a single, devastating blow. Moonlight’s cheek slapped the cement and he closed his eyes.

Another scream from Maisy reverberated through the cavern. Henri ignored her, slipped his arms underneath Moonlight’s, and dragged him behind the bar and through what appeared to be a kitchen door.

“What are you doing?” she cried after him, pulling back tears.

“Hiding him, like you asked.”

“Is he dead?”

“He is not.”

“But why did you do that? He never hurt you!”

“The boy hates his father,” Henri replied, staring at her grimly. “An uncontrollable, venomous hate. The less he speaks to him, the better for everyone.”

Maisy was confused. What did Dick’s father have to do with any of this? He sat in some large office somewhere, commanding his workers to make rafts of money. What exposure did he have to bordellos and gangsters and guns?

Henri saw her expression, and shook his head.

“My dear,” he said, his voice dropping low. “This boy’s father is Jiggs Kilbane.”

CHAPTER 15

The cell was cold, but the plate of potatoes and gravy next to him were colder. Queen was hungry, though. He picked up the spoon and heaped in a mouthful.

He was exhausted, and slumped against the stone wall. They’d put him in a cell by himself. He figured it was for his protection. If word got around that Detective Harm Queen was lounging about in Saint Paul’s Central Station, he was bound to get attention. While it wasn’t his home city, there were probably a few scoundrels locked up here that he’d laid a hand on in Minneapolis.

His mind was a jumble of emotion. He’d been close to reaching Maisy, so close that it had clouded his judgment and landed him square in the heart of the enemy. Who the enemy was, he wasn’t sure, and that made things even more dangerous for him. Jiggs Kilbane, it seemed, had a genuine relationship with Police Chief O’Connor, which Queen hadn’t believed until now. Jack Peach, Kilbane’s former henchman, had alluded to it, but Queen had taken his words as lies. Who did he need to watch out for now? Kilbane, certainly, but John O’Connor had inserted himself into Queen’s sphere, and that made him terrifically uneasy.

And then there was Karoline. As far as he could tell no one knew he was in jail, and that included her. She’d be gone first thing tomorrow morning, heartbroken, thinking that he’d broken things off, if he wasn’t able to make it to her in time. She’d think the worst of him, he feared.

His immediate problem, though, was protecting himself. Without a gun for defense, a badge for intimidation, or a stack of green for bribes, he didn’t know how he’d stop a guard from entering his cell and pummeling him into a mash of meat. He was vulnerable here, and that was a feeling he didn’t like. The whole situation was far worse than he could ever have anticipated. He’d expected to deliver the goods today, and instead had been delivered himself.

“Detective Queen. You look lost in your thoughts.”

He raised his head, and saw a young man at the bars with a thick black mustache, a gray suit, and a sharp-looking Homburg on his head.

“I’m Frank Frasier.” He held out his hand through the bars. Queen walked over and shook it.

“I’ve heard of you,” Queen said. “You’re new to the detective game, aren’t you?”

“I am,” the man replied with a confident smile. “But I’m old to police work.”

“You’ve tracked down and captured a fair share of criminals, from what I’ve heard.”

“Just earning my salary, like any good officer of the law does.” He gave Queen a friendly wink. “You’ve found yourself in a pickle, I see.”

Queen was more than aware of Frasier. His name had been inked in golden phrases by newspapers on both sides of the river.

Frasier was a sleuthing prodigy, who’d risen through the ranks faster than Jesus on Easter morning. It was said that Frasier, without even a weapon, could disarm the most hardened criminal with nothing more than a steady gaze and a few select words. It was hard to believe, but now in person, Queen understood. Frasier was one of those men blessed with charisma. And he disliked the man for it immediately.

“Glad to finally meet you, Frasier. Now come straight with me. Why am I really here? Your police chief claimed that I was causing a disturbance, but I’ve been here all afternoon without a word from anyone. My suspicions are that something else is going on.”

“I’ll give you that courtesy of being straight with you, Queen. From one cop to another.”

“That’s appreciated.”

Queen was slowly warming to the man.

“That was the original charge, but things have changed.”

“What’s changed?”

“Police Chief O’Connor had a talk with Mr. Kilbane about your accusations.”

“And I’ll bet Kilbane denied them.”

“Yes. Not only that, but he claimed that you were the one that killed the prostitute. Not him.”

Queen had had plenty of time in the cell today to think about what was
really
going on, and he’d figured a conclusion like this would materialize. When Kilbane had shot poor Edna Pease, he’d used Queen’s gun to do it, just for insurance. Now Jiggs was calling to collect on the premium.

“So it’s Kilbane’s word against mine.”

“That’s about it.”

“Do you really think a jury will choose the word of a gangster over a detective?”

Frasier shook his head sympathetically, with just enough condescension to make Queen bite his tongue.

“I don’t know how to put things delicately, so I’ll just say it. You’re a well-known scoundrel, detective. You once jammed your pistol, while drunk, into someone’s eye, at a saloon, did you not? You twisted and gouged at it until it came right out.”

Queen had. He looked away from Frasier.

“That man, and a dozen others like him that you’ve beat down, will testify as witnesses against you. Rip your character to shreds on the stand.”

“What about Kilbane? He’s done far worse!”

“He has,” Frasier admitted. “But do you think anyone in Ramsey County will have the courage to speak against him? You’re playing against a stacked deck, detective.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do, then? Just buck up and take it? Go willingly to jail for a crime I had no part in?”

Frasier tapped his fingers on a bar, hesitating. He stared Queen in the eyes, hard, as if to gauge his caliber. Finally, he spoke.

“Convince me you didn’t.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Convince me that it was Kilbane and not you. If you can do that, we can talk further.”

“On my very life. On the life of my sister.” He grabbed both hands on the bars and came as close as he could to Frasier. “On my word as a police officer.”

Frasier grimaced. “Not good enough.”

“And why the hell not? We’ve both taken the same oath,” Queen growled.

“True, but I haven’t broken mine. I know what goes on in Minneapolis. You break yours every day.”

Queen thought for a second to ask him how he knew, but immediately thought better of it. He’d already revealed his knowledge of some of the low points of Queen’s career, from ten years past. Why wouldn’t he know what Queen and his cohorts were up to now? Frasier was whip-smart, and had ears. Plenty of stories were circulating, he figured, about the mitt games and other cons in Minneapolis.

“Well,” Queen offered, “What if I found a witness?”

“A witness?” Frasier lifted his eyebrows. “The Pease girl is dead. Jack Peach is dead. You left his bodyguard in a mangled trolley on the courthouse lawn. Who else was there?”

There had been someone else there, in fact. He had no idea where she was, but she’d seen everything.

“Her name is Trilly Flick. A girl that worked for Kilbane. She still does, as far as I know.”

“And why would one of Mr. Kilbane’s trusty whores testify on your behalf?”

“Because she owes me. She double-crossed me, and she owes me.”

Of course Queen had no idea whether Trilly would even look at him, let alone come to his defense. She hadn’t given him the time of day the last time he’d seen her. He couldn’t think of any other way out of this, however.

He had to try.

“I’ll have you know, Queen, that even if the clouds part from the sky and God himself floats down to find you innocent of this, it isn’t necessarily over.”

“Why is that?”

“Have you been following what’s been going on in Saint Paul in the last year? Or have you been too busy laying track to the bank?”

Queen wasn’t sure what he was talking about. He didn’t want to answer the last part of Frasier’s loaded question, though, so he just shrugged.

“John O’ Connor trumps God in this town, detective. He’s established something called the Layover System, as you apparently haven’t heard.”

“I’ve been busy, as you’ve apparently stated.”

Frasier chuckled. “Well, let me entertain you with the tale.”

“Do you have a cigarette?”

“Sure, why not?” Frasier took a smoke out of his case, handed it through the bars to Queen, and lit it for him with a match. He waited for Queen to enjoy his first few puffs before continuing.

“Police Chief O’Connor, frustrated with the excesses of city vice, decided last year to put an open invitation out to criminals in Saint Paul. In essence, he gave them permission to live within city limits, without fear of persecution or prosecution, in exchange for one thing. No crime in Saint Paul. No burglaries, no robberies, no shoplifting. No destruction of private property.” He let those words sit for a moment, and Queen understood their weight. The streetcar fiasco in January had left a swath of destruction, a conductor in the hospital, and scores of frightened onlookers. The police chief knew Queen was behind it. The Saint Paul papers had blamed a lunatic for the crash. A lunatic who had never been caught, until now.

“So he plans to blame me for that, too?”

“It was you, wasn’t it?”

Queen shook his head, partially out of shame, but also to deny full responsibility.

“Kilbane’s man, Jack Peach, chased me with the intent to kill me, Frasier. I would be dead if I hadn’t done what I did. Was it careless? Thoughtless? Yes. But no innocents died. And I got away just in time to save the life of a fellow police officer.”

He meant Tom Cahill, of course, who’d been set to be burned alive by a hobo with a tile loose in an abandoned town just outside Hastings.

“That was never published in any newspaper.”

“It wasn’t, but I know where the officer lives, and I can confirm the story at your go ahead. A sheriff named Anderson too.”

“I’d read about him. The papers said he’d died by a hunter’s bullet. He sounded like a good man.”

“He was a brick, Frasier. One of a kind. But it was no goddamn hunter. Jack Peach shot him. Ordered by your boss’s best pal.”

It was quiet as Frasier digested Queen’s words.

Frank Frasier was an honorable man, Queen knew. As straight as a razor. The mention of Cahill and Anderson had affected him.

His colleague lit a cigarette for himself, and took a long draw.

“I can’t let you out,” he said. “But I’ll make one call for you. Give me a name, and it’s done.”