Ill-Fame (A Detective Harm Queen Novel Book 2) (24 page)

He gritted his teeth, bent his knees and leaped to the houseboat’s deck. He landed, rolled, and grabbed his knee as it screamed in pain. Willing himself to ignore the searing burn, he grabbed his pistol from its holster and pulled himself onto his feet. He felt the cool river breeze on his neck, and turned around to see that he’d landed in the boat’s aft. If the houseboat had been a few feet farther away he was certain he’d have dropped into the dark, choppy current.

A noise, like a heavy footstep, suddenly came from the top of the cabin. He took a step back and craned his neck up to see, and then felt the weight of a body come down hard on top of him, knocking him down. The gun flew from Queen’s hand, and he heard it skitter across the deck. The man who pinned him stared directly into his face. He had a cropped head of white hair, and a face lined like a deep maze.

“
Mon ami
,” he said. “I have nothing against you personally.”

“How about the fact that I take orders from Mayor Ames?” he huffed, trying to catch his breath. “Does that change your opinion of me?”

“I do not know Mayor Ames,” the man said with a little frown. “But he is from Minneapolis, no? Why would you come here, just for me?”

“Why would you send the mayor a letter threatening to kill him?”

“I don’t believe,” the man said with a gentle smile, “that I’m under any obligation to answer you. I have the upper hand.”

“You’re wax, Loftus. The jig is up. I know your real name, I know your history at the Theater Comique and I know you’re suddenly tin-rich.”

“Ha!” The man shifted his weight onto Queen’s chest, crushing it with his own. “You know the truth, eh? Or is it simply the truth as you perceive it?”

“I know you’re not French. I know you had Martin Baum rub out Kilbane, and I know you took a raft of green that was never yours.”

“From what I’ve heard,” Loftus replied, “you wanted Kilbane, how do you Americans say it? In a domino box? I did us both a good turn.”

“Quit with the one-minute act, Loftus. You’re as American as John Philip Sousa conducting ‘Stars and Stripes Forever’ on a Fourth of July picnic in Washington D.C.”

And this mercurial grifter also knew who Queen was. It wasn’t actually such a surprise, he thought. If Loftus had the brains and moxie to toady his way to Jiggs Kilbane’s right side, he’d most likely done some thorough research on potential adversaries. And Loftus had performed plenty of research as a failed playwright, had he not? It would have been easy for him to gather his information and bide his time, while using his evident stage combat skills and acting ability to infiltrate the gangster’s inner circle.

One thing was obvious: the man was tough as nails. He had the detective on the ropes, after all. Queen barely had room to wriggle under Loftus’s weight.

“I understand that your brief foray into the world of play writing fifteen years ago poisoned your views towards Captain Hill and your critics, but how does that lead to anarchy?”

“I owe you no explanations, detective.” He put his hand around Queen’s throat and began to slowly squeeze. “I’m giving you the courtesy of actually speaking to you now, because I pity you and your false beliefs. Even under more casual circumstances, I’d refuse to acknowledge your phony authority. But none of that matters now. Your doctor will be dead at tomorrow morning’s graduation ceremony, and there will be nothing you can do.”

Queen could do nothing more than give a short gasp as his windpipe closed. Then pure panic followed as his head went light and he watched the skyline of Saint Paul begin to spin in a million flashes of electric light. He grabbed at Loftus’s forearms, but they were made of solid muscle and didn’t budge. This is not how he wanted things to end, he told himself, tears welling involuntarily in his eyes. In desperation he pounded on the man’s back, and then jabbed at his face, but his aim was wobbly and his strength was weak, and Loftus remained calm. Not even a flinch.

Queen’s chest heaved as he fought for a precious breath of air. His eyes closed, and he fought back the darkness that was trying to take grip. Loftus bent over him, tightening his death-choke even more, and Queen felt his hands tearing at the wool sash around the man’s waist, trying to rip it off. He thought for a split second about forming a garrote with the fabric to strangle his attacker. But then the man’s coat fell open and Queen heard a clink against the wooden deck. His fingers probed and he snatched the object up, feeling its shape to confirm its identity.

It was an awl, it was sharp, and it was his goddamn lucky day.

Queen swung it into Loftus’s shoulder, and felt the man’s fingers release his throat. He heaved the awl forward again, this time into Loftus’s chest. His foe grunted and fell back with a grimace, holding the wound with the palm of his hand. Queen lunged for his gun as he sucked in the wondrous night air, grateful to be breathing again. Revolver in hand, he whipped around, but Loftus was gone.

Then a sound of a splash, and Queen dragged himself to the side and looked over. Loftus was swimming now, swimming upstream at a breakneck pace. That takes one hell of a load of stamina,
he
thought, to brave the icy spring water. He watched in awe and disbelief as Loftus moved past the Robert Street Bridge, his arms arcing through the water in strong, swift motions.

CHAPTER 31

The desire to be part of the action was too strong for her to stay back. She’d hiked up her skirt like a sailor, sneaked forward to the sounds of the detectives’ voices, and had watched, enraptured, as Frasier had strolled up to the men without even drawing his weapon. She then saw Queen board the steamboat, jump to the houseboat, and scuffle with Henri on the deck. She’d also heard the splash and was worried that Detective Queen might have fallen overboard. She’d run back to where she’d seen a rowboat bobbing in the murky water close to the dock, and had clambered in and started rowing.

There was nothing a man could do that she couldn’t, she knew, thanks to her grandfather’s careful tutelage, and she’d rowed boats many times in the lakes of northern Minnesota. It was easy for her to get her rhythm, and soon had reached the edge of the houseboat’s rusty hull. She looked up, and Queen looked down.

“You were supposed to wait.”

“I apologize for not minding your request, detective, but time is of the essence. He’s almost to the island.”

She held her hand to the scow to stabilize the rowboat, and watched Queen lift himself over the side and drop into the boat with a grunt. They looked at each other for a moment in the bobbing boat.

“Thank you,” he said. “I’ll take those oars, Miss Anderson, if you’d be so kind.”

While she knew she could row the boat across the river herself, she didn’t want to get in the way of chivalry either, so she acquiesced and passed the handles to him. He began his clumsy strokes, and coughed a little to get his breath.

“Perhaps it is better that you watch for where he goes ashore. My eyesight isn’t as good as yours, I fear,” she lied.

“Very well, Miss Anderson.” He twisted his torso to see over the dark waters, and she took back the oars. They glided forward through the night, under the sweeping city bridges. It was twenty minutes of firm rowing before she caught a glimpse of Henri, swimming under a patch of moonlight. He was headed towards Harriet Island. Above the black water stood a long pavilion with a series of doors. A peaked gable in the very center appeared to mark the main entrance from the beach side.

“Those are the Saint Paul Free Public Baths,” she said, to break the silence, and because her nerves were tense. “Have you heard of those, Detective Queen?”

“Only second hand, in conversation. How do people get to the island from the opposite side?”

“There is a long footbridge which connects the two. It opened last year for the first time and the new season starts in July. Many people in Saint Paul have no water to bathe in, and it’s healthy in the summer months. Only two pennies, for a suit, towel and a cake of soap. Madame Clifford escorted us twice, last year. She warned us not to burn our backs while sunning,” she said with a grim chuckle.

Queen looked back at her, but wasn’t willing to share her joke. She got the sense from him that young women in brothels did not amuse him in any way.

“Let me at those oars, Miss Anderson. You’ve had enough,” he said, and before she could answer, he had taken them from her, and was pulling with all his might on a slow but firm course towards the brink.

The shore of Harriet Island had no easy place to land, at least not with the river this high. Two feet of water covered the white-sand beach, and it lapped up against a cement embankment. Maisy sunk the oar into sand and tried to keep the rocking boat steady, as Queen stretched his foot to dry land. His knees creaked and cracked but he managed to pull himself to a full stand.

“Hand me the rope,” he said. She complied, tossing the end into his hands. He tied it to an iron mooring sunk into the concrete.

“Shout if you need me,” he whispered, and turned to survey the grounds.

The moon’s light spilled across the set of stairs nearest him, revealing wet footprints. They led to the pavilion, and he followed, watching the windows and doors for any sign of movement.

Queen considered what he’d actually do if he caught this rogue actor. Seaver Loftus was twenty years older than him at least, but in far better physical condition. Queen had his pistol, which was his only chance, but it was a good one. There had been no sign that Loftus had a gun of his own, so he hoped that would be his advantage.

The watery prints led up to one of the pavilion’s doors, but then continued on. Queen tried the door. It was locked. He continued along the building’s side, watching the prints get fainter and fainter, until the water had disappeared and he no longer had a trail. His finger touched his revolver’s trigger, and he listened for any noise. The scuff of a shoe on a cement pathway, perhaps, or the heavy breaths of a man who had just swam across an ice-cold river. Seaver Loftus, however, if near by, was skilled at keeping silent.

Once he reached the end of the pavilion, he eased his way around the corner, and continued forward. Even in the dark, he could tell that it was a beautifully groomed space, with trimmed grass and large shade trees to help keep people cool as they ate their lunches in the heat of summer. What a wonderful place to visit with Karoline, he thought, then immediately kicked himself for thinking it. He was chasing a possible assassin, and could ill afford idle thoughts of love.

“Detective Queen.”

He heard the voice from above, and slammed his body against the wall. There was no way this bastard was going to jump from a roof onto him again.

“Detective Queen. I don’t have a gun.”

“I figured so.”

“I’d like to make a deal with you.”

“Why would you do that? I thought you don’t speak to people in positions of authority. And I, as sure as hell, am that.” Queen was ready to collapse, and this man had climbed up onto a building after swimming up river. How did he do it, and what was his game?

“I have a good vantage point here,” the actor called down, “and your friend, the Saint Paul detective, is approaching the foot bridge. It’s the only way out, except for your boat.”

“Why don’t you make a deal with him, then?”

He heard Loftus give a weary laugh. “We both know he doesn’t make deals.”

“But I do?”

Another laugh. “Yes. You work for Mayor Ames.”

“Who you want to kill.”

“The thought had crossed my mind, I will admit.”

“But now you don’t?”

“I will leave Minnesota tonight, I swear, and never, ever come back.”

A trickle of dirt fell over the side, and the man’s feet suddenly swung over.

“I have to sit down, Detective. That swim made me tired. Please, let me tell you my terms.”

Queen said nothing, and rubbed his sore shoulder.

“I have over ten thousand dollars in a satchel next to me, and I’d like to give you half of it. How much do you make in one month?”

“Seventy dollars.”

“I know you have other sources of income, detective, far greater than your petty salary. Those of us who pay attention to these things know that you’re on the take in a thousand different ways. But five thousand can make you that much more comfortable.”

“You’re a hoo-doo, Loftus. A charlatan and a petty thief. You’ve been prancing about town faking a French accent and pretending to be a gangster. How do I know you’re not working a sharp bargain on me right now?”

“I’m simply a humble actor, detective. I’m not a con artist. I only want a way out of my unfortunate situation.”

“And If I’m so goddamn rich, why do I need your cush?”

Loftus slid off the roof, his satchel in hand, and landed like a cat in front of Queen.

“Once corrupt, always corrupt,
mon ami
.” He handed the bag to Queen and smiled.

CHAPTER 32

A raindrop splattered on his forehead, and he opened his eyes. Next to him, her head on his shoulder, was Maisy.

The detective straightened carefully, so as not to disturb her. They had fallen asleep on the seat of his gig.

He looked up at the ominous sky, swirled in gray shades, and he pulled his derby down tight. How in the hell could they have fallen asleep in the worst part of Saint Paul? He patted his pockets, and his gun was still there. So was his watch, and his roll of bills. Had they really made it through the night without being robbed, beaten or worse? What a lucky turn that had been.

Then Arthur, who must have heard him wake, gave a whinny, and it brought Maisy’s head up.

“Good morning,” he said.

“We were only going to close our eyes for a few minutes,” she said groggily. Her shoulder lingered on Queen’s for a moment, and the detective felt a guilty stir of arousal.

“It was longer than that.”

“What time is it?”

He looked at his watch. “Nine-thirty.”

“But the graduation ceremony starts at ten. And I’ve been out all night! What will Dick think?” Alarm eclipsed her face, and she looked at Queen beseechingly. “We must go. I must change!”