Ill-Fame (A Detective Harm Queen Novel Book 2) (9 page)

He knocked on the brothel’s door, and a young woman dressed as a maid answered. She looked at him with shock.

“You’re supposed to bring that to the back! You can’t come through the front door!”

“It ain’t that busy, is it?” Queen asked with a wink, and pushed past her, stepping onto the velvet carpet of the bordello’s reception room. He’d been in enough brothels in his life to understand what went on here. He looked around at the girls who lounged on upholstered chairs and settees, waiting to meet their prospective clients, and then to a man sitting at a baby grand piano.

“Where should I put this?” he shouted, to no one in particular. “I ain’t never been here before, so I don’t know!” Snorre laughed merrily behind him.

An elegant woman stepped out of an adjoining door and into his path, hands behind her back. He knew who she was.

“Madame Clifford, I’d imagine.” He’d blackened one of his teeth for effect while in the wagon, and lit a grin to dazzle the room. If she was disgusted by Queen’s appearance, however, she didn’t let on. Instead, she looked at him like a stern teacher might react to a boy caught tramping through the classroom without first wiping his boots.

“You’re at the wrong house,” she said.

He looked at her quizzically, as he adjusted the coal sack on his shoulder. “Ain’t this 147 Washington? I coulda sworn this is where my boss told me to go. He does this sometimes, giving me wrong addresses. Here, I got it written down on a piece of paper in my pocket. Reach in and grab it for me, would you?”

“I will not,” she said, unmoved. The piano man, who he assumed was the chucker-outer, stood up and moved to her side.

Queen shrugged. “I’ll do it, then.”

He dropped the bag of coal on the floor and it burst on impact, sending coal skittering over the floor and a cloud of noxious black dust into the air. Madame Clifford put her hand over her mouth and backed away into her office, and Queen gave the bag a couple of kicks to increase the sooty haze.

“Make sure the bruiser doesn’t follow me,” Queen said, turning to Snorre, but Snorre had already moved forward, wrench in hand, to battle the musician.

Queen peered through the dust, trying to make out where the girls had gone, listening for their dainty coughs. They were running to their rooms, most likely, but he wasn’t sure which way that was. One of them had to be Maisy Anderson, though, and he was determined to find her. Through the ballroom he ran, gun drawn. A staircase appeared through a second door, and he bounded up the steps. He could hear doors slamming and locking above him. When he reached the top, he started trying the knobs, and when they didn’t cooperate, he used his shoulder to break them down.

He ignored the young prostitutes’ cries of protest, and shouted over the hysterical ones. “Are you Maisy Anderson? Are you Maisy Anderson?”

A succession of shaking, sobbing heads were left behind him, until he’d checked every door but one.

The detective took a deep breath. This would be her, he just knew.

It was ajar, and he pushed it open cautiously. It creaked a little and then swung to expose the room.

A woman stood in front of him, with a man next to her. She blinked her eyes rapidly, a look of stunned surprise on her lovely face.

“Harm? Is that you?”

Queen’s face went flush, and he felt his heart rip through his chest.

It was Karoline.

CHAPTER 11

It was damp here. Damp and cold and miserable beyond measure. He pulled on the edges of his coat, trying to make them meet his stomach in the middle, as he sat on the concrete floor. The gun shook in his hand, and he had to remind himself to point it forward. He’d never been fond of guns. Even as a Minneapolis police officer, he’d left his service revolver in the bureau drawer next to his long-johns more mornings than not.

Martin Baum had preferred a pencil, and had anchored a seat in various Minneapolis precinct stations for thirty years, doing his duty like a good soldier should. Mayor Ames hadn’t seen fit to take him into his new term, though, and he’d been kicked like a beaten dog into the cold winter night. And that goddamn chief of detectives, Harm Queen, was to blame. He was sure of it.

How he’d managed to keep himself alive the last few months he didn’t fully know. His wife had toed him to the gutter after he’d lost his job, and with no income, he could barely afford the rat-infested flophouse bed he slept in. His solace was in the dregs of a cup, but it only hid the pain for a while. When the whiskey inevitably ran out, he got even more desperate, and had even stolen kerosene from unguarded lamps to mix with water and sip until he couldn’t stand. It was an excruciating existence. Every day when he awoke from sleep, he damned God that his eyes had opened once more.

When he’d received the message from Maisy he’d hoped for forgiveness. It was all he could think of as he and the chambermaid had ridden the trolley to meet her. He’d prayed for so long for someone to pay attention to him. After she’d disappeared from Hell’s Half Acre, he’d lost track of her. What joy, to discover that she was alive and well, and asking to see him.

When they’d reunited she’d been furious, but he expected her anger would dissipate in time. There were too many happy memories for her to so cruelly sever their bonds. When she’d been younger, and she and her grandparents had visited Minneapolis, they’d stayed with him and his wife. He and Maisy had played together often, and when he’d teased her she’d gotten mad. She’d called him her bad Uncle Martin, and then skulked away for a few minutes, before cracking her sweet smile and jumping into his arms. He knew things were more serious now, and her accusations were cold, but she’d realize the error of her beliefs. His true character, in the end, would shine through.

Once he helped her, she’d realize it.

He could hear her faint breath as she crouched near the far wall of the black room. He wanted to go over to her, and to stroke her hair, and tell her not to be afraid. The problem, though, was that he was terrified himself.

They waited for a door to open in this darkened basement, a door that led to God knows where. A door that was about to produce a bona fide villain of terrible proportions. Jiggs Kilbane was not a man to surprise in this manner. There were stories, horrific stories, of the gruesome trail of blood that trickled in his wake. Beatings. Torture. Murder.

Baum was not cut out for this. He’d never taken a life in this way before. He’d never stood in wait for a man to appear, just to gun him down. But he had to. This was the only way to get forgiveness.

From a far distance, he heard church bells. Slowly they tolled, and he counted to eleven. He could tell Maisy was counting too, because she shifted in her seat when they ceased their knelling. He heard her suck in her breath, as if to draw the very last gasp of damp air from this cold hell.

And then the doorknob turned, and it groaned open. He saw Maisy’s dim outline jump at the sound, and felt his own body jolt upright. A figure strode out, holding a lantern that spewed yellow light across the room.

Martin Baum rose, his arm extended, and pointed the gun at the man. His hand was so wet that he wasn’t sure he could keep a grip, but he managed to pull the hammer back with his thumb. The man swung the lantern at the sound of the click, and suddenly Baum was blinded by the light. He fell back a step, and in a half a second the man was next to him. He wrenched the gun away from Baum with a quick twist, and tossed it across the room.

Baum’s arm burst into pain as the man pushed him, and he stumbled into the wall.

“What is this?” the man demanded.

He had no answer. He was panicked. Panicked, he realized, not because of the man who threatened him, but because he was failing in his duty to Maisy. He had to know she didn’t blame him for not pulling the trigger. There hadn’t been enough time.

He had to see it in her face. The man followed Baum’s head turn with his own, and saw her as he held up the lantern.

Oh, Christ, what have I done?
Baum wondered.
I can’t leave her again.
He reached out and grasped at the man, and his fingers tangled into some kind of string, and then something cold.

But a blow from the man’s fist to Baum’s gut made his legs crumple beneath him, and he went down onto the cold floor, rolling in agony. He looked up, trying to make out Maisy, but the lantern light was gone now, and it was black again. Only footsteps, and then her scream. He squeezed his wet eyes shut in humiliation.

“Karoline.”

“Harm, what are you doing here?”

He curled his hands into fists, and moved towards the strange man, who had his back to him. The man turned, and Queen felt a rush of relief when he saw a stethoscope around his neck. Behind him, a girl lay on a bed. This wasn’t what he thought it was, and then felt guilty for even thinking ill of his fiancée. He’d walked into some kind of medical examination, and it made sense, then, that Karoline would be here, although he’d thought she was at home, preparing to leave.

Queen lowered his gun, and then held up his hand. “I can explain, Karoline. I can. I’m looking for the girl. She’s supposed to be here.”

“But why are you dressed like that? And where are the others? Shouldn’t there be Saint Paul police officers with you?”

He, of course, had no good answer for her, but the urgency of the search was too much ignore. He looked at the girl on the bed, who stared back, gape-mouthed.

“Is your name Maisy Anderson?”

She shook her head, eyes as wide as hens’ eggs.

“You don’t have to be afraid. I’m here because of your grandfather.”

“Can’t you see, Harm? It isn’t her.”

Karoline’s face had tightened into a confused frown. Rarely had he ever seen her nettled, but at this moment, he felt that she might be. He also realized that he had no acceptable excuse for being here. She’d asked him not to risk himself by coming to Saint Paul alone and here he was. Big Snorre’s presence would offer little consolation, and would most likely only implicate her brother Peder in this admittedly half-cocked plan. It was best to come clean.

“I’d agreed not to come, I know, but Karoline, I received a legitimate tip that she might be here. I didn’t want to worry you.”

“So instead, you went behind my back.”

“Yes,” was all he could muster.

She turned to the doctor. “I apologize for this. This is the man I am engaged to. His name is Harmon Queen, and he is a detective with the Minneapolis Police Department. He is here to rescue a girl from the clutches of slavers, although I’d never expected a brothel at this level to engage in such activities.”

The doctor, a slender man with spectacles, gave an uncomfortable nod.

“I know nothing of such activities. But I appreciate you coming to my aid today, Miss Ulland, and at such short notice. I feel much more at ease having a lady by my side during exams to answer some of the more delicate questions.”

“Certainly, doctor.” She looked at Queen, her head cocked slightly. “Did you assume the worst of me?”

“I was shocked, a little....”

“But I have an acceptable reason for being here, do I not?”

“Well, you’ve gone beyond your usual geographical range....”

“I will ask again, Harm. Do you understand the nature of my presence?”

“Yes, dearest. Of course.”

Pain shone from in her eyes. “Well, I can’t say the same for you, Harm. Please go and find the girl.”

“I’ll come to see you this afternoon, Karoline, I promise.”

She wiped her hands on her apron, and tried to look unaffected, but she was never one to be able to mask her hurt.

“If I see you today, Harm, we can talk. If not...” She choked back a tear.

Karoline didn’t have to continue. Their relationship would be over if she left for Chicago before he could see her. And he needed to explain. To ask for absolution.

“I’ll be at your house, Karoline. Of that, I swear. But I have to go, now, before things get out of hand.”

She turned her head and shut the door, leaving him standing, staring at nothing. He desperately wanted a few minutes to absorb their conversation, this monumental shift in their relationship.

But if Maisy Anderson was really in this building, this was his only chance, and he had to act now.

Big Snorre had landed his blows, as the musician lay doubled up at the Norwegian’s feet. He looked expectantly at Queen when the detective entered the reception room. Queen shook his head, and pointed upstairs.

“Karoline,” was all he needed to say. Snorre’s face broke into worry. “Take her home. Do you understand?”

“Ya, ya, Q-veen.” The big man lumbered out, and Queen walked into Madame Clifford’s office. She was on the telephone, receiver to her ear, when he pulled the cord from the wall.

“I apologize, Madame.” He pulled out his wad, and counted out ten dollars. “That should cover the cleaning and repair costs.”

“I know who you are,” she said. “And your reputation is loathsome, Detective Queen.”

“You’re not the first to remind me of that, Madame. Please allow me, though, to explain my presence.”

“And you couldn’t have done that from the beginning? Instead of dirtying my floors, frightening my girls, and beating my musician?”

“Without the ruse, I thought I might be turned away at the door.”

“You would have been.” She stood up from her desk, and came around to meet him. She was an impressive-looking woman, he conceded. She had to be formidable, considering her difficult line of work. He’d met countless madams in his time as a police officer, but Nina Clifford was special. Many said she was as powerful as any man in Saint Paul, with the exception of James J. Hill, perhaps. He considered his theatrical entrance for a moment, and wondered whether it would further foul his standing in this city. On second thought, however, he was glad to have caused such a spectacle. He liked attention from those who pulled strings, and she certainly wouldn’t forget him after this.

“There is a girl in your employ.”