The Big Mitt (A Detective Harm Queen Novel Book 1) (6 page)

“What did he look like? What was his name?”

“Tall, and wears glasses. Never told me his name, but she called him Ace. She said he was waiting for a big inheritance. I think it was a crock of shit. He was just feeding her a story to make himself look important.”

“Where can I find you if I need to talk to you again?”

“I’ve got friends who sell papers at the train station. They all know me there.”

Queen pulled out a couple of dimes and gave them to the boy. “Keep on the lookout for any sign of Dander or his party. Come find me at City Hall if you hear anything. I work there.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Ollie. He looked back at the girl, who was being lifted up by the coroner workers. One of them grunted as her leg slipped out of his grasp, hitting the ground. “I’m glad I gave her my jacket. She looks a little warmer with it on, even though she’s dead,” Ollie said.

“That’s yours? Nice of you to give it to her. When did you do that?”

“Just before she ran out. You can let her keep it, if you don’t mind.” He sniffed up a trickle of snot running over his upper lip. “You’ll find out her whole name, and tell her parents, right?”

“Did she mention parents?”

“She said she was from North Dakota. Her dad or granddad is a sheriff there, she said.”

Queen raised his eyebrow. “Really? Did she mention a town?”

“Something funny sounding. It started with an m. Like ‘minuet,’ maybe.”

“Minot?”

“Yeah, that’s it.” He paused to think. “That should make it easier for you, shouldn’t it?”

“It should.” He took out his notebook and a pencil and wrote it down. When he looked back up Ollie was already gone, darting down the alley. The boy pivoted and disappeared between two particularly vile looking shacks.

“Son of a bitch,” someone said in an exasperated voice.

It was one of the workers who’d carried the girl to the wagon. They were struggling with her gown, which had snagged on the door. The bigger of the two had dropped her head and torso in the snow. A hoot came from the
Tribune
reporter, standing back a distance under Norbeck’s watchful eye.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Queen roared, incensed. The attendant saw him coming and stepped back, mouth agape to see the notorious Detective Queen charging him like a starving terrier after a rat.

“Sir, sir, I’m sorry, sir.” He held up his hand. “I stuck my finger on something sharp.” Queen could see it was bleeding, but it didn’t mute his anger.

“Where is Keeper Walsh? He should be supervising this.”

“Away with his wife’s family for New Year’s holiday.”

“And when will he return?”

“Later today, sir, is what we were told.”

“Will there be a surgeon to examine the body? Will the coroner be there?”

“I’m not sure, sir,” the worker said, backing up farther as Queen stood over the girl. The detective picked her up gingerly from the snow and placed her into the wagon.

Queen tucked her gown around her legs to cover the bruises. Then he called Norbeck over. “When you’re done with those two reporters, follow the body to the morgue. I want to know what kind of bullet they shake up.”

“Jesus, Queen. You order me around like you’re my boss. We’re both lieutenants, for god’s sake.” His awful smile scrunched up the red bumps on his face.

“I’ve got the inside track on who’s staying and who’s going, and let’s just say that you’re not a goddamn shoo-in, Chris.”

“What does that mean? Who told you that?”

Queen sighed. “Never mind. Just do what I say. Tell those two not to write anything about this yet.”

“That’s like telling a thirsty Irishman swimming in whiskey not to open his mouth.”

“Tell ‘em it’s a personal request straight from the mayor-elect.”

“So what’s this about me not keeping my job?”

“I know you hustled hard on his campaign, but you know just as well as I do that everything is up in the air right now.”

“But who told you?”

“Just things floating around. Nobody has officially told me anything. Forget it, Chris. It’ll all be sorted out soon. Go do your job.”

Norbeck trudged back to deliver his news to the reporters.

Queen gave one last look at the girl as the coroner’s assistant shut the wagon door. I’m going to try my damnedest to find the person who did this, he thought. The facts would seem to put Dander at the top of the suspect list. He didn’t see Dander as the type to actually commit a murder, but giving the order was another story, and he had plenty of hangers-on who could have pulled the trigger. Maisy had obviously been attempting to escape, and from his examination of her living conditions he didn’t blame her. From Ollie’s account, Higgins had probably been after her, and might have followed her to the back yard. Queen could see it all playing out in his mind. She had climbed to the very top of the fence, she was shot, and she fell, probably dying with the final, terrible thought that she had failed and Dander had won. He shook his head.

Dander could have her killed in a moment of rage, but he was a meticulous and calculating man, and he valued his business and the money he was making. Queen couldn’t believe he’d be so stupid, unless his anger was so consuming that he went insane for a brief, terrible moment.

Or, could there have been someone else entirely, a shooter who had waited in this snow-covered filth, ready to blast to heaven a girl running for her life and frightened out of her wits? Perhaps, but it would depend on whether Maisy was facing the house or her freedom when she was hit. And if she had been killed from the alley, then what was the motive? A spurned lover? The only motive he could think of was jealousy. Someone head over heels for her, who couldn’t bear sharing her with the rest of the city. But even that would mean an incredible coincidence. What would be the chances of a lover just happening to be strolling along the alley on a moonlit walk in Hell’s Half Acre when his beloved decides to escape? She’d seen plenty of men, he was sure, but Ollie seemed pretty confident that one particular client deserved a closer look. However, finding a man nicknamed Ace would be tough going. If he was as high-strung and panicky as Ollie claimed, using his real name at a house of ill-repute, even to the woman he supposedly loved, wouldn’t have been a smart decision. He would start by assuming Ace was intelligent, and wait to be convinced otherwise.

The wagon lurched forward and headed down the alley. Queen was tired out, and suddenly felt the strain of the last couple of days wallop his body. There was too much to do, however, for the sleep he knew he needed. His thoughts turned towards his meeting with Doc at the end of the week, and suddenly he felt a pang of nervousness. Months of pandering and bribing and back-slapping in union halls, warehouses and back rooms of saloons for the chance at promotion, and it might all come down to solving this murder. He had stuck by Doc Ames for as long as he had been employed with the police department, and had defended him, often with his fists. And, if the new Mayor was going to do what Queen suspected he would with the police department, he’d need someone trustworthy to handle the changeover. He buttoned up his coat at the sudden wind, and thought about the possibilities. There was green to be made, and he savored the idea.

And then he noticed it, sticking out of the trampled snow. It was shiny, and wrapped in a bit of the silk fabric from the girl’s gown. It was what had snagged in the door and pricked the morgue worker’s finger. He bent down to pick it up.

Slowly, he held the stickpin up to the light, grimaced with understanding, and put it in his pocket.

Oh hell, he thought.

CHAPTER 3

“
W
HAT THE DEUCE?”
Q
UEEN MUTTERED AS
he stepped into the anteroom of Doc Ames’s medical office.

The room was in complete chaos. Men crowded together, leaning against walls, sitting on chairs and tables, smoking cigarettes and conversing loudly. A few passed flasks with quick, sly movements. He’d arrived a little early for his appointment, wanting to get a good long glimpse at the general character of the job hopefuls. After a few minutes he felt his suspicions were proving true. There were just as many crooks and thugs waiting for their turn with the old man as there were regular-looking men. Probably more so by the looks of it. He stared, stunned, when he recognized a couple of fellows he had collared only weeks before idling in a doorway. One of them turned and locked eyes with him, and then quickly turned away, lowering his voice and pulling his hat down over his face. Another man he recognized as a burglar, a well-known thorn in the side of Minneapolis detectives for years, actually walked up to him, chuckling nervously, and extended a hand. Queen was so surprised he just about took it. Instead, he scowled, scaring the fellow white. There were cops already on the force waiting there too, and Queen turned his attention to the ones he knew best, giving them brief words of encouragement and even a forced, friendly smile for a few. He’d been to some of the precinct stations over the week and knew how petrified many of the officers had been after receiving their invitations to meet with Doc. From police captains on down to the beat walking patrolmen, there was widespread confusion. Some had gotten requests to meet with the Mayor-elect, while others had heard nary a word. No one knew what these invitations meant, and everyone had their own ideas about what the new administration would bring.

Queen went to stand by himself. He pulled his own flask from a coat pocket and drew a nice long sip of whiskey, trying to banish his anxious thoughts and let the past week’s worries ebb away. It had been busy for him, and while he had managed to file his reports on the girl’s murder, his follow-up on Emil Dander had led to exactly nothing. He had searched the gang’s regular haunts, but was met with shrugs or empty expressions. Saloonkeepers knew Queen could make a living hell for them, so for the most part he believed their exclamations of ignorance. Still, even those he didn’t trust a mite managed looks of confusion as he strode behind their bars, showed his badge, and shook them around a little.

He’d also sent a telegram up to Minot, but had been disappointed after he received a curt response from the local sheriff, who claimed no children and wished him good luck. After this dead end, Queen had referenced a gazetteer for the possibility of other similar-sounding North Dakota names, but found none that he thought might have caused confusion for Ollie. He figured finding Dander and the girls traveling with him would reveal her identity faster than sending messages to every little town in North Dakota.

He put the flask back in his pocket, and felt the prick of the stickpin on his finger. He’d already examined it a good dozen times since he had found it. The stickpin was encrusted with rubies and a little rich for his tastes, although admittedly he knew nothing of fancy jewelry. He continued to finger the pin, obsessively running his thumb over the jewels. Queen had seen this piece before. The problem, though, was that the man who owned it was almost six years dead, hanged by the state of Minnesota.

Queen and Harry Hayward had crossed paths many times. They’d frequented the same billiard room at the West Hotel and even made some underhanded money together. Their relationship had been one of shared masculine amusements, but also of mutual accommodation. Hayward had had an uncanny ability to straddle the line between the classes. His parents were wealthy, and he included as his companions some of the finest sons of gentlemen in Minneapolis. Likewise, he had fancied himself a criminal genius, and aspired to create his own wealth through whatever means was required, since his parents had long before stopped funding his excessive lifestyle. Queen had found Hayward’s balancing act between worlds beneficial for solving the city’s crime, but also for lining his own pockets. From Hayward’s perspective, Queen was there to help him out of a jam when he got into things over his head. Never had Queen imagined though, in all of his dealings with Hayward, that he would be capable of murdering a young woman.

Her name had been Kitty Ging, and her innocuous occupation as a seamstress masked a seamier story that shocked even the toughened detective. The newspapers had uncovered every gory and titillating detail, of how Hayward had seduced the homely girl and persuaded her to let him take out a life insurance policy against her. Blinded by love, she’d readily accepted, in part because he had promised to fund a sewing business for her, but also because he was charming and handsome. He’d also convinced her he was part of a shadowy underworld gang, and was about to let her in on its criminal plans. This promise is what he used to lure her into a carriage on a snowy December night, for a ride around Lake Calhoun and a supposed rendezvous with his mysterious cohorts.