The Big Mitt (A Detective Harm Queen Novel Book 1) (14 page)

“May I come in?”

“Certainly,” he said. “I’ll make some coffee.”

“That’d be great.”

In the kitchen, as the man took off his coat and hat, Dix put more wood in the stove, bending with great care. “Sorry it’s a little cold in here. I fell asleep.”

“And I’m sorry to rouse you, Dix. I wouldn’t have come if it wasn’t important.”

“I figured so, John. Let me get this made before we talk about what you came here to talk about.”

Sheriff John Roy was a decent man, and had been enforcing the law nearly as long as Dix Anderson had. They’d swapped uncountable stories together when the Andersons had first arrived in Bemidji. Roy liked to tell him he was glad he could count on a fellow Indian-fighter should the Chippewa decide to come crashing down on them from the deep hardwood forests. Anderson had never fought an Indian in his life, at least not the kind from a Fenimore Cooper story, but they had laughed together nonetheless. Now here was John Roy in his kitchen again, but from his humorless expression, he knew whatever he had to say wouldn’t be a light quip.

“I’m not sure if I should wait, Dix.”

“Well fine, then. Say it now.” Anderson put a plate of gingersnaps on the table. “Help yourself with these, too. The coffee will be ready soon.”

“Got another wire from Sheriff Eagleton in Minot, where you were sheriff. He seems like a good man.”

“Definitely a hard-working fellow. I thought he joked around too much sometimes when he was my deputy. But he was always the first out the door when trouble was brewing.”

Roy’s face was somber. He shifted in his chair, and seemed to will himself to look into Anderson’s eyes. “This is hard news to bear. But I figured I was best to tell it to you.” He wiped the palm of his hand over his mouth. “Eagleton got a telegram from Minneapolis. A second time, after I sent the message with Schmidt. It was from a detective down there by the name of Queen. He said he found Maisy.”

“Where? How? How could it be?” Anderson felt his body tremble, and gripped the wooden table top with both hands.

“She—she’s dead, is what he said. Didn’t say where or how. Says you can contact the city morgue to arrange to have her brought back.” Roy looked down, and rubbed his brow roughly.

Dix Anderson sat silent, holding the table tight, as if to keep it from sliding across the kitchen floor and into the wall. His knuckles trembled and he tried to contain every last ounce of despair from exploding into the air. He’d presumed she had died, but hearing the words, and
now
. Two years after she went missing? And all the time, she’d been in
Minneapolis
? He could have looked harder for her. She had still been somewhere in that city. Had she even been abducted to begin with, or had she started a new life without telling him and Martha? Roy continued to stare down at the puddle of gritty snowmelt underneath his damp boots, not knowing what to say or how to act. The coffee began to boil over, hitting the hot stove with a hiss, sending up puffs of steam. Roy leaped up, grateful to have something to do with his hands. He grabbed a towel, removed the gurgling pot, and poured cups for both of them.

“Perhaps we both need a drink instead,” he said. “Damn, Dix. I am so sorry to have to tell you this.”

Anderson released his grip on the table, letting his arms drop to his side. “When are you going back to Bemidji?” he finally asked.

“I only came to see you.”

“Give me an hour to take care of the animals, and pack a bag. I’ll swing by the Bergs on our way out and ask him to look after things here.”

“You need to go to town to sort out bringing Maisy home?”

“No,” Anderson said, his eyes welling. He got up, walked to a kitchen drawer, and pulled out a thick, worn leather belt, and two holsters holding matching Colt .45 revolvers. The morning light made them glisten and gleam as he drew each out, examined it, and then returned it to its home. Slowly, his hands moved, behind and around, and strapped the belt firmly to his waist. The guns rode high on his hip, the way he’d worn them for forty years.

“I’m going to Minneapolis,” he replied.

No rest for the wicked, Queen thought, as he dropped the coins into the man’s hand. He sat himself in the driver’s seat and took the reins, feeling the jerk as he urged he horse forward. He drove out of the livery stable onto Hennepin Avenue. It was a nice little rig, with an exposed seat in the front for the driver and a companion, and an enclosed compartment in back where he’d put the girls. He’d paid for five hours of its use and figured it would be plenty of time to take care of his task at hand. The livery owner had suggested a sleigh, but he preferred a buggy’s wheels, even though patches of ice and snow still covered the cobblestone pavement.

The sun hadn’t quite yet risen and the day was just beginning on the streets of Minneapolis. Dawn had enveloped the city in a soft purplish glow. A light dusting of snow the night before capped the tops of the street lamps and the awnings of shops he passed. He maneuvered around a wagon full of coal stuck in a gaping pothole, and tipped his hat to a couple of factory girls walking to work, bundled up in thick scarves and coats. The rich aroma of fried steak filled his head as he passed by an awakening restaurant, and it made his stomach growl. When was the last time he’d eaten? A plate of steak and eggs would really taste like a deuce right now, but the sooner he finished this, he reminded himself, the better. He tested the reins a bit, and the horse responded well, making a smart stop as a sleepy-looking night watchman plodded across the street in front of him.

Bridge Square loomed ahead, once the city’s prominent commercial district. He could make out the back end of City Hall as he veered right onto Washington Avenue. The wedge-shaped limestone building sat where Hennepin, Nicollet and Washington Avenues met, and sputtered out at four stories high, with a central tower adding a little extra height. Doc complained bitterly about City Hall whenever he had a chance, rightly declaring it was much too small, poorly ventilated, and a tinder-dry fire-trap ready to bring the building down on itself at the single strike of a match to a cigarette. Others agreed, and a newer City Hall, combined with a courthouse and offices for Hennepin County, was going up a few blocks away. It was partly finished and the Fire Department had already moved its offices there, but the mayor and police were still stuck in this muck hole. Christ, why couldn’t the Fire Department have stayed, he wondered? Who better to deal with a fiery inferno of burning aldermen jumping from windows? On second thought, ridding Minneapolis of some of its aldermen might not be the worst idea in the world. He found himself containing a smile at the thought.

Queen’s buggy rattled down the avenue for three blocks. He yanked his horse to a halt at Third Avenue, directly in front of Milwaukee Depot. This was Minneapolis’ central train station, built just the year before, still sparkling new and sharp as a tack. It was tastefully designed, built of brick and three stories high, with graceful arched doorways and a truss-roofed train shed extending out of its side. The most impressive feature, however, was a 100-foot clock tower, crowned by an elaborate cupola, standing majestically above the depot and staring boastfully over the far-reaching city.

He waited, watching as a few passengers from an early train straggled out the depot’s front door. A couple of boys waving newspapers ran up to a plump, jolly-looking older gentleman wearing an expensive suit and a top hat. They exchanged brief words, and the man reached into his pocket, smiling, and bought papers from both.

“Chilly morning, huh?”

Queen recoiled as a face appeared in his view, in all its weird, leering glory. How does he slip up like that? He motioned to Norbeck to get in.

“Morning, Chris. Had your regular breakfast of liquid courage yet?”

“Nope, not yet. You?” Norbeck winked a bloodshot eye as he pulled himself into the seat next to Queen.

“I don’t drink this early. Usually.”

Norbeck sniggered. “Neither do I, then.”

“Are you trying to imitate me?” asked Queen. “I’m terribly honored.”

“Why the hell would I do that?”

“Don’t know. Just seems that way sometimes.”

“If I want to stay up all night at saloons, I don’t need you to show me how.”

“Fair enough,” Queen replied.

Norbeck took his ointment out and delicately dabbed it over his nose and cheeks. “So where are we going this fine winter’s day?” he asked.

“Couldn’t you have done that before?”

“I can’t help if it feels itchy.”

“You look like some specter belched up in a séance.”

“What’s a séance?”

“You know. Those bughouse spiritualists who think they can talk to the dead and raise ghosts from graveyards.”

Usually Norbeck took great offense at blatant mockery, but this morning he just grinned. Queen never knew whether his good humor was genuine or not, and was no more enlightened today. The ointment, the acne, and his big set of yellow choppers combined were a ghastly sight.

“Boo,” Norbeck said.

Between the hunger pains and Norbeck’s face, Queen felt his stomach turn. He stepped up from his seat, lowered himself to the sidewalk and turned towards the station.

“Where are you going?”

“Pipe down and try not to wake up the city. I see someone I might know. It’ll just take a minute.”

Queen crossed the street to where the boys were sitting on their bundles of newspapers. As he got closer, he recognized the shorter one and called out.

“Ollie!”

As Ollie looked up, Queen saw a flash of fear in his eyes. The other boy, sinewy and rough looking, wore a look of malignant derision under his scruff of wild orange hair. Queen doubled his stride to reach them before they could tie up their papers and run.

“What’s got you so scared?” the detective asked, huffing up to the two. He aimed the question at Ollie, but carefully watched the older boy from the corner of his eye. The boy was chewing on a cigar stub, wore a coat three sizes too big and crossed his arms defiantly. Queen thought the kid’s stare might burn a hole through him. Ollie shoved his hands hard into his pockets, staring down at his brogans. He looked like a tortoise, with his wool cap pulled down tight over curly brown hair.

“Does this guy know who I am?” Queen asked Ollie.

Ollie looked up, glanced quickly at his companion, and then nodded his head once.

The detective turned to the orange haired boy. “What’s your name, son?”

“None o’ your business anyway.”

“Well, if you’re not going to be friendly with me, then get the hell out of here. I don’t have time for you right now, or I’d spank your freckled bum and haul you down to a Central cell for insolence.”

The boy’s face sizzled with fury, and he spat his little cigar nub out onto the sidewalk. “Put me there, I don’t give a damn. I’ll just get out.”

“Listen, I have a matter to discuss with your friend, here. If you know who I am, then you know I have a reputation of pounding down men who prevent me from doing my work. You’re not even close to being a man yet, but I’ll make an exception for you because you’re a snot-nosed little son of a bitch.” Queen lifted his fists like a pugilist and glared at the boy.

“Ha,” he said, his voice breaking slightly. “My name is McCartan, and my pap was Patterfeet McCartan. He knocked out twenty men, includin’ Lou Knockabout in Kansas City. If he was here he’d break your nose and smash your ears.”

“Well he’s not, so scram.”

“He can stay,” Ollie said.

“No, he can’t,” Queen replied.

“If you want to talk to me, then he stays.”

“Why? Is this fellow part of the gang you told me about?”

McCartan curled his lip into a snarl and he turned to Ollie. “You told him about our gang?”

“I just told him he could find me here. Nothin’ else.”

Queen leaned in towards the orange-haired newsboy. “He told me a lot. He told me you were the toughest gang of boys in Minneapolis. He said, Don’t mess with this McCartan fella either. The worst delinquent in the city.”

“The city? Ha! Try the state. I spent three years at the Red Wing Reformatory. And as for our gang? We’re the toughest in Minneapolis, and we’re just gettin’ goin’.”

“I don’t know about that. I’ve seen plenty of bad ones. What do you call yourselves?”

“Ain’t gonna tell you,” McCartan said, smirking at his secret.

Queen scratched his chin thoughtfully. “In some circles I’m considered the best detective in Minneapolis. Did you know that?”

“Sure,” said McCartan. “What of it? That don’t scare me.”

“Well,” Queen continued. “Every great detective needs a nemesis. An enemy as smart as he is. Have you ever read Sherlock Holmes?”

Ollie mouthed a “Yes” as McCartan shrugged indifferently.

“He’s from England, and every so often he knocks heads with a devious criminal called Professor Moriarty. I’ve got some of the stories at home, too, if you’re interested in reading them.”

“He can’t rea –” Ollie started, before McCartan gave him a shove in the head.

“Maybe I will,” the orange-headed boy said, puffing up his chest a little. “I like to spread out around the fire at night with a bottle of Duffy’s Pure and a newspaper sometimes. I even got some copies of the
New York World
. I think them Yellow Kid pictures are super.”