Ill-Fame (A Detective Harm Queen Novel Book 2) (8 page)

“Pigs,” Pock muttered.

“Keep your mug shut,” Queen shot back in a harsh whisper.

“Why should I?” Pock asked, turning to the detective. “Look at these buffoons, see?” He pointed to an elegantly dressed woman leisurely pushing a baby carriage on the wood plank sidewalk. “For the price of that lady’s dress, you could buy brand-new stumps for a dozen gimps. Why does she deserve that and they don’t deserve stumps?”

“Need I remind you that you shot a captive girl? I didn’t bring you here to engage in discourse over goddamn social disparity or the price of wooden legs. You’re here to help me. To redeem yourself, Pock. Save your hypocritical cheek for another time. You can actually do some good today. Make up for some of the pain and misery you’ve caused in your worthless life.”

The words had some effect. Pock shut up, and stared sullenly down at his lap.

Much better, Queen thought.

Quiet.

Then Pock looked up, and he spoke in a low, scratchy voice.

“I’m trying, Queen.”

“Trying what?”

“Trying to be good.”

“So good that you bit someone’s finger off?”

“I couldn’t control myself. It got away from me. That boy, with his slick hair and his smug face, he ignored me. Didn’t want to hear what I had to say.”

Queen didn’t know how to respond. He’d never expected that from Pock. He’d never expected anything at all.

“When we get there, stay in the wagon. Do you understand?” was all the detective could think of.

Pock nodded, and dropped his head.

CHAPTER 9

She awoke to a cool draft from the open window. She looked next to her in the bed. He was gone, as she’d asked. Already she felt his loss in the pit of her stomach. It had been a detestable way to end their relationship.

A quiet knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. When she answered and saw Maple, she felt horrible. The poor girl was dirty from head to toe, and swaying with exhaustion. Still, the young chambermaid managed a smile.

“I did it, Miss Boyce. I delivered them.”

“Good girl, Maple. Did anyone see you go out or come in?”

“No, miss. I was careful like you said to be.”

“Did you bring him?”

“Yes. He’s exactly where you asked me to put him. And here.” She handed Nellie a key. “You’ll need this too.”

“You’ll have to stay awake a few more hours, Maple. I’m so sorry for that. Please go and wash your face and hands, and change your clothes. I don’t think anyone has missed you yet.”

Nellie slipped on a dress and a short jacket, and put on some shoes. She looked down the hallway, watching Maple as she disappeared down the stairs. Sunday morning was the quietest time of the week. The other girls were at breakfast most likely, and the brothel’s staff was light. She tiptoed down the corridor, holding the jacket closed with her crossed arms. One of Madame Clifford’s employees was a Scottish musician, who could tinkle out ragtime music when required, and she could hear him in the reception room below, playing “Fairest Lord Jesus” on the ivories.

She glided down the staircase into the entry room at the back door. The sunshine felt sweet on her face as she slipped outside. The back yard was empty, and she fled past the alley to the adjacent house. She knew she was taking a big chance, breaking into Madame Clifford’s personal residence, but it was a chance that might well save her life. She took out the key Maple had given her, and unlocked the door. She slowly pushed herself in, wincing as it creaked, and then paused, listening for sounds from inside.

When none materialized, she moved to the basement door, only steps away. This one was already opened a crack, and she squeezed through, shutting it gently from behind.

Darkness enveloped her.

“Light your lamp,” she demanded.

The light flickered on, and then grew bright enough for her to see the stairs. Down she went, following the source of the light with her eyes. The damp air tickled her throat, and she held back a cough.

As her eyes adjusted, she could make him out. He was fatter now, and even in the uneven glow she could tell that his clothes were patched and threadbare. She felt satisfaction, knowing he’d fallen on hard times.

“My dear,” he pled, desperation ringing through his voice. “It is so wonderful to see you again.”

As soon as he spoke, the memories came on like a muddy flood. It was all she could do not to scream at the top of her lungs, but she stopped herself from striking the alarm by biting her lip so hard that blood soaked her chin.

“You left me to them, you bastard,” she hissed in a low, steaming rage.

“I was outnumbered!”

“You were a police sergeant! How could you let them take me?”

“There were too many,” he moaned, stepping forward fully into the glare of the lamp. His face was paunchy and fallen, like a lump of wax left too long in the sun. He reeked of whiskey, and looked like death. This was her
Uncle
Martin Baum. Or the bloated shell of him, at least.

“I am so overjoyed that you are alive, Maisy. If Dix could only see you now.”

“Shut your mouth,” she snapped. “You’ve no right to say those things. You were never my blood. Only my grandfather’s friend. And never mine.”

“But I was, my dear. I’ve always been so fond of you....”

“Did you not
hear
me?” She caught a sob in her throat, and then turned away wildly, not wanting him to see her.

Let me say what I have to say, and be done with it,
she told herself. She wiped her eyes and turned back around.

“I remember that day with an accuracy so painfully sharp you can’t even imagine. You promised my grandfather that you would escort me, yourself, to the university. You told me that my grandfather had wired you and asked that you meet me.”

“Yes, that is true! And I had every intention...”

“I don’t care what your intentions were. You drove the buggy to a neighborhood we never should have gone, and let those men take me. I’d been sitting right
next to you!”

“They were heeled with guns and knives, and got to me before I could draw my revolver.”

“I saw them,” she snarled, “and I saw you see them. You recognized them.”

“I-I didn’t!”

“You did, I’m certain of it. And you let them take me, and you never came to get me.”

Martin Baum burst into tears. He held his face in his hands, and wailed with all of the anguish of a tortured soul.

“
Shut it,”
she seethed. “Shut it. You’re going to make it up to me now. Do you understand?”

He looked up, wet, bloodshot eyes blinking between his fingers.

“If you ever loved me, like you claim you do, and you truly didn’t mean to leave me there with those jackals, then you’ll do what I ask now.”

“What is it?” He smeared his face with his sleeve and looked at her, quivering. “What? What do you want me to do? Anything, Maisy. I’ll do anything!”

“You’re going to kill Jiggs Kilbane.”

“Wha...? How? When? Where?”

She pulled a gun from inside her dress and pointed it towards a rusty orange door embedded into the stone wall.

“With this. In fifteen minutes. When he walks in through that door.”

CHAPTER 10

It truly was a magnificent day, Queen admitted, as the wagon reached Summit Hill. It was a day he’d prefer spending with Karoline right now, in his new gig, leisurely enjoying the sights. On the right stood a masterpiece of Gilded Age architecture, the James J. Hill House, owned by one of America’s most powerful men. The railroad magnate’s massive red stone mansion perched on the edge of the Mississippi River bluff.

Snorre stopped the wagon and took out a snuff box. He stuffed some tobacco into his mouth, and then offered some to Queen, who shook his head.

The detective felt fortunate, actually, not to have to make small talk with his present company. He never felt like small talk with anyone. Action was his preference.

And they’d made it almost to their destination without things getting warm, which was a relief. The panorama of downtown Saint Paul opened to them as Snorre urged his team of horses forward, and he took the moment to savor the view. To the north was the polished white State Capitol. The dome was still under construction, but farther along now than it had been when Queen had raced past it in that streetcar in January.

The Church of the Assumption’s twin spires burst through the skyline to the east. Saint Paul was a working-class Catholic town, and it made sense to Queen that the Assumption should have such prominence. This was a city Doc might do well in, he thought, as he’d always been supported with vigor by the lunch-pail brigade. Too many Irish, though, for the old man to handle. The mayor had admitted to him his dislike for the Irish. Queen wondered how Doc felt about the new Police Chief of Saint Paul, John O’Connor. He was a full-tempered Irishman, who he’d heard ruled his city like an ancient Celtic king.

Queen pushed his thoughts to something else, like the plan ahead. They were headed to Saint Paul’s red-light district to find Maisy, once and for all. Pock would confirm the address, and their disguises would get them in the front door. After that, he honestly wasn’t sure. He hoped the quiet morning would continue uneventfully, and they’d make their way unscathed across the river and back into the Minneapolis city limits.

The detective wasn’t much for details when it came to the chase. In business, where money was involved, he tried to tread more carefully. Planning the mitt games, for instance, had been deliberate and thoughtful. But out in the open, when a woman was in the soup? He preferred, like now, to make his choices in the moment, with his gut.

These jumbled city streets must have been planned by someone either bughouse or three sheets to the wind, he thought, as they twisted and turned their way towards the river. Queen finally recognized Seven Corners, a large, confusing commercial intersection made up of West Third Street, West Fourth Street, West Seventh Street, Front Street and Eagle Street.

“Eagle,” Pock said, and Snorre must have understood, as he veered down that street’s gentle slope, crossing curving trolley rails.

It had been a while since Queen had frequented Saint Paul’s lower levee, and the area known to locals as “below the hill.” The Mississippi River lapped up against a community of ramshackle houses nicknamed Little Italy. It could be dangerous along the water at night, but this morning there were no screams of robbery, rape or murder. Only the melodic warble of songbirds and the faint hum of a distant train whistle. The Italians here worshipped the Mother Mary, and as it was the Lord’s Day, the streets were empty.

The wagon reached the intersection of Eagle and Washington. Most of downtown Saint Paul was now above them, sitting on the bluff to the northeast. The Wabasha and Robert Street bridges stretched across the river from the city center, and to the west, a criss-cross of iron beams made up the suitably named High Bridge, connecting to the towering heights of the opposite bank.

The notorious Bucket Of Blood saloon marked the entrance to the brothel district. Queen noticed a couple of men passed out in front of the door of the plain-looking one-story building. It was a saloon where knife fights and shootings were as a common as a piece of bread with a plate of spaghetti. The lonely bray of an accordion emanated from inside. The door was already open, beckoning the Italians who already were resigned to drinking their way to Hell instead of morning mass. While in the past Queen might have answered that call, he was beyond imbibing simply for the sake of it, despite the familiar tug of temptation. They continued on Washington, which turned northwest, towards Third Street. It rose steeply towards downtown. Snorre snapped on the reins to keep the team of horses moving against the incline. A series of a half dozen or so “boarding houses” hemmed the avenue’s west side. All of these houses, he was aware, plied their feminine wares to the city’s denizens. Farther down was Saint Paul’s Central Police Station, which Queen had always thought was a laugh. Minneapolis had three major red-light districts, but never the nerve to put them a stone’s throw away from the center of the city’s law enforcement. Today, however, he was short on humor.

Pock motioned with his head toward the second-to-last place on the block, and Queen nodded. He climbed to the front of the wagon and pointed out a red-brick two-story building with a rounded arch door and adjacent matching window. Above that was a big bay window, topped by a pointed parapet. On either side of the door, long columns rose from the front steps to the top, jutting out above the roof line. Many joked that they looked like the ends of male members, and Queen was inclined to agree. Across the street from the brothel stood the county morgue and the Hill Street power station. Snorre turned their wagon right at the corner, onto Ontario, and pulled it over.

“You’re sure she’s in Clifford’s place?”

Pock licked his lips. “I’m sure.”

“Okay, then. Snorre and I will go in. This shouldn’t take long. If you see anyone approach the door, like the police or Jiggs Kilbane, get to me first. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” Pock moved to the driver’s seat as Snorre lumbered down. The big man grabbed his pipe wrench and stuffed it inside his overalls, while whistling a cheery folk tune. Queen considered telling him to quit, but decided it was a normal thing to do. This was meant to be an average delivery on an average day. Peder had had someone paint
Pioneer Fuel Co. Coal — Coke — Wood
on the wagon’s side, and he hoped it was generic enough to douse suspicion. The detective understood that they were not the brothel’s usual delivery service, nor would coal be scheduled for delivery on a Sunday morning. But he was confident he could talk his way out of any line of questioning.

Queen stepped down from the wagon, with a sack he had specially filled himself. It was about two thirds coal, and a third coal dust. He heaved it over his shoulder, and headed to the front door, with Snorre close behind. He took a moment to glance to the right, where Clifford’s personal residence stood, snug against the bluff. Next to that sat a little lunch shack, and behind it a staircase that ascended to Third Street and the civilized part of the city.