Ill-Fame (A Detective Harm Queen Novel Book 2) (21 page)

“How do you know about that?” Queen snapped.

“You confronted the Chief of Police in the middle of a church! Did you think that it would stay a secret?”

Threats like this were not something that Queen ever put up with. He had his own ways of dealing with snooping reporters, but those ways required time, and time was the one thing he didn’t have in this investigation. He thought for a moment, and then he came up with an idea. It was a sour one, but it would buy him a little more freedom.

“All right, Bonge. I see your point. Let me show you something, may I?”

He took the turtle pendent out of his pocket and placed it over Bonge’s notepad. Bonge slid his pencil behind his ear, and examined the piece.

“Does it have something to do with the guards?”

“Yes, but what I’m not sure of yet.” Queen bent down slightly to meet Bonge’s eyes. “Let me make you an offer.”

“What kind?”

“A simple one. You tell me who made this necklace, and I’ll give you the exclusive on the story.”

“And how would I know who made this?”

“I’ve read your ‘Out and About’ section, and I know you have your finger on the city’s pulse. You wrote a story a few weeks ago called ‘Our Native Soil,’ where you interviewed pioneers from Minneapolis’s bygone days.”

“What does that have to do with
this
? And I thought you didn’t know who I was!”

“Go find some goddamn pioneers who know who made this. And I lied. I know you, because of the piece of trash you wrote about Sheriff Anderson.”

“That was a story of human interest....”

“A story that ridiculed the man to the point where he found no support in the city.”

Bonge raised an eyebrow. “Does this necklace have something to do with Anderson’s death?”

“Not directly. In a roundabout way, perhaps.”

“I felt bad hearing about the codger’s demise.”

“Well, then, do me a favor and find out where this necklace came from. If you help me, once this case is put to rest I’ll sit down with you and tell you everything.”

The reporter threw the pendant up in the air, and caught it. A grin plastered over his face, and Queen wondered for a second how a human could have teeth that big.

“Exclusive,” Bonge said. “You’ll hear from me first thing tomorrow.”

CHAPTER 27

The envelope was delivered to Queen’s front doorstep the next morning. The boy, a sweet faced little lad with an oversized cap, reminded him of another boy he knew named Petey. He hadn’t seen or heard from him or his brother Ollie for weeks, and he hoped that the lack of news meant they were fine. He gave the kid a nickel, and as he scampered off Queen opened the envelope. The necklace was inside, and he slipped it out and read the paper.

James McGirk

604 E 22
^nd
St

With Great Regards,

F. Bonge

Queen’s livery was just around the block from his home, and in only a few minutes he was spurring his horse Arthur forward. The address wasn’t far from where he lived, and before he knew it, he was at his destination. It was a two-story brick building on the corner of Twenty-second Street and Portland Avenue.

He walked under the sign “Olson Butchers” and through the storefront’s entrance, and was greeted by a young man behind a counter, wearing suspenders and a work shirt, rolled up at the sleeves. Slabs of bacon sat in front of him, alongside a meat cleaver slimed with blood.

“Can you tell me if a man named James McGirk lives here?” Queen asked, with an easy smile.

“
Jeg snakker ikke Engelsk
,” the man said, shaking his head.

“McGirk,” he repeated. He pointed up.

“Oh! Yah, yah. Mika Girk. Mika Girk.”

He left the counter and took himself back outside, to an adjacent door.

“Mika Girk,” he said once more, and pointed up again.

Queen had learned a few words of Norwegian from his days with the Ullands.

“
Tusen takk
,” he managed, and went up the stairs.

There were two doors at the top, and he knocked at the one on the right. After a moment, he heard shuffling feet, and then the sound of lock unlatching, and it opened. An ancient-looking man answered, bald in the middle and a mane of white hair in the back. Bits of dried white skin dotted the shoulders of his wool jacket.

“Are you James McGirk?”

“Who’s asking?”

“Detective Harmon Queen of the Minneapolis Police Department. May I come in?”

“I suppose so.”

Queen noticed the slight lilt of a Scottish accent. The man shuffled back to his parlor, and found a seat in a ratty-looking chair. Queen followed, and was jolted by the appearance of the room. Shelves hung from every wall, stacked high with books and bric-a-brac. A roll top desk sat in the corner, heaped with paper. Cobwebs stretched across corners and dust balls skittered across the worn floor. From his chair, the old man watched the detective taking in the disarray.

“You ever seen this much shit in yer life, lad?”

Queen laughed. “Someone told me you could help me with something,” he said.

“I can barely walk to the toilet. What could you want from me?”

“This,” Queen said, and took out the turtle pendant. He rubbed his fingers on it to clean off the lint, and handed it to the man.

“My work,” said McGirk.

“There’s no mark of identification.”

“I know me own goddamn work.” The man motioned to a wooden chest on the floor. “Can ye open that for me, lad?”

“Of course.”

Queen brushed his hand over the surface. It was intricately etched in an old Celtic design. He lifted up the top.

“Pull out the innards.”

A metal box was inside, and he handed it to McGirk. The man set it in his lap and opened the lid, his eyes sparkling at its contents.

“This is my life, lad.”

Queen leaned over his shoulder, and looked at the pieces. There were sets of cone-shaped silver ear bobs, crucifix pendants, and brooches with beautiful patterns of triangles and half-moons circling their edges. The craftsmanship was extraordinary, Queen thought.

“I learned how to shape silver many, many years ago, back when Indians and traders used them for decoration.”

“It is handsomely done, Mr. McGirk.” He pointed to his turtle pendant. “Do you happen to remember who you sold that one to?”

“This one is very simple,” he said. “I made many variations, hundreds and hundreds probably, over the years.”

The detective felt the bitter sting of disappointment. He was hoping it might be a little more special than it looked.

“Thank you for your time, sir.”

He turned to go, but felt McGirk put his hand on his waist.

“Wait a moment, lad. It’s garbage.”

“Garbage?”

It’s nothing more than a cheap piece of costume jewelry.”

“Are you certain?” Queen asked, taking the turtle and looking at it again.

“I made a dozen of them about fifteen years ago for a local play. I don’t normally work in common metal, but I needed money.”

“Where, Mr. McGirk? Where did you sell them?”

“To a Captain W.W. Hill,” he replied. “At the Theater Comique.”

Queen knew the Theater Comique intimately. While it had been closed for four or five years now, it had also easily been the most notorious theater in Minneapolis history. Since the early ’80s Captain Hill had run the place with an eye for profit, and he’d pursued that profit by creating the most jaw-dropping, titillating and scandalous reviews in the city.

For a number of years in his wistful youth, Queen had frequented the place regularly, and had on more than one occasion woken up in the arms of a young starlet of the stage. He remembered those years with the utmost fondness, and almost regretted seeing the inside of the old place now that it had changed.

Captain Hill led him in. He was a gruff but amiable man, who walked with a cane now, but had been one of the great promoters of his time.

“I’m renting the building to the Salvation Army, Queen,” he said, as they walked through the lobby. “They’ve converted the saloon into barracks, and the bar into a goddamn church! They use the theater auditorium for their ‘Come to Temperance’ talks. Not my cup of tea, but they pay their rent promptly.”

Gone were the colorful posters of can-can shows and vaudevilles, replaced instead with bleak, sober warnings of a life without repentance. The gaiety had been drained, Queen thought, with regret. They stopped in front of the old ticket window.

“I remember standing right here,” Queen said. “When I met the Black Diamond.”

“He was a bruiser,” Captain Hill said proudly. “I sold out that boxing match in a single hour.”

They walked into the theater itself, down the aisle, up the steps and across the footlights onto the stage. The heavy maroon curtains still hung, faintly smelling of smoke. He remembered with exquisite fondness the stunning young ladies who flitted their brief skirts, and warbled their “au revoir” songs here. Queen was trying to focus on the task at hand, but he was so struck by memories that he found himself lingering near each nook and cranny.

“What we’re looking for is packed away downstairs,” Hill said.

Queen remembered where the staircase was that led to the space below the stage. He’d kissed more than a few girls under the creaks and stomps of performers oblivious to the romance brewing below.

“Snap out of it, man,” the captain said with a scowl. “Stop being so damn sentimental.”

Queen followed Captain Hill to the basement, and they walked past the rows of dusty costumes and props to a wall of boxes.

“You said I bought these little trinkets fifteen years ago? That would make it 1886. I was selling out every night by then.”

“Do you remember any show with a frontier theme? A show that might have included fur trappers or Indians?”

“Here is the box with the old programs,” Hill replied, and handed it to Queen. “Have at it, son.”

Queen skimmed through them with his fingers. They weren’t in any order, so he had to look at each title and date.

Captain Hill, evidently not interested in the lull of silence, filled the air with his blustery lungs.

“These shoes,” he said, kicking a box, “were specially made for the silver-clog dancers. And this hat,” he said, as he rummaged through another, “was for one of our seltzer bottle comedians. He was a genuine fellow named Jack Tempest if I recollect correctly, and he always followed a wonderful quartet called ‘Taylor’s Sunburnt Aristocrats’...”

“I think I found it,” Queen interrupted, holding up a program.

Captain Hill put on his spectacles, snatched it from Queen and held it close to his face. “Ah, yes. This was a long time ago. It was a serious play, which didn’t do well, but the actors were earnest. It was about a group of French voyageurs who were captured by a vicious tribe of Injuns. The chief forces the leader of the group to marry his daughter, and then a brutal battle...”

“Who were the actors, Captain Hill? The actors that wore the pendants? Were any of them named Henri?”

The captain scanned the program with his finger. “No, no. No actors named Henri. But here,” he pointed to a name. “According to this, one of the characters was named Henri. The main voyageur, in fact.”

“Who was the actor that portrayed him?” Queen asked, his excitement rising.

“Seaver Loftus,” Hill said. He stopped for a moment, silently mouthing the name. “I haven’t seen Seaver Loftus in years. I’d forgotten his name, even.”

“Was he that unobtrusive?”

“As an actor, yes. Very forgettable, but I still gave him a chance. He not only starred in this debacle, but he wrote and directed it, too. He studied history for a good year in preparation.”

“Why did you let him do it, if he wasn’t any good?”

“He was a hard worker, and I respect hard work. I don’t remember what he did before he came here, but he had been in his forties, already, when he’d come under my employ. That is a late start for an actor, but he certainly gave it his best college try. He started by selling whiskey and beer, peddling it about for the audience. Then he worked his way up to stage manager, somehow, and then became a utility actor. He’d black up and go on at the end of the minstrels, and then take a role in the farce in the finale. He’d wanted to be a variety star, but didn’t have the talent for it.”

“So he left?”

“Yes. One day, probably not long after this Injun show. The reviews had been scathing enough that I ended it after just a week. He collected his pay the day it closed, and never came back.”

“Do you recall any animosity he had towards anyone here?”

“He’d broiled in his own fat over the reviews, and was furious at me for stopping the show. And I’d heard that after he left, he tried to convince some of the other actors to leave, as well.”

“Why?”

“He wanted to make some kind of statement. He’d been treated unjustly by the powers that be, I guess. And then I heard later that he’d found work in another theater in Saint Paul.”

Seaver Loftus, Queen repeated to himself.
You aren’t quite the experienced bad man I figured you to be. In fact, you’re nothing but a failed ham actor who had landed the role of his life as Kilbane’s muscle.

Doc’s got nothing to worry about, he decided, with fresh assurance. And now that he knew who he was dealing with, he only needed to find him, pinch him, throw him in the pokey and finish this up.

CHAPTER 28

Queen had barely had a chance to sit down at his desk when his telephone rang.

“Harm,” came the voice from the receiver. “Is that you?”

“Peder, I don’t think we should be talking on the phone right now.”

“Ya, ya, I know vat you are saying, but dere is someone at my house, vaiting for you. She vants to talk to you yust as soon as she can.”