Ill-Fame (A Detective Harm Queen Novel Book 2) (23 page)

He looked at her clothes, and accepted that she was dressed for action. She wore a checked canvas wheeler skirt, with a divide that allowed her to move her legs more freely. It was meant to comfortably sit on a bicycle seat, but it would be good for movement all around. Her outfit was completed with a cloth shirtwaist, gloves, a hat, a tie and a bag, all in somber shades of gray. The bag he looked at again from the corner of his eye, as they bumped their way up the avenue. It was stuffed with what he suspected was one of her grandfather’s pistols.

He said nothing, and they continued on.

An hour or so later, and she’d found herself back along the bluffs of Saint Paul. She’d never expected to come here again, and drew a breath as she caught glimpses of Little Italy on the levee, its dead-looking little shacks spread out amongst the mud and the weeds.

She was determined to gather her pluck, and see this adventure through to the end. It was both exciting and frightening, searching for the man who had tried to save her from Kilbane. She hoped that her presence might keep Henri alive, if things got too sticky. She would never endanger Detective Queen, but she still felt some loyalty to the man they hunted.

Unlike her, Queen was looking unconcerned about the night ahead. He rode with his face forward, lost deep in thought, and wearing the forlorn expression of someone who missed a girl. Maisy was also sure he was peeved at her for forcing herself into his buggy. Her expectation was that he’d attempt to drop her off somewhere before they reached Henri’s hideout, and she planned to fight him tooth and nail on that decision.

When he suddenly turned the gig, it startled her for a second. She could feel the wheel on her side dip as it went slightly off the road, and then they began driving up-hill. The brothels lined along the road were all familiar to her, especially the one at the very end, and she suddenly understood his plan.

“You’ll be safe here,” he said, putting the reins on his lap. “Madame Clifford will be happy, I expect, to see you, and perhaps apologize for her part in your misfortunes. When I’m finished with my business, I’ll be back.”

She looked at the house. The lights were blazing, and she could hear the tink of piano music from inside. There were men inside, men whom she’d known in carnal ways, who would assume when she walked in that she was still an inmate for sale. She suddenly felt sick to her stomach at the thought of it.

“Detective Queen. I will not. This is nothing I want any part of.”

“No one is expecting you to go to work, Miss Anderson. Just to sit in the parlor, with a glass of wine maybe, and catch up with your friends.”

“No,” she said, gripping the seat with her hands. “I will not. And if you force me from your buggy and into the door, I’ll find a way to leave, and make my way on my own to find you. Trilly told me where you’re going, so it’s no secret.”

“You can’t let that happen, Queen,” someone said from the dark. She followed the voice to a man who approached them. He was slender, mustached and stood straight as an arrow in his black suit and Homburg hat. “It’s dangerous down on the landing at night. Far worse might happen to her if she wanders about alone.”

Queen gave a grimacing nod. “Frasier, I’d like to introduce you to Miss Maisy Anderson. The granddaughter of Sheriff Dix Anderson.”

He gave a quick bow and a smile, and held up a gas lantern. “Detective Frank Frasier, Miss Anderson. A pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise,” she said. “Are you coming with us?”

“If there is room on the seat,” he replied.

“If Miss Anderson doesn’t mind the close quarters,” Queen said, trying not to glower, “we’ll have to make do.”

This was not part of the plan, Queen thought, as he maneuvered the gig back down the hill towards the river. It wasn’t a place for a woman, especially the granddaughter of a man he’d made a pledge to. When they reached the bottom, Queen strained his eyes to survey the landing, quickly darkening from the setting sun. He knew that gangs of toughs, hobos and drunken lumbermen all milled about on the river’s edge at night, looking for trouble.

There was no real road, just a mess of railroad tracks with dirt trails alongside, but his gig was light and small, and a reliable vehicle for these conditions. Arthur wasn’t easily spooked, either, at the hoots and laughter emitting from the shadows as they moved towards the steamboat landing.

“Tell me again what you know,” Frasier said, his words rattling as they hit a deep bump.

“This man, Henri, managed his way into Kilbane’s inner circle after Peach died,” Queen said. “His real name is Seaver Loftus, and his real occupation is actor. He’s got a houseboat moored somewhere along the landing, but it’s old and unseaworthy, and he’s making arrangements to buy a new one. In the meantime, we think he’s planning, as part of his final bon voyage celebration, to harm Mayor Ames. He’s got a grudge against men in power, and he’s connected the mayor, in his ill mind, to some of the atrocities committed against the Sioux during the uprising forty years ago.”

“Good Lord,” Frasier replied. “That sounds convoluted. But he doesn’t sound particularly dangerous.”

“I know, from personal experience, how clever he is,” Maisy piped in. “I saw him talk my Uncle Martin Baum into shooting Kilbane, but he let me go. I don’t fear for my own safety when I’m around him, I can assure you.”

Queen could hear the squeak of the seat as Frasier crossed his leg over the other knee. Almost imperceptibly, he heard the detective take in his breath.

“Do you have something you’d like to share with us, Frasier?” he asked.

“I have sad news, for the lady.” The light of the lantern rose as the detective held it near Maisy’s face. “I’m afraid your uncle is dead.”

Upon hearing it, Maisy gasped, and held her hand over her mouth. “Are you certain?”

“We’ve no one to identify the body yet. His wife doesn’t have a telephone, although we’ve sent her a telegram, requesting her at Central.”

“What does he look like?”

“An older man. Balding. Spectacled. Fat.”

“And what was he wearing?”

“A moth-infested brown suit, as dirty as the bottom of the Mississippi.”

Queen tried to remember Baum’s outfit when he’d encountered him in Madame Clifford’s home, but the light had been bad and he’d been too preoccupied to pay proper attention.

“Those are his clothes,” Maisy said. “Good riddance.”

They crossed, silently, under both the Wabasha and the Robert bridges. A number of times Queen had to go over one of the criss-crossing railroad tracks, and it made the gig bend and lurch. On one particularly frightening tilt, he felt Miss Anderson tightly clutch his arm. He felt a flutter of excitement at her touch.

“Up ahead,” Frasier said, pointing through the darkness. “Lambert’s Landing.”

Saint Paul’s Union Station suddenly appeared on their left, lights twinkling inside. A series of railroad yard buildings lined the bank, and next to them, on the river, five steamboats sat, diagonally docked.

“Are you sure it’s here?” Frasier asked. “This is not a landing for houseboats.”

“This is the information I have,” Queen replied, as he stopped the gig along a stone embankment. They all got down, and Queen patted Arthur on the head. “I’ll be back soon,” he said.

Frasier led the way with his lantern, and they crossed the tracks to the river. The river looked still, although he knew it was deceptively so. The Mississippi had an undercurrent beneath its calm surface that had drowned many poor souls. As an engine whistle wailed in the distance, they walked along the river’s edge, peering down at the steamboats from between the yard shacks.

A man appeared, sitting on the upstairs deck of a particularly plush-looking steamer. Dim lantern lights lined the rails and the man waved at them through the darkness.

“Ahoy!” Frasier shouted in return. “Have you seen a houseboat, perchance, in these waters?”

Queen winced at Frasier’s piercing tone. He had heard that the detective was forward, but giving away the element of surprise was stupid and careless. Nonetheless, Frasier got his answer. The man on the deck nodded enthusiastically, and pointed to the next boat over. “There’s a shabby old dinghy anchored on the other side,” he called, “manned by a crew of mangy-lookin’ mongrels!”

Christ, Queen thought. He sounds like a pirate in a Robert Louis Stevenson novel.

Frasier was already on the move, down a set of stairs toward the water, and they followed, Queen making sure that Maisy was safely between them. A narrow wooden wharf hugged the bank, and they crept along, past the second steamboat.

“Stop here,” he whispered. Frasier turned, looking amusedly at Queen.

“Getting cold feet?”

“I don’t want Miss Anderson to take a step further. We don’t know what is waiting for us.”

“Yes, we do,” Frasier replied. “A failed actor, to use your words. This will be over in ten minutes. Let her watch things unfold if she cares to.”

“I won’t,” Queen declared. Her safety was a heavy responsibility, and he’d already taken this too far. “Please, Miss Anderson, stay here.”

She wanted to continue, he could sense. However, she nodded her consent.

“Take out your pistol,” he said. She nodded again, and unbuttoned her bag. It looked like a cannon in her dainty hand, but she pulled back the hammer like a professional, and he heard Frasier chuckle.

“I think Miss Anderson knows how to use that six-shooter.”

“My grandfather took me target shooting when I was little. He made sure that I knew my way around a gun.”

“And is she spoken for, Queen?” Frasier asked, with an admiring stare.

Queen ignored his question, and turned to her. “Keep an alert eye.”

“I will. Please be careful as well.”

“Not to worry. I play a caged game, miss.” He turned to Frasier. “Let’s go.”

CHAPTER 30

The boat was where the river pirate had said it would be. It was an ugly looking heap, a crude cabin built atop what looked to be the hull of an old scow. The letters were hard to read, but he could make out the words ‘LES MAGNIFICANTS’ painted along the side. If an acting troupe owned a boat, in his mind’s eye it would look exactly like this.

“Let’s figure out a way to board,” Queen whispered.

“Nonsense,” Frasier returned, and picked up a tin can, hurling it at one of the cabin windows. “Time to give it up, Mr. Loftus!” he shouted. “Come out with your hands high!”

Silence, for seconds, and then a light turned up inside.

“See,” Frasier said, with a nudge at Queen’s shoulder. “If you show them you mean business, then even the lowest life forms will give you respect.”

Queen felt his anger rise at Frasier’s patronizing tone, and fumbled in his brain for a quick and appropriate retort, when he saw two figures on the dock running towards them, with what appeared to be guns in hand.

“Watch it!” Queen yelled as he pulled his revolver out of its holster and pushed his way against the shelter of the bank. His foot slipped off the planks, and he suddenly went into the water, but it was only knee deep. He regained his balance, crouching low. “Get down,” he hissed. Frasier paid him no mind.

The darkened outlines came into view. They were both gaunt-looking men, dressed in gaudy vaudeville costumes. What in tarnation were these two all about, Queen wondered? Were these motley fellows really associates of Loftus? And why did Frasier look so goddamn unconcerned? Queen drew a bead with his revolver at the bedraggled actors, but Frasier was already striding towards them, blocking his shot.

Christ, he’s going to get himself cut down.

And then Queen remembered the stories of Frasier’s coolness, and realized he was watching the man in his element.

“Put your guns down,” Frasier said with a resolute voice.

“Hell no,” cried one of the men. Queen could see their expressions now, and they were even more surprised than he was over Frasier’s brash behavior.

“I don’t want to repeat myself,” the detective said. His pace didn’t slow, either, and the men in front of him panicked at his approach. The taller of the two shoved his gun in his pocket, and threw up his hands. Queen couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The other, who was more skittish and, Queen suspected, tight in the throes of booze, backed up, but still held out his gun, pointing it shakily at Frasier.

“Don’t come near me, bull,” he shouted. “You’re nothing but mindless muscle for industrialists!”

“You’re a smart young fellow,” said Frasier. “You recognize that I’m a Saint Paul detective. There’s no point in continuing like this, son. Put it down and chuck up your hands like your
comrade
.”

Queen was transfixed at his absolute boldness, and felt a twinge of jealousy that he would never be so brave. But a sound from the houseboat drew his attention, and he turned to see the man he had chased, with his wool sash swaying from its knot at his side, untying the boat at its bow. Then the man moved to the side, and pulled a long wooden pole off the deck. He shoved the end into the water and walked it along the starboard side, inching the boat from its mooring.

Frasier glanced back too. “Make sure he doesn’t leave, Queen,” he shouted.

“Hell,” Queen muttered, thinking about his bad knees. He pulled himself from the muck and crawled onto the wooden-planked wharf. The houseboat was drifting into the river, but blindly leaping across the dark watery chasm was out of the realm of possibility. Instead, in desperation, he scoured the pier, finally settling his eyes on the steamboat docked next to the houseboat’s slip.

Its gangway was extended, and Queen clambered aboard. He ran along the side of the deck as he holstered his pistol, matching pace with the houseboat. The man who pushed the pole was on the other side and out of view, but he was obviously a muscular brute, because it was easing out much more quickly than it would have under a normal man’s power.

Queen knew his opportunity wouldn’t last, and with great regret he hoisted himself onto the wrought-iron rail. With steeled attention, he watched the houseboat’s movement, and realized it would soon be too far away for him to jump.