Ill-Fame (A Detective Harm Queen Novel Book 2) (6 page)

He wedged the horse and gig between two lumbering work wagons, barely giving him room to step down. The street was filled with smells of potato sausage and sweat. Butcher shops, groceries and hardware stores wearing signs with names like Amonsen’s, Larson’s and Brastad’s were scattered along the avenue, and rival newspapers like
Folkebladet
, the
Scandinavisk Farmer Journal
, and the
Lutheraneren
competed for the attention of the mushrooming population of Scandinavian immigrants moving into the city.

And the Scandinavians were political. Queen wasn’t personally, which many might consider odd as he’d been involved in more political campaigns than most. But for him, it had all been for personal gain and prestige. It had nothing to do with his views on the conditions of the world, of which he thought little. He’d latched on to old Doc’s coattails, not because of party affiliation, but because it had made him Minneapolis chief of detectives. He was where he wanted to be, and had no intention of letting go. That is why he had to figure out where these anarchists were hiding out, assuming they were a real threat to begin with. The possibility of losing his promotion worried him every day, so long as the fickle Colonel Ames was running the show.

Peder Ulland, far unlike him, was like a human thermometer in Minnesota’s political climate. He breathed, slept and ate the complexities of municipal and state government, and rallied his legions of immigrant workers with the deft hand of a seasoned organizer. He was in charge of the Norwegian Brotherhood, a group he had founded in the effort to smooth the immigrant families’ transition into Minnesota society. It was an organization that kept him in rolled-up shirt sleeves most of his days, connecting his members to employers, making sure they were treated fairly and had the necessities for a good life.

Queen walked through the main door of Dania Hall, which sat at the corner of Cedar and Fifth. It was the most imposing building in the area, a four-story Victorian topped with a single tower at the front. The Danes had commissioned it, a Norwegian had designed it, and now the entire community used it. Queen headed through the lobby and up the stairs to the second floor, which was where the administrative offices lay. He walked past signs for the Society Fram, the Grieg Choral and Orchestral Association, and the Socialist Labor Party Club before finally reaching the door of the Norwegian Brotherhood. Queen knocked, and Big Snorre answered.

Big Snorre was one of the largest men Queen had ever seen in his life. His form not only blocked the frame, but went past it, over the sides and the top. Queen looked up, barely able to make out his bald head above, and a wisp of brown hair.

“Hullo Q-veen,” he said, with a toothy smile. The detective had never heard English come out of the man’s mouth before. He removed his derby.

“I’m here to see Peder.”

“Ya, ya, ya.” The man stepped to the side, and the light of the room’s windows hit Queen’s face. Peder’s office was a flurry of activity. Typewriters rattled, men in working clothes stood in corners, animatedly discussing what Queen assumed to be politics, and volunteers busily dashed about. Old playbills plastered the walls announcing union meetings and musical concerts by Hardunger fiddlers.

Queen stood along the wall to get out of the way, just under a portrait of Knute Nelson. He didn’t have to wait long, as Peder soon came out of his private office and strode over to the detective, looking troubled.

“I came as quickly as you called, Peder.” He’d rushed over, in fact, when he’d received the telephone call.

“My men found him qvicker dan I tot dey vould.”

Queen was anxious to see who Peder’s men had rounded up, but had been equally anxious to ask about Karoline’s preparations. It had been only yesterday that they’d seen each other, but the thought of her leaving had kept him up the whole night. Peder’s flushed face, however, was a worry. Queen followed him into his office, and pulled the door shut.

Peder’s desk, a couple of chairs, and an old lamp cluttered the tight little space. Queen looked past the plate of boiled potatoes and gravy on his friend’s desk, to the man sitting in his chair. He was short and gaunt, and his hands were bound from behind. A thick, ratty black beard covered most of his face, and what little skin left exposed was covered in grime. Queen raised an eyebrow when he noticed the man’s eyes. One darted about the room, while the other looked dead and glassy. And most ominously, a long scar ran diagonally across the socket of the lifeless eye.

“Peder, do you have a pair of scissors lying about?”

“Of course, Harm. In de drawer.”

Queen reached over the desk, yanked open the drawer and pulled them out. He felt the edge of the blades, making a point of letting the little man in front of him watch and fidget.

“Vat are you doing?”

He turned to his friend. “Get Snorre in here. This might get unpleasant.”

Peder nodded, an expression of mild horror on his face, and left. Queen twisted back to the bound man.

“So you’re an anarchist, are you? I somehow doubt that.”

He grabbed the man by the scruff of his filthy collar, and held the scissors up to his good eye. “Tell me who you really are.”

The man shook his head wildly, and scoured the room for help.

Queen had had enough of this game.

“You’re not an anarchist, and I know who the hell you are, you little rat.”

The detective began to cut off thick, matted pieces of the beard. The man howled in protest, but Queen held him firmly to the chair, fighting against the squirming, wriggling body. More tufts of hair fell to the floor in greasy clumps. Peder and Big Snorre entered the room, and watched in fascination as the man’s howls turned into whimpers.

Finally, Queen leaned back, and put the scissors down. He was satisfied with his work. The job wasn’t perfect, but good enough for him to recognize the man’s face.

It was Pock.

What a topsy-turvy goddamn world.

“I know you,” Queen said. “Straight from the bottom of the Mississippi River, it seems.”

Peder gasped. “Dis is de murderer of de girl on de fence at dat brotel? Ellie Van Allen?”

“Yes,” said Queen. “Under his boss’s orders, of course. Emil Dander, who’d been ordered by Jack Peach, who in turn had been ordered by Jiggs Kilbane. Quite a chain of command for such a cowardly crime.”

“Christ, Queen,” Pock sputtered. “How’d you know it was me?”

“Your eye gave you away. It was me who threw the bottle at it, remember? Just before you were about to shoot me? And just before you ran screaming into the Mississippi. I’ve got to give you credit, you goddamn little rat. I never ever thought you’d survive the undertow or the cold.”

Pock closed his eye and shivered. Then he opened it and looked at Queen. Hard.

“What do you want from me?” he asked.

“What do I want from you?” Queen couldn’t stifle a sarcastic laugh. “You killed a girl. Not to mention you terrorized a group of college students, and bit a boy’s finger off, no less. I want to filet your carcass into strips and feed them to the catfish, for once and for all. You need to be put out of your misery.”

“Then get a move on.”

“Not before I find out why you waylaid that boy.”

“He was the son of an industrialist. All of them that go to that university are. His father rapes the working class.”

“And perhaps that rape you speak of will meet you in person. When I put you into Stillwater prison. In the form of a guy like him.” The detective pointed at Big Snorre, who gave a pleasant, oblivious smile.

Pock drew in a wheezy breath. “Queen. I didn’t want her to die. I had no choice. He’d have killed me if I hadn’t pulled the trigger.”

“Forget that for a moment.” Queen sat on the edge of the desk, and looked down at Pock in his chair. “The only card you hold right now, and I’ll admit it’s an ace, is this anarchist nonsense. You’re going to tell me now how you managed to get involved in this. Who are your chums? Who’s calling the shots? It can’t be you.”

“There’s nobody else!”

“Bullshit there’s not. I’m on to your curves. You don’t have the brains to organize a group of revolutionaries. Nobody would come close to you with the stench you’re giving off.”

Pock spit at the wall. “Anarchists don’t need leaders. We’re
anarchists
!”

“Tell me, you bedraggled little freak, who is in this with you?”

“You want to see what I’m up to, copper? There’s a book in my jacket that will enlighten you about the crimes being committed against human kind.”

Queen turned to Peder, who shrugged. He leaned over, patted Pock’s pockets, and almost sneezed at the dust cloud that rose. After a moment of searching, he found the book, and pulled it out. He looked at the cover.

“Are you aware of this title, Peder?
What is Property?
By Pierre-Joseph Proudhon.”

“Ya, sure. I’ve read it. De author challenges de right of property. It is qvite radical.”

“Sounds like anarchy to me.”

“I’m not denying that, Queen,” Pock said with a sniffle. “I’m just sayin’ that I read the book on my own. I got the ideas there.”

Peder stepped forward, with a shake of his head. “I believe him. I vould have heard about dese revolutionaries if dey vere real.”

“What are you gonna do with me?” Pock asked.

“I’m not going to do anything except throw you into a cell at Central Station,” Queen said. “I’ll let Fred Ames sort through the shit and he can question you himself. I’ve got other uses for my time besides you.”

“I don’t want prison, Queen,” begged Pock.

“The hell if I care.”

“What if I give you something?”

“Like who your friends are?”

“I already told you, I don’t have none.”

“Then what? Play ball, Pock.”

Pock slid the corner of his mouth into a slight smile. “I know you’re looking for someone.”

“And how would you know that?”

“I still know everything. I know where she is at this very moment. I keep my ear to the ground, Queen. I can help you.”

“Who?” Queen felt his face begin to burn, as he realized on his own who Pock was talking about. He thought for a moment about his promise to a sheriff named Dix Anderson, and then, suddenly, a rush of rage enveloped him. It took ahold of his hand, and his fist, and he felt it pull back in a wide arc, and then it came down on its own; down with furious force into the side of Pock’s head. Pock and the chair fell over, and the little man scrambled backwards into the corner, shuffling as best he could without the use of his tied hands. Peder cried out behind him in objection, but Queen paid him no mind. He fell to his own knees and straddled the prone Pock, pulling his fist back again.

Pock pushed himself against the wall, terror and delight shining in his good eye.

“You need me, Queen. You need me to find Maisy Anderson.”

CHAPTER 7

She couldn’t free her mind of Jiggs Kilbane.

Her short time in Minneapolis had been filled with more horrors than a penny dreadful. However, she’d seen nothing in her short life more terrifying than the expression on that maniac’s face. And even more queer was how easily he’d slipped back into his normal, empty-eyed, bughouse self. The random nature of his violent act was a thing of nightmares. Even in her worst moments with Emil Dander, she’d at least been able to guess his behavior.

And Trilly. Poor Trilly.

The fear in her eyes. The tears that burrowed into her cheeks. The blood that trickled from her nose. She hadn’t deserved that.

Nellie’s chest was tight with dread. She was about to walk to the precipice with an incredibly dangerous man. A hundred different ways to escape her fate flew through her head, and she shot each one down almost as quickly as it appeared. Every possible way out ended at the same dark corner.

And at that corner she was alone. Completely alone.

She had Trilly, but it wasn’t enough. What were two women against a violent criminal enterprise? Jiggs Kilbane had access to some of the most vicious men in the country. The one Kilbane had called
Henri
, the one who had stood by while Trilly was brutalized, was simply the tip of the knife.

Kilbane had told her to pack her belongings and be ready. She’d be leaving tomorrow to God knows where. But she had to take measures to protect herself, and someone else as well.

With pen in delicate, trembling hand, she found her stationery and began to write. Two notes: one for her love, and one for a man she despised.

Once she had made arrangements with Kilbane for Nellie’s departure, Nina Clifford had excused her from work. Nellie had been given the night to pack, and Maple to help with the hardest labor. Maple, however, had departed with the notes, and Nellie was left to fend for herself. Luckily she was her grandfather’s girl, and tougher than most. While the luxuries around her had softened her, she could still reach down inside when required.

She had started packing the last of her clothes in a large steamer trunk she’d borrowed from Madame Clifford when she heard the noise outside her window. A pebble bounced off the glass, and she ran to it, unlatched the sash and pulled it up. The cool night air whisked in, giving her a shiver of anticipation.

“I’m already half-way,” came the eager voice.

“Quiet,” she shushed, looking down at the nimble shadow. When he got to the window he heaved himself up with his thick, muscular shoulders, and then made a magnificent leap inside. He landed with one knee on the carpet, and one behind him. He gripped a rose in his mouth, and stood up with a hammy, lopsided grin on his face. Her heart was racing a million miles a minute as she looked at his dashing figure.

“For you, milady,” he snorted, and handed her the rose.

She smothered a laugh and pulled him towards her. They embraced, and he kissed her softly. She reached up and ran her hand through his oiled hair, pushing the strands that had fallen over his eyes.

“I came as soon as I got your note. The kitchen mechanic who brought it to me looked dead tired, too.”