The Big Mitt (A Detective Harm Queen Novel Book 1) (28 page)

“Get yer paper, here! Thirty children burned and suffer-cated in an orphan asylum fire in Rochester! Terrible tragedy! Only two cents for the whole story!”

Anderson crossed the street, narrowly avoiding a lemon-colored streetcar and its cursing motorman, and made his way to one of the boys brandishing a morning rag. Enough with the wait, he thought.

“Who sells the
Journal
?”

“You don’t want the
Journal
, you want the
Tribune
, sir. Two pennies will give you the best news in Minneapolis.”

“I want the
Journal
, son. I’ve lost all taste for the
Tribune
in the last twenty-four hours.”

The boy shrugged, and his oversized cap fell over his eyes. He lifted it up and placed it back on firmly. “Usually the fellas who peddle it are here, but they ain’t today. McCartan runs the
Journal
from this corner. Him and his gang of bummers.”

“Where would they be, if not here?”

“They got a hang-out at the river. Downstream from the Pillsbury A Mill. McCartan sure brags about it. Says it’s haunted by the ghosts of the men who died in the Mill explosion. Don’t believe it, myself.”

“What is it? A shack? A cave?”

“Supposed to be an abandoned boat. McCartan says it was left by river pirates.”

“And this McCartan might be there now?”

“Maybe. Listen, Mister, if you ain’t gonna buy a paper, I need to sell to somebody else.”

Anderson took a quarter from his pocket and handed it to the boy. “I need to find these boys. Another dollar if you can take me to them.”

“You ain’t some kind of nancy, are you? You ain’t gonna hurt ‘em? One of ‘em is a tiny little fella. A real sweet kid.”

With a quick flash, Anderson showed him his star, which he had pinned to the inside lapel of his new overcoat.

“Whoa, Nellie! That’s a neat trick!”

“I’m here to help them. I’ve met them before. The name of the little boy is Petey. Isn’t that right?”

“Yeah, sure. Petey, his brother Ollie, McCartan, Dirk and Spindle. They got a name for their gang, too.”

“What’s that?”

“The Don’t Tell Gang. They’re not so tough, though, to be in a gang, ‘cept for McCartan, and Ollie a little.”

“Take me there, now. Do you have anyone to watch your papers?”

“Yeah, my pal is right over there. Hey Joe! Keep an eye on these, would ya? Sell some and I’ll get you the money!” A boy with a battered derby and a dirty face signaled back agreement with a touch of his hat.

“All right, then, Mister. Let’s go,” the boy said with a firm nod, as the cap slid over his eyes again.

Anderson and the boy took a ten-minute walk to the Mississippi River, and towards the once mighty and majestic St. Anthony Falls, a long ago wonder of Minnesota. As a young boy he’d visited the falls with his parents. Even then sawmills, textile mills and flour mills had surrounded it and tapped it for power. Today, though, the area was vastly different. The Pillsbury A Mill loomed above the dam and a large concrete apron controlled the flow. He cringed inside when the name Pillsbury skipped across his brain.

A sea of mills, powerhouses, warehouses and factories stood atop stone retaining walls and bluffs, all overlooking and drawing power from the churning, roaring rapids. These falls had almost singlehandedly created the enormous wealth that built Minneapolis, enriched its founding families and created untold industries.

They padded silently across the stone arch bridge, built by James J. Hill for his Great Northern Railway twenty years prior. It angled downstream across the river. No trains rumbled across while they moved along the pedestrian side. Anderson could see the graceful arcs under the bridge below as it curved gently in the water in front of him, but he paid little attention to its impassive beauty. More important to him were his surroundings. He noticed the falls to his left, the University of Minnesota’s rooftops to his far right, and the towering Industrial Exposition Building, jutting like a castle over the horizon. He scanned the banks below the bluff, filled with broken rock, debris, and scraggly bushes at the river’s edge, hoping for a glimpse of the Don’t Tell Gang.

“Down this way!” The boy ahead of him looked back eagerly, pointing down as they rounded the bridge’s curving abutment and started down a path that was both narrow and steep. Looking down the bluff to the bank below, Anderson thought that a grappling hook and some rope would make their descent safer, but of course he had neither of these.

“It gets easier, just watch yer step,” the boy called out, already skittering down the path like a squirrel, his floppy cap now clutched in his hand. Anderson grabbed branches like ropes to steady himself, trying to keep pace with the speed of youth. His back tightened uncomfortably as he descended, and he could tell his legs weren’t reacting as quickly as his mind was telling them to.

With a mounting headache he knew was caused by nerves, he found himself at the river’s edge. He looked up at the stone arches almost directly overhead, then the clumps of floating ice. The sun reflected off of them in bursts of blinding light.

“Yer down, Mister?”

“Yes, right behind you.”

“Over here, then.”

He followed the boy’s voice to the left, and saw him standing beside a tangle of logs and brush. Anderson’s head was pounding now and his chest heaved for breath, a rotten by-product of old age. Sucking in the cool morning air with long slow draws, he saw what the boy was looking at. A wrecked rowboat sat among the rocks, turned over and propped up with thick branches to form a shelter. The boys he’d seen at the depot the day before were sitting on boulders, attempting to start a small fire with a flint and steel. They looked at him in panicked unison.

“Aw, skittles,” the dark-haired boy said. “Are you a copper?” He turned on the boy with the big cap, snarling. “What did ya bring him here for, Pickle?”

“He said he knew you fellows,” Pickle replied, dropping down by the fire to blow on the damp sawdust they were using as tinder. “He showed me his star.”

Petey stood up “It’s you, ain’t it?” He smiled wide. “Hello!”

“Hello,” the sheriff replied, sitting on a rock with a grunt. He pulled out a book of matches, and handed them to the boy with the corn-fed belly. “You’re Dirk, right? These might get the fire lit faster.”

Dirk’s fat little cheeks wobbled confirmation. “Yep, and Spindle, and Petey.”

Spindle crinkled his brown eyes and spat. “No more talkin’ to strangers.” He put his hands on his hips and tried his best to look menacing. “Who the hell are you? You a truant officer? A guard from the flour mill? I ain’t goin’ back to school for you or anyone, ya hear me?”

Petey shook his head emphatically. “Don’t you remember him, Spindle? The sheriff with the strawberry marshmallow bullets! His mustache and red coat are gone, but it’s him, don’t ya see?”

Spindle looked him over carefully. “Yeah, you’re right, it’s him. He got himself a shave. What are you doing here?”

“I came to check on you, and McCartan and Ollie. That’s his name, right? Ollie?”

“Aw, skittles,” Spindle said to Pickle. “You told him about them, too?”

Pickle pulled his cap over his eyes. “I didn’t swear to no secrecy, Spin.”

The wind picked up a little, and blew lightly on the fire, sparking the sawdust into flame. Anderson added a couple of twigs and then larger branches to build it up. The wood was wet, and it smoked and sizzled as the fire tried to come to life. “You boys were crying yesterday. It was because of McCartan, right?”

“He’s dead,” Petey said. “Cold, hard, plum dead.”

“Oh golly,” said Pickle, and put his hat over his heart.

“Do you know who killed him?” Anderson asked.

“Could have been anyone. Sometimes he talked too high for his nut,” Dirk said solemnly. “Lots of people had it in for him. He took care of us, though. He made sure we always ate. Sometimes nothin’ but scraps and throwaways, but we still had full stomachs.” He patted his belly proudly, and sniffled a little.

Petey edged so close to Anderson that he could feel the warmth from his breath. The little boy’s blueberry eyes were extra round. “We’re scared, Mister, real scared.”

Anderson couldn’t think of anything to say. He had poured so much of his heart into his granddaughter these last few days that he wasn’t sure if he had enough left for a group of rag-tag street Arabs. He had lived his whole life, though, fighting for people who couldn’t defend themselves. And this little fellow was breaking his heart, right here, in this pitiful, tiny shelter they called home.

“You’re scared because your friend was murdered,” he finally said.

“Not only that,” Petey replied,” but Ollie’s gone, too.”

“And you don’t know where?”

“Not for certain.” A tear trickled down his cherubic cheek. “He just disappeared.”

“Well, boys in your position, they sometimes don’t stay in one place. Maybe he found a warm bed for the night.”

“He’s my brother, though,” Petey said, biting his lip. “He wouldn’t leave me.”

“Where are your mother and father?”

“My father’s dead. My mother lives a few blocks from here.”

“We ain’t orphans,” Dirk piped up. “We all got homes.”

“We just don’t like goin’ there, sometimes,” Spindle added.

“Well, you boys are going to go home now. It isn’t safe here.”

“It ain’t safe at home for me, neither,” Spindle answered. “My pa beats me when he’s drunk, and he’s always drunk.”

“And mine’s never home,” Dirk said. “Travels around, selling stuff.”

“What about yours?” Anderson asked Petey.

“I told you, Father’s dead. Mother just likes to cry.”

“Listen,” Anderson said. He looked gravely at each of them, and they stared back with their own grave faces, recognizing the seriousness of his expression. “My own granddaughter is missing, too, and I think she knew either McCartan or Ollie. Did either of them mention a girl named Maisy to you?”

They nodded in unison.

“Yeah, Ollie knew her,” Spindle said. “Worked for Emil Dander. He ran a place with women, like a resort, but not so fancy. You heard of him? Emil Dander?”

“Was it in Hell’s Half Acre?” Anderson asked.

“That’s it,” Spindle said. “Ollie ran errands for him. Made friends with all the girls there. Three of ‘em in all. He said Maisy got killed.” His eyes widened. “Was that your granddaughter? The girl Ollie said was shot by Dander?”

Anderson’s insides started to burn. That was Queen’s lie. The girl—whoever she really was—had been murdered, and he was covering it up.

“No, that wasn’t her. This Emil Dander. Where is he?”

“Ollie said that he heard Dander got caught and is sitting ass down in Central lockup,” Spindle said.

Anderson looked at Petey. “How long has Ollie been missing?”

“I saw him yesterday morning, ‘fore breakfast,” Petey said. “He and McCartan went out to sell papers. Last time we saw either one of them.”

Anderson’s heart skipped a beat. Could another one of these prostitutes they were referring to be Maisy? Had there been some kind of higgledy-piggledy over names when Ollie identified the body? At the very least these girls might have some information. Finding them would be difficult, though. The city was vast, and full of dirty little hiding places. He wondered if Dander’s man could well have nabbed Ollie too, possibly to kill him, to hush him about the girl’s murder.

“Do you think you can find my brother?” asked Petey.

“I don’t know,” admitted Anderson. “Could someone who worked for this Dander character have taken him?”

Petey shook his head. “No, Mister, I don’t think so.” He crawled underneath the overturned boat and pulled out a tattered book. Anderson took it carefully, as it looked like it was about to crumble into pieces.

“Ollie would leave it here. He didn’t want it at home, ‘cause he knew Mother would burn it if she found it.”

The cover was worn, but Anderson could read its name clear as day.
Ragnarok: The Age of Fire and Gravel
. He’d never heard the title, but he was well aware of its author, Ignatius Donnelly, who had been a recurring personality in Minnesota politics for years. A Congressman, land speculator, populist orator and writer on eccentric subjects. Anderson had avidly followed politics, and Donnelly had played a colorful role for decades in Minnesota. The book’s pages were brittle, and he delicately leafed through its contents.

“It’s a cracked book,” Dirk said. “Real bughouse. Ollie said it’s about how a comet from outer space crashed to earth, and set the world on fire. Can you imagine something like that might come flying down out of nowhere?”

It sounded pretty preposterous, Anderson admitted to himself. “Tell me why you think this connects with Ollie disappearing,” he said, tenderly closing the book.

“The German.” Petey shivered as he spoke, and Dirk and Spindle exchanged dark looks.

“Who is the German?”