The Big Mitt (A Detective Harm Queen Novel Book 1) (33 page)

“May I assist you, sir?”

“You may. I am looking for any books you might have about the life of Ignatius Donnelly.”

“He passed just last week,” she said.

“I am aware,” he said.

“Well,” she said, sucking in her bottom lip, “We have no biographies of him. Is there something more specific you can tell me?”

“I am trying to interpret this.” He placed his Donnelly book on the counter and she studied it carefully.

“We have copies of this. It is a very compelling work. Not six months ago Mr. Donnelly was here, in this very room, discussing it with some other men. It was an informal discourse, something which Mr. Donnelly quite enjoyed.”

“Do you know much about him?”

“He was a familiar face to me and we spoke on occasion. His reputation as a lover of books is quite well known. He told me he had three thousand volumes in his personal library.” She squinted, suspicion seeming to change her expression. “Pardon my directness, but is there another reason for your inquiry? I hope you aren’t trying to gain some advantage with the family.”

“That is not my intention at all, ma’am,” Anderson replied with an amiable smile. “I’m not a bill collector, nor an attorney, nor an agent of the government. No one who would have any reason to cause trouble to the Donnellys. Just an admiring reader, intrigued by his story, and interested in more.”

Her face relaxed at his explanation. “Well, you’ve heard of his most famous work, haven’t you?”

Anderson shook his head. “I’ll admit I’ve read many more newspapers than books in my life. I know of his politics, but not much else.”

“He wrote a book about the lost city of Atlantis, about twenty years ago. If you think the ideas in this tome are explosive …” The librarian cracked a mischievous smile and lowered her voice to a hush as she pointed to Anderson’s book. “Then his
Atlantis, the Antediluvian World
would appear downright scandalous. He went out attempting to prove that the mythical city really existed.”

“And did he?”

“Well, to many, yes,” she said. “He attracted many devout followers with his theories, but as many, if not more, naysayers.”

Devout followers. The words stuck to his tongue like flypaper. Ignatius Donnelly was the kind of flamboyant personality who would draw followers like a moth to flame. He had been a malcontent, a firebrand, and a fiery populist in the political arena, his gift for oratory legendary. He’d served as a congressman, lashed out against the gold standard, and even been nominated for vice president under the Populist Party. Whipping up frenzied crowds had been easy for him. Could the mysterious German have been influenced by his politics, as well?

“He was known as the Prince of Cranks, you may be aware,” the librarian said, mistaking his silence for rapt attention. “For his outlandish theories. And he was called the Apostle of Discontent for his political beliefs. Neither of those names ever caught on as well as the Sage of Nininger, though.”

The Sage of Nininger. Of course. How could he have forgotten? Donnelly had been part of a boomtown bust. He and his partners had attempted to create a utopian community five miles west of Hastings, buying thousands of acres and selling lots at $100 each, way back in 1856. Anderson remembered his awe when he read about this 25-year-old kid from Pennsylvania, who managed to build a town of a thousand people almost overnight and made a small fortune in the venture. Perhaps he had marveled so greatly because he had been the very same age as Ignatius Donnelly. But unlike this young genius lawyer with a penchant for sweet talk, Anderson had been a deputy sheriff with a worn six-gun and an ancient horse. Donnelly must have been on top of the world just before the Panic of 1857 pummeled the economy. And that was the downfall of his town. Nininger had literally risen and fallen in two years, completely abandoned except for one final resident, the colorful Ignatius Donnelly, who refused to leave until the very end.

It had to have been devastating, Anderson thought, for a young family to pack every belonging they had, and travel hundreds of miles across wilderness only to have their dreams dashed to pieces when their property became worthless.

And then, Anderson had a thought.

“There is something, I think, you can help me with, ma’am. Do you have any records of the names of the men who purchased Nininger township lots from Donnelly?”

The woman lowered her head slightly and peered over her spectacles. “One moment,
Ragnarok
, and the next, Nininger? You seem to be a man of changing interests.”

“My mind tends to wander without my permission. A symptom of old age, ma’am.” Anderson managed a smile. “I try my best to keep up.”

“For crying out loud, Harm, you’re pushing me too hard!” The slender man with the thin mustache appeared as though he were about to burst into tears. Queen gave him a little extra shove just for good measure as they jostled down the cellblock corridor to the man’s new home.

“Quit your complaining, Adry,” Queen said in a muted snarl, taking care to make sure there were no eavesdroppers to their conversation. “Why you couldn’t just keep low for a few weeks is beyond me. You were first playing house with a murdered girl, the two prostitutes on the lam, and I
still
let you go without bringing you in. Now you’re a goddamn check forger? Forgive me if I choose not to handle you with kid gloves.” He could feel Adry’s arms shaking, worse than a penniless opium fiend. “I am damned disappointed in you, Adry.”

Adry flinched as Queen gave him a final push into the cell, and flopped like a rag doll to the floor. “I thought we were friends. Why would you go and pinch me like this? How long will it be before I can get out of here?” he asked, wagging his head a little, as if he was bringing the world back into view.

“That’s up to Judge Dickinson. But be warned, no mention of our recent visit to your rotten little house. There is always some jack-assed junior reporter sitting in the back of the courtroom looking for a juicy story, and him writing one because of your slip-up would not make me happy. Do you understand me?”

Adry pitched his way to his bunk and sank down on the mattress, meekly saluting Queen before lying flat, feet hanging over the end. Queen left the cellblock with Adry holding a pillow over his head in anguish, and went back out to the waiting area where Sergeant Krumweide was busy with a mop and bucket.

“Where is the janitor?” Queen asked him. He took out his cigarette case. “You want one?”

“This warm spell has melted the snow, and it’s leaking through the ceiling. He’s in the basement where the water is two inches high.” Krumweide examined the cigarettes hungrily. “Captain Phillips doesn’t like the desk sergeant smoking, but he’s not here and I don’t mind if I do.” He selected one and they shared a match. “Isn’t that Harry Hayward’s brother?” the sergeant asked.

“In the living flesh.”

“Doesn’t have his brother’s looks or his charm.”

“He’s a nervous sort,” Queen replied. “His disposition probably saved him from the gallows. You know his brother wanted him to do in Kitty Ging?”

“A stinking state of affairs that was,” said Krumweide. “Speaking of scared-looking fellows, your new partner is here.”

Queen lifted an eyebrow. “Tom Cahill? Where?”

“I’ll give you one hint,” said Krumweide. “Where in this building does the unlimited generosity of Minneapolis taxpayers mean a rent-free life with no need to buy coal or food?”

“You mean he’s in the tramp room again?”

“Ankle deep in water,” Krumweide replied.

Queen met Cahill coming up the stairs. “I need to talk to you,”

“Good day to you, sir,” Cahill replied. He appeared to be deep in thought, but Queen’s glare snapped him back to focus.

“What the deuce, Cahill? Are you so charmed by the life of the tramp that you spend your lunch hour with these fellows?”

He shook his head. “No, sir, not at all.”

“I don’t really want to know what you were doing down there,” said Queen. “ But I need you to do something for me. Right now.”

“What is it?”

He handed him a folded piece of paper, which Cahill opened and read. “This is an address.”

“Astute work, young man. I want you to go to that address and guard the occupants of that house.”

“Why?”

“The women are in danger, and I need someone I can trust.”

Cahill blushed, and gave a little smile. “Well, my goodness, sir. To say that you trust me, well… it means a great deal coming from you. The only thing is, I’m under orders from Colonel Ames.”

“To do what?”

“To watch someone.”

“Who?”

“I’m not supposed to say, sir.”

Queen put his hand on the back of Cahill’s neck, and drew him close. The kid’s breath smelled like maple syrup, and for an instant he thought about breakfast, something he’d neglected again. “Tom. Who are you following? We’ve had this conversation before. If we’re to be partners, we have to trust each other.”

“Y-yes sir.” He took a breath. “It’s Sheriff Anderson. Colonel Ames wants him out of town, and is trying to figure out a way to do it. He says that Anderson is a rabble-rouser and troublemaker of the highest order. I don’t see how he could come to that conclusion. He’s a decent man at heart.”

This is not good, Queen thought. The colonel wasn’t doing this the right way. Anderson wasn’t a man to be bullied, and the harder he was pushed, the more he would push back. Better just to let the old sheriff ask a few questions, hit some dead ends, and go home. Once his schedule cleared, Queen would start looking for Maisy himself and fulfill his promise to Anderson. Right now, though, his priority was protecting Karoline, Trilly and Edna. Stocky Norwegians were a good start, but he wanted a fellow cop there too, just for insurance. “I know I’m not your superior in rank, Tom, but I want you to trust that I know what I’m doing better than Fred Ames does. I will take full responsibility for Sheriff Anderson’s actions. There are women at this house and I need you to keep an eye on them, because they might be in danger. Can you do that for me?” He took Cahill’s hand in his. “I’m counting on you.”

Cahill rubbed at his eye, holding back a tear. “I can do it, sir. I will do it.”

“Fine,” Queen replied, satisfied.

“But one thing, sir. He’s expecting me to meet him at the Minneapolis Library soon. I don’t want to stand him up.”

“What’s he doing there?”

“He has a book, and wanted to ask some questions about it.”

That doesn’t sound particularly threatening, Queen decided. Better that than smashing up saloons, or worse yet, using those Colts to stir up trouble.

“Don’t worry about that. If I can, I’ll send word that you’ve been ordered elsewhere.” Queen fished in his pocket for a roll of bills, and handed one to Cahill. “Take a cab and get there quickly.”

Cahill shoved the money into his pocket. “I will sir, but before I do, may I ask you a question?”

“What is it?” Queen asked testily.

“What’s a big mitt?”

“Where did you hear about that?”

“Just around, sir. I know the general idea. It’s like a giant hand, right? A hand that swoops in and whisks away some unlucky customer involved in a con game.”

This kid understands more than I ever gave him credit for, thought Queen with a touch of respect. He’s been listening enough to get the gist of the colonel’s scheme. He deserves an explanation, especially since I’m asking him to risk his life for the sake of the Ullands and their wards.

“It doesn’t mean giving the sucker the mitt after he’s been fleeced,” replied Queen. “A big mitt is a hand at cards. The fellow who runs the game is a big mitt man. Let’s leave things there.”

“Are you involved, sir?”

Queen was surprised that he felt a pang of guilt at the question. Instead of answering though, he grabbed Cahill by the shoulders, turned him around, and gave him a little shove forward. He had no reason to feel bad over his collusion with Colonel Ames. It was all business, after all, and he was the only man on the force who could see to it that the game ran smoothly. He would see to it that no one got hurt either. That is why he was important.

“I told you that time was short, Tom. Go, now.”

The striped awning above him pattered with frozen rain, and little strips of icicles formed delicately along its edge. Anderson buttoned his overcoat for warmth. He missed his wide slouch hat, and even though this shorter-brimmed homburg fit well, he didn’t feel comfortable in its dudish, city style. And then there was this choke-strap, tied around his neck like a noose. His entire experience in this big hot town made him uneasy. Minneapolis was both fascinating and confining, with its mountainous four-story buildings, its avenues packed with people, and its odd mixture of smells and sounds. When he’d investigated Maisy’s disappearance on his former visit, he had considered strongly that she might have been whisked out of town by her kidnapper, and her time in Minneapolis short, but now, two years later, he thought perhaps not. She could still be here, stuffed away in some dank basement, or forced into the life on the streets. His eyes were peeled for a sign of his granddaughter at every turn; her yellow hair, the way she bounced on her heels when excited, her tendency to twist her head to the side when in deep conversation. He knew her every peculiarity like the back of his beaten hand.