The Big Mitt (A Detective Harm Queen Novel Book 1) (42 page)

Edna moved toward Kilbane, who stumbled back. She hissed, reaching out with hands in the air, and then whirled around to Queen. He held his ground and grabbed her by both shoulders, gently shaking them.

“Edna, what is it? Are you sick? Send for an ambulance!” he hollered at Kilbane, who only looked back at him in disbelief.

Then she spoke. She
spoke
.

“Lies. All lies. Maisy Anderson is alive. I know where she is. I know where she is.”

Queen stared at her and she stared back, both equally awed at her breakthrough. She looked overwhelmed and relieved, and then the tiniest smile flickered across her face.

“I just spoke, didn’t I?”

“You did, Edna.” Queen put his hands softly on her neck. “Where is she now?”

Her mouth opened to finish, but the bang of a gunshot closed it.

Edna Pease slumped forward into his arms. Queen looked over her shoulder and saw Jiggs Kilbane pointing a smoking pistol at her, standing behind his desk with the side drawer open. Queen held her up as Kilbane pulled the trigger again and he felt Edna’s body convulse with the bullet’s impact. He knew by her face and her touch that she was dead, and he would be, too, if he didn’t act fast.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, and he threw her body forward onto the desk. Her head flopped back on its surface, staring straight up. Kilbane jumped back, disgusted, and the gun slipped from his hand and onto the floor. Queen whipped around to whop Peach with a hard slug. Peach took it square in the jaw and thumped against the wall. Queen was already past him, bounding down the stairs, showered with plaster from a shotgun blast inches from his head.

He’d never moved so fast in his life. He leapt down the last few stairs, feeling a sharp pain in his knee, and skidded to the door, pausing only to frantically paw at the lock. He got it unlatched, wrenched the door open, and made tracks down the street as fast as his forty-year-old legs would carry him.

More gunshots behind him, and he twisted his neck back to look. Two men were chasing him: Jack Peach, running in a long, casual gait, and Big and Ugly, carrying his shotgun out in the wide open. A woman screamed and people scampered out of the way, clearing a direct path to Queen. Out of shape and already breathing hard, Queen knew immediately that he couldn’t outrun them. He looked around for a possible escape.

A streetcar was stopped at the intersection ahead, the destination sign reading “Rice & Concord,” and he made a dash for the rear of the car. The conductor stood on the platform, wearing a navy blue uniform and pillbox hat, watching the unfolding chase anxiously. He waved his hands in protest as the detective charged up the steps, but stepped out of his way when Queen brandished his badge. Policemen rode streetcars for free, and fishing around for a nickel fare would only slow his stride.

Queen felt relief when he finally passed through the sliding doors. Safety in numbers, he thought. He apologized his way to the front and knocked on the window of the front compartment’s partition, making the motorman at the controls turn as he smacked his badge against the glass.

“Police detective,” he yelled. “Make tracks!” The motorman nodded and edged the car forward, and Queen leaned against the door to catch his breath. Neither Big and Ugly nor Peach had managed to follow him on, he thought, satisfied.

A couple of well-dressed ladies who must not have liked cocky policemen shot rotten looks at him, but most of the passengers looked grateful for the increase in speed. It was fully dark outside, so the motorman had turned the interior electric lights on, and the coal stove next to him heated water pipes along the base of the car’s wall, making things warm.

He felt relaxed now. This car would head back the way he’d originally come with Peach, south to Wabasha Street and a few short blocks away to Union Depot and then Nininger. He glanced at the window, to make sure Peach and his friend weren’t still running alongside, but the windows were fogged up and impossible to see through.

An elderly gap-toothed fellow in the front seat gave him a knowing smile. “I know who you are. I read the papers.”

Queen forced a smile back, and gave him a nod, hoping the man wouldn’t announce it to the world. The man instead reached into a pocket in his coat and pulled out a bottle of something dark, and held it out to Queen. It looked delicious, swishing around in a seductive swirl, mocking his dry throat, but he shook his head. Nothing to draw attention, he thought. Once this night was over, he’d go home, sleep tomorrow away, and mark his survival from Peach, Gottschalk, and sobriety with an all-night whiskey-fueled celebration. Then, after sobering up, he’d go to Dania Hall, and ask permission from Peder to court Karoline. That was the proper way to do it, and he intended, after all of this had passed, to try being proper for a while.

A loud bang behind him and the rush of wind suddenly interrupted his happy thoughts. He whipped around in time to see through the partition the motorman’s door being opened on the front platform, on the right of the car. A man held onto the grab irons from outside, and with a swing pulled himself in. It was Big and Ugly, and he had somehow managed to shove the shotgun between his shirt and a suspender loop. It hung, clumsily, like a toy sword on a boy. The motorman fell back in surprise, only inches from Queen but separated by the glass. Big and Ugly pushed him aside, and threw the partition door wide, staring down at Queen with red-hot hatred. He came forward, and Queen fell back. Passengers on either side erupted in shouts and cries, some cringing in their seats, others covering loved ones with their arms or torsos, defending against what might happen next.

The man only had eyes for Queen, though. He grasped the shotgun’s stock, ready to draw it out. Queen decided in a snap-instant to bull rush him. Like a star Gopher tackle, Queen sprang, and managed to wallop him with the brunt of his weight. They both fell back through the partition door, sending the motorman sprawling against the stove. Big and Ugly’s head bounced against the floor, then buckled forward, slapping his chest, before resting again on the wooden boards. He wore an expression of stupefied mush; his lazy eye shot straight up and almost out of his head, blinking like an owl caught in the sun. The motorman dragged himself up to the controls to slam on the brakes, throwing everyone hard against the rattan benches. Queen heard the conductor shout something from the rear, and the passengers scrambled towards his voice and the exit, pushing their way down the steps and through the wire gates into the winter night.

Queen looked over to the motorman. “I’ve got a handle on things,” he said, giving the man on the floor a rough kick with his boot to the head. After a soft moan he fell silent. The detective reached down and slipped the shotgun from the man’s suspender loop, hoisting it to his own shoulder.

 The motorman, instead of congratulating him, however, stood frozen. He was looking past Queen, and Queen followed his gaze to the rear of the car. There stood Jack Peach, grinning, and pointing his Bulldog pistol.

“Fun and games,” Peach remarked, “make for a memorable evening.” He fired, and pieces of wicker flew from a nearby seat.

Queen instinctively covered his eyes with his elbow to avoid the debris. With a fast flip he bumped the shotgun from his shoulder into his hands, pointing it towards Peach. But the gangster was already gone. What the hell, Queen thought. What kind of trick was the dandy up to? He didn’t care to find out, and turned and waved his hand at the motorman, who stood close to the coal stove, frozen with uncertainty.

“Get us out of here,” Queen shouted. “Fast.”

The motorman clenched his teeth and shook his head.

There’s no time for this, the detective thought. Peach has got to be planning something, probably with more men. The more time I waste in a stationary streetcar, the more time he has to rally his soldiers. He looked down at Big and Ugly, motionless, and concluded the car needed to cut dirt, and quickly, before it was him on the floor as a bullet riddled corpse. Queen rushed forward and the motorman recoiled at his approach.

“If you aren’t going to help me,” Queen growled, “then sit down or get out, for God’s sake. But we’re going, whether you like it or not.”

The motorman, thin-shouldered and gaunt-faced, slipped past him and sat down in a seat, made the sign of the cross on his chest, and put his hands on his lap, seemingly ready to meet his fate.

Queen rolled his eyes and studied the controls. With no idea how to operate the machine, he grabbed a lever and pushed. Nothing. Looking back, he saw darkness, but imagined Peach with a pack of henchmen emerging from the darkness and opening fire through the platform’s wire gates. He pictured Peach with his meat knife, strolling through the gun smoke, ready to slice his throat from ear to ear. That’s not the way he wanted to die, standing at the controls of a goddamn trolley, bleeding all over his wrinkled tie. Queen grabbed the lever and pulled it this time, finally making her move. The car creaked forward, accelerating gradually at first, but picked up speed as it began its gentle descent down the hill and towards downtown Saint Paul.

Queen began to relax again. This wasn’t so hard. They were definitely burning track now. He looked back to the motorman smugly, more confident in his ability. The motorman looked back, again past him. For someone so silent, Queen decided, the fellow could twist his face with more expression than an actor in a nickelodeon drama. He followed the motorman’s gaze out the front window, and saw the turn in the distance. They were moving fast now, but the change from Rice Street to Wabasha meant a forty-five degree veer to the left. They wouldn’t make it at this speed.

“How do you slow this goddamn contraption down?” Queen burst out, panic setting in.

The motorman disappeared behind the seat. Holy son of a bitch, Queen thought, and madly turned back to the controls. He examined all the levers, valves and gauges, attempting to make some identification of the brake, but a noise made him crank his head back. He saw with alarm that the ugly man was on all fours. He’d somehow managed to turn his big body around to the front, and was reaching for his weapon, which Queen had placed standing up, in the corner of the front seat. Queen clawed at the dashboard, shaking, turning and pushing every movable part he could lay his fingers on. Finally, he released a lever and the brakes slammed on with a squeal, making the car shiver and creak and sending the ugly man sprawling again. Queen tripped and fell on the man’s back, slipping on his fleshy folds as he scrambled for the shotgun. Queen’s searching fingers found it first, caught hold and hauled it out from under the bench. He stood and leveled it at the man, who was fighting to regain his feet.

Then Queen saw the second streetcar hurtling full-chisel down the track behind him.

He tossed the shotgun to the front and rushed to the controls again, dived into the compartment, and managed to release the brakes with a tug. The car behind him was gaining fast, though. He hurriedly pulled open the controller handle, launching the car forward. The pursuing streetcar’s fender, a steel-pipe and wire net used to catch pedestrians who got in the trolley’s way, looked like a metal mouth, and the single headlamp a yellow eye. Its sharp light filled Queen’s field of vision as he looked back to gauge the distance, which was rapidly closing. Above the car, sparks sprayed as the trolley pole cut across the ice-covered wire. The detective lifted his hand to block the headlamp’s blaze. Through the rear window he barely made out the figure of Jack Peach, a glowing cigar in his teeth, in the motorman’s position, focused intently on his task. Staring at Queen, Peach tipped his hat with one hand, and with the other swung the controller handle with a violent pull. The second car heaved forward, building speed on the downhill, and smashed hard and fast into Queen’s car. Glass showered from the windows, around and into the ugly man, who, finally back on his feet and about to move at Queen, fell backward from the impact. Queen hit the divider, but regained his footing like a cat, throwing his controller all the way up to the top notch. As the trolley surged ahead he glanced back, only to see Peach’s car hot on his heels.

It was a hell for leather chase.

Both cars raced through intersections, narrowly missing wagons and horses, hurtling much faster than trolleys should go. Queen figured it at forty or fifty miles an hour. He yanked on the leather pull cord and the streetcar’s bells clanged weakly. Worried that someone would get hurt, and his instinct to get out of Saint Paul at the forefront of his mind, he knew he had to stop this thing soon. With any luck he could reach Fifth, dart out into the shadows and hope for the chance to escape by foot to Union Station, just a few blocks away.

Back again he glanced, over the ugly man lying stone-cold quiet in the aisle, to Jack Peach, less than fifty feet behind. The guy is off his nut, Queen thought, but then he remembered that he had started this ridiculous chase, and it was his own damn fault. Peach inched closer, gave Queen a mocking salute, then raised his gun and fired. One shot, then two; more shattered glass; splintering wood exploded around him.

Behind him he heard a groan, and he turned back at the sound. It was the motorman, forehead bleeding, pointing ahead.

“West Seventh is next!” he shouted. “Stop ringing the bell, it’s only for signals! Hit the gong with your foot! Blow the whistle!”

Queen immediately understood. A streetcar barreling straight through a major intersection such as this one would surely result in a gruesome, mangled wreck of horse flesh, metal and death. He needed to warn whatever was ahead that they were coming.