The Big Mitt (A Detective Harm Queen Novel Book 1) (43 page)

As his trolley careened wildly into downtown, past a blur of tightly packed shops and mesmerized onlookers, he searched with his foot until he found the pedal, and struck it hard. The gong’s boom echoed down the street.

“The wooden handle in front of your face! Pull it!” cried the motorman. Queen wondered for a moment why he didn’t just move his ass up here to do it himself, but there was no time. He jerked it down, and a long, deep whistle cut through the winter air. It was barely enough warning, and as they whizzed past Seventh Street he watched horses rear and people dive for safety. He managed a relieved smile, but the motorman abruptly wiped it away with his next words.

“Straight head! We’re going too fast! Stop it now!”

And there was Saint Paul City Hall, on Fifth Street, straight ahead, beyond a two hundred foot, snow-cloaked lawn. Just before it, the track swung sharply to the right. There was no time to stop, but only to avoid jumping completely off the rails, skating across the lawn, and smashing into the door. One last time, he twisted the lever hard to the right, and the brakes slammed on with full, brutal force. A hideous squeal and the sound of grinding wheels erupted from beneath him, the entire streetcar shuddering from the strain. The cold wind through the broken windows whipped at his face, and he gripped the control, with nothing more to do but watch. The turn was suddenly before him, City Hall’s massive stone exterior looming. The impact would kill them instantly, he knew. Queen gripped the control and closed his eyes. He felt the floor beneath him tilt to the left, and suddenly the wall was the floor, and he was on it, his body tumbling and slamming as the car moaned, careened, and finally with a horrifying, savage jolt, smashed into the sidewalk. Then the lights cut, and he knew the pole had separated from the wire. A foot hit his back, and he saw the dim form of the shotgun whip through the air and narrowly miss his head. Thin shards of glass pricked at his face, and he reached for something to hold onto, with wild hope that he might survive this hellish ride in a single precious piece. He heard cries from outside as the overturned car skidded across the lawn, shaking and banging as darkness drowned his senses. Snow from the open windows beneath him sprayed up in icy pellets, stinging at his blind eyes. With the hideous cracking of wood, and a last, final, terrible groan, the streetcar slid to a stop, on its side, and lodged against a tree, fifty feet from City Hall.

He lay for a moment, stunned, and then slowly lifted himself up, wiping the cold from his eyes. A single streetlamp flecked its faint glow through the windows, which were now on the ceiling. The coal stove in the driver’s compartment was separated from its chimney, and smoke seeped through the exposed hole. The motorman wasn’t moving, and neither was Big and Ugly. He pulled back the motorman’s sleeve and felt for his pulse. It was there, faint, but steady, and he sighed in relief. Big and Ugly hadn’t been so lucky. He was near the back of the car, his sticky hair matted with blood. Queen grabbed the shotgun and his derby, and crawled for the rear exit, noticing as he passed that Big and Ugly’s head was cracked wide open.

He hadn’t wanted anyone to die, not even one of Kilbane’s bruisers, but he was mostly concerned for himself at this moment. He stumbled from the back, eager to be clear of this death machine. As his eyes adjusted to the bite of more cold, he noticed, probably a hundred feet back, Jack Peach’s streetcar, battered but still upright, sitting neatly on the track behind.

“Even here, he has to goddamn show me up,” Queen mumbled to himself as he put on his hat. He staggered along the sidewalk, looking for a place to hide. People were nearby, he sensed, but standing back from the accident. Luckily there were also hiding places, and the only plan he could think of was to find a dark one, fast. He tried to hurry, as the last thing he wanted to hear was Peach’s familiar, taunting voice.

But he knew it would come.

And he didn’t have to wait very long.

“Queen, I’m out of ammunition!”

The detective looked around, weakly raising the shotgun.

“That sounds like trouble for you, Jack. Your man’s dead inside, by the way,” Queen said.

“Those things are part of the risk, I guess,” Peach replied, with an unaffected tone. “Let’s call a truce. I’m waving my white handkerchief. You don’t want to be here in a few minutes when this place is bursting with police.”

A pistol plopped into the snow, directly in front of the streetcar’s entrance. Where the hell did that come from, Queen wondered.

“Well, that’s your gun, Peach. How about mine? Toss it over, so I know where you are.”

He heard Jack laugh loudly, and located the gangster’s voice from behind the overturned trolley’s smoldering wreck. “I thought you might have forgotten in the heat of the moment. I don’t have your piece, Queen.”

“You don’t have it?”

“Mr. Kilbane does. Remember the cooked wag-tail from a few minutes ago? I don’t remember her name, and she wasn’t much of a looker.”

“Of course I remember…the one your boss murdered.”

“Not to my recollection.”

“He shot her in cold blood.”

“It’s your Smith and Wesson that did the shooting, Queen. Your gun. I slipped it to Mr. Kilbane while you waited outside. You’re a murderer, Queen. You’re finished.”

“If I’m finished, then why are we talking?”

Another chuckle from Peach, and then he stepped into Queen’s sight, arms raised, a cigar in his right hand.

“Good point, Queen. Let’s discuss this.”

“What the hell is going on here?”

“Kilbane wants you rubbed out. Put in a domino box. Taking your gun was just a precaution, in case a situation like this one materialized.” He motioned with his head to the marred, smoking ruin. “Sometimes, Queen, I don’t much care working for him. His grammar is rot, and he’s Irish of course, which isn’t ideal either. But one thing he is absolutely tip-top at, is back-up plans. He had you dead in his sights, Queen, from every angle.”

“I feel like you’re about to give me a way out.”

Peach gave a personable smile. “I happen to like you. I think you might be able to help me out in a pinch one day, as well. I’m just going to tell Kilbane you cut a dash.”

“He won’t go off his rocker on you with that little favor to me?”

“He’ll be furious, but I’m too valuable to him for him to take out his frustrations on me. He’ll still be gunning for you, Queen.”

“I still have it in for him, too. He just killed an innocent girl in front of my eyes.”

“I know.”

“Answer me this, Jack.”

“What?”

“Trilly Flick. I thought she and I were, well, friends, as it were. I never expected a blindside like that.”

“You seem to have more than an informal interest in her.”

Queen’s cheeks burned, and he looked past Peach into the City Hall’s shadows.

“I’ve known her a lot longer than you have, Queen. Who you saw on that sofa a few minutes ago, that’s who she really is. As for her friend,” he threw his cigar in the snow and stamped it out, “she didn’t deserve that in my book, either. Let’s just say I’ve got my eyes on jolly old Jiggs Kilbane now. I never made him for a woman killer.”

“Edna Pease, the one he shot. She said Maisy Anderson isn’t dead.”

“The hell if I know, Queen, although I’m pretty sure she’s not here in Saint Paul. I’ve met all of his ladies in this town. But Kilbane still has a dozen disorderly houses all over the Midwest, and I haven’t been to all of them. She might be in Chicago or even Kansas City.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“Please do.”

A sea of black derbies was gathering across the street, moving closer, their owners ogling the accident. Peach flipped his head in their direction. “Best time to go now, Queen. Get back on the train. Go back to Minneapolis. I’ll make sure nobody follows you.”

“How will you do that?”

“Kilbane and Police Chief O’Connor have a little arrangement worked out. I can smooth things over with the cops.”

Queen felt himself extending his hand, warily at first, but to his surprise Peach took it and they shook.

“Thanks, Peach.”

“Any time. And call me Jack,” he said with a cheerful wink.

CHAPTER 15

Q
UEEN GALLOPED DOWN
N
ININGER
R
OAD
alone under the open sky, a yellowing map in hand. Somewhere in the mangled streetcar he had lost his gloves. He was keenly aware of the dropping temperature as he alternated his frozen hands on the reins and under his arms, attempting vainly to keep them warm.

It was getting late, very late, and he was worried. Worried about whether his side trip to Saint Paul might have cost someone’s life. Worried about carrying a shotgun with only two shells. Worried that despite the clear road, he would have difficulty finding Ignatius Donnelly’s house. After parting ways with Peach, he had crept back through the darkness to Union Depot. There was no possibility that he wouldn’t finish what he started tonight. Once he got off the train in Hastings, he’d half expected to see Milwaukee Jim in the station, lying cozily on a bench and, fresh from his nap, ready to guide him to Gottschalk. But there was no sign of the hobo. Considering their destination was fraught with peril, he wasn’t about to blame him.

Peder’s man hadn’t been there with the horses, either. The march of time was weighing heavily on his mind, so to speed his journey to Nininger, he lowered himself to the basest of crimes: horse theft. The black mare had been tied to a post outside the depot, and he’d just mounted her and ridden away, with nary a blink from anyone passing by.

The curled moon was no longer visible, smothered now by a vast silver quilt of clouds. He rode past white-blanketed fields behind rough fences and the odd wrinkled cornstalk that nudged its head through its powdery cover. A lone squirrel scampered across a fence rail. Under other circumstances it would have been a beautiful winter’s ride, but he was focused on the task at hand, eager to find this Gottschalk character and end this business as quickly as possible.

His thoughts were suddenly interrupted when a figure came hobbling along the roadside, shivering in a thin shirt. His mop of hair was messy and his eyes glazed with exhaustion.

Queen stopped his horse. “Ollie,” he said.

The boy halted and looked up, eyes not registering any recognition.

Queen jumped off his horse and approached the boy. He took off his long coat and put it over Ollie’s shoulders. “We need to get you in front of a fire.”

Ollie looked right through him as his legs gave out, falling into Queen’s arms.

The detective gathered some scattered cornhusks and a few dead branches from a withered oak tree that hung over the road. Starting a fire was difficult with wet wood, but Queen had spent boyhood summers with his uncle in the north woods, and had learned the art of campfire making. He had matches, and searching his stolen steed’s saddlebags, found a dry copy of the
Journal
. The newspaper was enough to get a nice blaze going, and after a few minutes under the heat, Ollie seemed to loosen and come to.

He stared at Queen gratefully. “You came for me,” he said.

“Listen, Ollie. I want to tell you how sorry I am for leaving you alone with the buggy.”

The kid nodded. “It’s not your fault, sir. There was no way of knowing. I thought I was finished with him.” His face was older than it should be at fifteen, with hollow cheeks and sad eyes. “But he came back.”

Queen pulled out his empty flask, forced some snow through the narrow opening, and placed it on the fire. The melting water hissed and steamed, and Queen took out his cigarette case for a smoke.

“Can I have one?” Ollie asked, a hand outstretched and trembling.

He pulled one out for the boy and lit both. They sat for a few minutes, him on his haunches and Ollie slumped forward by the fire, smoking their cigarettes and listening to the silence. Once the water was hot, Queen wrapped the flask in newspaper and handed it to Ollie. He sipped at it as he thawed.

“He’s up ahead, right? The man that kidnapped you. Gottschalk.”

Ollie looked down into his cup and said nothing.