The Big Mitt (A Detective Harm Queen Novel Book 1) (22 page)

“He’s been trying to contact me. He’s the reason I’m here.”

“The hell if he’s not. He wired you? Why?”

“Do you remember the last time I was here, Martin?”

Baum nodded slowly. “I do. It was when your granddaughter disappeared.” A look of understanding washed over his face. “Oh, Christ, Dix. They found Maisy?”

“So Detective Queen says.” Anderson said. Even the mention of her name tore at his insides. “Her body is sitting in the morgue. I’m here to identify her and take her home.”

“I’m so sorry,” Baum said, his voice cracking into a whisper. “I remember her so fondly as a little girl. She even called me Uncle Martin. I want you to know, Dix, that I have been thinking about her and looking for her since it happened. I made a promise to you that I would watch for her every chance that I got.” He paused, blinked his eyes and continued. “Did Queen tell you what happened to her?”

“I got a telegram to come here. That was about all. I plan to see him first thing tomorrow morning.”

Baum glowered when he heard this. “Don’t trust him, Dix. Don’t trust him. There isn’t a man alive I trust less than Harmon Queen.” He lifted his knife in the air to emphasize his point. “If you start asking too many questions it’ll arouse his suspicions and he’ll wonder how to get you back on the next train out of town. Whether that requires a gang of ruffians or uniformed officers will be the only question. The outcome will be the same either way.”

“I was going to ask you what you thought of him, but you offered it on your own,” Anderson said. “I haven’t read many newspapers over the winter, especially about Minneapolis affairs, but if what you say is true, this city has problems. Adding one more, like me, won’t make a difference.”

“Do you know anything at all? Like where she has been?”

Anderson shook his head. “I fear the worst, though,” he said.

“The strange thing is, I haven’t read anything about Maisy in the papers here. Usually a murder is front-page news. Maybe it was an accident.”

Anderson cut his steak slowly, and watched the pink juice pool onto his plate. He was the type of man who chose his words carefully, and opted to endure some seconds of silence in order to say the right thing, the right way.

“I expect to scare up the truth while I’m here. If it was an accident, I’ll accept that. If it was something more sinister, I won’t. If harm did come to her maliciously, I swear, on the grave of my beloved wife, that I will drop that murderer dead on the street.” His face, normally stoic and void of emotion, twisted in agony as he finished his words. It was the pain of an entire family lost and of absolute loneliness. Then his expression dropped back to normal as quickly as it had changed.

He put a piece of steak into his mouth and chewed.

The Coffee John Oyster Grotto sat at 217 Nicollet Avenue, one block from City Hall, wedged between Olson’s Dry Goods Bazaar and Heffelfinger’s Shoe Emporium. It looked like any other ordinary restaurant from the outside, and the big window by the single door proclaimed its specialty menu item in bold, colorful lettering:

OYSTERS AS YOU LIKE THEM—25 CENTS.

The Grotto’s proximity to the city’s center of power made it a prime political hangout. Its owner, Coffee John Fitchette, the swaggering big-bellied cook and Ames crony, was a tornado of a personality who ran his restaurant with a mix of bluster and his own life-long political aspirations.

Queen didn’t much care for Coffee John’s bravado, but understood that his relationship with the Ames brothers was as solid as steel, and took care to maintain a cordial association with him to keep the inner circle harmonious. John Fitchette was an old Yankee veteran of the Civil War, like Doc, and he’d worked tirelessly on behalf of the Ames campaign in every election since he’d first arrived in town to set up his restaurant in 1888. Stories abounded about Coffee John’s colorful past, so many that Queen wasn’t sure what to believe. He’d seen the picture of Fitchette along with the other grand jury members ready for the trial of Jefferson Davis after the war’s end, and he had no reason to believe that it didn’t happen. Less believable, but a story that probably explained a lot if true, was that he had been in the Battle of Ream’s Station in Virginia, where a shell explosion had shattered the top of his skull, landing him in the hospital and a battle for his life. After an arduous recovery and a piece of his skull permanently missing from the top of his head, friends who knew him before and after said Coffee John was never quite the same. He was ever after prone to uncontrollable fits and impulses that would come careening out to the world around him. Queen had seen these bursts of rage many times himself, but he’d also seen a generous, kind man, whose passions could rise in an admirable way when someone downtrodden crossed his path.

Another reason for Queen to be amicable was a completely selfish one. As Queen was partial to seafood, he enjoyed his open tab and pick of the better oysters, clams, lobsters, crabs, scallops, shrimp and fish that Coffee John kept in a massive ice chest. This was proudly displayed in the front window, in all its magnificent glory for those strolling by to see. He was thinking about a plate of fried scallops when Tom Cahill met him at the front door. Cahill was clumsily cleaning his spectacles with his big farm hands and almost dropped them when he saw Queen approach.

“Lieutenant!” Cahill fumbled to put the glasses on as they met.

“What the hell do you want?” Queen grunted. “Weren’t you supposed to be getting trained with the other raw meat today? You should be home in bed and resting your little britches.”

“You were to do the training, sir. Colonel Ames isn’t happy about it, either. A number of new patrolmen have already resigned, and he’s red-hot. He’s looking for reasons why, and your name was mentioned in a ten-minute tirade.”

“Resigned? Why? Because being a policeman isn’t a walk in the park after all?”

“I don’t know, sir,” Cahill said. “Do you know that the Mayor and Police Superintendent Ames are here now?”

“No,” Queen said, swearing under his breath. He pulled out his watch and saw it was later than he’d thought, well past supper time. “Dinner, drinks or dessert?”

“Colonel Ames has been dealing with ex-officers coming to his office all day, begging for their jobs back,” Cahill said, peering into the darkened restaurant. “He wanted a respite.”

“So what is he hiding here for? Officers quit, and ex-officers want their jobs back. A solution presents itself.”

“I think he’s tired of listening to their sad stories,” Cahill whispered.

Queen didn’t see anyone around who might be eavesdropping, but he knew Cahill felt trapped between him and Colonel Ames. Some people are just naturally anxious, he thought. Usually women, in his experience, but Tom Cahill and Adry Hayward were exceptions to the rule.

“Men with perfect police records,” Cahill continued, “sick families, no money. We’ve heard it all today.”

“Well, it is the middle of winter and people need coal to keep themselves warm. I’d do the same, I suppose.”

“You would?” Cahill asked, a little incredulously. “You don’t seem to be the type of man who would throw himself on someone else’s mercy.”

“What do you know about me?” Queen snapped. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. You’ve officially been on the City of Minneapolis payroll for how long? Days? Hours? We may hold the same rank on paper, but that’s as far as it goes.”

“Yes, sir, you’re right,” Cahill said apologetically. He shuffled his feet and looked uncomfortably at the sidewalk. “I’m sorry for that, Mr. Queen.”

“Is there anything you’d like to say? Have you resigned as well? What a shame that would be. Well, at least you can go help Pa get ready for the spring thaw and planting season at the family farm.”

“I haven’t,” Cahill said quietly.

It infuriated Queen that Cahill wasn’t attempting to defend himself. He was in the mood for an argument and nothing made him angrier than someone who rolled over when he was itching to go at it.

“Never mind.” Queen jerkily waved his hand at the door. “Lead the way, Milkshake.”

The first floor of the Oyster Grotto was the gentlemen’s dining room, simply furnished with tables along one side and a counter with cooking ranges running along the other. Coffee John was busy with his frying pans, his white shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal stout forearms. He wore a grease-spattered apron around his ample waist, and was busy barking orders to a pair of colored waiters standing patiently nearby. Queen followed Cahill to a table at the very rear of the restaurant, where a group of men sat with their coats off, vests unbuttoned, and ties loosened. His eyes immediately focused on the mayor of Minneapolis. Doc had a charisma that made him the center of any gathering, and Queen figured it was his easy smile and bright, penetrating eyes that drew people to him like flies to honey. Always the politician, Doc rose and greeted Queen cheerfully, gripping his cigar between his teeth as he put out his hand. He shook it so robustly that Queen felt his spirits rise in spite of himself.

“Detective Harmon Queen. We’ve missed you! Today has been chaos, absolute chaos. Glad to see you reporting for duty.”

“He came here to eat, I’m guessing,” Colonel Ames retorted sourly. He was sitting next to his brother, and remained seated as the other men rose to shake Queen’s hand. Tom Brown, the mayor’s secretary, offered a quiet hello. Another fellow Queen knew well, Irwin Gardner, who was employed as Doc’s assistant in his medical practice, smiled as he greeted him. Gardner was young and good-looking, a tad on the thin side, always jovial, and very loyal to Doc. Across the table were scattered the remains of a hearty meal. A porcelain dish held emptied oyster and mussel shells. Bits of lobster shells and shrimp tails littered butter-stained plates. Drained coffee cups had been pushed aside for a bottle of bourbon and glasses for all.

“How does it feel, Queen, to live a life free of schedules and obligations?” the colonel asked dryly.

“I have been busy on police work today, sir.”

“
Really
?” Colonel Ames asked. “And what case were you following up that was more important than training new detectives?”

As tempted as Queen was to tell him that he’d been gambling while drunk in a whorehouse, just to watch Colonel Ames’s head explode, he wasn’t in the mood to pussyfoot around anyone today. “The Maisy Anderson murder.”

Colonel Ames’s face darkened. “You’ve discovered her full name, I see. I thought we were clear that that investigation is on hold.”

“There were women in danger, the last of Dander’s inmates, and I wanted to ensure their safety.”

“And did you?” Doc asked.

“I did. I found them and moved them to a safe place.”

“Well, good for you,” Doc said with a satisfied look. “Brilliant follow-up. Fred, you need to let this young man up easy. These women might be voters someday. Their movement is picking up considerable steam and it’s only a matter of time before they have the right to vote. We must look towards the future, brother!”

“Perhaps,” Colonel Ames replied, forcing his mouth into a smile while meeting Queen’s eyes in a nasty lock. “That doesn’t change the fact, however, that you were derelict in your duties today. You’ve wanted a promotion to Chief Detective, haven’t you? This is far from the best way to get there.”

Queen was floored that the colonel was dangling that little carrot in his face. Just two days ago he’d been told the position didn’t exist. Now the colonel had the gall to threaten him with something that wasn’t even on the table. And this in front of the Mayor and others whose business it wasn’t. Was public humiliation his game now?

“You’ve changed your mind, then, sir? More work than you anticipated? The past two days must have been exhausting.” Queen smiled inwardly as he watched Colonel Ames glow red. Doc, oblivious to the sentiment underneath the exchange, snapped his finger for a waiter.

“Bring this man a menu! Harm, you should be rewarded with a good meal for rescuing damsels in distress. I read “A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court” a few months ago. You know the story by Mark Twain? Damn fine writer he is. If I’d lived back then, or afforded the opportunity to travel back in time, like good old Hank Morgan, I would have enjoyed the age of chivalry quite well, I think.”

“Yes, sir,” Queen assented, as he sat down. Colonel Ames stood up.

“Alonzo, we have to get back to work. Much to do.”

“But we have everyone here! I should say that this is the perfect time to discuss the business we were speaking about yesterday. Getting the old coffers going and all.”

Colonel Ames stared at Queen, eyes burning. “Perhaps we should work over more of the details privately before we open things up.”

“Nonsense!” Doc cried. “Sit down, brother. The sooner we move forward on this, the better it is, for us, and for the city.”

“Very well.” Colonel Ames lowered himself into his chair with a thin, forced smile. He poured a drink and handed it to Queen. “Enjoy, Lieutenant. A very fine vintage.”

Queen nodded thanks, even though he felt like taking the glass and breaking it over the bastard’s head.

“Wonderful!” Doc exclaimed. “Tom. Can you ask John to join us? This little meeting involves him.”

Cahill, who had been standing back some distance, seemingly unsure of what to do in the presence of so many of Doc’s old friends, was eager to be of use. He trotted over to Coffee John with Doc’s request. Coffee John removed his greasy apron, washed his hands, and came to the table. A waiter had anticipated his need and set a chair down for him. The proprietor promptly dropped his massive body into the chair, grabbing a bottle of bourbon off the table for a well-deserved drink.