The Big Mitt (A Detective Harm Queen Novel Book 1) (32 page)

“Can I buy you a drink?”

“That would be most appreciated, sir.”

“What will you have?”

“Whatever it is that you have.”

He ordered another coffee and bourbon for the young detective, and they sat for a moment, just looking at each other.

“Tell me about yourself, son,” Anderson finally said.

“What would you like to know?”

“Where are you from?”

“A farm, outside of New Ulm.”

“And you are the only son?”

Cahill looked surprised. “How did you know, sir?”

“Those thick arms of yours tell me you’ve done a lot of hard work. It was a guess.”

“Well, it was a good guess.”

“Why are you here?”

“What do you mean, sir?”

“Why did you choose to leave the farm, come to a big city like Minneapolis, and join the police force? You seem like a smart young man. Very considerate. Not exactly the hackneyed image of a police detective.”

“I actually fought during the war, sir. I served with Colonel Ames.”

“And he looks after you now?”

“That is one way to put it, yes. I helped him out of a fix, and he was very grateful. Told me he needed me here, by his side.”

“And he is the one who asked you to follow me?”

“Well, yes, sir. He is more than a tad nervous about you being in town. He says you’re stirring up a hornet’s nest.”

“For someone so loyal to Colonel Ames, you are very honest.”

“I don’t know how to be anything else.”

“Did Colonel Ames ask you to simply approach me and offer your help?”

“He did sir, but he told me not to say why.”

“But you already have.”

Cahill took his drink and gave himself a long sip. His body shuddered with the shock of alcohol down his throat. “That tastes delicious,” he said.

“Guaranteed to keep you awake and relaxed at the same time.”

“You were falling asleep, sir, a moment ago.”

“I’m an old man.”

“Yes, sir. As to your earlier question, my parents taught me not to lie.”

“This must be problematic for you as a Minneapolis police officer. From what I’ve learned here on my visit, deception is part of the job.”

“I’ve noticed as well, but it just isn’t my nature.”

Anderson shifted in his seat. He felt alert now, and sat up straight. “Why would you want to help me?”

Cahill’s eyes watered a little, and he wavered. “I can’t imagine losing a loved one like you have, sir. I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy. When I first talked to Colonel Ames about becoming a detective, I was hesitant. It isn’t something I have any experience in. Detective work, sleuthing and all, it seems so strange to me.”

“You followed me around town today without me knowing. That shows some skill. I wouldn’t be so hard on yourself.”

“Probably luck, sir,” he said, offering Anderson a little smile. “I happen to be good with a rifle against Filipino soldiers, but other than that … well …” He took another long draft and shuddered again, with less force this time. “After thinking about it for a spell, I figured if I could help people who have suffered some injustice, it might make life worthwhile.” Cahill drained the rest of his mug in one long swallow, and awkwardly put it on the table. “I also see you to be someone of high moral character, something I strive to be as well.”

High moral character, Anderson thought. He had tried to live his life by doing right, but he also wondered what good it had really done him. He still had trouble sleeping at night. He still suffered, and was still lonely.

As for the young man, he believed what he was saying, but the sheriff knew he would also tell the truth to Colonel Ames. Having him by his side, however, might allow him to control that information, and more important, buy him more time with the police here in Minneapolis. He didn’t want to deceive Detective Cahill, but he was desperate to find Maisy. He sensed that the boy was sincere, and another man with a badge might offer a more direct route to the information he sought.

“Young man, I’ll accept your offer of help.”

“Excellent, sir!” Cahill grinned, leaned over to shake his hand, and gave Anderson another reminder of how strong the boy was. “Now that we are partners in the matter, can you tell me specifically how this German will lead you to your missing granddaughter? That is the connection I haven’t yet deduced.”

“If I tell you this, can you swear to me that it won’t get back to Ames?”

“Well…” He squirmed a little in his chair. “I can swear to you, sir, that I will not volunteer the information, and I don’t plan to see him until tomorrow evening. If that gives us enough time to catch the man, then it won’t matter anyway, will it?”

“Fair enough,” said Anderson. “I’m looking for a boy named Ollie. He was present at the girl’s murder, and he identified her as Maisy Anderson. Something tells me he knows more about my granddaughter. I also believe this Gottschalk character has abducted the boy. I hope one leads to the other.”

Cahill sat, stoned-faced and silent, with only a slight movement in his throat. “A boy, you say? I wasn’t aware of that, sir.”

“Well, talk to Detective Queen about keeping you in the dark on the murder case, Mr. Cahill. That is why I am questioning men in low places.”

“I believe I can assist you in finding him tomorrow.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Well, sir. The man we seek is a tramp, isn’t that correct? We know that to be fact.”

“Yes, and a dangerous one at that,” Anderson agreed.

“You haven’t had any luck yet ingratiating yourself into their society, but I might know someone who can.”

Anderson found himself leaning forward. This young man was already surprising him. “You have a friend on the down and out?”

“I’m not sure I’d exactly call him a friend, but I helped him out of a rough spot. His name is Jim, but he goes by Milwaukee Jim. Don’t exactly know why, sir. Perhaps he’s from there? Or wanted in that city? Anyway, I can visit him tomorrow morning.”

“I’ll come with you. Where shall we meet?”

“I’m afraid that won’t work, sir. He’s locked in the basement of Central Station, and they won’t let you set a foot in there, I fear. He owes me a favor, though. I’ll ask him where he thinks Gottschalk is hiding. He’s a popular fellow with his fellow hobos, and if anyone knows a fellow tramp’s movements, it will be him.”

“Well then,” Anderson said, standing up. “We have a busy day tomorrow.”

“Where shall we meet, sir?”

“The Minneapolis Central Library, when you’ve finished with your questioning.” He patted his pocket. “I’ve found a book which this tramp gave to the boy as a gift. It may be nothing, but I want to do some research on it.”

“What is the book, sir?”

“A book by Ignatius Donnelly, about a comet destroying the world.”

“I know that one.
Ragnarok
, and something about fire and ice.”

“
Fire and Gravel
.”

“That’s it. Do you want to know something odd, sir?”

“What?”

“Ignatius Donnelly died, sir. He was discovered dead, on the very same morning the girl was found murdered.”

Anderson took a deep breath. This was getting stranger and stranger by the moment.

CHAPTER 11

S
HERIFF
A
NDERSON, DESPITE HIS FATIGUE,
had stayed awake late on his bed to read the tattered book. Rarely did he read books like this to pass the time, but this one was surprisingly interesting. He awoke the next morning with the light still on and neck sore from being propped up on the pillow.

The boys from the Don’t Tell Gang were right on the mark about the comet. The premise of Ignatius Donnelly’s book was that a “Great Comet” had come plummeting to Earth, creating a spectacular, fiery cataclysm that destroyed its surface, and produced a layer of stratified rock called the drift in the process. Donnelly wrote in a fairly engaging style, citing geological and archeological evidence, but also delving deep into ancient texts, religions, and mythology to support his theory. Anderson’s teachers had taught him that the Ice Age had caused the ancient world’s mass extinction, but Donnelly tried his best to debunk all the usual theories—glaciers, ice sheets and tidal waves—as possible reasons, and instead threw all his dice on a flaming piece of rock plunging from the sky.

The book got even loonier at the end when Donnelly proposed that humankind had been destroyed with the comet’s arrival. Not just Paleolithic hunters, for which he claimed ample proof, but an actual high-stage civilization, replete with artists, architects, and metallurgists. After this advanced society fell, a tiny group of these people, hiding in caves, were able to survive and ultimately rebuild and repopulate the Earth.

Anderson cringed as he pictured it in his mind: ancient men, women and children, staring up, stupefied, as a great ball of death came hurtling towards them, burning them into embers. That, he thought, would be one hell of a way to go. Who would want to ride out their lives in a cave while the Earth was being ravaged in a fiery blaze, anyway?

He continued to think about the book in the morning’s drab chill as he walked over frost-coated sidewalks to the streetcar stop. The title,
Ragnarok
, which meant the “darkness of the gods,” or “the rain of dust and ashes,” hearkened to humanity’s great finale predicted by Scandinavian myth. Anderson remembered bits and pieces of the prose Donnelly used to make his point.

Wolves will devour the sun and moon, stars will hurtle from heaven, and mountains will topple down.

This enormous disaster sounded an awful lot like the Revelation to him. Could someone twist an interpretation out of this book to suit his own desires? Someone unsound, maybe? He’d seen hard-shell Baptist ministers do it to scare folks into making offerings, but they had full use of their faculties, with intelligence and cunning to spare. Anarchists reveled in the idea of such chaos. Any man with a gift for deception might twist these notions into something monstrous. The fact that the book was left in a child’s care, given out of some perverse love, made the hair on his neck stand on end. This Gottschalk had already proven himself a master manipulator, using his snake’s tongue to snatch young boys from their mothers’ bosoms. Men like this were unpredictable, and as dangerous as the Great Comet at the heart of Ignatius Donnelly’s text. Dangerous enough to incinerate anyone in their path.

He sat on the sleepy streetcar as it rattled down Hennepin Avenue, under the somber, dawning sky and the cobweb of criss-crossing electric lines that powered his ride. Anderson had considered walking the ten blocks to the Minneapolis Central Library, but his legs were still sore from yesterday’s adventures, and decided a seat might save a little strength for whatever the day might bring. After a handful of stops that introduced new, drowsy-looking commuters to seats made warm by the recently disembarked, the car finally reached his destination. He exited gingerly, taking care not to bump his head on his way out. The streetcar clanged once and lurched away, and he found himself in front of a grandiose sandstone building, bejeweled with rows of arched windows that took up a quarter of the city block. It rose a solid three stories high, punctuated by nipple-shaped towers rising regally from two corners. It seemed to speak to the world that it was there, and that nothing would ever move or destroy its impressive, massive form.

Approaching the building’s main entrance, a formidable set of squared doors guarded by granite pillars, he noted a statue of what he guessed to be the Greek goddess Athena centered in an alcove directly above the door. Give me a little of your wisdom today, he thought.

I need to find her, and find her soon.

Maybe Anderson had been away from the big city too long, but he found himself dazzled by the city’s architecture. The library’s interior was splendid, lined with impressive curved doorways leading to a foyer brilliantly lit by skylight. He followed the signs to the reading room, which greeted him with a wave of warmth. A few conservatively dressed women sat reading delicately held books near a large fireplace, piled with wood and blazing brightly. Tables dotted the room’s expanse and were surrounded by gentlemen devouring newspapers. The sheriff presented himself at an enclosed counter, where a square-jawed woman with spectacles and graying hair looked up from her work. She examined him closely.