pocket, and felt the prick of the stickpin on his finger. He’d already examined it a good dozen times since he had found it. The stickpin was encrusted with rubies and a little rich for his tastes, although admittedly he knew nothing of fancy jewelry. He continued to finger the pin, obsessively running his thumb over the jewels. Queen had seen this piece before. The problem, though, was that the man who owned it was almost six years dead, hanged by the state of Minnesota.
Queen and Harry Hayward had crossed paths many times. They’d frequented the same billiard room at the West Hotel and even made some underhanded money together. Their relationship had been one of shared masculine amusements, but also of mutual accommodation. Hayward had had an uncanny ability to straddle the line between the classes. His parents were wealthy, and he included as his companions some of the finest sons of gentlemen in Minneapolis. Likewise, he had fancied himself a criminal genius, and aspired to create his own wealth through whatever means was required, since his parents had long before stopped funding his excessive lifestyle. Queen had found Hayward’s balancing act between worlds beneficial for solving the city’s crime, but also for lining his own pockets. From Hayward’s perspective, Queen was there to help him out of a jam when he got into things over his head. Never had Queen imagined though, in all of his dealings with Hayward, that he would be capable of murdering a young woman.
Her name had been Kitty Ging, and her innocuous occupation as a seamstress masked a seamier story that shocked even the toughened detective. The newspapers had uncovered every gory and titillating detail, of how Hayward had seduced the homely girl and persuaded her to let him take out a life insurance policy against her. Blinded by love, she’d readily accepted, in part because he had promised to fund a sewing business for her, but also because he was charming and handsome. He’d also convinced her he was part of a shadowy underworld gang, and was about to let her in on its criminal plans. This promise is what he used to lure her into a carriage on a snowy December night, for a ride around Lake Calhoun and a supposed rendezvous with his mysterious cohorts.
Hayward had always been a scoundrel of the highest order, but his plan to have her shot by the driver—a dimwitted assistant named Claude Blixt—and left to die was as devilish as the darkest night. And what he’d done afterwards was damnably pompous, marching down to the mayor’s office to offer his help in investigating the murder. The only person he knew in Minneapolis as conceited and smug as Hayward was Emil Dander. Queen didn’t doubt that Dander would also murder someone if he were pushed to it. Both were dandies and dudes, and the one thing they had in common, which soured Queen’s stomach, was that they preyed on young women with no remorse.
Queen clearly remembered the stickpin in Hayward’s tie when he’d visited him a few nights before his execution. Hayward had been smug and indifferent to the end, insisting on wearing formal evening clothes for his date with the scaffold, which he’d even asked to have painted red. The ruby-encrusted stickpin, he laughed to Queen, would match perfectly.
So he knew where he’d seen it before, and was positive they were one and the same. Hayward had even told him the pin had been specially made for him in the weeks prior to his execution. He just couldn’t figure out how it went from the necktie of a dead man into the seam of a dead prostitute’s dress.
The gaslight above his head flickered and he looked up distractedly.
“Doc needs to fix that, I reckon.”
It was Norbeck, who had slipped up beside him with his usual snake-like skill.
“None of us know anything yet, Chris. I’m guessing I’ll get the news on the returning detectives soon.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Norbeck said, grinning and picking at his ear. “I’m to
Queen and Harry Hayward had crossed paths many times. They’d frequented the same billiard room at the West Hotel and even made some underhanded money together. Their relationship had been one of shared masculine amusements, but also of mutual accommodation. Hayward had had an uncanny ability to straddle the line between the classes. His parents were wealthy, and he included as his companions some of the finest sons of gentlemen in Minneapolis. Likewise, he had fancied himself a criminal genius, and aspired to create his own wealth through whatever means was required, since his parents had long before stopped funding his excessive lifestyle. Queen had found Hayward’s balancing act between worlds beneficial for solving the city’s crime, but also for lining his own pockets. From Hayward’s perspective, Queen was there to help him out of a jam when he got into things over his head. Never had Queen imagined though, in all of his dealings with Hayward, that he would be capable of murdering a young woman.
Her name had been Kitty Ging, and her innocuous occupation as a seamstress masked a seamier story that shocked even the toughened detective. The newspapers had uncovered every gory and titillating detail, of how Hayward had seduced the homely girl and persuaded her to let him take out a life insurance policy against her. Blinded by love, she’d readily accepted, in part because he had promised to fund a sewing business for her, but also because he was charming and handsome. He’d also convinced her he was part of a shadowy underworld gang, and was about to let her in on its criminal plans. This promise is what he used to lure her into a carriage on a snowy December night, for a ride around Lake Calhoun and a supposed rendezvous with his mysterious cohorts.
Hayward had always been a scoundrel of the highest order, but his plan to have her shot by the driver—a dimwitted assistant named Claude Blixt—and left to die was as devilish as the darkest night. And what he’d done afterwards was damnably pompous, marching down to the mayor’s office to offer his help in investigating the murder. The only person he knew in Minneapolis as conceited and smug as Hayward was Emil Dander. Queen didn’t doubt that Dander would also murder someone if he were pushed to it. Both were dandies and dudes, and the one thing they had in common, which soured Queen’s stomach, was that they preyed on young women with no remorse.
Queen clearly remembered the stickpin in Hayward’s tie when he’d visited him a few nights before his execution. Hayward had been smug and indifferent to the end, insisting on wearing formal evening clothes for his date with the scaffold, which he’d even asked to have painted red. The ruby-encrusted stickpin, he laughed to Queen, would match perfectly.
So he knew where he’d seen it before, and was positive they were one and the same. Hayward had even told him the pin had been specially made for him in the weeks prior to his execution. He just couldn’t figure out how it went from the necktie of a dead man into the seam of a dead prostitute’s dress.
The gaslight above his head flickered and he looked up distractedly.
“Doc needs to fix that, I reckon.”
It was Norbeck, who had slipped up beside him with his usual snake-like skill.
“None of us know anything yet, Chris. I’m guessing I’ll get the news on the returning detectives soon.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Norbeck said, grinning and picking at his ear. “I’m to
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