Chapter 32
The Inside Man
The Lokens took their seats near the coal-burning stove in the Chicago, St. Paul, Minneapolis, and Omaha passenger car. Chief Namakagon and a dozen Loken lumberjacks filed in after them. They were taking two days off work to witness the Governor of Wisconsin pay tribute to Tor and Chief Namakagon for their heroism. Behind the crew came a crowd of townspeople.
Conductor Clyde Williams began working his way up the aisle, calling for and punching tickets. He finally reached the warm end of the car. “Land’s sakes! It has been a good while since you rode our train, Olaf. Grand to see you are out and about.”
“Well, Clyde. You and the missus doin’ all right?”
“Fine, fine. Say, that was some fancy footwork done by your boy and the Chief here. Those two scalawags should have known better than to tangle with the Loken camp, ay?”
“Well, I don’t know about that. What I do know, Clyde, is that the new governor thinks this is a fine opportunity to gather some pinery votes. It’s high time we see someone from the statehouse up here in the woods.”
The conductor punched the last of the tickets. Thirty minutes later, the train rolled into the Hayward yard. Ingman hired a cutter and he, Olaf, Tor, and Chief Namakagon were soon at the front door of Adeline’s boarding house.
Ingman dropped his bag in his room and headed downtown again. Namakagon and Olaf stayed in the parlor. Tor found Rosie and her mother in the kitchen, preparing supper.
“Mrs. Ringstadt, well, um, I was wondering, ah, if you would let Rosie, um, take a walk with me. It’s such a nice winter afternoon and all. It truly would be a shame to waste such a fine day, Mrs. Ringstadt.”
Rose looked at her mother with pleading eyes.
“Without a chaperone?” Adeline replied. “Oh, my. How would that look to the neighbors? I suppose I could come along, just to make it proper.”
“Oh, ah, no, ma’am,” said Tor. “I wouldn’t want you to take time from your good cookin’ and all. Um, I’ll look out for Rosie. I’ll be a fine chaperone!”
“Oh, my, my. I just don’t know, Tor.”
Rosie looked at her mother with the same pleading expression.
“Well, I suppose it would be all right, considering you are known by all as a champion, Tor. Now, you will need to keep your distance, though. I do not want to hear a word of gossip. And, Rose, you be certain to keep your face and neck covered up against the cold. I cannot have you catching the grippe, young lady. It’s going around, they say.”
A light snow began to fall as Tor and Rose walked down the steps onto the street. They strolled up the road, passing new homes, each with its own small barn in the back yard. As soon as the boarding house was out of sight, Rose untied her long scarf and let it hang off her shoulders. She took Tor’s hand, pulling him closer. They walked arm in arm past home after new home.
“Rosie, are you going to the Governor’s talk tomorrow morning?”
“Going? Why, I wouldn’t miss it for all the world! After all, the hero of the day is my beau, you know.” Tor was speechless once again.
Ingman walked down the frozen, rutted street toward the Lumberman’s Bank, then stepped up onto the boardwalk dodging Christmas shoppers. He opened the bank’s heavy door. Four kerosene lamps hung from the high, tin ceiling, illuminating the lobby. Ned Dearborne stood at his usual post behind the iron-barred teller’s window. Ingman approached, placing a five-dollar bill on the counter.
“Say, Ned. Give me five silver dollars.”
Ned Dearborne looked up. His eyes widened. “Yes Sir, Mr. Loken,” he said, reaching for the coins. He placed the silver on the counter. “Mr. Loken, that is some story I read in the paper about your nephew and the old Indian.”
“Yes, yes. Ain’t it somethin' they were in here pickin’ up the money for the Loken camp right before it happened? Why, that is some rare coincidence. Wouldn’t you agree, Ned?”
“I’m not sure what you’re saying, Mr. Loken. You don’t thing I had anything to do with it, do you?”
“How else would King Muldoon have known about the money my nephew withdrew?”
“See, here, Loken, I would have long ago been handed my walking papers if ever I told anyone about anybody’s banking business. I never discuss bank business, Mr. Loken. That includes the money your nephew drew out last week. What makes you think the boy didn’t shoot off his own mouth?”
“So you did not speak with Muldoon in the hotel on the evening before the robbery?” persisted Ingman.
Dearborn drew back, eyes wider than before. “I’m telling you, Loken, I don’t discuss bank business with anybody.”
“Then you did meet with Muldoon.”
“No. I did not!”
“Are you telling me you were not in the hotel bar after work that day? You were not engaged in conversation with King Muldoon and Sam Rouschek at the far end of the bar?”
“No. I was not.”
The bell above the front door rang as a man entered from the street.
“So, Dearborne, if I asked the hotel bartender, he would tell me that he did not see you talkin’ to Muldoon and Rouschek that day?”
“I have another customer to take care of,” said the teller. “Meet me in the hotel bar after the bank closes. I’m sure we can settle this.”
Ingman stared coldly into Dearborn’s eyes as he picked up his coins one by one. “Yes. I am sure we can. I’ll be waiting for you, Ned.”
Dearborn’s hands were trembling and his face beaded with sweat as he watched Ingman leave the bank. Ingman crossed the street to Pete Foster’s Saloon. Blackie Jackson and seven Loken men lined the bar, eager to hear what Ingman had learned.
“Give my boss here a beer, Pete,” Blackie called to the bartender. “He’s lookin’ pretty dang thirsty.” Then, to Ingman, “So, Boss, is Dearborne the one?”
“No question he tipped off King Muldoon, Blackie. He wouldn’t say it straight out, but he might as well have. He was squirmin’ like a night crawler in a trout pond.”
“Want me to square things up, Boss?”
Ingman looked into Blackie’s dark eyes, then at the other Loken camp men in the bar. He took a long pull from his glass of beer, set it on the bar and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Not yet. Dearborne wants me to meet him after the bank closes. I want to hear what he has to say. Then we’ll decide his fate.”
“Where’s this meetin’ gonna take place?”
“In the hotel bar.”
“We’ll go with you.”
“No. No, I’ll handle it myself. No point in scarin’ him half to death, at least not yet.”
“You figure he’s alone in this deal?” Charlie Martin asked.
“That, Charlie, is what I need to find out. I want to know if our spat is with a ten-dollar-a-month teller or the bank president himself. Either way, somebody from that bank over there is goin’ to pay dearly for this.”
“I say we handle this behind the hotel, not in it,” said Blackie.
“Ease off on the throttle, Blackie, ’fore ya jump the track. Right now, what I want to know is who all’s involved. Once we know, then I will decide if we let the sheriff do his yob or tend to this ourselves.”
“Boss, no pinery lawman is gonna go up against King Muldoon. I say we give ’em a taste of jackpine justice.” He tipped back his beer.
“We will see what comes of this. You may well get your wish, Blackie.”
At three o’clock, the shades at the Lumberman’s Bank went down. Ned Dearborne emerged from the narrow alley next to the bank at five past. Ingman and Charlie Martin followed him into the hotel. Charlie took a seat in the lobby and looked on as Ingman spoke with the teller in the hotel bar.
“What do you want from me, Mr. Loken?”
“You know what I want, Dearborne. I want to know who tipped off Sam Rouschek and Percy Wilkins about the money my nephew withdrew from the bank where you work.”
“All right. All right. King Muldoon do
es business in our bank. In fact, it was Muldoon who got me my job. I regret I am beholdin’ to him, but beholdin’ I am.
“A while back, oh, say six or eight weeks ago, he asked me to let him know anytime the Namakagon Timber Company made a big deposit or withdrawal. I thought he was just keeping track of a competitor. I did not know about any robbery. I would not be part of any such crime. You must believe me.”
“Was your boss in on this?”
“Mr. Forbert? Oh, no, no. This here was my doin’ alone, I am sorry to say. Why, Mr. Forbert would fire me on the spot if he knew.”
“So it was you who told Muldoon, and his thieves about my nephew making the withdrawal?”
“No. Well, ah, yes, ah, Muldoon, but not the thieves. No, not the thieves!”
“Ned Dearborne, I know for a fact you were right here in this bar that night with King Muldoon and Sam Rouschek, the man now sittin’ in the yailhouse and surely prison-bound.”
“No, no! Well … ah, yes, Sam Rouschek was here, but I never talked to him. You must believe me, Mr. Loken. You must!”
“You are yust as guilty of this robbery as if you, yourself, held that revolver on my nephew.”
“No, no, I tell ya. I had no idea what was being planned. Please, you’ve got to believe me.”
“I’ve a mind to turn you over to the sheriff.”
Dearborne reached into his pocket for an envelope. “Here, Loken. I knew it might come to this so I pulled all my savings out of the bank. You can have it all. Just spare me and let me keep my job.”
“You think you can pay your way out of this? Why, you don’t make money enough in a year to buy yourself a ticket out of this fix.”
“Be reasonable, Mr. Loken. Please. I have two hundred for you in that envelope if you just forget about the whole deal.”
“Two hundred? Why I spent that much on beer yust this past week.
“That’s all I can muster. I have no more.”
“Maybe you need some time off in the state penitentiary.”
“Show me some mercy, Mr. Loken. Think of my little ones. I can’t go to jail.”
Ingman stared coldly into Ned’s eyes. “I think it’s time we stop this folly and go see the sheriff,” he said, grabbing his hat from the table and pushing his chair back.
“Wait, wait,” Dearborne pleaded, putting his hand on Ingman’s arm. “I’ll give you my savings and something else.”
“What?”
“I’ll give you any information you want on King Muldoon.”
“Well, now. That seems to be your way, Ned. The way I see it, you are in a real pickle. A real pickle, indeed. If your boss gets word of this little indiscretion of yours, you’ll be out of a yob. Never work in any bank again, most likely. If the sheriff hears tell you were in on this with Sam Rouschek, you’ll end up in yail. If King Muldoon hears you told me he is involved, well, Ned, you will likely become food for a pack of wolves out in some swamp. Ya, Ned Dearborne, you are in a real pickle.”
“Please, show me mercy. Please, Mr. Loken. Be reasonable.”
“Reasonable?” said Ingman. He opened the envelope and thumbed the edges of the twenty-dollar bills. “I will show you yust how reasonable I can be. I will take this as your contribution toward the capture of the criminals who tried to rob Chief Namakagon and my nephew last week. I’ll see to it they get it. You damn well better have learnt your lesson, Ned, and when ol’ Phineas Muldoon comes to you for information on the Loken account, you tell him we’ve pulled our money out and put it all into a bank in Chicago.”
“Oh, thank you, Mr. Loken. I never meant to cause your outfit or anyone else no harm and it’ll never happen again. Thank you, Mr. Loken. Thank …”
“I ain’t quite done,” interrupted Ingman. “I want you to tell me if Phineas Muldoon gave Sam Rouschek the go-ahead to rob my nephew. Did he or didn’t he?”
“I can’t say for sure. I left before they had their conversation,” he replied, shaking. “But I know King Muldoon would have few other reasons to speak with a ne'er-do-well like Sam Rouschek.”
Ingman silently considered these words before emptying his glass. “Dearborne, we are not finished with this. And don’t you ever forget how close you came to yail or worse—or how yenerous the Lokens are bein’ to you.” He stood, pulled on his mackinaw, and put on his hat.
The bank teller breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh, no, Mr. Loken, I won’t forget. No sir. Thank you. Oh, thank you so much!”
Ingman smiled at a fashionably dressed young woman who was sitting on the piano bench near the window. He tipped his hat, gave her a wink, and left the bar. Charlie Martin joined him in the lobby. Ned Dearborne remained at his table, shaking and wet with perspiration, as Ingman and Charlie left the hotel, crossing the busy street to Pete Foster’s Saloon.