Harper walked fast. As fast as he dared on the slippery cement. A few of the Germans had thrown down sand in an attempt to give traction and keep clients alive. Winter, though, had other ideas, and layers of snow and ice made the walks into glassine sheets. Harper walked fast to stay warm. He walked fast because he had the bit between his teeth, because he had this bitch of a city between his teeth, and because he had, for the first time in days, a lead.

But mostly he walked fast because he was being followed.

He only caught glimpses of them. A pair of men with shuffling steps, like drunks with empty pockets and full stomachs. They wore hats pulled low, they wore suits—one brown, the other brown or maroon, the light made it hard to tell. They wore guns, and the guns were obvious under the suits. Pennies to dollars, the guns had cost those fellows a hell of a lot more than their clothes.

Where they’d picked his trail, Harper didn’t know. Maybe at Market Street—he’d stopped there, waiting for a chance to cross, and seen them behind him at the next block. Maybe earlier. Maybe all the way back at Chamber Duffy’s flophouse. Duffy probably didn’t have enough starch in him to set thugs on Harper, but Harper was willing to bet that Duffy’s unnamed friend did.

At the next intersection, Harper turned east, towards downtown. Evening was wrapped in the thick, stained wool of a coming storm. The city’s smoke rose in a long brush-stroke against the fading light in the west. Snow would be here soon. More snow. The people passing Harper on each side knew it too. They had snow in their faces. Snow and January despair.

When he reached the Federal Building, there was no sign of the men who had followed him. The streets emptied men and women into streetcars and automobiles. The buildings wore violet gowns and white-tipped shoes. In this part of town, the gas lamps had been torn out, and electric light made cheery, static spheres in the gloom. That same light reflected on the brass and wood and glass of the Federal Building’s door. Harper stepped inside.

The Prohibition Unit had a set of offices at the back of the building that had, in happier times, perhaps been an ample broom closet. Desks knocked knees as they crammed together. Chairs climbed on top of each other. Cigarette smoke had hung up its hat and made itself at home. The office itself was dark, but a door on the far side had a strip of light at its edge. From the other side came the sound of yelling.

Harper wrestled one of the chairs and took a seat. He bumped his shins once and then he was settled. He listened for a minute. The words were indistinct, but the shouting had a familiar cadence. The rise and fall of impersonal, but vigorous, correction. Harper kept one eye on the door he had come through and one hand on his Colt. In case the men who had been following him decided they wanted to inspect this broom closet too.

But they never came. Instead, after a quarter of an hour, the inner office opened, expelling Ellis with hat in one hand, coat in the other, and his ass chewed raw.

“Hello?” Ellis said. “Who’s there?”

“Just me. Harper.”

“Well, fuck.”

Ellis walked past him and out of the office. Bumping his shins again, Harper followed. He caught up with Ellis down the hallway. The colored man had donned hat and coat. He’d pulled a scarf tight. Tourniquet tight. He didn’t look at Harper.

“Got something you might find interesting,” Harper said.

“Interesting.”

“Yeah. That boy, the one at the flophouse—”

“Oh, right. You mean, that flophouse where we almost got killed. That flophouse where that boy tried to eat those men. That flophouse where we left all those dead bodies and we don’t have a clue what happened.”

“That’s right. That’s the one.”

“You know what I learned, Captain Harper?”

“Just Harper. What?”

“I learned, courtesy of Mr. Lionel Grassmuck, the agent in charge of this unit, that I am one god-damned-sorry-son-of-a-bitch.”

“Life’s full of lessons.”

“Do you know why? Do you know I’m such a sorry-son-of-a-bitch?”

“I—”

“Let me enlighten you. Let me put it out real plain. First, I’m up for these dead men. The ones up north. We get up there. Dead men trying to bring booze into the city, right? It should be simple. But first there’s no booze. Then there’s no boy. Then there’s no damn bodies.”

“We found the boy,” Harper said. “And as for the bodies—”

“What? The police stole them?”

“Are you sure they were the police?”

“Who the hell else would they be? Who else wants a bunch of frozen stiffs?”

“Maybe the ones who killed them.”

“They had their chance, Harper. They left those fellows lying out in the snow.” Ellis shook his head. “Christ, forget it. I’ve just been told that, since our investigation has yielded absolutely nothing except a few dead river-rats in that flophouse, I’m to stop wasting the Unit’s time and resources. The case is over, Harper. Hell, there wasn’t even a case to begin with.” He tugged at his scarf and started down the hall.

“It’s not Shea and his people,” Harper called after him. “That’s a dead end.”

“Of course it is. One more fine bit of detective work we did.”

“But I found the name of the boat those men were on.”

Ellis stopped.

“The River Queen Calais,” Harper said. “The boy still had the ticket. Davenport to St. Louis.”

It was like putting a rasher of bacon in front of a starving man. Ellis turned around.

“The River Queen Calais?”

Harper nodded.

“Well,” Ellis said as he pulled his gloves on. “Well, well, well.”

“It’s a cold walk to the river.”

Ellis flashed a smile. “I’ll get the car.”