Twin Cities Noir

THE BREWER’S SON by Larry Millett West 7th-Fort Road (St. Paul)

On the morning of June 10, 1892, as the Republican National Convention droned toward its uninspired conclusion in Minneapolis, the news across the river in St. Paul proved to be far more riveting. A great mystery preoccupied the Saintly City, and it seemed to grow more confounding by the hour. As a result, when a special edition of the St. Paul Dispatch appeared on the streets at 10 a.m., copies were snapped up so quickly that the newsboys were sold out within a matter of minutes. The story that everyone wanted to read sprawled across the front page beneath a headline of the size normally reserved for the outbreak of war or the death of a major advertiser. RANSOM VANISHES, screamed the headline above the story, which began as follows:

What the author of this melancholy prediction didn’t know was that Shadwell Rafferty—saloonkeeper, bon vivant, private detective, and a man with an uncanny understanding of the human animal—was already on the case.

Although best remembered for the remarkable series of investigations he undertook with Sherlock Holmes, beginning with the ice palace murders of 1896, Shadwell Rafferty had even before then made a name for himself in St. Paul as a private detective. Saloonkeeping was, of course, his chief occupation, but by the early 1890s his legendary watering hole at the Ryan Hotel had proved so successful that he found himself able to devote more time to the “detectin’ game,” as called it. It was therefore hardly surprising that he found himself in the midst of the Kirchmeyer affair almost from the very start.

The facts of the case were simple enough, or so it seemed at first. On the morning of June 9, Kirchmeyer, aged twenty-four, left his family’s towering brick mansion on Stewart Avenue in the city’s West End to walk to his job as an accountant at his father’s brewery. Located in a complex of stout limestone buildings along the Mississippi River just three blocks from the mansion, the brewery was famed as the home of “Kirchmeyer’s Cavern Lager” or “Kirchy’s,” as it was commonly called, and so named because it was aged in a system of caves dug into the sandstone cliffs nearby. Local malt connoisseurs, Rafferty among them, regarded the dark foamy libation as St. Paul’s finest beer, no small achievement in city that took its drinking seriously.

Young Kirchmeyer’s walk was normally accomplished in a matter of minutes, but on this morning he did not arrive at the brewery as scheduled. Although not considered by his parents to be a perfectly reliable young man, he was seldom late for work and, if so, his tardiness was never extreme. When he became a full hour late, his father telephoned home to see what had happened. It was only then, after a brief search of the household, that Augusta Kirchmeyer, Michael’s mother, made a frightful discovery. Lodged beneath the screen door on the front porch was a note, written in the large block letters a child might use. It said:

It was signed, in a malevolent flourish of ink, THE BLACK HAND.

The police were called at once, and Chief of Detectives John J. O’Connor personally took charge of the investigation. He ordered a thorough canvassing of the neighborhood, which included the busy shops of the Chicago, St. Paul, Minneapolis, and Omaha Railroad, where a thousand men worked. Someone, the chief believed, must have seen or heard something. But the canvass turned up only one piece of useful information. A boy playing in the yard of his home saw Kirchmeyer walking down Lee Avenue toward the brewery. He was alone and gave no sign of distress. Beyond this meager report, not a single clue emerged as to the young man’s whereabouts or how he might have been spirited away. It was, O’Connor remarked, as though Kirchmeyer had been “snatched up by the devil himself in broad daylight.”

Like most of St. Paul, Shadwell Rafferty learned of the kidnapping that afternoon when the Dispatch reported the story under a headline that read, BLACK HAND GRIPS BREWER’S SON. The reference to the Black Hand was well understood by readers of the newspaper, which in recent months had presented a series of sensational articles about a supposed “terrorist organization” of that name. It was said to be controlled by “a gang of foreign-born criminals” operating from the shanty town that sprawled along the Upper Levee flats beneath the new High Bridge. Various acts of extortion and even murder were attributed to the shadowy group, though details were regrettably sparse, and no criminal charges had ever been brought against any of the alleged gang members.

A newsboy had brought in the Dispatch as Rafferty and his longtime friend and chief bartender, George Washington “Wash” Thomas, were enjoying a late lunch of roast beef and boiled potatoes at the saloon, which was blessedly quiet after the noon rush. Rafferty read the kidnapping saga aloud in his powerful basso, pausing now and then to chew over a particularly intriguing detail.

When Rafferty had finished, Thomas said, “Well, it’s a strange one, Shad. Maybe you should call Mr. Kirchmeyer and see if you can help. Don’t you two go back a ways?”

“We do, Wash, though it’s been awhile since I’ve seen him. Fact is, I think the last time we talked was after that business a few years ago when Jimmy O’Shea was cartin’ away his prized lager.”

Thomas, who was not fond of confined spaces, remembered the case all too well. He and Rafferty had spent hours in the dank brewery caves setting a trap for the elusive O’Shea, whom the police seemed unable to track down. Kirchmeyer had been so pleased by the thief’s capture that he sent a month’s worth of lager to Rafferty’s saloon as a token of gratitude.

“What about Kirchmeyer’s son? Do you know him at all?” Thomas asked.

“Met him once or twice. ’Tis said he’s a bit on the wild side. Of course, so were you and I at that age. I seem to remember hearin’ that the lad went off to school out east for a while to study surveyin’ or some such thing but didn’t stay for long. There was woman trouble, I think.”

“I know all about that kind of trouble,” Thomas said, a mischievous grin spreading across his broad black face.

“Yes you do,” Rafferty agreed. “You are a regular expert in that department, Wash. Now then, what do you think about this kidnappin’ business? Do you believe it is the work of the Black Hand, assumin’ there is such a thing?”

Thomas knew that Rafferty had been skeptical of the earlier news stories. Unlike the reporters who wrote for the Dispatch, Rafferty actually knew many residents of the Upper Levee. If a cutthroat gang had been operating there, Rafferty thought, he would have been aware of it.

“I’m guessing you’re not convinced,” Thomas said. “Any particular reason why?”

By way of response, Rafferty picked up the paper and again read aloud the portion of the story dealing with the ransom note. Then he said, “I’m thinkin’, Wash, that for a bunch of ignorant immigrants, or so the Dispatch would have us believe, these Black Hand fellows seems to be regular masters of the King’s English. ‘Await our next communication,’ they say. Do you know anybody down on the levee who talks like that?”

“Can’t say that I do,” Thomas agreed, adding: “The instructions about packaging the ransom are also queer, don’t you think?”

Rafferty nodded. “Queer as can be.”

The telephone behind the long mahogany bar rang and Thomas got up to answer it. The operator came on, followed by a weary-sounding man who said in a thick German accent: “This is Johann Kirchmeyer. I need very much to talk with Mr. Rafferty.”

The Kirchmeyer mansion, its high-hatted brick tower soaring above a broad lawn interspersed with oaks, stood at the end of a circular driveway, which was crowded with carriages by the time Rafferty arrived. Two coppers were standing outside the front door, smoking cigars. Rafferty, once a member of the force himself, stopped to chat. After the usual jovial banter, he quickly learned that there had been no new developments in the investigation despite an intensive search for the kidnap victim.

“The old man’s in there waiting for the next message,” one of the cops told Rafferty. “Did he send for you, Shad?”

“He did.”

“Well, the Bull won’t be happy, I can tell you that.”

“The chief of detectives is never happy when I’m around,” Rafferty said. “Must be my irritatin’ habit of makin’ a fool of him.”

Rafferty turned to go inside, pausing first to look at the front screen door where, according to the Dispatch, the ransom note had been left. There were two large windows to either side of the door, both offering a clear view of the open porch. Placing a note beneath the door would certainly have been a risky proposition for the kidnappers.

A servant met Rafferty in the vestibule and ushered him upstairs to a small study at the rear of the house. There Rafferty found Johann Kirchmeyer, seated in an armchair next to a window that offered sweeping views of the river valley. Kirchmeyer was a short, heavyset man, with a bristly gray beard and small dark eyes behind wire-rim spectacles. Despite the heat, he wore a brown wool suit and vest, and he’d made no accommodation to the weather by loosening his tie, which was knotted with mechanical precision.

“Ach, it is good of you to come, Mr. Rafferty,” he said. “Come sit down and we will talk.”

After Rafferty had taken a seat, Kirchmeyer said, “I want my son back, Mr. Rafferty, and you, I believe, are the man who can do that for me.”

Rafferty was taken aback. “I appreciate your confidence, but the police—”

Kirchmeyer cut in with surprising fierceness. “No, no, I will not place my trust in the police, Mr. Rafferty, not for a single minute! You know as well as I why that is so.”

Because half the cops are crooked, Rafferty thought, and the other half are lazy. “Yes, I understand, but—”

Kirchmeyer interrupted again. “Mr. Rafferty, I wish to hear no more of the police. You see, sir, I can tell you who really kidnapped my son. This Black Hand business, bah, it is nonsense. Do you agree?”

Rafferty said he did.

Kirchmeyer smiled for the first time. “I knew you would. You see, there is something that must be kept confidential, something about Michael which I must tell you. I fear he has become involved with gamblers and owes them a great deal of money.”

“Ah, I see. ’Tis a common thing with young men, unfortunately. And you haven’t mentioned this to the police?”

“No. It would be scandal and the death of my dear Augusta, if she knew.”

“And how is Mrs. Kirchmeyer?”

“Not well. Not well at all. This has been very hard on her.”

“I’m sure. Now then, do you know which gambler young Michael might owe money to?”

“I am told it is a man named Banion who operates some sort of gambling establishment downtown. Do you know him?”

Rafferty knew everybody. “Certainly. John Banion is his name but he goes by Red. He has a place on Hill Street a few doors down from police headquarters. ’Tis a cozy arrangement for all concerned, since the bribe money doesn’t have to travel far. By the way, how did you find out about your son’s involvement with Banion?”

“One of our housemaids told me. Michael had apparently shared a confidence with her.”

Rafferty, who wondered what else the lad might have shared with the maid, said, “So you think Banion snatched your boy and wants the $10,000 to pay off what Michael owes him.”

“Yes. I can only assume this Banion is a ruthless character and would not hesitate to kill my son. Yet I know the police cannot be trusted, and that is why I beg of you to help me. I have already obtained the ransom money and will gladly pay it for my son’s return. But I am worried for this simple reason: What is to keep these kidnappers from murdering Michael once they have the money?”

“Nothing, if they’re so inclined,” Rafferty agreed. “And you have received no further word from the kidnappers, is that right?”

“Nothing. All I can do is wait and hope that you might be able to find my son.”

Rafferty stood up. “That is a tall order, Mr. Kirchmeyer, a tall order. But I will do what I can. In the meantime, let me know as soon as you hear again from the kidnappers.”

“I will, and I cannot thank you enough, Mr. Rafferty.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Rafferty said, patting Kirchmeyer on the shoulder before leaving.

O’Connor was striding up the front steps as Rafferty walked out on the porch. A dark scowl spread over the chief’s splotched, unpleasant face and he stopped, blocking Rafferty’s path. The two men might have been twins. Both were well over six feet, barrel-chested, large-bellied, surprisingly light on their feet, and invariably well-armed. Neither was a man to be trifled with under any circumstances.

“I’ll have no tricks from you,” O’Connor said without preamble, as he fixed his poisonous green eyes on Rafferty. “You’ll not be interfering in this business. Is that understood?”

“And good afternoon to you,” Rafferty replied, staring back at the chief. “I’m here at Mr. Kirchmeyer’s invitation, John. Apparently the police of this city do not have his full confidence. Imagine that.”

The provocation was deliberate—Rafferty considered O’Connor to be nothing more than a thug with a badge—but also risky. O’Connor had beaten down many a man who crossed him and struck fear in countless others. Rafferty, however, was not among them.

“By God, I could arrest you right now,” O’Connor said, moving toward Rafferty.

Rafferty stood his ground until the two men were eyeball to eyeball. “You could try,” Rafferty replied, “though I’d not give good odds on your chances. Now, if there are no further pleasantries to be exchanged, I think I’ll take a little walk.”

“You do that,” O’Connor said, glaring at Rafferty as he swung around him. “And don’t come back.”

Rafferty strolled over to 7th Street, where he found a drugstore at the corner of Randolph Avenue. There was a telephone inside and after favoring the store’s proprietor with a silver dollar, Rafferty placed a call to Thomas at the saloon.

“Listen, Wash,” he said when he heard Thomas’s familiar voice, “I’ve got a job for you. I want you to track down Red Banion for me. Tell him he’s a suspect in this Kirchmeyer business. Ask him how much the lad owes him and see what he says. And remind Red that he owes me a favor.”

Thomas laughed. “Several favors, Shad. He’d probably be fertilizing the soil in Calvary today if you hadn’t gotten him out of that mess with the Chicago boys.”

The “mess” involved certain transactions with a Chicago gaming syndicate led by the notorious “Iron Pipe” McGinnis, so named after the weapon he favored for breaking the knee- caps, or in some cases the skull, of any gambler who failed to pay his debts.

Thomas said, “So you think Red snatched the kid to get his dad to cough up a debt?”

“Could be,” Rafferty said. “Let me know what you find out. I’ll call back later.”

Rafferty left the drugstore after buying a couple of the cheap cigars he liked to smoke and headed back down Osceola Street toward the Kirchmeyer mansion. But he didn’t go all the way there. Instead, he turned east on Lee Avenue, following the route Michael Kirchmeyer would have taken on his way to the brewery.

At Drake Street the “Omaha” shops, as everyone called them, came into view. The shops consisted of a series of low brick structures, including a roundhouse. Men in overalls were working on cars or moving locomotives in and out of the roundhouse on the north end of the property. Across Drake from the shops was a foundry, its wide doors open to dissipate the heat. A group of men inside were pouring molten iron into a sand mold. Other men were working in a small yard outside the foundry, loading finished goods onto drays. Teamsters with their wagons clattered along Drake, carrying supplies to the rail shops. Rafferty was struck by the amount of activity and the openness of the area. With potential eyes everywhere, it would hardly have been a good place to kidnap someone in broad daylight.

Farther down Lee, however, toward the river, the landscape abruptly changed. The street entered a long steep ravine, well-wooded, and followed it down to the river, where the brewery stood at the base of a low cliff. This rather secluded portion of the street, Rafferty concluded, would have been an ideal spot for the kidnappers to snatch young Kirchmeyer without being seen.

But where had they taken him and how had they spirited him away? At first Rafferty thought it likely the young man had been forced into a carriage or wagon, probably after being bound and gagged. But this theory had a problem. The street was very steep—Rafferty guessed the grade at twelve percent or better—and also quite muddy after heavy rain a few days earlier. Getting any kind of wheeled vehicle up and down the street under such conditions would have been very difficult.

As he was pondering this problem, Rafferty noticed something peculiar. A yellow ribbon—neatly tied with a square knot—dangled from a bush to his left where a goat trail led off into the woods. Curious, Rafferty turned up the muddy trail, instantly regretting that he had put on his best new loafers before going to the Kirchmeyer house. Rafferty followed the trail for perhaps a hundred yards, looking for any evidence that Michael Kirchmeyer and his kidnappers might have passed by. Before long, Rafferty saw a shanty, built of scavenged lumber and lodged up against one side of the ravine.

He scrambled over to take a look, fighting off a cloud of gnats that seemed to have been eagerly awaiting his arrival. The shanty looked as though it had been built by the hoboes who often camped near the railroad tracks. Inside, Rafferty found a fire pit, next to which was a crude plank bench supported by beer barrels. The dirt floor was littered with bottles of cheap whiskey, cans, and other signs of recent habitation. Rafferty sat down on the bench and used a stick to poke at the ashes in the pit, hoping he might find a clue. Almost immediately, he felt a peculiar sensation—at once cold and damp—around his feet. And in that instant, a most curious idea began to form in his mind.

By early evening, Rafferty was back at the Kirchmeyer mansion, waiting with everyone else for another message from the kidnappers. At around 6 o’clock, Rafferty called Thomas to see if he’d managed to talk to Red Banion. Thomas had, and the upshot of the conversation came as no surprise to Rafferty. The gambler, Thomas reported, was very insistent in stating that he’d had no involvement in Kirchmeyer’s kidnapping and that the young man had never owed him anything close to $10,000.

“You know Red,” Thomas said. “He’s a very cautious fellow. You won’t get much credit from him unless he’s thoroughly convinced you’re good for it. And when it came to young Kirchmeyer, Red wasn’t convinced. He said $250 was the biggest debt the boy ever had and that he always paid up on time.”

“How much did he gamble away in all?”

“About five thousand at most,” Red said. “Anything happening on your end, Shad?”

“No, I’m just sittin’ around like everybody else. But I have a feelin’, Wash, that it won’t be quiet around here too much longer.”

Rafferty’s prediction proved accurate. At 10 p.m. a boy arrived at the mansion’s front door bearing an envelope that he said was to be personally delivered to Johann Kirchmeyer. O’Connor, who had returned to the house not long before after spending several fruitless hours trying to pry information out of the local hoodlum community, intercepted the boy at once. A quick grilling revealed that the boy had been given the envelope by a man of vague description who’d stopped him at Seven Corners and offered him a five-dollar gold piece to deliver it, no questions asked.

O’Connor took the sealed envelope, which seemed to have something heavy inside, and brought it upstairs to Kirchmeyer. The chief was peeved to discover Rafferty in the room, but kept his unhappiness to himself, since Kirchmeyer obviously had placed his faith in the saloonkeeper.

“This has just come, sir,” O’Connor said. “I would think it is from the kidnappers.”

“At last,” Kirchmeyer said when O’Connor handed him the envelope. The brewer’s hands were shaking as he opened it. Inside were a note and a gold pocket watch.

Kirchmeyer turned over the watch to inspect the engraving on the back. “It is Michael’s,” he announced. “I gave it to him on his twenty-first birthday.”

With Rafferty and O’Connor looking over his shoulder, Kirchmeyer unfolded the note, which read:

Once again, it was signed, THE BLACK HAND.

Kirchmeyer stood up and said, “I must do as they say.”

“Of course,” O’Connor agreed. “But don’t worry. We have time. I will post my men all around the area. These criminals will not get away with their evil deed.”

These words alarmed Kirchmeyer. “No, no. You have seen what the note says. No police. I cannot risk it. Do you agree, Mr. Rafferty?”

“I do. We can take no chances with young Michael’s life.”

“I do not think it would be wise to give up the money so easily,” O’Connor said, shooting a nasty glance at Rafferty before turning to Kirchmeyer. “You have only their word that they will not harm your boy. I assure you that my men will be very discreet—”

“No,” Kirchmeyer said sharply. “You are to instruct your men to stay well away. Is that clear?”

“It is,” O’Connor replied, though Rafferty greatly doubted that the chief had any intention of living up to his promise.

After O’Connor left, Rafferty reread the note and told Kirchmeyer, “As it so happens, I was in that shack earlier today.”

“In it? But why?”

Rafferty explained how he had run across the shanty. Then he added, “Now, I don’t want you to worry. Just drop off the money as you were instructed to. I’m confident everything will be all right and you will soon see your son.”

When Rafferty came downstairs, O’Connor was waiting for him.

“Kirchmeyer is a fool and so are you,” he said. “That boy will be dead if we allow the kidnappers to get away with the ransom.”

Rafferty was uncharacteristically silent for a few moments before he responded in a calm voice, “Well, John, I’m sure you’ll do what you must. When Mr. Kirchmeyer returns from droppin’ off the ransom, tell him I’ll see him again in the mornin’.”

“Tell him yourself,” O’Connor said, and went off to round up his men. It was going to be, he knew, a long night.

The following morning was to bring two great surprises. The first concerned the seemingly unaccountable disappearance of the ransom, a development that left Johann Kirchmeyer in a fury while O’Connor struggled to explain why he had violated the brewer’s express orders. Worst of all, Michael Kirchmeyer remained missing, and as the Dispatch stated, there was great fear for his well-being.

Not long after the newspaper’s story appeared, however, came a second development far more startling than the first. Just before noon, as Kirchmeyer paced the floor in his study, a servant rushed in.

“It is Mr. Rafferty,” he said excitedly, “and Michael is with him!”

The reunion that followed between young Kirchmeyer and his family was the sort of heartfelt occasion that members of the press, who had trailed Rafferty into the house like dogs on the scent of prime sirloin, were more than pleased to report upon. Johann Kirchmeyer fairly bounded down the stairs and wrapped his arms around Michael, a lanky young man who was a good half-foot taller and fifty pounds lighter than his father. Augusta Kirchmeyer, who had been confined to bed since the kidnapping, also made her way downstairs. At the sight of her son, she cried out, “Oh, Michael, my dear Michael, you are back,” and then promptly fell to the floor in a faint. Father and son went to her aid as reporters crowded around, furiously scribbling in their small notebooks.

Amid all of this commotion, Rafferty slipped away down a hallway to the kitchen, then climbed up the back stairs to the study where he had talked with Johann Kirchmeyer the day before. Rafferty took a seat by the window and gazed out across the green expanse of the river valley. He was not looking forward to the task that lay ahead of him.

When Johann Kirchmeyer entered the study half an hour later, his face was a study in puzzlement. “Mr. Rafferty, why are you not downstairs? The reporters are asking for you. They want to know how you achieved this miracle. But Michael told me you were here and wished to see me alone.”

Rafferty nodded as Kirchmeyer sat down in his favorite armchair. “Yes, there are some things you need to know, and the sooner the better. There is no way of sugarcoatin’ what I am about to tell you. I only ask that you hear me out, and then you can decide what is to be done.”

“Very well. I owe you that, at the least, for saving my son.”

“Ah, I fear I didn’t save the lad,” Rafferty said slowly. “’Twould be more accurate to say that I captured him.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean this, Mr. Kirchmeyer: Your son was not kidnapped and he is the criminal responsible for this whole sorry business.”

Kirchmeyer began to protest but Rafferty held up his hand. “Please, let me continue. Your son, I regret to tell you, staged his own abduction for the purpose of extortin’ money from you. For the past twenty-four hours, he’s been hidin’ out in an abandoned portion of your brewery caves. It was he who placed that ransom note on your front porch. He also wrote the second note and had it delivered here with the help of a confederate, whose name I have if you wish to know it.

“Now, as for why Michael acted as he did, I fear you will find his motive most troublin’. You were right in thinkin’ that he had run up debts in the gamblin’ den operated by Mr. Banion. But as it so happens, I know Red Banion well and I was able to confirm that your son had in fact been payin’ off what he owed, since Mr. Banion, being a cautious sort of fellow, would not extend Michael any great amount of credit. Trouble is, Michael had to get the money somewhere, and he got it at the brewery by stealin’ money and cookin’ the books, which he was in a position to do as your accountant.

“Unfortunately for him, he learned not long ago that his hand was about to be detected square in the middle of the cookie jar. As I understand it, you told him you were plan-nin’ an audit at the end of the fiscal year this month because of some irregularities you’d run across. That’s when Michael hit upon his desperate scheme. He’d pay back the money he owed, and maybe get a few thousand in spendin’ money as well, by extortin’ it from you. ’Twas certainly a brazen piece of work, I will say that for it.”

Kirchmeyer put his hand to his forehead and said, “No, I cannot believe Michael would ever be capable of such a thing.”

“Then you’d best take a look at this,” Rafferty replied, retrieving a folded sheet of paper from the inside pocket of his gaudy seersucker suit. “’Tis Michael’s confession, which I had him write out. I’m sure you will recognize that it is in his hand.”

Kirchmeyer took the paper and read it slowly. The more he read, the more blood seemed to drain from his face. By the time he was finished, he had the desperate, stricken look of a man who had just buried his child. “Michael,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Ach, my Michael, what have you done?”

Rafferty said, “I suppose you’ll be wonderin’ about the ransom. I have it. Michael was carryin’ it when I apprehended him outside the old cave entrance west of the brewery. I guessed that’s where he’d be sneakin’ out.”

“But how did he get his hands on it with all of those policemen watching?”

Rafferty smiled. “Ah, that was the true genius of his scheme. Michael had worked in the caves for a time and knew them well. I also recall that he had some experience as a surveyor, is that right?”

“Yes, he studied surveying, but what does that have to do with the caves?”

“Well, for Michael, it proved to be a handy skill. Because of his trainin’ as a surveyor, he was able to figure out that one of the old caves passes very close to the edge of the ravine on Lee Avenue. And that gave him a stroke of inspiration. He figured out that by diggin’ a short side tunnel no more than twenty feet long, he could punch a hole right into the floor of that shack. The sandstone down there is like hard sugar, as you well know, and a couple of men with a pick can cut through it easily. It probably took Michael and his confederate only a few nights to do the work. As they neared the ravine, they made the tunnel no bigger than a rabbit hole in hopes it wouldn’t be discovered. That’s why Michael was so insistent that the ransom money be put in a package of a certain size. He needed to be sure it would fit through the hole.”

“How did you find out about this tunnel?” Kirchmeyer asked.

“’Twas a bit of luck. You see, Michael used rocks and dirt to temporarily plug the hole, but he didn’t do quite a good enough job of it. When I came upon the shanty yesterday, I sat down on the bench while I was pokin’ through the fire pit. Lo and behold, I felt a cool, damp breeze—cave air—at my feet. And that’s when I had an idea that maybe, just maybe, somebody had come upon a foolproof way of gettin’ their hands on the ransom.”

“So you found the rabbit hole?”

“Well, I didn’t open it, if that’s what you mean. I didn’t want to scare away anybody who might be hidin’ out down there. But when the second ransom note arrived statin’ where the money was to be left, I knew I was right about a tunnel comin’ from the caves. The coppers never did figure it, since Michael did a better job of sealin’ the rabbit hole the second time around, after he’d got the money.”

Kirchmeyer said, “One thing is not clear to me. Did you suspect Michael from the very start?”

“No, I didn’t know for sure until I caught him skulkin’ out of the caves with the ransom money. He wasn’t happy to see me and I had to do some persuadin’ to keep him from tryin’ to run off. After that, it didn’t take long to wring the truth out of him. I can tell you he is mortified, though I’m inclined to think that the chief source of his unhappiness is that he got caught.”

Rafferty looked into Kirchmeyer’s tired, sad eyes and continued, “There is but one more thing for you to consider, sir, and it concerns the fate of your son. By all rights, he should be charged with his crime, not to mention the agony he put you and your wife through. Yet the fact is, you are the victim here and you must decide whether to prosecute the matter in the courts. What I’m sayin’ is that I will not hand Michael’s confession over to the police unless you ask me to.”

“And if I decide to tear up the confession, what will the police be told?”

“Leave that to me,” Rafferty said with a smile. “I have a fine Irish talent for embroidery. Besides, I believe I can convince Chief O’Connor to go along with whatever tale I have to offer, so long as he receives credit for findin’ your son and retrievin’ the ransom. He will be a regular hero by the time I’m through.”

“You would do that to spare our family the shame of Michael’s crime?”

“I would, but on one condition. The lad cannot be let off scot-free. You must see to it that he faces serious consequences for what he has done.”

Kirchmeyer nodded. “I understand, Mr. Rafferty, and I assure you there will be consequences. To be betrayed in such a cold and calculating manner by my own flesh and blood is a terrible thing. I don’t know that I will ever be able to forgive Michael.”

“It will be hard,” Rafferty acknowledged, “but perhaps one day, if Michael can prove himself worthy of forgiveness, you will be able to give it.”

“Yes, perhaps one day,” Kirchmeyer said as he stood up to shake Rafferty’s hand. Then he went downstairs to talk with his son.

Rafferty was as good as his word. When he talked to the reporters downstairs, he spun a lively yarn about how two unknown men—believed to be transients living in the shack—had snatched away Michael. The story was patently absurd, but Rafferty buttressed it with a glowing account of how Chief O’Connor and his men had allowed the ransom to be taken so that the kidnappers would think they had gotten away with their crime. Then, he said, he and the police had freed Michael and recovered the ransom yet the kidnappers had somehow escaped. The press was skeptical but Rafferty stuck to his story, and as there was no way to disprove it, the newspapers had no choice but to ratify it as the official version of events.

Johann Kirchmeyer was also true to his word. He banished his son from his home and business and wrote him out of his will. Soon thereafter, Michael left St. Paul for points unknown.

Five years later, in 1897, Johann Kirchmeyer died. His wife followed him to the grave a month later. With no heirs to take over the brewery, it soon foundered and was purchased at a rock-bottom price by an up-and-coming businessman named Jacob Schmidt, who eventually consolidated it into his large new brewery on West 7th Street. The old Kirchmeyer caves were then boarded up, and not long after that the brewery itself was demolished.

Michael Kirchmeyer never returned to St. Paul, not even for his parents’ funerals. He was not heard of again until May of 1898, when a brief story appeared in the St. Paul Pioneer Press:

Thomas, who read the newspapers religiously, reported the news to Rafferty that morning as they prepared to open the saloon.

“Well, Wash, I guess it is the end then of the Kirchmeyer saga,” Rafferty said. “Let us mark the occasion with due ceremony.”

Beneath the bar, Rafferty—for reasons he could not readily explain—had saved a quart bottle of “Kirchy’s” beer from the last batch made before the brewery shut down. He uncapped the bottle and poured out two glasses of the dark lager.

“A toast,” he said, raising his glass, “to the brewer of a noble beer and to his wife and his son, all gone now. May the Kirchmeyers rest in peace, though I’m thinking that where Michael is goin’ might be a tad hotter than the Yukon.”

“Amen to that,” Thomas said. “Amen to that.”