“So we need to find out where he got the whiskey he’s selling,” she said, rubbing her chin.
He could imagine that the thoughtfulness he saw on her expression right now was how serious she’d looked when searching out safe alcohol and speakeasies for them all to visit.
“Yes,” he answered. They might as well know the rest. It was no longer a secret. “Vincent Burrows was trying his hand at racketeering when he was arrested. Rather than having people brew whiskey for them to distribute, mobs out east, where Burrows was from, steal shipments of alcohol from Europe, from the Caribbean, from wherever a ship is sailing in from. It’s cheaper to steal it than to make it, and for the most part, it’s better quality, so they make more money.” He’d been working on one of those cases when he’d been duped by Scarlet. He looked at Betty, with her eyes so big and bright and shining. He couldn’t believe he’d ever compared the two. “Minnesota Thirteen is the most sought-after whiskey in America right now because it’s twice distilled, which is why it’s safe to drink.”
She nodded. “I know. And I know it’s shipped by rail, up through Canada and then down the West Coast by ship, and to ports beyond. It is known worldwide. Some call it Canadian Whiskey, but it’s not. It’s made in Central Minnesota, and called thirteen because that is a variety of corn that has a short growing season and is used to make the whiskey.”
Henry nodded. She had done her research. “Burrows had gotten his hands on a few cases of it and started peddling it around town. Then, for some reason he decided to cut it, half and half with his own brew.”
“We saw his still,” Patsy said. “At the docks. Both Lane and I.”
“He might have been thinking he could make even more money that way,” Henry said. “By filling bottles of half Thirteen and half his own brew.”
“Except that it tasted so awful, no one would buy a second supply from him,” Lane added.
“Or,” Henry said, which was what he thought happened, “he only had a few cases. Not a full shipment. And was trying to make it stretch until he got more.”
“You think Elkin has that full shipment, don’t you?” Betty asked.
Henry nodded. “I think he was behind stealing it, and undercut Burrows.” Some of the things that had never made sense were starting to click. Elkin wasn’t just a mole to the FBI, he was double-crossing the mobs, too. Playing things from both ends.
Betty shook her head. “What I don’t understand is, if Minnesota Thirteen is made in Minnesota and shipped everywhere, why aren’t prohibition agents stopping that? The trains and the ships?”
With his mind circling, Henry answered her question, “They are, and confiscating it, but who do they arrest? The train engineers? They don’t know every item that’s been loaded onto the cars. Neither do ships. The captain of the cargo ship I was put on didn’t know I was in one of those barrels marked as flour. There were hundreds of them, most of them full of flour. There aren’t enough agents to be at every train depot and ship dock in America, checking every box, barrel, and crate.”
“This is all very interesting,” Jane said. “But ultimately, what’s our next step?”
Henry knew what his next step was—making sure Betty did not meet Elkin as she’d arranged. If Elkin was double-crossing both the FBI and the mob, he would try to get rid of anyone who knew him, so he couldn’t be ratted out on either side. That was why he’d talked to her tonight, and had given her an address—it was a trap.
Betty couldn’t believe how exciting this was. How thrilling. Being with him always had been, but this, actually helping him. It was... Well, she could fully understand why Patsy had been so adamant about becoming a reporter.
Being a reporter didn’t appeal to Betty; she didn’t even know how to type, but helping Henry solve his case did appeal to her. She’d always liked learning about things, places, people. When she and her sisters first started sneaking out, and she’d spent those first few weeks on bar stools, talking to the bartenders about the different beverages they served, and the local joints, she’d enjoyed it. It had been out of necessity. She didn’t want either of her sisters to end up blind from drinking widow-maker juice or end up in jail because the joint they were at had been raided.
Safety first had been the first item in her plan when they’d embarked on their nighttime adventures. She had made sure that the rules, the plans, she put in place for her and her sisters kept them all safe.
Now Henry’s safety was what she was concerned about. So, the first thing she had to do was get a good look at that address, before it was time to be there.
“It’s getting late,” Henry said. “We better call it a night.”
They all agreed and Jane chattered nearly the entire way to the abandoned house.
Betty didn’t mind. Having her sister there kept her from thinking about other times she’d walked down this tunnel with him.
Henry walked them all the way to their backyard, to the trellis.
As Jane entered the window, and Betty grasped ahold of the wood to start her climb, Henry stopped her. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
Warmth filled her. “At the house?”
“Yes,” he said.
“All right.” She couldn’t pull her eyes off his, and her lips tingled as if waiting for his to touch them.
He released her hand and stepped back. “Good night.”
She swallowed at
