Chapter 7
The Man in the Black Derby Hat
Tor Loken’s work at the Chicago River Fuel and Dray was less exciting now that the coal chutes were working well. The new foreman had not called for him in three months. His daily chores became routine. Tor read all of the books left in the corner of the room. Some he read twice. The hot summer of 1883 was almost over. More and more, his thoughts strayed back to his previous home in New York. He thought of his mother, his father, and his uncle.
One morning in early October, after sweeping out the back stairway, Tor returned to his room to continue reading one of the books. He glanced out of his only window to see a tall, muscular man with a red moustache approach the steps leading to the front office.
The man was dressed in a new, black suit. His derby hat, cocked to one side, matched it precisely. His footwear did not, for below his trouser cuffs were a pair of well-worn leather work boots. He gave the distinct impression of someone out of his element but trying hard to fit in. This tall, mustached man in the black derby hat climbed the marble steps and disappeared into the towering Chicago River Coal and Dray building.
Hearing the commotion in the clerk’s office, DeWilde threw open the door to see two of his clerks blocking the entrance to his office.
“Here, now. What is the matter?” he said in a stern voice. As the clerks turned to reply, the caller pushed past them.
“If you are in charge here then I want to speak with you,” said the man in black derby. The two clerks grabbed his arms. The brawny intruder easily shook them off.
“Step into my office. We can do our business in here, and my men can get back to their duties,” DeWilde said, motioning the caller in. “Have a chair, Mister …”
“Loken. My name is Ingman Loken,” he said with a heavy Norwegian accent. He remained standing. “I am uncle to a boy sent here from the boys’ home over on LaSalle Street. His name is Tor, Tor Loken. I have been looking for him for over two years. Do you know where I can find him?”
DeWilde was silent for a long moment. Then, “Perhaps, uh … well … Mister Loken, is it? Well, you must understand, Sir, I … uh … I have many, many employees. Tor you say? Tor. I do not recall anyone…”
Suddenly the back door to DeWilde’s office swung open, and Big Jake Riggens stepped in with his right hand on his nightstick.
“Everything all right here, Mr. DeWilde?”
“Everything is fine, Jake. Right, Mr. Loken? But Jake, stay here a minute in case we can help this gent with his problem.”
“I am here for my nephew, Tor,” said Ingman Loken in a booming voice as Big Jake stepped closer. “I know he was sent here. I wish to see him. Exactly what must I do to get your cooperation?”
Down the hall in his room, Tor heard the disturbance.
“Now, see here, Mr. Loken,” said DeWilde, “calm yourself. How do I know you are related to this … Tor, I think you said?”
“Tor Loken,” said Ingman. “He is sixteen years of age and the son of my brother Olaf Loken and his wife Karina. Yust where is he?”
Tor crept up the steps and listened from the hall.
“We have a number of sixteen-year-old boys here, Loken, not one Tor in the bunch as I recall. How about you, Jake? Are you aware of a boy with that name?” The security man remained silent.
“You’re talking about me,” said Tor, entering the room. “I am Tor Loken. My pa was Olaf, Karina was my ma, and I have an Uncle Ingman. Is that you, sir?”
“Now hold fast!” snapped DeWilde. “I am not going to let some fellow come in off the street and claim my workers. Jake, take the boy back to his room.”
“Yust you wait a minute,” said Ingman, stepping between Big Jake and Tor. “I have proof. I have a photograph of my brother, his wife, and their son right here.” He opened a pocket book and pulled out a well-worn tintype photo. He looked at it, then at Tor, and then showed it to DeWilde.
“The boy was only one when they had this likeness made, but you can see it is him and his folks. And you can see the resemblance between me and my brother, Olaf Loken—Tor’s pa.”
DeWilde looked closely at the photo, then at Tor, then at the photo again, wrinkling his brow.
“I am not convinced,” he said. “Look here, now. You cannot expect me to let a youngster go with just anyone who comes in off the street with an old photo and a made-up story. I will not have it. Jake, take the boy to his room.”
“No!” shouted Tor. “This is my uncle. And that’s my ma and my pa in the photograph. I know it! Mr. DeWilde, you have to let me go with him. He’s my only kin. You must let me go.”
Ingman stepped over to the boy and turned back toward DeWilde and Big Jake who now had a menacing scowl on his face.
“My nephew and I are leaving now and won't be coming back. There is nothing you can do to stop us. He is my family, and he is going with me.”
“Jake,” said DeWilde, “I have no more time for this foolishness. Send this man on his way.”
Big Jake Riggens, right hand grasping the handle of his nightstick, reached for the collar of Ingman Loken’s new suit. Ingman’s arm came up to deflect it.
Instantly the nightstick flashed from its sheath and sliced through the air. Ingman ducked as the stick flew past. With his left hand he struck a strong, solid blow to the security man’s right side, snapping several ribs and sending him to the floor where he struggled to breathe.
DeWilde jerked open a desk drawer and reached inside. Tor’s uncle threw himself, head-first, across the top of the desk, slamming the drawer closed and smashing the coal merchant's fingers. Ingman held the drawer closed, trapping DeWilde's crushed right hand.
“I believe you were yust reaching for my nephew’s back pay, ya?” said Ingman. “I’m sorry if I inyured your man over there, but I wasn’t given much choice in the matter.”
Tor’s uncle eased up on the desk drawer, allowing DeWilde to pull his hand free. He raised his bloodied right hand into the air. With his left hand, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. He shook it open and quickly wrapped his damaged fingers, holding them tightly.
“Damn you, Loken,” he cried. “And damn your brat nephew to boot.”
“I do hope your fingers are better soon,” said Ingman. “Tor, get your belongings. Like I said, we are leaving now and we won’t be back.”
Tor ran down the hallway to his room, returning in seconds with his coat, hat, pocketknife, and his savings, five dollars and thirty-two cents.
Big Jake was stirring now, trying to catch his breath. He grimaced from the pain in his side.
“Mr. Riggens?” said Tor. “I am sorry if I caused you any problems. You were good to me. I thank you for looking out for me.”
Riggens, clutching his side, looked up at Tor but remained silent.
“All right, Loken,” said DeWilde, “Take the boy. Take him and leave here.” He reached into his pocket with his left hand, pulling out a few coins. “Here is your pay, boy,” he said, tossing the coins on the floor. “This is how we met and this is how we part.”
Tor picked up three quarters, just enough to cover the wages he earned since payday. He left the rest on the floor.
“This is all I’m owed and all I shall take.”
Tor’s uncle pulled open the desk drawer, taking out the small pistol laying there. “I will see to it you get this back, DeWilde.” Ingman backed his way toward the door. Tor opened it, and they quickly crossed the bustling office. The clerks, still focused only on their duties, busily stamped papers, shouted orders, and continued with their work.
As he neared the front door, Ingman flipped open the cylinder on the revolver, ejecting all five cartridges into his hand. He tossed them into a wastebasket, dropped the pistol, and kicked it under a nearby file cabinet.
Tor and Ingman left the building for downtown Chicago. They soon blended into the midday crowds of pedestrians. Ingman checked out of his hotel and they headed to the station. By one o’clock, the Lokens w
ere seated in a passenger car on a northbound train.
Belching black smoke, the steam locomotive soon crossed the Illinois border, roaring past cities, towns, woodlands, and fields. Ingman and Tor Loken were on their way to a lumber camp on a lake in far northwestern Wisconsin.