A Dying Note

by Ann Parker

  “I know where to reach you,” he finished.

  They both stood, shook hands, and she left, pulling the modest collar of her sensible brown overcoat up high around her neck.

  From there, it was up the elevator to the seventh floor.

  He stopped outside the door to the suite and listened. All was quiet.

  So, according to Miss O’Connell’s report, it seemed that Mrs. Sweet had spent her afternoon checking some of the higher-class brothels for signs of Robert Gallagher, just as she had promised she would.

  But why stop at the music store?

  He tucked that question away for later and knocked on the door.

  “Enter,” came the voice from within.

  De Bruijn obliged.

  He was shocked, but only briefly, at the sight of Mr. Gallagher sitting in one chair, dressed for the evening, while Mrs. Sweet slouched, her face full of sullen storm, in another chair, dressed for…Well, the silk dressing gown was a fit prelude to retiring, although the hour argued against it.

  “A change of plans,” said Gallagher, and motioned de Bruijn to a third, nearby chair.

  “A change of plans?” De Bruijn took the indicated seat. The arrangement of the chairs placed him at the apex of a very sharp triangle.

  “Robert is dead,” said Gallagher. “Through violent means, in a part of town he had no business being in.”

  De Bruijn sat back in the chair, stunned.

  Mrs. Sweet shifted uneasily, the fabric of her dressing gown shimmering.

  Gallagher stared at him, his face a mask. A half-smoked cigar held between two fingers sent a languishing curl of smoke up toward the high ceiling.

  It occurred to de Bruijn that this was how so many of the men of Gallagher’s standing responded to the death of those close to them—at least publicly. They continued as they were, the clues to their grief small but detectable, if you knew what to look for. They buttoned their jackets more slowly. Polished their spectacles more thoroughly. Checked their pocket watches more often. Spoke in careful, mechanical monotones.

  De Bruijn finally said, “This is terrible. My condolences, sir.”

  Gallagher drew on his cigar, then exhaled, waving de Bruijn’s words away with the smoke. “He was living in the city under an assumed name.

  Mrs. Sweet covered her mouth. She was, de Bruijn noted, uncomfortable with the turn of conversation. He looked back at Gallagher. “How—?”

  “How did I find out?” A bitter smile escaped, then vanished. “A young girl came to the hotel early today, demanding to speak with me. Said she had a private message purportedly from Mrs. Stannert. Little Miss Gizzi.”

  Gizzi!

  De Bruijn lost track of what Gallagher was saying. It was as if having been delivered one blow in the boxing ring that made him stagger, he received a second that sent him to the mat.

  He dragged his attention back to Gallagher’s voice. “After telling me Robert was dead and directing me to the police, she took off like a jackrabbit.”

  “What did she look like, this girl?” de Bruijn asked.

  Gallagher paused. “Small. Dark.” He frowned. “Unusual eyes.”

  De Bruijn tensed. “Unusual?”

  “One was noticeably dark, brown, perhaps. The other a light blue.”

  A chill, almost electric, ran through him. Could finding Antonia Gizzi at last be as simple as finding Mrs. Stannert? Could he dare hope? She had been elusive for so long.

  Gallagher continued, “I leave before dawn tomorrow for business in Virginia City. My son’s body will remain in San Francisco for preparation for his final journey East. I met with Mrs. Stannert earlier today. I am telling you what I said to her and, just now, to Mrs. Sweet. You three are going to find who killed Robert. I expect you to work with Mrs. Stannert and keep Mrs. Sweet here from running wild. Use whatever resources you have at your disposal. This is your expertise, Mr. de Bruijn, finding what is lost. I needn’t tell you how to conduct this business. I will return in a week, expecting that you will have an answer for me.”

  “And if we don’t?” Flo sneered.

  Harry looked at her, emotionless. “I believe I’ve made it clear what I am prepared to do, Mrs. Sweet.”

  The silk quilted dressing gown hissed on the upholstery as Flo slid to the edge of the chair, puffing up in defiance like one of the pigeons that strutted the city avenues. She bounced to her feet, grabbed the ends of the braided cord belt looped loosely around the gown and tugged the ends tight, cinching it closed. “Screw you, Harry!”

  De Bruijn wondered if he would be called upon to keep the madam from attacking his client.

  Gallagher simply said, “Mrs. Sweet, you’re drunk.”

  “And to think, I actually felt sorry for you, because you lost your son.” The slur in her words was pronounced. “But you lost him long ago. And you’re still the same bastard you’ve always been.” With that, she stormed across the parlor into one of the two adjoining apartments, and slammed the door behind her.

  Harry set his cigar down in the ashtray at his elbow. “She’ll come to her senses in the morning.” He stood. “I have arrangements to make for the morrow.”

  “Of course,” De Bruijn took the hint and rose, glancing at the ornate ormolu clock on the parlor mantel.

  Still early.

  Plenty of time to put his own change of plans in effect and pay a surprise visit on Mrs. Stannert and, with luck, Antonia Gizzi.

  Chapter Nineteen

  As soon as Harry departed, Inez stormed up to the apartment, ready to whip the living daylights out of Antonia. She couldn’t fathom what had compelled her ward, first of all, to skip school, and then to eavesdrop and take the information directly to the one man who could cause their lives to tumble about their ears.

  What the hell was she thinking?

  But Antonia wasn’t there.

  Inez grabbed her silver-backed hairbrush and brought it with her to the store, ready to mete out punishment when the truant finally appeared.

  But as the hours ticked by and there was no sign of her, anger began to darken into worry.

  Where was she? Could something have happened to her? Surely she didn’t run away. Most likely, she was somewhere in town, reluctant to come home. Inez knew that, as often as she admonished Antonia to avoid the Barbary Coast and Chinatown, those areas were like a magnet for youngsters of an adventurous turn of spirit. And Antonia, chafing in her petticoats, was nothing if not adventurous.

  Inez paced from the office to the lesson room, ears attuned for the clank of the entry bell. Instead, she heard the sweet strains of a violin coming from the front of the store. Curious, she ventured into the showroom. The music was coming from the repair room.

  John Hee?

  He must have come in while she was upstairs looking for Antonia. Inez headed to the repair alcove and twitched the curtain aside. John Hee stood, his back to her, playing to the brick wall and the counter where he did repairs. She waited, hating to break the flow of music. After about a minute, she cleared her throat. Hee lowered the violin and turned around, “Mrs. Stannert,” he said, seeming not at all surprised to see her there. “Testing the tone,” he added, as if by way of explanation. “To see if soundpost in correct place.”

  “Lovely music,” said Inez. “I didn’t want to interrupt you. However, I am wondering, have you seen Antonia?” She surveyed the room. A partially disassembled brass instrument along with bits of brass tubing, springs, and tools occupied one side of the counter. On the far end, some small Oriental curios were half visible in a rucksack.

  Hee returned to the counter, closed the satchel, and shut the violin in its case. “She not upstairs?”

  “No.” Inez’s throat constricted. “It is close to dark. She is never this late.”

  “Time for me to go,” said Hee. “I will look for her on my way.”

 
; “If she is in Chinatown this time of night…” Inez couldn’t finish the sentence.

  Hee shrugged into his jacket and picked up his wide-brimmed hat. “She has much common sense. Do not worry, Mrs. Stannert. She take care of herself.”

  Inez hoped so. She turned and opened the curtain. Startled, she stepped back, inadvertently treading on the toe of Hee’s boot.

  A strange gentleman stood on the other side of the display case of music boxes. However, he wasn’t looking at the merchandise, but at her, as if he had been waiting for Inez and John Hee to appear.

  Inez’s first thought: Why didn’t I hear the bell?

  Cantankerous though it was, it had been, up to now, reliable, and she was well attuned to its metallic note, hearing its alert even from the back rooms.

  Her next thought: How long has he been standing there? Followed by: Who is he?

  Her initial impression of him was that, whoever he was, he was a neat and careful man. From his brushed dark gray derby to the muted checked overcoat in somber browns and grays to his polished black boots, he appeared no different from the city’s multitudes of businessmen. A bamboo walking stick with an L-shaped, elegantly carved ivory handle provided the single mark of distinction. He had straight dark hair, a short, well-groomed Van Dyke beard, the mustache curling up a bit at the ends. His large brown eyes focused unwaveringly upon her. In a voice as careful and neat as his appearance, he asked, “Do I have the pleasure of addressing Mrs. Stannert?”

  John Hee moved to stand by her side. Her hand automatically slid into the hidden pocket of her skirt before she recalled it was empty. The small Remington Smoot pocket revolver she had always carried with her in Leadville was not there but tucked away in her nightstand upstairs.

  The gentleman’s gaze didn’t shift, but Inez sensed he was quite aware of Hee’s movements and her inadvertent hand-to-pocket gesture.

  She didn’t see any reason to deny who she was. My bloody name is now writ in black and gilt on the store’s window right beside Nico’s. “Yes, I am Mrs. Stannert. And you are?”

  He tipped his hat. “De Bruijn. Wolter Roeland de Bruijn.”

  Inez sucked in her breath. “From Mr. Gallagher, yes?”

  “Correct.”

  Inez set her jaw. Harry certainly wasted no time. First, he tells me that I am to work with Flo and his henchman de Bruijn to find his son’s murderer. Then, he sends de Bruijn to dictate how we are to do his bidding. Inez turned to John Hee. “Thank you, John. You may go.”

  “I stay, do more repairs.”

  Inez was grateful to him for offering to stay so she would not be alone in the store with a stranger.

  “It’s quite all right, Mr. Hee. I was expecting Mr. de Bruijn. Just not this evening.” She shot the detective a venomous glance.

  John Hee nodded and, with a final glance at de Bruijn, walked toward the door, his rucksack over one shoulder.

  Inez called to him, “If you would, please turn the sign to CLOSED.”

  He did, and the bell declared his departure with a soft clunk. Inez crossed her arms and said without preamble, “As you no doubt know, Mr. Gallagher came here earlier today and said what he intended to say. He was quite clear. Are you here to expand upon his demands?”

  “I am not here about that. Although since you brought it up, I think it would be wise if you, Mrs. Sweet, and I met to coordinate our activities. Perhaps tomorrow morning at nine in the American Dining Room of the Palace Hotel? Breakfast courtesy of Mr. Gallagher, of course.”

  “I don’t need Mr. Gallagher’s charity,” snapped Inez. “A free breakfast will hardly make up for him threatening to rip my life to shreds.”

  “True. But he has lost his son and now wishes us to work together to find out the who and why behind his son’s death. We haven’t much time. The least we can do is be efficient in our investigation and not duplicate efforts.”

  “Very well. Tomorrow morning at the Palace Hotel.” Inez came out from behind the music box display case, aiming for the door. “I shall let you out.”

  De Bruijn shifted to block her path. “Excellent. However, I am here on another matter.”

  A prickle of wariness moved down her neck. “What then?”

  “Antonia Gizzi.”

  The prickle became a chill. “Who are you?”

  “Wolter Roeland de Bruijn,” he repeated patiently. “I knew Antonia’s mother, Drina Gizzi.” For the first time, she detected a flicker of emotion, a slight compression of the lips, a flicker of the eyes, a tightening of the gloved hands over the handle. He added, “In Denver, before Leadville.”

  “You.” Inez’s heart pounded as if it would come right through the metal and satin stays. “You are Mr. Brown.”

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “You are the one who abandoned them in Leadville. Antonia told me the story. Although she never met you face to face, she knew you visited her mother. You sent them away from Denver to a hotel in Leadville, with promises to take care of them and to support them. You promised Antonia’s mother you would follow directly. But you didn’t.” She advanced toward him.

  He didn’t move, leaving them standing far closer than Inez preferred. They were nearly eye to eye, of equal height. She continued, “Instead, the monies stopped, and they were cast out into the street to make do however they could. You abandoned them.”

  “That isn’t true,” he said finally. “It is a long story. One that took time to unravel once I arrived in Leadville. I did send them funds. Every month. The funds were diverted at the hotel desk.” A cold shadow crossed his face. “The desk clerk thought to enrich himself at Drina and Antonia’s expense. He lost much more than coinage as a result.”

  Suppressing a shudder, Inez decided she would not pursue that particular line of questioning. “You told them you would join them soon. Half a year later, they were still waiting. Drina believed up to the end that you would come save them from the horror their lives had become. She never lost faith in you.”

  De Bruijn looked away. “I was detained. I explained it all in letters, which, along with the funds, never reached them. I came to Leadville shortly after you left. In fact, it could be we crossed paths at the train station—you leaving, me arriving.”

  With apparent effort, he dragged his gaze back to Inez, facing her suspicions, her open disdain. “It took me a long time to uncover what had happened to Drina and to determine Antonia was not in town. Although I eventually learned of your connection to the Gizzis, I did not know Antonia left with you. When I learned you were here, I hoped you might have information about Antonia. I did not dream she would be here as well. In any case, nothing excuses the fact that I promised but failed to protect and take care of Drina and Antonia. My failure led, in part, to Drina’s death. There is nothing I can do now, except fulfill the promise to the daughter that I made to her mother.”

  Inez gave out a sharp laugh of surprise. “This is all very touching, but Antonia does not need your protection or your money or your…anything. She is my ward and my responsibility, a responsibility I take very seriously.” Granted, I am not doing the best of jobs right now, given I have no idea where she is and it is after dark. Inez covered her flash of worry with indignation. “In fact, Mr. de Bruijn, I can assure you that any attempt to insert yourself into her life, or should I say our lives, would be most unwelcome.”

  “That,” said de Bruijn, “is for Antonia to decide.”

  “Antonia doesn’t know you from Adam. Her mother shielded her completely from any details about you. She thinks your surname is ‘Brown’ and your initials are WRB. We only know that because the letters are engraved on what I believe is your pistol.”

  He blinked, a hairline crack in the veneer of his composure. “You have the revolver I gave them for protection?”

  The door squeaked open. The two of them turned to find Antonia standing in the doorway, her bo
ots and skirts a wrinkled muddy mess, her coat half-buttoned, her bonnet hanging from its strings down her back. She looked defiant, tired, and scared, all at once.

  She hesitated, looking from one to the other. “Uh, Mrs. Stannert, should I go upstairs? Wait for you there?” There was trepidation in her tone.

  De Bruijn started toward her. “Antonia!”

  Small lines of puzzlement pulled her eyebrows together. “Who’re you?”

  Damn it.

  Inez seized de Bruijn’s sleeve to halt his progress. “Wait here and keep your distance,” she said under her breath. She approached Antonia, put an arm around her shoulders, and guided her forward to stand before de Bruijn.

  Inez said, “We have much we need to discuss, Antonia, you and I. I’m certain you know what I mean. But first, there is this. In life, sometimes events pile up all at once and we must learn to deal with them as best we can.” She took a deep breath and said, “Antonia, this is Mr. Brown.”

  The small, thin shoulder tightened under her hand.

  She added, just to make it clear, “Your mother’s Mr. Brown. WRB.”

  Antonia’s knife was out in a heartbeat. She lunged for de Bruijn, slashing wildly. Inez, alerted by Antonia’s tensing muscles, gripped her tightly, one arm wrapped around the girl’s chest and the other around her waist.

  “You! You’re Worthless Rotten Brown!” Antonia screamed, struggling. “Why are you here? Go away! Go away before I kill you, you rotten bastard!”

  “Antonia, stop!” Inez shouted. She shot an I-told-you-so look at de Bruijn as she restrained the writhing girl.

  He had recoiled in concert with Antonia’s lunge, his cane raised in defense.

  Inez said, “Mr. de Bruijn, I think it best if you leave. Please shut the door behind you.”

  He didn’t argue. Instead, he addressed Antonia. “Antonia Gizzi, I understand. And I am sorry. I hope later you will allow me to explain to you what happened. Perhaps you will forgive me, in time.”

  Antonia spat. The glob of saliva landed on one polished boot cap.