A Dying Note

by Ann Parker

  The policeman smoothed his ginger mustache, attempting to look solemn but obviously gratified to be asked. He led de Bruijn away from the waterfront to Berry Street, saying, “True. I spent my early years walking these streets and still come ’round on occasion. I like to keep my face familiar to the folks who live and work here, and keep an eye on the hoodlums and scoundrels. Confidence games and swindles are part of city life, and not just in the Barbary Coast and the stock exchange.”

  De Bruijn gave a small smile, acknowledging the joke.

  “You mentioned hoodlums. Do you think the young gentleman in question might have been laid upon and murdered by locals, by happenchance?”

  “Well, there’re also those who come and go on the waterfront, ye know. In this area, we have more ‘coasting jacks,’ the seamen who ply the coast and work both land and water. The deep-water jack tars, who come in on ships bound for the harbor at China Basin, are far more at the mercy of the Barbary Coast crimp houses and criminals than the seamen here on the channel. As for the local hoodlums, murder isn’t their game. They’d just as soon use a blackjack to render a man unconscious, steal his purse and pocket watch, and leave him to wake with a bad headache and empty pockets.”

  He paused. “Now, I was made to understand I am to cooperate fully with you. I was also told the fellow we fished out wasn’t your ordinary joe down on his luck but the son of a wealthy East Coast investor. Furthermore, I understand you, a private detective, are here to find out what happened to the poor lad, God rest his soul, and help bring to justice whatever criminal took his life away.”

  Lynch glanced at de Bruijn. “That last is my job, of course, but it’s been a strange case from the start. First, I was told he was one of God’s unknown creatures and we should not spend too much time on him when other cases were clamoring for our attention. Then he was identified as a penniless musician by two women claiming to be distant family. Finally, he is determined to be the son of a wealthy out-of-town investor of some influence.”

  “I can see where it would all be very disconcerting,” said de Bruijn.

  Lynch buried his hands in his pockets. De Bruijn could see them bunch into fists beneath the fabric and the muscles in his jaw working. “And then, I am told to take a strictly ‘hands-off’ policy on investigating, unless directed to do so. And to meet with you. All this, mind you, in rapid succession, over the space of a few days.”

  De Bruijn wished Gallagher had not been so heavy-handed in insisting that the chief shut down the police investigation. Detective Lynch was obviously sharp and well-connected in the neighborhood where the murder occurred. He would be a worthy ally in this endeavor. De Bruijn thought quickly. Mr. Gallagher did say money is no object. Just results. And that I am authorized to “hire” anyone I chose.

  “I assure you that I, and by extension my client, are grateful for your time and insights. Furthermore, we would be most grateful for any information that would shed light on this heinous crime. I am prepared, with my client’s full knowledge and blessing, to express that gratitude generously.”

  Detective Lynch stopped on the walkway and gave de Bruijn a sharp look. De Bruijn returned the glance blandly.

  Lynch lifted his hat to pass a sleeve over his forehead. It was warm, but that was San Francisco—cool in the morning, not so, as the day progressed. He squinted up at the sky, as if taking note of the seagulls screeching above them. “And how, in general, might this gratitude be expressed?”

  De Bruijn cast his eyes skyward as well. The birds wheeled toward the channel, no doubt searching for edibles in the floating garbage. “I believe I see an eagle.”

  Lynch nodded. The possibility of gaining a ten-dollar gold piece to talk about what he already knew seemed to reassure him and smooth his ruffled feathers. He replaced his hat and pointed across the street. “Henderson’s saloon, The Three Sheets. Your man worked there on and off. It is also a gathering place for some who follow Frank Roney, organizer of the Seamen’s Protective Union. Used to be, you could find Roney there as well, until he became persona non grata with Henderson for his talk. If you haven’t considered the possibility that your man got involved with the union movements and got out of his element with the rough and tumble trades, I’d suggest that as a possible avenue of inquiry. Roney’s an odd duck. Doesn’t see the Chinaman as a threat to the lot of the common workingman.” He didn’t try to hide the bafflement in his voice. “If your man was of the same mind, there’d be those who’d take a dim view of that.”

  De Bruijn nodded. “The young man was indeed a vociferous defender of workingmen’s rights. It sounds like a visit to Mr. Roney might prove insightful.”

  “And to Henderson,” added Lynch. “He keeps an eye on everything that goes on in and near his den. If the victim crossed paths with a passing cutthroat, Henderson might know something of it. Now, speaking of ruffians, there are two others in particular who, shall we say, don’t ‘belong,’ and who have drawn the watchful eye of the night patrolman. Enough so that he spoke to me about them after this most unfortunate death.”

  He gestured to the building next door to the saloon, which sported the sign “Hand Laundry.” “Now, ye’d maybe think that business would be the province of a Chinaman. Instead, it’s run by the May sisters and one a’ them has,” he hesitated, “a colored son. Big, strong young fella. The night patrolman has seen him walking around, late nights. Thinks he might be looking for trouble.” He cocked an eyebrow.

  De Bruijn nodded encouragingly.

  The detective continued, “A block closer to the bay, there’s a warehouse for some downtown music store. A Chinaman comes and goes, slips in and out at odd hours. The officer thinks he’s up to no good but cannot say for certain. Problem is, he’s in league with an Italian toff with a lot of pull, so it’s hands off, no questions asked.”

  Sounds became sharper, vision clearer. De Bruijn said, “I’d like a closer look at the warehouse.”

  “Suit yourself,” said Detective Lynch. “I need to get back to headquarters, but I’ll show you where it is.”

  They crossed the street and walked up Berry, with de Bruijn taking note of the various businesses that lined the street. It was the usual sort one would expect by wharves that delivered lumber, bricks, and hay.

  Lynch paused at the corner. “Halfway down the block. Brick warehouse.” He leaned in close. “One more thing I happen to know because I’ve been here more years than I want to count. The Italian, he had the Chinaman on the payroll back in 1879, when it was illegal. I’ve always wondered what they are up to, besides selling pianos.” He pursed his lips. “Also, in the pocket of the victim was a notice for the Chinese Theater in Chinatown. It struck me as odd that the victim, who was a musician, should have a program from the Chinese Theater, which employs Chinese musicians, and not a block away is the warehouse of a music store that employs a Chinaman.” He shook his head. “It was something I thought to pursue, but,” he gave de Bruijn a crooked smile, “other cases take precedence. Perhaps you’ll find this information useful.”

  De Bruijn shook the patrolman’s hand, pressing an eagle into it while he did so. “Thank you. I hope I can call on you again if questions arise that you might be able to shed light upon.”

  The coin vanished into a pocket in the dark blue uniform. “Happy to cooperate, as the captain ordered. If I hear of anything pertaining to your investigation, where could I find you?”

  “Palace Hotel.” De Bruijn handed him one of his business cards.

  Lynch squinted at the simple card. “De Brew…?”

  “Pronounced ‘Brown,’” said de Bruijn, who had long ago given up on trying to correct the mangling of his name.

  They parted ways, and de Bruijn continued up the block at a slower pace until he reached the front of the brick building. It was padlocked shut, silent, with dark dirt-caked windows that provided no clue as to what lay inside.

  It would ha
ve been easy to keep on walking by without giving it a second glance. But de Bruijn was rooted to the spot, his gaze trained on the small brass plate affixed to the door. The words, etched in an ornate Italianate script, read “Donato’s Music Goods and Curiosities. Store at the corner of Kearney & Pine.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Antonia straggled alongside Copper Mick, who had started talking the minute he saw her after school and hadn’t stopped. “Where were you yesterday? You missed an all-around muddle of a brawl in the schoolyard. Two ruffians from seventh—Red McCain is a basher likes t’ terrorize all the little ’uns, stealin’ their lunches and all, and Curly Lou sets trash fires by the fence after the bells ring and knocks the hats off anyone smaller ’n him— you know ’em? Well, they got to fisticatin’ over something or other, and Curly Lou got snatched bald-headed by Red afore the principal came and pulled ’em apart. And then all of us boys in seventh got a lecture on how fightin’s no way to settle differences. Ha! We boys got a good laugh on that one. I can just see me tryin’ to talk a hoodlum outta mashing me to a pulp. Anyhow, I brought the new Young Folks magazine for you yesterday. It’s got the next part of Treasure Island. Boy, that Captain North can really spin a yarn. Wait ’til you read what happens to Jim next.”

  “Don’t tell me!” Antonia barked, then sneezed.

  “Sounds like you’re under the weather, matey.” Copper Mick grinned. “Is that what had you locked below decks yesterday?”

  “Yeah, I was sick, so I stayed home.” She pulled out her handkerchief to blow her nose. “Mick, didn’t you say your pa is a detective on the force?”

  “Yup! Detective Lynch! That’s him!” He fair puffed up with pride.

  “Well, my aunt is in a real bind. We gotta help her. It has to do with a murder down by Long Bridge.”

  That did it. His eyes almost popped out of his head. “What?”

  “Yeah, it’s someone we know, uh, knew. Jamie Monroe. He played the piano and was really nice. And my aunt, Mrs. Stannert, but I call her Mrs. S, runs a music store, and we live above it, and Mr. Monroe, he was kinda sweet on the owner’s sister, but, well, maybe kinda got tangled up with some bad sorts in the unions, or maybe he just got jumped by hoodlums or—”

  Copper Mick stopped and pulled on the back of her book strap to make her stop too. “Whoa, slow down there. You’re galloping like a runaway on a racetrack. Back up, and tell me what’s going on. One thing at a time and take a breath once in a while. Let’s just walk down Market a while, all right? Nice and slow.”

  So, they walked down Market and then turned around and walked up Market while Antonia spilled out the story of poor Jamie Monroe, who loved Carmella, and played the piano and sometimes teased her, but he was always nice, not mean about it. And how it turned out he wasn’t Jamie Monroe at all but the son of a nasty toff named Gallagher who threatened to close the store, or ruin Mrs. S, or at least make life miserable for her, because he thought she knew all about how his son had taken up a different name.

  Antonia didn’t tell him how she’d heard all this by eavesdropping. She also passed over the part when she spilled the beans to Mr. Gallagher at the Palace Hotel. And she didn’t mention Mrs. Sweet, because she wasn’t sure what Mick would think about her “aunt” rubbing elbows with the madam of a Colorado whorehouse, even though it was a pretty high-class whorehouse. But she did tell him that Gallagher had hired a detective, a real Pinkerton-type sneaky guy, to find out who killed his son. Antonia added it was really, really important her aunt find out who did the deed before the sneaky private detective, who had a strange foreign name that sounded like Brown so that’s what she called him, found out first.

  “Criminy.” Mick was impressed. “It’s like a dime novel. Damsels in distress, a regular Simon Legree, a Pinkerton, and a mysterious murder.”

  “It’s nothing like that,” protested Antonia, somewhat stung. “This isn’t some made-up story. It’s real. And I need your help!”

  “Sorry, sorry. So, what can I do?”

  “Well, your pa’s a police detective. Can you ask him about the murder by Long Bridge? Maybe there’s police stuff that’ll help us figure out who killed Mr. Monroe.”

  “Wow. I dunno. He talks about his cases sometimes. Not to my ma or sisters, of course, but with my brother Daniel. You met him the other day when we crossed Market. Daniel’s a policeman too. And they let me hang around and listen, because I do want to join the force when I’m old enough, but I’m not supposed to say anything to anyone about what I hear. And, I dunno. It’s one thing for me to listen, but if I actually ask him about a case? I dunno.”

  She wanted to stop and give him a shove, a little one, to make him shut up a minute.

  “Look, Mick, just say that you heard some kids at school talking about how a body was found floating under Long Bridge just a couple days ago, and, and,” her mind spun wildly, “and they’re all scared about it, sayin’ it was a young fellow, like your age, and he’d been grabbed by pirates, and they tried to shanghai him, and he must’ve fought back because they cut off his nose and his ears and—”

  Copper Mick held up his hands. “All right! All right! Yeah, sure, something like that’d probably work. He doesn’t like it when folks tell tall tales and spread rumors about police business, and he hates it when it’s the kind of stuff that scares little ’uns. All right. I can do that.”

  “You have to do it tonight,” said Antonia sternly. “Because, here’s the other thing, we have to figure out who did this really fast. In less than a week. If we don’t,” she took a deep breath, “who knows? Maybe Mrs. S and I’ll have to move away, because we’ll get thrown out of where we live, and she won’t be able to hold her head up in San Francisco anymore.”

  Antonia figured if he liked silly dime novels and damsels in distress, well, she’d give him a damsel in distress.

  “Less than a week, huh?” They had reached the fountain where Antonia had seen Mrs. S and the lady with the veil just a couple days ago. Copper Mick leaned against it, staring at one of the lion’s-head spigots, apparently thinking, then straightened up and tugged his cap down.

  Antonia thought he looked older and just like an officer just then. All he needed was a blue suit and a star.

  “We’ll do it,” he said. “I’ll see you tomorrow after school and let you know what I find out. We’ll find the bad guys and see justice done.”

  “Thanks, Mick.” Antonia spat into her palm and held it out like she used to do with the Leadville newsies, back when she was one of them and they made deals and promises with each other. “Let’s shake on it.”

  He hesitated, then spat into his own palm. They clasped hands. “Done!” he said.

  A wave of happiness surged over Antonia. She had a friend in San Francisco. At last.

  When she got home, she went straight to the store. But Mr. Welles was there instead of Mrs. S. “She had some business to attend to,” he said. “I’m not certain when she will return.”

  He sounded busy in a “go away, I’m busy” sort of way, so Antonia went to the apartment instead. Taking the stairs two at a time, she wondered if there might be any leftover pastries from Carmella in the kitchen’s pie safe. Once inside, she stopped.

  Something was different.

  A faint rustling sound drifted out from the back of the building. A footfall, the sound of something heavy scraping along the floor. Antonia peeked down the hallway and saw the door to the storage room was open. Not a lot, but enough to show light from the window facing the alley.

  Maybe it was because of the tall tale she’d spun for Copper Mick, but all she could think of was Treasure Island, with the buccaneer Billy Bones, his mysterious sea chest, and pirates! Antonia pulled out the knife her maman had used to protect them both in Leadville. She opened the blade, the little ric-tic-tic sound a comfort in the dim hallway. Her thumb pressed tightly along the back of the open, locked blade, she set o
ne silent foot in front of the other. The rustling grew louder as she approached the door. She paused outside, listening. Finally, she heard a whispered “Damn!” and relaxed.

  She knew that voice.

  Pushing the door open with one foot, she said, “Mrs. S?”

  Mrs. S whirled around. “Antonia! You surprised me.”

  She sounded kind of guilty. Like she’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t’ve been doing.

  Mrs. S stepped aside, brushing her skirts as if they were dusty. Behind her, close to the window, was a large trunk Antonia hadn’t seen before. She knew every trunk and just about every box and crate in there from her secret times spent in the storage room with the dust, spider webs, and the occasional mouse.

  Intrigued, Antonia ventured into the room. “I went into the store, and Mr. Welles was there. I guess you convinced him to help in the store?”

  “That’s right.” Mrs. S looked down at the knife in Antonia’s hand. Antonia hastily closed the blade and shoved it into her pocket.

  Mrs. S just said, “Antonia, I could use your help. As I recall, you are fairly handy with a lock, am I right?”

  Antonia now saw a hatpin and a couple of hairpins scattered on the planks in front of the mystery trunk. “Yes’m.” She added virtuously, “But I haven’t picked anything since Leadville,” and crossed her fingers in the depth of her pocket.

  “Well, see what you can do with this, if you would,” Mrs. S pointed to the trunk.

  Antonia moved closer, got down on her knees, and squinted at the lock. “Did you lose the key?” She knew it wasn’t Mrs. Stannert’s trunk but was curious what she would say.

  “It’s not mine,” said Mrs. S stiffly. “It’s Mr. Monroe’s. Or young Mr. Gallagher’s, if you will. In any case, it’s being stored here until his father returns. I am hoping there might be something inside that might provide a clue as to what happened.”