A Dying Note

by Ann Parker

  Holding up her hand to stop the torrent of words and flying spit, Inez said, “I’m none of the above. Furthermore, I care not what you do here. Either of you.”

  She glanced toward Donovan. He had melted away, leaving his spot at the bar empty.

  Refocusing on Henderson, she continued, “I have questions, and I can make it worth your while if you answer.” She pulled out de Bruijn’s card, wiped the counter with her sleeve, and set it face-up for him to read. He peered at it. “De B—, de Br—What is this? Inquiry agent? Finder of the lost?” He glared at her with his one eye.

  “Call me Mr. Brown. As to what I do, that should be plain. I find what is lost. I inquire until the truth comes out. And I show my appreciation for cooperation.” Locking her gaze with his so he would not assume violence on her part, she reached slowly into her inner pocket, withdrew a two-dollar bill, and pinned it to the surface of the bar.

  Now that she was offering to pay him and not demanding payment, his shoulders came down from up around his ears and his fists relaxed. “What d’ye want to know?”

  “I want to know what happened between you and Jamie Monroe Sunday night.”

  When he glanced toward the piano, she knew she had it right.

  Something had occurred.

  “There’s naught to say.” The belligerent tone was back.

  “You argued. He left. What happened?”

  “What’s it to ye?”

  So, you want to play it like that, do you? She directed a smile at him, but it was not a friendly one. “You’ve heard about the Long Bridge corpse.”

  He scratched one stubbled cheek, cautious. “Aye, of course. It’s been all the talk along the canal, a matter for speculation and wager. Naught know who it is, bein’ his features was obliterated.”

  Now it was her turn to lean over the counter, into his face. “Oh, his name is known. It’s Jamie Monroe. And the last place he was seen alive was here. In The Three Sheets.”

  Shock poured over his face. He licked his lips and glanced around. “I had nae to do w’ that.”

  She repeated, “You and Monroe argued the night he died. What about?”

  “I’m tellin’ ye, that had nae to do wi’ anything that happened to him.”

  Stifling a sigh, Inez reached into her pocket again. Another two-dollar bill joined the first on the counter. “I am only looking for answers for his grieving family. I work for them. Not the police. Nor Roney and his ilk either, if that’s what’s got you worried.”

  He laughed. A deep bark. “Worried! Me? More like they should keep their distance from The Three Sheets. That’s what I told Roney last time he came in here preachin’ t’ the customers about the Seamen’s Protective Union.” A shout went up from the other end of the bar. “Wait here. There’s some who’ve run dry.”

  Inez waited, listening to Patrick’s lively rendition of “Darling Nelly Gray” and watching Henderson efficiently refill glasses and take in change. He returned and jerked his thumb toward Patrick. “Hear him? The half-breed? He’s good. So, I’ll tell ye what I told Jamie Monroe: I found a replacement who’d play for less. Strictly business, I told him. Why should I pay more when I can get nimble fingers for less?”

  “That someone being…?” She inclined her head toward Patrick.

  “Aye. He’d be happy playin’ for free and was willin’ to kiss my boots for a few pennies a night plus whatever he gets from the punters. I told Jamie, ye agree to work for what the half-breed’s willin’ to take, ye can keep the job.”

  “I’m guessing he did not take that well.”

  Henderson looked grim.

  She hazarded another step out, verbalizing her guess at what might have caused the situation to escalate. “And Monroe knew what you do here. You and Donovan. Shanghaiing, crimping.”

  He shrugged. “No law against it. Go t’ the Barbary Coast. ’Tis everywhere you’ll find it.”

  “Kidnapping is illegal,” Inez pointed out. “Perhaps he threatened to go to the authorities or mention it to the seamen’s champion, Frank Roney, who’d take actions against you or your business.”

  He shook his head. “Roney talks, he agitates, but he’s more a nuisance than a threat to me.”

  She didn’t reply. But she didn’t release the money either.

  He continued, “Look, if I thought Monroe’d do something that would hurt me or the business, I’d would’ve set Donovan on him and he’d be halfway to China by now, tyin’ sailor’s knots.”

  She squinted, letting her disbelief show.

  “I’m nae murderer! On my mother’s grave. On the family Bible.” Then he blurted, “There’s nae profit in it.”

  That, finally, she believed.

  Inez released the bills and he slid them into his apron pocket.

  “Any thoughts on possible enemies? He was killed shortly after he left here. It had to be someone in the area.” She pulled out a quarter eagle and tapped it idly on the scarred surface.

  He leaned on the bar again, this time with the air of a co-conspirator. “Talk to Roney, that’s my advice to ye, Mr. Brown. Monroe was strong on labor. Everyone knew that. It wasn’t safe for him, especially around here, with the Whitehall boatmen seein’ the unions as a threat to their livelihoods. I warned him many a time to watch his talk. Maybe Roney knows something.”

  The tapping ceased, but Inez held onto the gold coin. “Where would I find Frank Roney?”

  “He’s not to be found in The Three Sheets anymore, that’s all I know.”

  Inez nodded, thinking Sven Borg could probably tell her. “Anyone else come to mind who might’ve had it in for Jamie Monroe?”

  Henderson hesitated.

  She waited.

  Finally he said, “Donovan’s a cold-blooded sort.”

  Throws his mate overboard to draw the sharks away.

  Inez pushed the coin across the bar and nodded toward Patrick. “The lad. Young. Strong. Surprised you and Donovan didn’t offer him a drink, throw him in a boat, and send him off on one of the ships in need of men.”

  The coin vanished. Henderson said, “Eh. His mother does my laundry. Besides, where’d I find anyone else who’d play for near free, and be grateful for it?”

  Inez touched the brim of her hat in thanks and left. Once outside, she inhaled deeply, filling her lungs, and let it all out with a whoosh. She headed toward Long Bridge to pick up the horsecar, thinking about what Henderson had told her. It all made sense, and although she didn’t like or trust Henderson, she believed him when he said he had nothing to do with Jamie’s death. His statement that there was “no profit in murder” rang true. However, her visit to The Three Sheets had done nothing to shorten the list of people who might have wished Jamie ill, and could have perhaps been desperate enough to kill him.

  Might. Could have. Perhaps.

  There were still too many equivocations and possibilities, and not enough absolutes.

  Berry Street was quiet, although she heard distant voices off in the direction of the piers. The moon shone down cold, aloof. The air brushed her face, a damp caress. Her footsteps sounded loud, seeming the only ones for blocks.

  As she passed by an alley, something stirred in the darkness, at the periphery of her vision. If not for that, and the fact that she was alert and stone-cold sober, she would have had no warning at all.

  As it was, she was mid-turn when Donovan came at her, leather sap raised, mouth grimacing. She shouted “Stop!” at the top of her lungs, not disguising the timbre of her voice. His eyes widened as he realized he was about to attack a woman.

  His momentary loss of focus gave Inez the split second she needed. She sidestepped and his momentum carried him past her. His arm arced downwards, still aiming at the spot where she had been. Inez pushed his wrist through the curve of his attack, sweeping his arm down and back. Off balance, he began falling forward. Inez sl
ammed his unprotected nose, which gave with a satisfying pop. With a yelp of pain, he tumbled hard onto the ground.

  Out came the revolver from her pocket. Donovan found himself staring at a woman dressed in men’s clothing pointing the business end of a no-nonsense handgun at his head. Her hat had tumbled off, and she brushed away strands of long hair that had escaped from beneath her collar.

  Leather sap abandoned, Donovan sat up, covering his nose. Blood gushed down and over his shirt. “Jesus!” he cried out. “Fucking Mother of God! You broke my nose!”

  “And you tried to knock me senseless,” Inez snarled, gun trained on his forehead.

  He moaned and rocked back and forth, sitting on the pavement. “My nose.”

  Inez had run out of patience. “Jamie Monroe. You know him?”

  “I fucking knew him. Yeah.”

  “Knew.” Past tense. “So, you are aware he’s dead.”

  “Yes. Jesus! Yes.”

  “You killed him.” She figured the direct attack was best. Enough with the subtleties.

  “No! Why would I do that? Christ Almighty.”

  “Because he was about to destroy your livelihood? Tell the law that you were shanghaiing reluctant seamen and perhaps the odd accountant or warehouse worker who was unlucky enough to stop in at The Three Sheets?”

  “Augh!” His voice was muffled behind his hands and the blood. “If I thought he was going to squeal on me, I’d’ve shanghaied him myself. Put him on a ship bound far away.”

  “Like you planned to do with me, I assume.”

  No response.

  “Who would’ve wanted him dead?”

  A mumble from Donovan, then he said louder, “Henderson’s a hot-headed cocky bastard. If he thought Monroe might spill the beans to someone with clout, able to shut him down, I wouldn’t put it past him.”

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Inez kept her gun in hand and visible until the uptown-bound horsecar appeared. The trip back home seemed to take a lot longer than it did going down to the wharves. Inez dragged herself to the door leading to her apartment. While digging in her pocket for the key, she looked up at the windows. No lights. Perhaps Antonia was abed and asleep. That would be a good thing. She could continued straight to her own bedroom, shuck off her reeking disguise, clean up, tumble into the bedclothes, and sink into sleep.

  Her feather bed had never beckoned so seductively.

  She made her way up the stairs to the small landing. Boots in hand, she opened the door and stepped into the darkened apartment, stocking-footed and silent until she hit a loose board that gave out a small creak.

  “Mrs. S?” Antonia, sounding not at all sleepy. “Come here, quick!”

  Alarmed by the urgency in Antonia’s voice, Inez dashed to Antonia’s room, still wearing her trousers, sack jacket, hat, and all. At the doorway, she stopped and stared. The roller shade was up and the corner streetlamp shed its full light upon a perplexing tableau.

  De Bruijn lay in Antonia’s small bed, in his shirtsleeves, a wide bandage wrapped around his head. He appeared to be asleep. Antonia sat by his side on one of the kitchen chairs. She, too, was dressed in male attire. In fact, unless Inez missed her guess, it was the same suit of clothing Antonia had worn in Leadville when she’d been a street urchin passing as a newsboy and selling copies of the local paper. Antonia looked as if she wanted to jump up and give Inez a hug but didn’t want to let go of de Bruijn’s limp hand.

  Just inside the door, a crumpled cloth was wadded on the floor. Inez nudged it with her foot. It appeared to be a blood-soaked pillowcase.

  “The doctor says Mr. Brown’s gonna be all right,” said Antonia.

  Inez looked at her ward. A flood of exclamations, imprecations, and interrogations clamored to be voiced, but Inez kept her peace, walked over to the girl and gave her a hug. Antonia wrapped her free arm around Inez’s trousered legs and buried her face in Inez’s jacket. After a moment, Inez gently pulled herself away, went to the kitchen, retrieved the second chair, and brought it back into the bedroom. She set the chair next to Antonia’s, sat down, and said, “Tell me. Everything.”

  Antonia explained to Inez how she had concocted a plan to follow the detective and then twisted Mick’s arm into accompanying her, and how John Hee had headed to Chinatown and de Bruijn had followed him and she and Mick had followed de Bruijn. She emphasized how Mick had “acted the proper copper,” blowing his whistle and scaring away the thugs that tried to roll the detective. John Hee also emerged a hero in the tale, coming back to help carry de Bruijn to the store. “He couldn’t go to the Palace Hotel, he said, and he’s a musician, Mrs. Stannert. He plays one of those Chinese violins with the long neck at the Chinese Theater in Chinatown. I don’t know why Mr. Brown thinks he’s a bad guy.”

  Mick had gone off to get a doctor, she added. Once he’d returned with Dr. McGee, Mick’d vanished again because as he said, he was going to get “holy heck” if he didn’t get home right away. Antonia then confessed that, to pay the physician for the visit and the syrupy medicine he’d left for the detective, she had raided the household fund—hidden not very cleverly by Inez in an English biscuit tin on the kitchen shelf. At this point, Antonia stopped her narrative to complain she didn’t understand why the Brits called the contents biscuits when they were clearly cookies.

  Prodded back to her story, Antonia finished by saying the doctor had shooed her out of the room while examining de Bruijn. Afterwards he’d told her to tell her aunt that the gentleman friend of the family had a mild concussion and should be on the mend in a few days. “He said Mr. Brown needs to rest.” Antonia looked over at the detective, whose eyelids had begun to flicker. “Mr. Brown didn’t like that at all.”

  “I can imagine,” said Inez drily.

  De Bruijn’s eyes flew open. He appeared remarkably alert for someone whose head was swathed with gauze. “Toss out that patent medicine,” he said very distinctly. “It’s nothing but laudanum cut with a large quantity of alcohol.”

  It took five minutes of arguing with a woozy but determined de Bruijn before Inez reluctantly accepted he would not stay. “The doctor will be coming to see me in the morning. See how I am faring. I told him I would be at the Palace Hotel.” He had Inez fish around in his waistcoat pocket for a business card for a carriage company and asked her if she would call them on the store’s telephone.

  The card read Telephone Cab and Carriage Company, Joseph Lynch, prop.

  She raised her eyebrows. “Lynch, as in the detective?”

  “Martin Lynch is the police detective, and this is his cousin. Or second cousin. In any case, they have a telephone. Detective Lynch said should I require transportation any time I am in the city, all I had to do was call, mention his name, and service would be efficient and forthcoming.”

  First the detective, then his son, and now his cousin. The Lynches were popping up everywhere, it seemed.

  De Bruijn had managed to get himself into his waistcoat and was struggling with his jacket. He froze, his eyes narrowing as if he was trying to bring Inez into focus. “Mrs. Stannert, your clothes.” His gaze wandered over to Antonia. “And you, Antonia. What are you two doing in that apparel?”

  “I’ll explain tomorrow,” she said shortly. “I fully intend to visit and check on your condition. If you are up to it, we can discuss where we stand and where to go from here.”

  The carriage arrived promptly with Joseph Lynch himself in the driver’s box. He tipped his hat, keeping his gaze studiously directed at Inez’s face. She gave him points for not glancing even once at her trousered legs and for treating her with all the deference that might be due to one of San Francisco’s elite. After he’d helped de Bruijn down the stairs and into the cab, Inez paid the driver what she adjudged to be a handsome fee for his efforts. She instructed him to accompany de Bruijn to his rooms, notify the hotel staff that his passenger was suffering from a c
oncussion, and explain a physician would be by in the morning. “May I have another of your cards for the gentleman?” she asked.

  Joseph Lynch produced one, and she leaned into the carriage, pulled de Bruijn’s jacket open, and tucked the card in his waistcoat pocket. “Don’t lose this, Mr. de Bruijn.”

  Once the carriage was off and clattering down Kearney, Inez returned upstairs. Antonia was already in her nightclothes and in bed. Inez fetched a clean case for the pillow and debated how to proceed.

  While listening to Antonia’s story, Inez had been alarmed on many fronts. That Antonia had undertaken a nighttime journey into a dangerous part of town, never mind that she was not alone. That she had somehow managed to convince Mick, who seemed the upright sort, to go with her was a blessing but also a concern. That she had somehow managed to insinuate herself wholeheartedly into the investigation of Jamie Monroe’s murder. Such investigations, Inez knew from her own experience, could recoil violently onto those whose only crime was searching out the truth.

  Inez finally settled on the topic most easily dealt with: the fact that, despite all of her precautions the previous evening, her ward had still managed to eavesdrop. Covering Antonia’s hand with her own, Inez began, “You and Mick probably saved Mr. de Bruijn’s life. A good deed and no small thing. However…”

  Even in the dark, she saw Antonia stiffen at the word.

  “You obviously listened in on the discussion between me, Mr. de Bruijn, and Mrs. Sweet. I checked the doors before we began. No one was there. Tell me how you did it.”

  Antonia chewed her lip, then turned her head away with a sigh that sounded like it came from the depths of her soul. “I was on the stairs in the alley, the ones that go up to the storage room.” She twisted under the covers to face Inez, tucking her free hand under the pillow. “I still had the hairpins I’d used to open the trunk for you. So, I unlocked the room, and went out the back door. I went down the stairs just far enough so’s I could hear everyone through the window. I saw you open the door, but I stayed very still and you didn’t see me.”