by Ann Parker
“About what time would he be at the sandlots?”
He scratched one end of his walrus mustache. “After work. Five-thirty. Six o’clock.”
Six o’clock.
The sun was now overhead, demonstrating how warm San Francisco could become mid-day as fall turned to winter. A trickle of sweat ran down the back of her neck and disappeared between her shoulder blades.
She would have to be prompt with the rest of her tasks or she would miss her chance to talk to the labor activist. There would be neither time nor opportunity for her to skulk around North Beach and the wharves up there looking for Roney. Besides, after her nighttime foray into the wharf area by the Mission Creek canal, she had no desire to “test the waters” at the Barbary Coast after dark.
She thanked him and hurried off, using her umbrella as a makeshift parasol. Next stop was Baumann, the Musical Protective Association’s secretary. Inez prayed he would be home, even though she was coming well after the morning hours. The same housekeeper, with her hair more neatly pinned, answered the door. Her first words were “You said you’d be here by noon.”
“My apologies. I was unavoidably detained. Is Mr. Baumann in?”
“No, he’s not. He waited until noon then left.”
“Hell!” Inez said under her breath.
The housekeeper stiffened. “Excuse me?”
Inez back-pedaled. “I said, ‘Help!’ I really must talk with him today, soon as possible. Is there no way you can help me? Can you tell me where he is?”
The housekeeper relaxed. “I don’t alwus know where he goes, he only tells me when it’s overnight. But I’ll tell him you came by after noon. Tomorrow, come back before noon.” She shut the door.
Chapter Thirty-five
Inez stood at the closed door and briefly rested her forehead against the unyielding plank.
Tomorrow morning.
Another day gone. One day less to figure out who killed Harry Gallagher’s son.
It seemed an impossible task.
Inez returned to her quarters and, mindful of the clock, proceeded to rifle through the large, upright wardrobe trunk holding her finery from her days in Leadville. Back then, she regularly dressed formally for Saturday evenings, the better to distract her players from their cards. There were also the various balls, formal events, and soirées she had attended, first with her husband Mark Stannert, later with Reverend Sands. Inez caressed the fine fabrics—satin, silk, velvet, cashmere, brocade. They whispered of times past, desires which waxed and waned. Her hand hovered over one dress, a mix of greens, satin insets on a dark green velvet overdress, lace tracing the décolletage, flowing in a soft waterfall down the front of the bodice. It was the dress she had worn nearly two years ago when she attended Leadville’s Silver Soirée with Reverend Sands. Her fingers stroked the fabric, the touch bringing back a flood of feelings and memories of what had occurred after the dancing was done.
Unbidden, Nico’s fervent and sudden handclasp replayed in her mind, how it had shocked her senses in a way she had not anticipated. Inez shoved the green dress aside. She did not want to wear something next to her skin that had borne witness to past volatile passions. A dress of midnight blue beckoned.
“This one,” she said to herself. As Carmella had pointed out earlier, her six-month period of half-mourning for her “dear and departed” husband was over. The dark blue princess-style dress was an appropriate choice. Soothing, calm in its coloration, with a touch of gold for warmth and ivory lace on the three-quarters-length sleeves, it would complement her olive complexion and brunette hair. The square neckline was not daring, yet reasonably stylish for an exclusive private party at the Palace Hotel. The gown was not the latest fashion, but then who would expect her to be dressed à la mode? Certainly not Nico.
With this dress, she would not glitter, but neither would she fade into the shadows.
Inez gathered the necessary accouterments from the trunk’s drawers: shoes, stockings, gloves, brooch, a fan, petticoat, camisole, satin-covered corset, two gold bangles for her wrist, a satin-and-cashmere manteau to wear over all. She carried the lot to her bedroom, arranged the dress and the rest on the coverlet, and stepped back to survey her ensemble. Satisfied it was complete and she would not be racing around at the last moment searching for forgotten items, Inez checked her pocket watch. Downstairs, the door slammed.
She met Antonia in the kitchen. Antonia seemed surprised. “You’re here!”
“I said I would be.”
Antonia nodded, looking unconvinced.
Inez continued, “We shall have to take dinner early.”
“Why?”
“I have several things I must take care of this evening.”
“Like what?” Antonia dropped her book bag on the kitchen table, sat in the kitchen chair, and pulled off her bonnet and spectacles.
“I am going to talk to someone about Jamie’s union involvement. I’m not certain if I’ll gain any useful information, but we cannot afford to leave any stone unturned. Later tonight, I am to attend a concert at the Palace Hotel given by a man who had no great love for Mr. Monroe.”
“There’s only a few days to figure out what happened, right?” A note of anxiety crept into Antonia’s voice.
Inez tried to sound reassuring. “That is what Mr. Gallagher indicated before he left, but he was grieving and most likely did not mean everything he said. Perhaps when he returns he will be more inclined to listen to reason. After all, it is a tall order to try to find the perpetrator of such a crime, and none of us are professionals in this respect.”
“Mr. Brown is,” said Antonia. “He’s a finder of the lost. It says so on his card. If the killer is hiding, he’ll find him.”
“If Mr. de Bruijn weren’t currently recovering from his unfortunate expedition to Chinatown, that might be true. But he will not be able to help for a while.”
“What about Frisco Flo, uh, Mrs. Sweet? Isn’t she looking for the killer, too?”
“Supposedly,” said Inez.
Antonia stared at her. “So, it’s just you. You’re the one who’s got to figure it all out in time to tell Mr. Gallagher when he comes back to town.”
Inez didn’t reply.
Antonia sighed and bent down to unbutton her boots. “At least Mr. Brown knows John Hee didn’t do it.”
Inez kept de Bruijn’s reservations about John Hee to herself. “By the way, I visited Mr. de Bruijn this morning. He is improving. The doctor says he must rest for now.”
Antonia nodded, obviously not listening.
“What is it, Antonia?”
She looked up. “Will Mr. Gallagher really be able to ruin our lives? Make us leave again and start over somewhere else?” A narrow furrow of worry divided her brows.
Inez pondered how to respond. She finally decided to be as truthful as possible without causing alarm. “I don’t know. He moves among the well-to-do and high society set. Men such as he wield a certain power that comes with wealth and position. But what are we to people such as they? I think the danger lies in Mr. Donato deciding I am a liability to the business.” Or to his reputation. “Should it come to that, I shall do my utmost to convince him otherwise.” The memory of Nico’s warm fingers on hers rose, unbidden. An answering heat flowed outward from the pit of her stomach, sending a flush to her face and a tingle to her fingertips.
She shook her head, irritated with her traitorous body. “I am pursuing a couple of lines of inquiry which may yield useful information. If we can demonstrate to Mr. Gallagher we have done our utmost on his behalf, he may be satisfied and willing to turn to the police for assistance in solving the mystery of his son’s death. But enough of ifs, perhaps, and maybes. We must leave for Mrs. Nolan’s and convince her to feed us an early dinner.”
Mrs. Nolan was nonplussed to have her usually tardy boarders actually arrive to sup before the dining hou
r. Her ruffled feathers were soothed by copious apologies from Inez and grateful exclamations over the cold mutton and ham, cornbread, and stewed fruit she put before them. She popped out of the kitchen as they were finishing to say, “Well now, I’m just sorry you won’t be around for the rice pudding I’m making for dessert.”
Antonia dropped her fork on her plate and looked pleadingly at Inez.
Inez asked her, “Do you want to stay and wait for dessert? You’ll need to walk back on your own.”
“It’s not far. I’ll be careful,” Antonia promised. “And I won’t go through Chinatown, I promise.”
“Well! I should hope you would not!” said the scandalized Mrs. Nolan. “That is no place for a proper young girl such as yourself or for any proper person of any age. In fact, why don’t you stay and help me clear the table after the boarders are done and I’ll walk you back myself?”
“Thank you, Mrs. Nolan,” Inez said before Antonia could demur. At least this way she will not get into any trouble and will arrive home safely.
Grateful to have one less person to worry about, Inez walked to where the new city hall was being built. It was a bit of a trudge down Market Street, but she didn’t trust public transportation to get her there by six o’clock. By the time she reached the sandlots, the sun had set in earnest. Gas streetlamps shed pools of bright, hissing light. Out of breath and hat askew, Inez spotted a knot of men just beyond reach of the lamplight. The dome of the new city hall loomed behind them. Eleven years after breaking ground, the city center buildings were still under construction. Their skeletal columns and ribs rose like ghostly ruins of a bygone empire.
Inez picked up her pace, reaching the men just as they started to move purposefully away from their meeting site. “Mr. Roney?” she called plaintively. “May I speak with you?”
A figure detached itself from the group and approached her—a man of middling height, dark hair, full and lengthy beard, and solemn eyes. “Ma’am? Have we met?”
“No, we haven’t. I am Mrs. Stannert. It’s about Jamie Monroe, a pianist. I have been told he was a comrade of yours or perhaps a follower.”
He frowned. For a moment Inez was afraid he would say he knew of no such person, but then his brow cleared. “Monroe, yes. Working to resurrect the musicians union.” She caught the Irish intonation, an uplift at the end of his statement, which made it sound almost a question.
“Roney?” one of the men called. “Are you coming?”
“May I walk with you?” Inez interjected. “I don’t want to keep you from your evening’s activities. I understand you are heading to the waterfront. I am going that direction myself. At least partway.”
He waved at the huddle of men. “Go ahead,” he called to them. “I’ll be following, while I answer the lady’s questions.” The group began walking up Market with Inez and Roney trailing behind.
“I haven’t seen Monroe this week,” said Roney. “I hope he isn’t ill. Working, perhaps?”
Inez braced herself. “I’m sorry to tell you he’s passed. Was murdered down by the Mission Creek wharves.”
Roney stopped on the walkway. “A tragedy! Murdered, you say?”
“Sadly, yes. The family, to whom I am close, believes his union involvements may have led to his death. I am trying to find out if there is any truth to this.” She hoped the vague explanation would suffice for her presence and her questions. “I was told by Mr. Haskell and others you might know more. You might know whether he was in any danger.”
“The poor lad. And his family.” He shook his head.
They started walking again. Inez waited for him to say something more. He finally said, “D’you know, organizing and agitating for workers’ rights is not a safe occupation, and on occasion turns violent. However, I have yet to see musicians throwing brickbats or taking up pick-handles. Monroe’s desire for his comrades to join him and form a trade union was not met with much success or interest.”
They passed under a streetlamp and the yellow light splashed across his face, making him look jaundiced. He continued, “Those who own and run the music halls, theaters, restaurants, and so on who hire musicians may be ‘thieving capitalists,’ but I have not seen the players of trumpets and keyboards rising up in concert against them.” He smiled briefly at his own wordplay. “And I don’t see those who do the hiring turning violent against Monroe. There would be no reason.”
“But wasn’t he also trying to organize the Chinese musicians, build bridges to those who provide musical entertainment? Perhaps his efforts in that direction drew the ire of those who view the Chinese as, ah, a class beneath.”
Roney had started shaking his head at the first mention of “Chinese.” He said, “Ah, Mrs. Stannert, t’was such a notion of his, no one took it seriously when he spoke of it. We all know, the Celestials live in a world apart. Not beneath, but apart. They take care of their own and have no wish to join our efforts. We have common goals, we are all men trying to make a living, put a roof over our heads, and bring food to the table. But our common goals end there. Young Monroe was perhaps ahead of his time in this regard. But no one took him seriously, and I cannot see anyone taking his life for his foolishness.”
“So, you don’t know of any reasons, any possible persons, who might have wished him harm as a result of his desire to organize those of his profession?” Inez saw the list of suspects shrinking before her eyes.
“I assure you, Mrs. Stannert, no one of my acquaintance nor anything he confided to me indicated danger from such quarters. I know he was trying to determine what brought the previous efforts to unionize to failure, but beyond mutterings of past misdoings of a fiduciary sort, he didn’t say much.”
The hidden list of names flared up in her consciousness. “Along those lines, do the names Eli Greer, Stephen Abbott, Thomas Welles, or Nico Donato mean anything? Did he talk about any of them in connection with the past union efforts?”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Stannert. Those names mean nothing to me.”
They had reached Kearney Street. “Thank you, Mr. Roney, but this is where we part ways. I appreciate your time and your patience in answering my questions.”
“Please pass along my condolences to young Monroe’s family, if you think the sentiments of a trade unionist would be welcome. I’ll add, I believe you are chasing ghosts, Mrs. Stannert. The city can be a dangerous place; he ran afoul of the fates. His family should mourn him and be proud for him taking a stand against the capitalists who bleed us dry.”
She nodded, thinking Harry Gallagher would probably not welcome the sympathies of a dyed-in-wool union man. On impulse, she added, “I wish you well with your efforts on behalf of the workingman and woman. Workingwomen need the help of men such as yourself all the more. They have no vote, no voice, and also labor for others under difficult and dangerous circumstances.”
“That they do, Mrs. Stannert. And thank you.”
Walking up Kearney, Inez thought over what Roney had told her. She trusted his knowledge and intuition regarding the labor activities and attitudes in the city. After all, Roney was certainly more in tune with such than either she or de Bruijn. Roney’s remarks had only served to put aside some of the possibilities she and de Bruijn had been pursuing.
She sighed, frustrated. Perhaps tonight would be different. If she had a chance to meet Poole, she could take the measure of the man and gain some insights into whether he might have orchestrated Jamie’s murder. After all, who would have better reason for murderous intent than the father of a daughter who was jilted and shamed in the public sphere into taking her own life?
Chapter Thirty-six
His head hurt like the devil, but that wasn’t the worst of it.
The worst of it was the fact he had been caught flat-footed, as if he were an amateur.
He had too many distractions, de Bruijn decided. Distractions which had pulled his concentration and focus from the
investigation.
Concerns about Antonia. Trying to keep track of what Mrs. Stannert was doing. Plus wondering where Mrs. Sweet had vanished to. He suspected Mrs. Sweet had moved lock, stock, and barrel into Poole’s suite. But as things stood, he could hardly go down to the front desk and put forth the necessarily discreet inquiries. Standing up, dressing, and moving from the bedroom to the parlor had been enough to set his head spinning. It felt as though the sharp edge of an axe was trying to split the back of his skull wide open.
And, of course, there was the investigation into the murder of his client’s son. The threads he had so carefully gathered up and followed. At least, had been following, up to the moment he ignored his best instincts and had dashed into that damnable alley in Chinatown.
His current circumstances had forced him to acknowledge he needed someone who could act in his stead, who had the skills and abilities to do what needed to be done. What he should have been doing.
Which was why, having placed a call and received a positive response, he now sat in the overstuffed chair in the parlor of his rooms at the Palace Hotel. Waiting, with the curtains mostly closed, because he still could not handle full daylight.
A light knock at the door prompted him to say, “Enter” in a voice which sounded like thunder to his own ears.
Elizabeth O’Connell came in and he tried to rise.
“No need, Mr. de Bruijn. Stay as you are.”
He settled back. She cocked her head, inspecting him as she removed her gloves. “I must say, that is not your best look.”
His hand rose to the bandage cushioning the crown of his head. “A nuisance, at the very least.” He indicated the chair facing his own.
“How many days before you can be out and about again?” She sat and positioned her satchel on her lap.
