A Dying Note

by Ann Parker

  After scratching on the paper, he closed the heavy book and returned to her, waving the scrap to dry the ink. “Yes, Mr. Abbott is one of our members, and has been receiving assistance for some years now. A sad case, according to my records. He has moved around frequently. If you are not familiar with San Francisco, I should warn you, Mrs. de Bruijn, to be prepared. He does not live in the best part of town presently.”

  Inez took the paper and examined the address. “Am I correct in thinking this is in the Barbary Coast area?”

  “Indeed.” He removed his glasses and cleaned them on his waistcoat. “If you have a male associate, you may want to bring him along for that particular visit.”

  “I shall keep your suggestion in mind,” said Inez. “I have one more question, about a different person. An Eli Greer.”

  He blinked, looking a little unfocused without his spectacles. “He was the treasurer of the previous musicians union.”

  “Yes, that’s right. I was wondering if you two ever crossed paths.”

  “And what has this to do with Mr. Abbott or your inquiries?”

  “Well,” she cast about for a reason, any reason, for her questions. “I understand the funds from the previous union disappeared and Mr. Greer with them. I imagine that left Mrs. Greer in a financially compromised situation. Was your association able to help her? Was Mr. Greer ever found? As an investigator, I have a professional curiosity in such matters.”

  He settled his glasses back on his face. “If ‘finding the lost’ is your expertise, Mrs. de Bruijn, it is too bad for Mrs. Greer’s sake that you were not around in those earlier times. What you say is true. Mr. Greer, for all intents and purposes, disappeared without a trace. I did not know him, personally, but I did know Mrs. Greer, as she applied for relief to the association. However, since no one could say for certain whether her husband was alive or dead, we were not able to offer much in the way of assistance. Unfortunately.”

  “Thank you for your help.”

  “Not at all, Mrs. de Bruijn. As I said, it gladdens me to hear that Mr. Abbott, one of our less fortunate members, will be receiving some good news to brighten his day.”

  Baumann’s last remarks only served to prick Inez’s conscience as she walked to the nearest corner and waited for the horsecar that would bring her closer to the center of town.

  She debated. Talk to de Bruijn first? Or track down Mr. Abbott? With a start, she realized she had, for a little while, completely forgotten about Patrick May.

  That decided it. A quick visit to de Bruijn. Perhaps, with his connections, he could call off the police hunt for the boy and save his frantic family much grief.

  De Bruijn listened closely to Inez’s tale of the Mays and finally said, “I agree, the young man is not the murderer.”

  Inez sat back with a sigh. “Good. I’m hoping you can convince Detective Lynch of the same.”

  They sat in the parlor room of his suite, de Bruijn in an easy chair, Inez on a nearby settee. The heavy curtains were partly drawn away from the large bay window, allowing light to filter through the inner lace curtain.

  “I am afraid you overestimate my influence,” said de Bruijn. “Finding the person who is responsible, or at least a more convincing suspect, is the only way we will be able to stop their search.” He shook his head, then winced, and touched the crown of his head gingerly. “Think, Mrs. Stannert. What kind of motive are we looking at here? Look at the brutality of the murder. One blow, two, would have sufficed to kill. Yet the killer went at him, again and again, past the point of reason or logic. I believe this was a crime of passion—unplanned, unpremeditated. I cannot see such a murder occurring over the loss of a job.”

  Inez chewed her lip. “Unless…”

  “Unless what?”

  “You say you cannot imagine such a killing occurring over work. But Jamie, that is, young Gallagher, had just accepted a day job. Carmella told me he was planning on keeping the night one as well, counting on them both to make ends meet. Anyhow, this new position was one that another pianist, a colleague of his named Thomas Welles, had thought was promised to him. Welles has a family, a growing one. He is under a lot of pressure. He’s a moody sort, prone to dark turns of mind and seems to nurse grudges for a long time. He is still smarting over the loss of income from the collapse of the previous union. Might he have confronted Jamie?”

  “Who has the most to gain with his death?” De Bruijn countered. “And what else was he up to his last few days? I can’t help but think this murder was impulsive, the violence taking him by surprise. What he was doing in those days before his death might well have set the wheels in motion.”

  Inez pulled the list out of her purse. “I am following up on this list I told you about earlier, the one Jamie had hidden under his mattress. It appears to be names of previous union members, and perhaps the amounts of money owed to them after the union disbanded. There is only one name checked off, the first: Stephen Abbott. I know you think it a very long shot, but the list was apparently important enough to Jamie that he squirreled it away from casual eyes. It involved the unionization of musicians, and there were obviously some strange goings-on back then. In any case, I plan to go talk with Mr. Abbott as soon as I leave here.”

  “I should go with you,” de Bruijn made as if to rise.

  “Absolutely not. You are not fully recovered yet, certainly not enough for a carriage ride and an interview. I will let you know what happens. Besides, I’m guessing Mr. Abbott will be more inclined to confide in an attentive woman than a man who looks as if he recently lost a fight on the streets.”

  De Bruijn settled back in his chair, resigned. “How did you find him?”

  Inez debated, then decided she was done with prevaricating. “I went to visit the secretary of the Musical Protective Association. I pretended to be you, and the secretary gave me Abbott’s address.”

  “You what?”

  Inez pulled out de Bruijn’s card. “Wilhelmina de Bruijn, private investigator.”

  De Bruijn frowned.

  “Look at it this way, I simply acted as your proxy. If you were recovered, you would have been the one to visit him.”

  “That I doubt,” grumbled de Bruijn. Almost as an afterthought, he added, “I received a telegram from Mr. Gallagher.”

  Her stomach clenched. “And?”

  “He expects to be here the day after tomorrow.”

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” Hack driver Joseph Lynch, Detective Lynch’s cousin or second cousin—Inez couldn’t recall which—stood by the half-open carriage door as if to block Inez from disembarking onto Battery Street.

  “I am certain. I was warned this was not the best part of town.” Inez scooted over on the bench and leaned on the door, pushing it open.

  Joseph Lynch seemed disinclined to relinquish the door to his passenger. “How about I go with you?”

  “And leave your rig unattended? Absolutely not. This will not take long, I promise. Just wait here, as we discussed.”

  The slant of sun was beginning to cast long shadows across the street. Inez had no desire to be out and about after or even close to dusk. The names of some of the Barbary Coast’s bloodier quarters whispered through her mind—Murders’ Corner. Deadman’s Alley.

  She had prepared herself for the day’s activities by wearing sensible boots and walking skirts, and she had her pocket revolver. She was alert, wary, but not afraid of setting foot on the Coast.

  According to Baumann’s scrap of paper, Stephen Abbott lived on the second floor of the disintegrating building before her, above what appeared to be a concert saloon or dance-house of the lowest kind. Music of a sort leaked from behind the crooked closed door and shuttered windows. A man and a woman lurched from a nearby alley and made for the door. The woman turned to glance at Inez, who caught a glimpse of empty eyes and a vacant face, abundantly painted and powdered. The w
oman’s male companion pulled her roughly into the dim interior of the establishment. Inez registered flickering light and darting shadows before the door slammed shut.

  It was all reminiscent of Leadville’s red-light district. Inez recalled the times she had ventured into its most desperate areas—Tiger Alley, where gamblers gathered to “buck the tiger” at disreputable gambling dens, and Stillborn Alley, named after the unwanted infants of prostitutes plying their trade in the district. Then, as now, I must be careful, be on my guard. But I must also remember: Most of the people here are destitute, lost, desperate. The devils that lurk and look to harm will not be out and about until dark has enveloped all.

  She had already transferred money from her purse into her skirt pocket along with the list of names. Her gun was in her coat pocket within easy reach.

  At least there appeared to be a separate door to the second floor, so she would not need to venture into the warren below. She hastened to the door, which opened readily without key or latch. The stench of urine and vomit assaulted her senses. She left the door ajar to bring light into the gloomy interior, stepped around a puddle of uncertain origin, and headed up the stairs.

  A small window on the landing presented her with three unpainted doors, all closed. Which one was Abbott’s? She walked the small hallway, barely wide enough to accommodate a single person. Two of the doors yielded no clues as to their occupants. The third, at the very end of the hall, sported a brass doorknocker of a cherub blowing a trumpet. Taking a gamble that this was the musician’s door, Inez knocked.

  There was some scrabbling inside followed by the trembling voice of an elderly man. “Who’s there? I’ve got a shotgun. I’ll blow you t’pieces if you try to come through the door.”

  Inez pulled out her revolver and flattened herself against the wall, away from the door. “Mr. Abbott,” she called back. “I was given your address by Mr. Baumann, from the Musical Protective Association. I need to talk to you. I can make it worth your while.”

  “Who are you?” the voice was still suspicious, despite her invocation of Baumann’s name.

  “Mrs. Wilhemina de Bruijn. A private investigator. I have a card, if you would like to see it.”

  “Slip it under the door, face-up.”

  Inez did as she was told. And waited.

  Finally, she heard the scrape of a lock being pulled back. The door creaked open. “Come in,” said the voice behind the door.

  Inez tightened her grip on her revolver, put her finger on the trigger, and slowly pushed the door open wider so she could enter. Once inside, she swung about.

  The door creaked shut behind her revealing an elderly man, nearly bent double, a few strands of gray hair crossing the top of his head. He craned his head upwards to view her. He held no shotgun, and indeed, Inez could not see how he could have picked one up, much less held it. The finger joints of his empty hands were contracted with knotted protuberances, the fingers themselves bent and crooked, overlapping and curling. He must have caught her staring, for he held up his hands and said, “Y’see, I must be careful about who’s on the other side of the door. No more trumpet-playing for me, either. Hasn’t been for a long time now.” He nudged the business card with his foot. “Ye can pick up your card, Mrs. de Bruijn, if ye wouldn’t mind.”

  Subdued, Inez did as he suggested.

  He said, “What business d’ye have that would be ‘worth my while’ to hear ye?” With a slow and crooked wobble, he headed to a straight-backed chair, gesturing with an elbow to the only other chair in the room. Inez sat and looked around. Two candles burned on a small table that leaned perilously. The curtains were in tatters. A small warming stove held nothing warm upon it. Inez wondered what he did for meals, how he cooked, how he took care of himself.

  He leaned forward in his chair. “It’s a lucky thing for me I used to work for the proprietor of this august establishment, back in the day. He takes pity on me and brings me what’s left once the customers downstairs are done with the eating and are only interested in the drinking.”

  He sat back. “Yes, I’m a lucky man. And it sounds as if you are bringing more luck my way, Mrs. de Bruijn. What can I do for you?”

  Inez focused on her task. “I have some questions regarding the previous union, the one that foundered in the mid-70s.”

  “Aye?” his voice sharpened, the tremble lessened. “Troubled times. I recollect well.”

  His body was frail, but Inez guessed he still possessed his wits, which was what she needed.

  She slid Jamie’s folded list from her pocket, and said, “I believe you were visited by a young man recently, name of Monroe. Although I am not entirely certain he would have called himself so.”

  “Yes, young Monroe.” That was all he said, forcing her to continue.

  She held up the folded papers. “I suspect he showed you this. I believe it is a list of the union members and the amounts they were to receive back once the union ceased to be. I am guessing that Mr. Monroe came and asked you some questions about that time.”

  “Oh, yes, you have that right, Mrs. de Bruijn. All of it.” His gaze held hers.

  Inez waited. Finally, she said, “I wonder if you would tell me what you told him.”

  “Why not ask him yourself? Since you have the list, you must know him.”

  “Alas, I would, but I cannot. You see, young Mr. Monroe died this past Sunday night. Brutally murdered.”

  At that, Abbott lowered his eyes at last. “How? Who?” The question was barely audible.

  She told him the story, adding, “I am investigating for his father, who is understandably grief-stricken and wants to know what happened and why. The local law has been less than helpful.”

  “Aye, the police have their own priorities, and a poor musician in the wrong part of town would not be high on their list, I wager.”

  “Can you help us? What did you and Mr. Monroe talk about?”

  He nodded and hid his curled, deformed hands in his lap. “I remember when the union failed. We were heartsick, those of us who had fought hard to make it happen. As is only right, the funds collected were to be returned to the members. I had a wife, children. We needed that money. I was home and waiting the evening the treasurer arrived with his case.”

  “The treasurer was Eli Greer?”

  Abbott nodded again.

  “He brought the funds in cash?”

  “Paper money. I didn’t think any more about it after I got my share. Until I started hearing that the other fellows hadn’t got the same visit. Eli, he’d disappeared. Took off with the rest of the money. Oh, those were dark times.”

  Inez tried to ignore the scent of old despair in the air between them. “You didn’t say anything to them?”

  He shrugged. “What good would it have done to say I’d been paid when no one else received theirs? Would they think I had done something to Eli, since I was the only one to see him alive, him and his case of money? Besides, I needed the money. I had a family to feed. I kept quiet, all these years. And after a while the memories faded and went away, just as old friends and family do.”

  “Did Mr. Greer seem the sort who would abscond with the funds?”

  “No. That was the strange thing. At least, strange to me then. But, as I’ve learned over my long time on this Earth and in all my years in this city, you never really know what lies in the heart of a man or what he’s made of, until the desperate times. Or a woman, for that matter. Why, you probably think the fellow who runs the dance hall is a villain. But he has been like a son to me, gave me a roof over my head, food to eat, and his girls, they help me when I cannot help myself. While my friends, all of them, have long gone or drifted away. I told young Monroe that. I told him, if he was to start up a union again, to be sharp as to who they voted in as treasurer. Keep an eye on the one who guards the money.”

  A silence hung between them until he said,
“But ye’ve not asked the question he asked me at the end. Surely you, a lady private investigator, would have the same question.”

  Inez reined in the urge to jump up, grab him by the front of his worn, stained shirt and yell, “Just tell me!” He’s toying with me, like the sphinx, “guess the answer to this riddle.” How often did he have company? He probably spent days, weeks, essentially alone.

  Alone.

  Inez asked, “Was there someone with Mr. Greer when he came to see you?”

  His lined face creased into a smile. “Ah, you’re a quick one! Monroe asked that, too. It just took him longer to get there. Yes, a young fellow was with Eli. One of the junior members.”

  “Who?” Her heart pounded so loudly in her ears she could hardly hear him speak.

  He shook his head. “The names, I never remembered the names. They were all young, and I was old, even then. I remember he was ambitious. He had dark hair. Was the thin and hungry type.”

  Welles. The description fit. She thought of the pianist, his black moods, the anger and resentments he nursed.

  He claimed he hadn’t received any money back when the union collapsed. But could he have lied?

  After all, Abbott had lied through silence. Abbott’s words came back to her: you never really know what lies in the heart of a man or what he’s made of, until the desperate times.

  Could Welles have lied, all these years?

  He claimed to have managed through those times because Nico had helped him.

  Nico.

  Suddenly she couldn’t breathe.

  She almost missed it when Abbott added, “I never remembered their names, but I knew which instruments they played. The one who was with Eli that night, he played the violin, like the angels.”

  Chapter Forty-one

  That morning, Antonia heard the doorbell ringing and Mrs. S pounding down the stairs, but what really brought her bolt upright was the screaming and shouting that followed. Antonia got out of bed and went to the open door at the top of stairs in time to hear the talk about Patrick, Jamie’s body by Long Bridge, and a bloody brick. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Patrick? The boy who played piano and was her friend?