A Dying Note Page 13

  When Bessie first came to Inez’s office looking for a loan on behalf of the sisters, she had spilled out far more of their convoluted family history than Inez had cared or desired to know, invoking God’s name only when she railed against him and her sister.

  “That Molly, my sister, she brought disgrace upon our family. If you don’t know that already, well, you will soon enough, so I’ll tell you now. Disowned by mother, father, uncles, aunts, everyone. I stood by her. The only one. I’m her sister, and I told them, they could throw me out too. I’d not see my sister and her baby starving in the streets. God will see them all in Hell for their lack of charity. Molly having a bastard child, well, that’s bad enough, but when the child’s of tainted blood, they couldn’t spare a Christian thought on them.”

  She had wheeled around pointing a finger accusingly at Inez, as if Inez had said the words, and not her. “It doesn’t matter who or what his father was. Patrick, he’s better than all of them that turned their backs on us. Better than his mother or me, and I dare anyone to say otherwise. He’s a smart boy. A courteous boy. Works hard. A good heart.”

  The “boy” Patrick, actually fifteen or so and well on his way to being a young man, possessed a polite demeanor and an uncommon musical talent. He had been at one of the Mays’ first meetings with Inez, had drifted over to the student piano, and asked permission to play. Upon hearing him sound out a skillful two-handed rendition of “I’ll Take You Home Again, Kathleen,” the sisters and Inez were astonished. When Patrick was asked for an accounting, he’d ducked his head and said, “I hear music on the wharf. The tunes go in my head and out my hands.”

  Inez had offered him free lessons on the spot.

  He was prompt and confided he had access to a piano in a bar close to home. “They let me practice sometimes. My ma doesn’t know, auntie neither, but I don’t get into trouble, and the owner says as long as I play for free, he doesn’t care.” Inez was impressed with his progress, but sorrowed that as a mulatto and of poor birth, Patrick would find his employment opportunities limited.

  When Patrick finished, she said, “Much better.” She stood, saying, “Next week, then?”

  He nodded and rose.

  Even through the ordinary routine of lessons and business, Inez found that the conundrum of Jamie’s death and the looming confrontation with Harry weren’t far from her mind. She had been wracking her brain, trying to think of something she could do, something she could offer to ease the blow.

  She kept coming back to the same questions.

  Who killed the young musician?

  And why?

  Was it strictly a random attack?

  If so, why did he still have money in his pockets when his body was rolled into the canal?

  Perhaps by visiting the area by Long Bridge, the scene of his demise—or at least where he was found—she might make some sense from what seemed a senseless situation. It wasn’t a bad part of town during the daylight hours.

  Then, she remembered. “Patrick, do I recall correctly that your laundry is near Long Bridge?”

  He nodded.

  “How is the rebuilding coming along after the fire?”

  He ducked his head and passed his hand over the tight curls. She resisted the impulse to hand him a comb. “We’s got a load of bricks t’other day. I have to work on the wall when I get home.”

  She winced at the thought of his expressive pianist’s hands wielding a trowel and mortar. “I should come down and see how things are progressing.”

  He looked alarmed.

  “I just want to be certain your aunt and mother are getting the assistance they need,” she assured him. “You can’t rebuild it all by yourself! Perhaps hiring a laborer would make sense, hurry up the process. It can’t be easy running a laundry in a place that is still under construction.”

  “No’m. My ma and aunt, well, they work all the time, and there’s plenty of business, but like you said, it’s hard.”

  “That settles it then. Please tell your aunt and mother I will be coming around tomorrow.”

  “Yes’m.”

  After Patrick left, she returned to her desk and picked up the agreement she was to go over with the milliner, Mrs. Young, later that day. Her mind kept going back to Jamie’s death. The discovery that Jamie was Robert Gallagher. Carmella’s reaction. The dreaded meeting she would have to have with Harry.

  Perhaps she should call the Palace Hotel now and ask him to come to the store.

  No.

  That was a bad idea.

  In addition to the visit from Mrs. Young, she was expecting a buyer that afternoon for one of their upright pianos. He had brought his wife in the previous week, and the missus had given the nod for buying a compact, sound-worthy Steinway. The sale would add a tidy sum to the month’s income. Inez certainly didn’t want to be embroiled in a conversation with Harry about the death of his son and have someone walk in. It would be best to talk with him after hours. Perhaps, if the store was slow at end of the day, she could close early and arrange to meet him at the hotel.

  Damn Flo for gallivanting off to the Barbary Coast that afternoon. “I might be able to find out what happened to Robert,” she’d said. “Besides, I have friends in that quarter of the city and elsewhere to catch up with. Best to do so before business hours.”

  “You know madams in San Francisco?” This was news to Inez.

  “Oh, I never told you? Before I came to Colorado I spent a few years here. Hence, the ‘Frisco Flo’ moniker.” She winked. “Being from the Paris of the West adds a little exotic allure.”

  The entry bell clunked. The door squeaked open and slammed shut, with violence. Inez glanced at the pocket watch she’d put on the corner of the desk, surprised to see the time. The day was fleeing away. She stood and walked toward the passage. “Antonia, is that you?”

  She was greeted by the sight of Harry Gallagher storming toward her.

  Inez involuntarily retreated a step. Part of her wanted to slam the passage door in his face and escape out the back into the alley. Instead, she stiffened her resolve and moved forward to meet him, trying to control the shakiness in her limbs. “Mr. Gallagher, what—?”

  He seized her by the arm and without a word propelled her into the office area. He was dressed as always—impeccably, expensively—but there was something wild and alarming in his eye.

  He banged the door shut behind them, saying, “Did you send her with that message?”

  Inez’s first thought was maybe Flo had had a change of heart and screwed up her courage to tell Harry about his son. That hope exploded when he said in barely controlled rage, “Little Miss Gizzi. Did you send her to tell me of my son’s death? My son’s death. You couldn’t do me the courtesy of telling me to my face or even writing a note, for God’s sake? You handed over the responsibility of relaying information of such a nature to a child?”

  “What? No!” Inez, alarmed, was caught off guard. “Antonia? Antonia Gizzi came to see you? And she, she told you, about—”

  He shook her arm, cutting her off. “About Robert masquerading as someone named James Monroe while playing out his fantasy of being a musician in San Francisco. Yes, she did. Albeit very poorly. She told me he was dead, then scampered away. It took me a trip to the police station, a talk with the Police Chief and the Police Surgeon, to find out where Robert was and—” Harry stopped. It was as if a train barreling down the track had slammed into a granite wall.

  He shoved Inez away. “This. This was beneath you, Inez.” Fury mixed with his despair.

  Inez staggered a little, then recovered. “I grieve for your loss, Harry, but I assure you, I did not send Antonia to you with such a message. Do you truly think I would stoop to that? I have no idea, none, how she even knows about your son. I only worked it out this morning.”

  “You worked it out,” he said. The anger vanished and a mask se
ttled over his face. “I was told by the undertaker a Mrs. Stanfort came by to identify him. Clearly that was you. And you had your niece in tow. Miss Gizzi?”

  Inez decided to sidestep that one. “Antonia is my ward, but she calls me aunt. Honestly, I had no idea he was your son. I knew him as James Monroe.”

  “How did you identify him, then?” Harry’s eyes bore into hers. “He was unrecognizable.”

  She cleared her throat and looked away. “Your son has, had, a distinctive mark.” She looked back at Harry and hastily added, “Flo knew about it. She told me.”

  He closed his eyes. “She would,” he muttered.

  “I didn’t know your son was using a false name. I swear, Harry, I had no idea until then.”

  Only his compressed, downturned mouth, the sudden age that weighted his shoulders, showed the burden he now carried.

  He pointed to a nearby chair, indicating she should sit.

  Inez did so, her heart pounding like a fist on a door. She heartily wished she could vanish on the spot.

  Standing above her, he reached into his waistcoat pocket, pulled out his pocket watch—silver engraved and attached with a silver chain—clicked it open, glanced at the face, clicked it shut, and put it away. The process was mechanical, more as if he had wanted a space of time to collect his thoughts and contain his emotions rather than check the time.

  He began. “This is what will happen now, Mrs. Stannert. I am going to have my son prepared so I can take him Back East for a proper burial as befits his station. In the meantime, I have business in Virginia City. While I am gone, you, Mrs. Sweet, and Mr. de Bruijn—whom I am certain Mrs. Sweet has told you about—are going to work out who killed my son. When I return, you will tell me what you have found. You have a week.”

  “What about the police?” Inez managed to croak out. “Aren’t they investigating? Whatever information we uncover, surely we should tell them.”

  His laugh, short, bitter, cut off as if with a hatchet. “The police? The kind of justice my son’s killer deserves will not be meted out by the law. For suspects, I suggest you start with Phillip Poole, the man who accused my son of driving his daughter mad with despair and causing her death.”

  She tried to reason this through, give him the benefit of the doubt for what he was saying. He was crazy with grief, surely. But with someone like Harry, it didn’t matter if he was thinking straight or not. He would do what he set out to do. And if he commanded you to do something, whether it made sense or not, whether it was foolhardy or not, you did it, or there would be hell to pay. She softened her voice. “Please, be reasonable. I did not lie to you. I did not betray you. I will do what I can, but—”

  The muffled clunk of the entry bell penetrated the closed door. Off in the distance, from another part of her life, she heard the gentleman who had promised to return with check in hand for a piano for his wife call out, “Excuse me, Mrs. Stannert? Is anyone here?”

  She stood, bringing herself closer to his level. “How am I supposed to do this? I cannot go gallivanting all over the city. The police and your detective are better equipped to do this than me. I have a business to run.”

  “You have connections in the music world that they do not. You knew my son. If you had only told me this when we first talked.” His hands opened and closed by his sides, as if grasping for something, anything, that could change what was, turn back time.

  He finally turned and opened the door for her to pass, saying, “I have said what I came to say. If you do not get busy and find who murdered my son, I swear to you, your business will be the least of your worries. I will make sure you rue the day you ever set foot in San Francisco.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  De Bruijn returned to the Palace Hotel after a long day spent trying to determine the lot of San Francisco’s musicians, whether there was a musicians union formed or forming, and if so, who was involved. He suspected if young Gallagher was in San Francisco, he would surface in a labor movement, given his leanings in that direction. From what de Bruijn had learned, the young man was as determined to bring “rights” to the workingman as a moth was determined to destroy itself in a flame.

  He had made tours of union haunts, musical venues such as music halls, theaters, public gardens and parks, and newspaper offices. Journalists, he knew, were always willing to talk about local doings for the price of a free drink. Musicians were much the same, more than happy to dissect the current state of affairs of their particular world.

  De Bruijn had limited his own intake. He had to stay coherent and sharp, otherwise it would be difficult to determine who was telling the truth and who was dissembling in hopes of caging an extra drink.

  All his efforts had provided but one slim lead: a young man by the name of James Monroe. Recently settled in the city, a pianist, he had been seen at rallies and sandlot gatherings, talking up the creation of a new musicians union. From what de Bruijn gleaned, there wasn’t much support from the musical rank and file, but that hadn’t dampened Monroe’s ardor.

  When shown a photograph, some thought Monroe bore some resemblance to young Gallagher. Others shook their heads.

  Monroe, it turned out, was one of a larger group hanging around the D & S House of Music and Curiosities. An odd coincidence, given that Mrs. Stannert was involved with the store in some capacity.

  Only, de Bruijn didn’t believe in coincidences.

  He planned to pay Mrs. Stannert a visit early tomorrow and see what she had to say.

  Right now, however, he had one more person to see before reporting to his client.

  He found Miss Elizabeth O’Connell, part-time Pinkerton and occasional freelance personal agent, enjoying a cup of tea in the tropical garden off the Palace Hotel’s central court. De Bruijn sank into the chair opposite hers. “Are you enjoying your tea, Miss O’Connell?”

  “Indeed. The scones are superb. My thanks to you and Mr. Gallagher.” She gave him a tight, thin little smile, which for Miss O’Connell passed for approval. In her late twenties or early thirties, of middling height, auburn hair, light brown eyes, and fair complected, Miss O’Connell could have passed for a primary school teacher, or a private elocutionist. Or some other profession suitable for an as-yet-unmarried daughter of a middle-class father who came from the Emerald Isle in ’49 with a lust for gold and settled for a comfortable living as a shop owner. But that was just what he had managed to discern from occasional conversations and a preliminary search he had conducted before hiring her some years ago when he was in San Francisco for a different client.

  In truth, he knew little about her, except that Miss O’Connell was thorough, observant, punctual, well-regarded by Pinkerton himself, and didn’t mind taking on a “side job” now and again when the pay was right. He also knew from past experience that she possessed an iron will and nerve, seldom on display, swathed underneath impeccable manners and a soft voice, much as he envisioned the steel stays of her corset were swathed by layers of sensible linen and wool.

  Not that he had personal knowledge of what sort of unmentionables Miss O’Connell preferred. He simply suspected they were of the no-nonsense, no-frills variety.

  Quite the opposite, for instance, of those Mrs. Sweet displayed in such a casual, some would say “shocking” manner—tossed about her room, on the rug, on the chairs, even hanging from the harp in her parlor.

  And that brought him to…

  “What did our lady of dubious reputation and indefatigable energy do today while I was exploring the lot of the workingman in your fair city?” asked de Bruijn.

  Miss O’Connell pursed her lips for a sip, then set the china cup down carefully on the saucer. “Mrs. Sweet didn’t arise until almost eleven. Much time was spent in front of the mirror at that point. Shortly thereafter, an urchin showed up with an ‘urgent’ message. Something about hats.”

  “Really?” He was impressed. “How did you come by thi
s information?”

  “She asked for a maid to come help her dress. The maid was happy enough to provide details for a modest tip.”

  He nodded encouragingly.

  “After the message was delivered, Mrs. Sweet took off like a bat out of…Well.” Miss O’Connell smiled demurely. “I followed her, as you instructed. She went to the music store you had mentioned and spent quite a while inside. When she came out, she seemed distressed. That is just my opinion, you understand. She then took a hack through the Barbary Coast, dawdled through Morton Lane, and stopped in at three of the higher-class ‘disorderly houses,’ the last being Diamond Carrie Maclay’s at 205 Post.” She sighed. “During those visits, it was a lot of waiting around, Mr. de Bruijn. I can’t tell you what transpired inside for obvious reasons. She kept her hack waiting, which certainly cost her a pretty penny, as you will see when you get the bill for my own transportation.”

  “No matter,” assured de Bruijn. “Mr. Gallagher will cover it.”

  She tilted her head a little, her gaze drifting upward, as if recalling the timing of events. “It was almost five when she finally emerged, took the hack back here to the hotel, and proceeded to her rooms. The maid was called up. She has instructions to contact you with any further developments.” Miss O’Connell glanced at de Bruijn. “For what it’s worth, I do believe the visit to Carrie’s involved heavy imbibing, for she was not altogether steady on her feet once she returned.”

  “Thank you.” De Bruijn pulled an envelope with the agreed-upon payment from his jacket and placed it at her elbow on the damask tablecloth.

  She slid it into her satchel. De Bruijn glimpsed a book and the nickel-plated flash of a revolver inside before she closed it tight, saying, “Thank you for your patronage and the tea. As I said before, it’s good to see you again, after all this time. Should you have further need of my services—”