A Dying Note

by Ann Parker

  “John Hee?” Inez shook her head. “That sounds like so much blather to me. The sentiment against the Chinese in this town is heated. Any misdoing is laid at their doors.”

  “He was seen in the area late that night,” De Bruijn pointed out. “So, from what I heard, we are still looking at possible involvement by the union and the two mentioned by Detective Lynch. We would be remiss not to follow up on all possibilities.” He looked at her, with that wide-open, waiting gaze that she was coming to dread. “How well do you know, and trust Mr. Donato?”

  She blinked, surprised at the turn of the conversation. “Why? Do you suspect…? Well, young Gallagher was courting Mr. Donato’s sister. He apparently was not in favor of that, but he does not view any of the young musicians as proper potential suitors for Carmella. Ah!” She remembered the note from Jamie addressed to Carmella. “I do have something to show you.”

  She went to the desk and rummaged around until she found the note lying under the slit envelope, and handed it to him. “Jamie—that is, young Gallagher, I knew him as Jamie Monroe and that is how I think of him still—slipped this under my door to give to Carmella. He had to have done so the night before he died because I found it the next morning.” She didn’t offer any particular apology for opening the letter and de Bruijn didn’t act as if he expected her to.

  Inez returned to her chair and her brandy. “In it, he mentions the threats, or danger, involving his part in unnamed union activities.”

  He scanned the note. “May I keep this?”

  She hesitated, then took a sip of her brandy, and waited while the warmth spread down her throat and across her breastbone. “I should give it to her eventually.”

  “Just until we are done with this investigation.” He slipped the note into his pocket. “The detective also mentioned they found a notice for a Chinese theater in young Gallagher’s possession. See the connections, Mrs. Stannert? Chinese theater—which has a strong musical component—musical warehouse for a store that employs a Chinaman for repairs and who is a musician himself…Yes, I heard the music when I came in last night to speak with you for the first time. I don’t believe in coincidences. I should mention as well that Mr. Hee was illegally employed by Mr. Donato in 1879, when there was a law on the books prohibiting such.”

  “But it is certainly not illegal now!” Inez protested.

  “It was then. No matter how you look at it, Mr. Donato was breaking the law, and I have to wonder why. I also wonder if it might have been a pressure point that young Gallagher could have used against Mr. Donato to press his suit.” De Bruijn added, “I’m not saying this to argue with you, Mrs. Stannert. It’s simply the facts.”

  “Well, let me tell you what I heard when I went to talk with Mr. Broken-nose Sven Borg, the longshoreman who identified the body as being Jamie Monroe.” She ran through her morning’s exchange with him, ending with, “I believe there is a strong reason to look into Jamie’s employment at this particular establishment. We should ascertain the nature of the disagreement between him and the proprietor, Henderson. As well as any union connections.”

  She hesitated, debating whether to disclose her connection to Patrick and the May sisters. She finally decided that full disclosure, or as near to it as she was willing to go, might take Patrick off de Bruijn’s list of suspects. “I know Patrick May, the young man you mentioned. I am underwriting his mother and aunt’s efforts to repair their laundry after a fire, and Patrick is a student of mine.” She tipped her head, indicating the lesson room behind the glass pane. “He is quite gifted.”

  As she related all this, de Bruijn finally seemed to show a response, mostly by the ever-higher lifting of eyebrows and a tightening of the mouth.

  Inez leaned forward. “Listen carefully to what he told me, and do not come to any judgment until you hear me through. Patrick told me straight out that he occasionally plays at the saloon late at night. His mother and aunt would not approve, so he has not told them. They think he is simply strolling about the wharves after dark. The night Jamie was murdered, Patrick was not at the saloon, but he did take a stroll. Down by the wharf where the hay is unloaded, he heard two men fighting. He did not see who it was, but retreated. He showed me where he heard the argument. It was amongst the stacked hay bales, which form something of a maze. He took me to the place, and I found this.” She gave the ring box to de Bruijn, who examined it, and passed it back to her.

  “I am thinking,” Inez continued, “that perhaps Jamie bought a ring for Carmella. He was not paying his share of the rent, according to his roommate, so perhaps he used that money to help with the purchase. Given that note I gave you and certain remarks from Carmella, I do believe he meant to propose.”

  “Despite her brother’s censure?”

  “Young love,” said Inez, somewhat cynically.

  “I see.” His eyes were now half-lidded, as he appeared to take that in.

  She leaned back, thinking. Finally she said, “This is ridiculous. If we put together all of our suspicions, the list of suspects isn’t shrinking, it’s growing! And we have one day less to unravel the truth.” The knot in her stomach returned. She picked up her glass and finished it off. The liquor eased the anxiety, but not as much as she had hoped. “So, what now?”

  “We should make a plan,” said de Bruijn, “one in which we will not be stumbling about and treading on each other’s toes.”

  “Well, Mrs. Sweet is marching along to her own drummer. So I suppose we can leave Mr. Poole to her. Although, I am not certain I altogether trust that she will be giving ‘her all’ to uncovering the truth.” Inez eyed the brandy bottle, gave in, and poured another measure into her glass. She offered the bottle to de Bruijn before realizing he had not even touched what he had before him.

  He covered the glass with his hand and shook his head. “Thank you, but no. When on the job, I do not drink. And for this particular case, I need all my wits about me.”

  “I find my wits do not seem to mind a bit of aqua vitae, and indeed seem to perform better as a result.” She forced herself to not snap at him. “As for tomorrow, I shall visit the jewelers with this box and see if Jamie Monroe purchased a ring. If so, that should fix the place of death, and maybe provide a few other clues. I would also like to chase down the local labor activist Frank Roney and ask him a few questions. Oh, yes, and first thing in the morning, I hope to meet with all of Jamie Monroe’s friends and let them know of his passing.”

  “Are you going to reveal that Jamie is actually Robert Gallagher?”

  “I believe I shall simply say his family has claimed his remains and he will be buried Back East somewhere.” Her mouth dried, the lingering sweetness of brandy turned to dust. “In truth, I am not looking forward to telling them this. But perhaps one of them will have information that could prove useful.”

  “I would like to be present when you tell them.”

  “Absolutely not! Excuse me, but that is out of the question. With you there, they will be more inclined to hold their tongues.”

  De Bruijn lowered his eyes again, obviously a “tell” for when he was turning over information, making decisions. He nodded. “Very well. You know them better than I do.”

  “And I plan to try to find out what was going on at Henderson’s that night.”

  “You intend to…what, walk right in?” He didn’t try to hide his disbelief.

  She looked him square in the eye. “Leave the hows and wherefores to me. I want to find out what they disagreed about. While I’m there, I’ll see if I can find out more about Frank Roney’s whereabouts and activities.”

  “A tall order,” said de Bruijn.

  “And you? What will you be doing?”

  “I will attempt to find out from Mrs. Sweet if she has any concrete information I should attend to.” De Bruijn paused. “I also do not trust she will be particularly attentive to her obligations on this matter, so I wil
l look into Mr. Poole separately. As you said, our list of suspects is growing, and in some cases, we do not have any specific names. I would like to determine if Mr. Poole is on or off our list. Sooner rather than later. As for the union angle, I plan to delve further into that.”

  Inez leaned forward. “One person you might talk to is a newsman, Roger Haskell. The name of his newspaper, The Workingman’s Voice, indicates where he stands on union matters. If he shows up, I could take him aside and let him know you might be wanting to talk with him.”

  Inez went to her desk, pulled a stack of business cards from one of the cubbyholes, and riffled through them until she found the one she wanted. She returned to the table and placed Haskell’s card, with newspaper name and address, next to his untouched brandy.

  “Thank you. I appreciate you paving the way for me.” He picked up the card and tapped it on the table. “The other activity I have planned regards John Hee. He will be working here tomorrow?”

  Inez nodded.

  “When is his day over?”

  “At six o’clock. He is very punctual in both arriving and leaving on time. Unless he and Nico…ah, Mr. Donato, are off on one of their errands.”

  “Hmmm.”

  That one non-remark caused Inez to examine him closely. “John Hee remains on your list?”

  “Until I know more about him, I cannot discount that he has some part to play in all this. In any case, I intend to follow him tomorrow after work and see where he goes.”

  He smoothed his beard. Inez noted he had no rings and his cuff links and shirt studs were plain. With his still face, his nondescript clothes, Inez realized he would blend in, disappear in the busy city streets. At least, most of the streets. But not all.

  “He lives in Chinatown,” Inez said pointedly. “I should ask: have you been to San Francisco before? Do you know much about Chinatown?”

  “I know enough.”

  He pulled out his pocket watch. “I should be leaving. You no doubt want to get on with your evening and take care of Antonia.” He picked up his hat. “May tomorrow bring some revelations that strike some of the names off our list, and bring clarity to those areas where we, as yet, have no names.” He touched the brandy glass with the handle of his cane. “Perhaps when all this is over, and we have discovered who committed this crime, I will take you up on your offer of a brandy, Mrs. Stannert.” He actually smiled.

  It was, Inez observed, a nice smile, and one couldn’t help but smile in return. He should do that more often.

  “I shall go out with you,” said Inez. “Give me a minute to lock up.”

  After securing the brandy and the back door, she extinguished the light and locked the office door behind them, taking de Bruijn’s untouched brandy with her. Once they had exited the store and she had closed and locked the front door, he said to her, “About Antonia. I did not mean to upset her as I did. I hope the token from her mother will comfort her, in the long run. If you would tell her I said so, I would be grateful.”

  Inez watched him walk away, thinking he was one of the most opaque persons she had met in this city by the bay. I would not like to play a hand of high-stakes cards against him. She walked the dozen or so steps to the door that led to the apartment. Back in their living quarters upstairs, she sought out Antonia, who was sitting on her bed curled up under one of Inez’s old shawls. Inez sat beside her. “How do you feel?”

  Antonia’s nose whistled as she attempted to exhale.

  “Is your throat sore?”

  Antonia nodded.

  “Try this.” Inez offered her the brandy.

  Antonia didn’t move. “You’re gonna let me drink that?”

  “Just a few sips. It’ll warm your throat and loosen up the congestion. Why don’t you get ready for bed and I’ll prepare a hot-water bottle for your feet and a cup of tea.”

  “That sounds good,” said Antonia.

  The gratefulness in the girl’s voice did more to warm Inez’s heart than an entire bottle of brandy.

  She went back into the little kitchen and puttered, getting things ready for Antonia. When she came back, Antonia had on her nightclothes and nightcap, and had slipped into bed. The little bedside lamp shed a circle of light in the dark. When Inez slid the cloth-wrapped copper hot-water flask under the sheets, she brushed Antonia’s feet and exclaimed in dismay. “Your feet are like ice! Did you take your stockings off when you came upstairs?”

  The girl’s eyes were already closing. “Cold…on the floor.”

  Inez looked at the braided rug on the bedroom floor and frowned. What was she doing on the floor when she could have sat in the kitchen where it was warm?

  Children. There was sometimes no rationale behind their behavior.

  Inez lingered for a moment, sitting on the edge of the bed, watching Antonia sleep, dark eyelashes still, her dark hair trying to escape the braids that neither of them had undone and combed out. Ah, well. No harm in not doing the fifty strokes with a hairbrush for one night. Her breath came slow and even. In, and out. The brandy seemed to have done its trick of loosening the cold and easing her into sleep. Inez looked at the little locket on the night table by the bed, and, with one eye on Antonia, picked it up and pushed on the little catch. The cover flew open, revealing the thumbnail photograph of Drina Gizzi. Inez closed the locket and set it back on the table.

  “He meant this to be a source of comfort, not sorrow,” she said to the sleeping child. “When you are older, you will come to appreciate this gift from a man who was a stranger, but who cared for you and your mother deeply.”

  Leaving the tea on Antonia’s nightstand in case she woke up later, Inez took the bedside lamp to the storage room, unlocked the door, and went in.

  Jamie’s trunk was just as she’d left it, by the window, unlocked. Inez wondered if the temptation had been too much for Antonia and she had snuck back in to see what the trunk held while Inez was busy downstairs with Flo and de Bruijn. If so, her little exploration would explain the icy feet. The room, unheated and a hallway removed from the kitchen with its stove, had a bite to it.

  Inez set down the lamp, turned up the wick, and lifted the large trunk’s heavy lid. The interior exhaled a mix of cedar, wool, and tobacco. Inez sifted through the top layers. There were clothes, of course. Several suits of fine wool Inez had never seen him wear. Dress coats and morning coats. Waistcoats. Fine linen handkerchiefs with the embroidered initials RHG. Expensive kid gloves. All attire from the privileged life he had cast aside.

  She picked up a rectangular box, which had rested uppermost on the contents. About one foot long and half that deep, it held cuff links, shirt studs, coiled watch chains, and a few other male accouterments in an upper tray. Below the tray was a compartment holding a few cabinet cards and cartes de visite. An ambrotype in an ornate gold frame showed a close-up portrait of a woman, perhaps thirty-five or forty, with ash-blond hair, pale eyes, delicate features, and aristocratic bone structure. Definitely not the Leadville fiancée, Inez thought. Most likely his mother, Harry’s deceased wife, whom Inez had never met.

  First his wife, and now his son.

  The losses had to be a heavy burden, she realized with a pang. She shook her head. Why pity him when he seemed intent on ruining her life?

  Inez examined the box further as the cold crept through her skirts, petticoat, and stockings to freeze her knees. The shallowness of the inner compartment indicated there was yet another storage area beneath. But there was no lock, no little handle, no way to open the bottom drawer. It was secured tight. Inez spent several frustrating minutes pushing on the drawer’s face and going over the exterior of the box, trying to find the “key” to disengaging whatever hidden mechanism held the drawer shut. About ready to give up for the night, she opened the box to replace the top tray. Only then did she spot the small brass button, positioned between the two hinges on the back edge. She pushed the button
and the drawer popped open.

  Inside the hidden compartment, she found a cache of letters, bound with a satin ribbon. Her heart wrenched when she recognized Carmella’s letter-perfect penmanship. As she lifted out the letters, a folded piece of paper stuck to the bottom of the packet floated to the floor. Inez scooped up the paper and opened it. It was a receipt, stamped “PAID” from Barnaby Jewelers on Market Street, for a woman’s gold ring engraved inside with “Two but one heart till death us part.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  The next morning felt almost normal to Inez.

  Almost.

  Antonia appeared on the mend, bouncing back with the incredible speed of the young from minor coughs and colds. Over breakfast, she rattled off her times tables at a lightning pace. She seemed anxious to get to school and banged out the door, leaving with considerably more energy than she had demonstrated over the past couple of days.

  “Forward into the day,” Inez said aloud, taking herself down the stairs and out into the street. She paused and took in the morning traffic from her vantage point on Kearney. She could see the busy to-and-fro of pedestrians, wagons, and horse-drawn street cars down toward Market, and up toward California, the warning clang of the cable-pulled street car, as it made its stop at the corner of Kearney and disgorged swarms of men, who hurried toward the big-board San Francisco Stock and Exchange and “new board” Pacific Stock Exchange on Montgomery.

  Who were the souls who dabbled and dealt in stocks? Almost everyone, as far she could tell. Lawyers, doctors, preachers, bankers, merchants, clerks, bookkeepers, mechanics, and even women. No one, it seemed, was immune to stock mania. Inez allowed herself to consider what life might have been like if she, her then-husband Mark Stannert, and their business partner, Abe Jackson, had come all the way to San Francisco as originally planned. Perhaps they would have built a drinking and gaming establishment to capture some of the fortune from gambling fever that clutched the golden city.