A Dying Note

by Ann Parker

  The door of the carriage flew open and Nico fell out into the gutter.

  Inez and Antonia gasped.

  Nico got to his hands and knees, swaying, then crumpled to the cobblestones.

  The driver cracked the reins and the hack sped off, careening around the corner.

  “Quick!” said Inez.

  She and Antonia raced down the stairs. Inez grabbed the store keys from the hook on the way out, intending to give them to Antonia and tell her to use the telephone to call the police.

  She hurried to Nico, lying facedown, and knelt. With her good arm, she pulled him onto his back. He had been shot once in the head, another time in the throat, and a third time in the chest. His face was covered with blood, his collar and waistcoat blood-soaked.

  His eyes were open. At first, she thought he stared at her, but then she realized his gaze went far beyond her, up to the light and beyond into the clouded evening sky.

  He wasn’t breathing.

  Another carriage approached from the opposite direction, hoofs and wheels clattering. Inez struggled to a stand and retreated to the sidewalk, shielding Antonia behind her. The carriage stopped, and de Bruijn stepped out, his face nearly as pale as the bandage under his hat. His eyes locked first with Inez’s before sliding past her to Antonia. Relief washed over his countenance. He hastened over to Nico, and, as Inez had done, knelt to examine him.

  “It happened a few minutes ago. Someone was in the carriage when he got in,” said Inez. She put her good arm around Antonia, hugging her shoulders. “They shot him three times. He either was pushed or fell out of the hack. The driver then took off down Kearney, toward Market.”

  De Bruijn nodded, stood up, and advanced to the corner, looking in the direction Inez indicated. He shook his head and came back to them.

  He said bleakly, “Gone,” adding, “I am too late.”

  Inez gazed at what had once been Nico Donato, a gifted, passionate musician, a fiercely protective brother, and thought of all that had transpired to bring him here. The first long-ago murder had gifted him with the means he needed to build a comfortable life for himself and Carmella. That one killing, when it threatened to surface, had eventually led him to kill again. This time, his victim was his sister’s suitor, a man he thought inconsequential and penniless who turned out to be anything but. Robert Gallagher, alias Jamie Monroe, had been another young man who, wanting to create a new life, had turned his back on his past, his deeds, and misdeeds. Like Nico, Jamie had sought to build a life of his own making, based on lies.

  Nico had sought to keep his lies alive and bury the truth, until he could do so no longer. He finally tried to flee a life in which truth was as insubstantial as the fog. A life which, in the end, he could not outrun.

  She said, “We were, all of us, too late.”

  Chapter Forty-four

  At six in the morning on a Sunday, the Palace Hotel dining room was nearly empty. A few families, most likely headed for mass or some other church services after breakfast, were scattered throughout the immense room, the clink of tableware and murmur of voices subdued by thick carpet and distance from his corner table. Public, neutral, but also discreet.

  Which was precisely the sort of venue de Bruijn had decided he required for his conversation with Miss O’Connell.

  He had determined that it would be best not to meet with her in private, concerned he would not be able to contain his temper if it was just the two of them.

  He had no more than five minutes to review what he planned to say to her before she slipped into place across the table from him. She was dressed as any proper, young woman might for a morning church service—a fine outfit of alternating grays and a matching hat that somehow managed to highlight the subdued red of her hair. She gave him a small smile, her face otherwise watchful, wary.

  The waiter rushed over to pour her coffee from the silver coffeepot. She shook her head at the proffered sugar, then placed her large gray handbag on the table, near at hand. De Bruijn eyed it, remembering the handgun he’d glimpsed inside a different handbag at their previous meeting.

  “On your way to early confession, Miss O’Connell?” The words slipped out, unbidden, unexamined, not part of the script he had fashioned beforehand.

  She picked up her cup and studied him over the rim. “How are you, Mr. de Bruijn? Recovering from your very unfortunate accident?”

  “I am improving, thank you. As you know, I have had much time to ponder and have found myself wondering: just how accidental was it, Miss O’Connell? Being that it was unfortunate for me but not for you?”

  She set her cup down on the saucer so gently, it made not the slightest sound. “Forgive me for stating the obvious, Mr. de Bruijn, but it seems you are slipping. You would never have been caught in such a situation back when we first made our professional acquaintance. What has happened to you since then?”

  She was right. And he knew exactly what had happened to change him, to cause his focus in this investigation to falter. Drina happened. And Antonia.

  But he refused to be sidetracked in the conversation he’d prepared. “When did Mr. Gallagher hire you? Was it before he left? Or after, through telegram?”

  She toyed with the drawstring on her bag. “I am always open to freelance opportunities. You know that, Mr. de Bruijn. I saw no conflict with a parallel request to provide support to your efforts.”

  “I instructed you to follow Mrs. Stannert, Mr. Hee, and Mr. Donato,” de Bruijn said through gritted teeth. “Not to kill anyone.”

  “Mr. Gallagher’s instructions were quite clear, Mr. de Bruijn. I would think you’d be pleased with the results.”

  “Pleased that you set a trap and murdered Donato in cold blood? You do me no honor.” He sat back, glared at her.

  “Temper, temper, Mr. de Bruijn.” She lifted her napkin from her lap, refolded it into its original configuration, and set it by her half-empty cup.

  “Before you leave, you owe me something.”

  She raised her eyebrows.

  “A report, Miss O’Connell. On your activities.” He kept his voice as hard and cold as steel.

  “I reported to the client, as is proper. Honestly, Mr. de Bruijn, I cannot believe you have not worked out the full scope of my actions. But as you wish.” She folded her hands on top of her bag, an exasperated schoolteacher forced to explain a simple arithmetic problem to a deliberately obtuse student.

  “You authorized me to hire associates to help me carry out my tasks. I did so. I assigned them to watch Mr. Hee and Mr. Donato, and report on their findings. I kept Mrs. Stannert for myself. Mr. Hee spent most of his time in the warehouse, in his room in Chinatown, and at the store. Nothing to report of note there. Mr. Donato, on the other hand, was very busy. He bought a one-way ticket on a ship bound for Paris.” She added, “France.”

  “I know my geography, Miss O’Connell.”

  “He also visited his bank, his lawyer, and the warehouse. He had a large trunk sent to the ship. Meanwhile, I trailed around after Mrs. Stannert, who made stops connected with the past union. That was her idea, you know, that young Gallagher’s interest in the disbanded musicians union was somehow tied to his demise. You and I were wrong in thinking the illegal trade in artifacts was the key. But that is water under the bridge now.” She shifted in her chair. “At the end of the day, she went home. You can imagine my surprise when I saw the associate I had hired to follow Mr. Donato outside the building. He explained that at that very moment, Mr. Donato was also in the apartment.”

  She unfolded her hands and straightened a glove seam. “I sent him up to reconnoiter while I waited in the street. He overheard Mr. Donato confess to Mrs. Stannert. The words used were unambiguous. Mr. Donato exited the apartment and entered the store. My associate exited soon thereafter and told me what he had heard. I believe you can deduce the rest. Have you any questions?”

 
“No questions, but an observation.” He leaned forward, giving weight and emphasis to his next words. “Mrs. Stannert and Antonia were inside that building. He could have killed them both.”

  She didn’t flinch or change her expression. “He could have. But he did not.”

  De Bruijn realized she had thought of the possibility, taken it into consideration, and decided it was worth the risk.

  His hand clenched on the tablecloth.

  Her matter-of-fact tone did not waver in the least as she added, “I was given a job, and I did it. Robert Gallagher’s killer was identified and dealt with. Mr. Gallagher is satisfied that justice was served. You will be paid. I will be paid. It is over.”

  “Not over for Mr. Donato’s sister. Not over for the young man who has been falsely accused of Jamie’s—” he shook his head, distressed at the slip— “Robert’s murder. What of him?”

  “Oh, it will all work out. And now, I have an observation for you, Mr. de Bruijn. You underestimated Mrs. Stannert completely. She determined the who and why for this case. She put the pieces together, and all I had to do was follow her lead. You should thank her for all her hard work. Speaking of work,” she checked her pendant watch, “I must be going. Mass to attend. A certain gentleman has doubts of his wife’s fidelity and believes they pass messages during mass.”

  She rose, and he did as well.

  Miss O’Connell touched her hat, giving it a slight nudge. “Will you soon be returning to Colorado or points east, now that the case is finished?”

  All he said was “No doubt our paths will cross again, Miss O’Connell. I’ll remember this.”

  “Oh pish-posh.” She picked up her reticule. “I will put your words down to the dreadful knock on the head in the alleyway. I am certain once you are yourself again, you will forget this unpleasant affair, come to see that what I said was true, and we will resume our mutually beneficial business relationship.”

  De Bruijn watched her walk away, taking the shortest path to the door and blending, as she always did, effortlessly into the setting. None of the families nor the few single men breaking fast early gave her more than a cursory glance. She was good, one of the best, he acknowledged that. But, she could be wrong.

  And she was wrong about one thing: He would never forget, nor forgive, the violence she had done to what was right—legally and morally—here, this November, in San Francisco.

  Chapter Forty-five

  Luncheon time on Monday afternoon in the Palace Hotel’s magnificent dining room was loud, noisy, and exuberant. At their table in the corner, Inez leaned in toward Flo and de Bruijn, the better to separate their words from the random conversations at nearby tables.

  De Bruijn asked Flo, “You are leaving?”

  “This evening. Mr. Poole has reserved a private car for our return to Colorado.” She was wearing her travel clothes, which although properly dark, were aflutter with fringe, bows, and pleats. “I’ve been gone too long, and can only hope the girls and clients haven’t burned the place down in my absence.” She turned to Inez, “I’ll be back, though. There’s gold to be mined in these city hills,” and winked.

  Inez knew what she meant—Flo had mentioned a local madam she knew was getting married and giving up the trade. Flo could hardly contain her excitement at the prospect of buying the business, and was twisting Inez’s unbroken arm to back her offer. “We don’t even have to be involved, except at arm’s length. I’ll hire someone to manage the house,” she’d said.

  Inez shifted the sling to ease the ache in her arm, thinking two, three months would be a long time to play one-handed piano and depend on Antonia’s help to dress.

  Flo tut-tutted, sympathetic. “Shall I butter your bread for you?” Without waiting for an answer, she seized Inez’s butter knife and slathered a thick layer on the slice resting on Inez’s bread plate. “And have I told you how glad I am to see you out of those dreary clothes you were wearing when I first arrived? That maroon is so much more attractive!”

  Inez turned to de Bruijn. “And you? What are your plans?”

  “I will be staying. For now. I have already had inquiries from a number of people.” He smoothed his small beard. “Including from a few who are inquiring whether my ‘wife,’ Mrs. Wilhemina de Bruijn, is also available to offer her investigative services.”

  Flo snorted, privy to the reference. “Fat chance. Inez is going to have her hands full now that the music store is all hers.”

  “Half mine. The other half belongs to Carmella.” Inez thought of the exhausting hours she had spent with Carmella yesterday. After reassuring Carmella that the broken arm was due to a misstep on the apartment stairs, Inez had stayed with her in the Donatos’ parlor. Antonia had disappeared into the kitchen to eat svogliatella and rearrange the baked goods to make room for the food that would appear from neighbors and churchwomen, once Nico’s death became widely known.

  “I knew this would happen!” Carmella had wailed. “It was just a matter of time!”

  Inez had decided to tread carefully. “You knew what, exactly, would happen?”

  “Oh, Mrs. Stannert, it is so clear. I warned him time and again that someday a jealous husband or angry father or brother would be the death of him. Nico, he was no fighter, he knew nothing of guns, of violence.”

  Inez elected not to respond, simply letting the young woman sob on her good shoulder. “What will I do now, without him?” Carmella pulled back, wiping her red-rimmed eyes.

  “First, you will mourn,” said Inez. “You will let those around you fuss and take care of you. And then, Carmella, you can do whatever you want. Help in the store. Hire on with the lady printers, the Fleurys.” Inez saw the possibilities open an expanse as exciting and vast as the central plains she had glimpsed through a train window, years ago. “Open your own bakery. I will help you.”

  “But…this house. This was Nico’s dream. It is too big for just me.”

  “Stay in the house and rent out rooms to boarders,” suggested Inez. “Or if you prefer, move into accommodations for proper young women such as yourself, and rent the house as a whole, or sell it. You can do anything, Carmella, when the time is right, and you know your own mind.”

  At the last, Inez gave Carmella the packet of letters from Jamie’s trunk and the gold ring, saying simply they had been in his effects. “I am sure he would want you to have them,” said Inez. That had brought on a renewed storm of tears. Inez had debated revealing Jamie’s true identity, but finally decided against it. Like brother, like lover—the two most important men in Carmella’s life had both had their secrets. What good would come of telling Carmella that her fiancé was not the person she believed him to be?

  Inez blinked, bringing herself back to the Palace Hotel and to de Bruijn saying, “Do you and Miss Donato have plans for the store, Mrs. Stannert?”

  With a nod of thanks to Flo, Inez picked up her bread. “Miss Donato is leaving it entirely in my hands. So, to begin with, I am hiring Welles full-time to help with the daily management. I also asked John Hee if he would continue providing repair services and take charge of obtaining and maintaining the ‘curiosities.’ But to avoid black market items.” She meant that as a reassurance to de Bruijn.

  He nodded.

  “I shall spend more time with Antonia,” Inez added. The future was already looking brighter for her ward, with a new friend at school and her renewed interest in her studies.

  Inez continued, “I shall continue to explore investment opportunities, once I have more time. Offer piano lessons, perhaps teaching less fortunate students for free as I am doing for Patrick May. I still have hopes for him. Music frees the soul, you know.”

  “Speaking of Mr. May, has he come out of hiding?” de Bruijn inquired.

  Inez nodded. In her concluding conversation with Harry, she had made it clear she wanted no “payment” for her part in solving the murder, other than for hi
m to clear Patrick’s name. “With Mr. Donato dead, there is no proof as to who committed the murder,” she explained. “Only Antonia and I heard what he said. All the evidence is circumstantial, and there’s not much of it. We have the collar from Mr. Donato’s cloak, but cannot prove that it was found on the scene. So, although we know who killed your son, we are the only ones. We need your influence with the police to free Patrick May. He is innocent.”

  Harry, with a black band of mourning encircling his sleeve and looking more tired and worn than she had ever seen him, had just nodded. However, he had been true to his unspoken promise, and Inez had received a joyous visit from Bessie and Molly May, relieved that Patrick was freed and no longer a suspect. Inez had been surprised that Harry wasn’t more surprised when she had given her short report on Nico. She finally surmised he had already heard as much from de Bruijn. But still.

  “Patrick May? Who’s he? And what’s this about a black market? Is that for Chinese vases and whatnot?” Flo looked from one to the other, blank. “Goodness, you two were busy while I was otherwise occupied.” Her gaze traveled from de Bruijn’s wrapped head to Inez’s broken arm. “I’m glad I stayed out of whatever it was you two were up to.”

  Inez set her bread down, untouched. “I cannot stop thinking that, despite everything we did and all we uncovered, we failed in the end. We know Nico killed Harry’s son. But who killed Nico?”

  Flo lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “It doesn’t matter. You gave Harry what he wanted: the name of his son’s killer.”

  Inez continued, “I know you think that’s enough, Mrs. Sweet, and nothing more is to be done. Mr. Gallagher seems likewise inclined. Perhaps he believes that, in a larger sense, justice has been served. But I do not. Surely, Mr. de Bruijn, you feel as I do. It seems to me our work is not yet done. Does Mr. Donato’s murder have anything to do with our investigation? Or could the perpetrator be, as his sister thinks, a jealous husband? Will we ever know?”