He gathered his hat and coat and accompanied her. She was acutely aware of him surveying the store and its “curiosities,” his expression unreadable. He moved through the showroom as all wealthy men did, as if they owned the walls, the floors, the contents, the very people in the room, as well as the air they breathed and the light that illuminated all.
Inez set her hand on the door, but Harry reached past her and pushed it open so she could pass. His arm brushed hers, igniting memories and a flicker of emotions she did not wish to rekindle.
She moved quickly away, gathering a box of lucifers to light the paraffin lamp on the round table. “Leave the door open,” she said.
Harry leaned against the doorframe, smoking, watching her, his ice-blue eyes tracking her movements, intent. “I didn’t think to find you in such a place as this.”
Inez paused, burning match in hand. “And where did you expect to find me?” Any shakiness in her voice was concealed by sharpness. “On the Barbary Coast, perhaps? Ruling over some dank whiskey mill?”
Strangely enough, Harry smiled. It was small, almost invisible under his mustache, but definitely there. “Not at all.” He straightened up as the wick took the fire, shedding light into the gloom. “I expected to find you a minister’s wife.”
Inez pushed a crystal ashtray in his direction and shifted to the other side of the table, putting the wide wood expanse between them. “That’s not what you came here to talk to me about. Let’s not play games or mince words. Clearly, you were looking for me and you have found me. No doubt you twisted Flo’s arm and applied some not-so-subtle pressure.”
Harry ground out the cigar in the ashtray before pulling a card from his overcoat and spinning it toward her across the tabletop. It slid over the polished surface, coming to rest an arm’s length away. The printed words “Donato and Stannert” blazed up at her from one of the store’s new trade cards. Well, that horse is out of the barn, Inez thought grimly, wishing she’d followed her first instinct and insisted the card be reprinted with the anonymous “D & S.”
All Harry said was, “You were not hard to find.”
She pushed the card to one side and decided to forego further digressions or palaver. “Flo told me that you are looking for your son. I’ll tell you straight away so we do not waste time here, I have not heard of nor do I know a Robert Gallagher. Harry, you are on a fool’s errand. Trying to find one young man who doesn’t want to be found, in a city of two-hundred-thousand-plus souls? Who is to say he is even using that name, assuming he is in the city at all?”
The half-smile vanished. He reached again into the overcoat’s inner pocket and extracted another, slightly larger pasteboard, walking around the table toward Inez. She forced herself to stand her ground as he approached. Without a word, he held the object out to her—a carte de visite of a young man. Inez reluctantly took the studio portrait, and studied it.
Harry’s son. Obviously.
Robert was handsome, Inez gave him that. In the photograph he sat in a low-backed chair and was dressed in a well-tailored sackcoat and checked trousers. With one ungloved hand, he balanced a silk top hat on his knee, while holding a walking stick loosely in the other hand. He had the long slender fingers of a pianist. Along with a head of smooth dark hair, brushed back and cut short and business-like, that came to a widow’s peak in front, he sported a mustache and beard, effectively disguising his mouth and chin. The younger Gallagher gazed to one side, in three-quarters view, pale eyes turned away from the probing camera lens. His face held a pensive, guarded expression, as if he wished himself far away.
Glancing up at Harry, Inez realized that the son did indeed resemble the father in face and form, sharing the same striking pale blue eyes. She returned to the portrait. Those eyes. The widow’s peak. Have I seen them before? On two separate men, or all on one? A prickle raced down her spine.
Her unease at having Harry so close, his attention so focused on her, made it impossible for her to chase the thought any farther.
She handed the photograph back. “I’m sorry, Harry. I’ve not seen him.”
The lines around Harry’s eyes tightened and his dark eyebrows drew together.
“I swear it,” she added hastily. “These young musicians, they come and go all the time. If they stay for any period of time in the city, they often show up here.” The minute the words were out, she wanted to bite her tongue.
“Then I am correct to think he has probably been here, and you may have seen him.”
She shook her head, in annoyance at herself as much as in denial. “I told you. He does not look familiar to me. Honestly, they come to see Mr. Donato, for the most part. He draws them in and encourages them, the new ones in town. You might show Signore Donato your carte de visite and see what he says.”
“That popinjay.” Harry sounded dismissive. “It’s clear he only has eyes for the mirror and for himself.”
“That’s not true!” Even though she secretly agreed, Inez came to Nico’s defense, stung by the critique of her business partner. “Mr. Donato is extremely talented and well-recognized and admired locally. He works hard at bettering his professional reputation and never shirks from helping those who are talented but less fortunate than himself.”
Harry pocketed the photograph. “In that case, I’ll make a point of speaking with him tonight at the Floods’.” He started toward the door leading to the showroom. “I am staying at the Palace Hotel, Mrs. Stannert. I expect you to send word if you catch sight or hear any mention of my son. Even the slightest of
