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 this 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—”
“I know where to reach you,” he finished.
They both stood, shook hands, and she left, pulling the modest collar of her sensible brown
