From there, it was up the elevator to the seventh floor.
He stopped outside the door to the suite and listened. All was quiet.
So, according to Miss O’Connell’s report, it seemed that Mrs. Sweet had spent her afternoon checking some of the higher-class brothels for signs of Robert Gallagher, just as she had promised she would.
But why stop at the music store?
He tucked that question away for later and knocked on the door.
“Enter,” came the voice from within.
De Bruijn obliged.
He was shocked, but only briefly, at the sight of Mr. Gallagher sitting in one chair, dressed for the evening, while Mrs. Sweet slouched, her face full of sullen storm, in another chair, dressed for…Well, the silk dressing gown was a fit prelude to retiring, although the hour argued against it.
“A change of plans,” said Gallagher, and motioned de Bruijn to a third, nearby chair.
“A change of plans?” De Bruijn took the indicated seat. The arrangement of the chairs placed him at the apex of a very sharp triangle.
“Robert is dead,” said Gallagher. “Through violent means, in a part of town he had no business being in.”
De Bruijn sat back in the chair, stunned.
Mrs. Sweet shifted uneasily, the fabric of her dressing gown shimmering.
Gallagher stared at him, his face a mask. A half-smoked cigar held between two fingers sent a languishing curl of smoke up toward the high ceiling.
It occurred to de Bruijn that this was how so many of the men of Gallagher’s standing responded to the death of those close to them—at least publicly. They continued as they were, the clues to their grief small but detectable, if you knew what to look for. They buttoned their jackets more slowly. Polished their spectacles more thoroughly. Checked their pocket watches more often. Spoke in careful, mechanical monotones.
De Bruijn finally said, “This is terrible. My condolences, sir.”
Gallagher drew on his cigar, then exhaled, waving de Bruijn’s words away with the smoke. “He was living in the city under an assumed name.
Mrs. Sweet covered her mouth. She was, de Bruijn noted, uncomfortable with the turn of conversation. He looked back at Gallagher. “How—?”
“How did I find out?” A bitter smile escaped, then vanished. “A young girl came to the hotel early today, demanding to speak with me. Said she had a private message purportedly from Mrs. Stannert. Little Miss Gizzi.”
Gizzi!
De Bruijn lost track of what Gallagher was saying. It was as if having been delivered one blow in the boxing ring that made him stagger, he received a second that sent him to the mat.
He dragged his attention back to Gallagher’s voice. “After telling me Robert was dead and directing me to the police, she took off like a jackrabbit.”
“What did she look like, this girl?” de Bruijn asked.
Gallagher paused. “Small. Dark.” He frowned. “Unusual eyes.”
De Bruijn tensed. “Unusual?”
“One was noticeably dark, brown, perhaps. The other a light blue.”
A chill, almost electric, ran through him. Could finding Antonia Gizzi at last be as simple as finding Mrs. Stannert? Could he dare hope? She had been elusive for so long.
Gallagher continued, “I leave before dawn tomorrow for business in Virginia City. My son’s body will remain in San Francisco for preparation for his final journey East. I met with Mrs. Stannert earlier today. I am telling you what I said to her and, just now, to Mrs. Sweet. You three are going to find who killed Robert. I expect you to work with Mrs. Stannert and keep Mrs. Sweet here from running wild. Use whatever resources you have at your disposal. This is your expertise, Mr. de Bruijn, finding what is lost. I needn’t tell you how to conduct this business. I will return in a week, expecting that you will have an answer for me.”
“And if we don’t?” Flo sneered.
Harry looked at her, emotionless. “I believe I’ve made it clear what I am prepared to do, Mrs. Sweet.”
The silk quilted dressing gown hissed on the upholstery as Flo slid to the edge of the chair, puffing up in defiance like one of the pigeons that strutted the city avenues. She bounced to her feet, grabbed the ends of the braided cord belt looped loosely around the gown and tugged the ends tight, cinching it closed. “Screw you, Harry!”
De Bruijn wondered if he would be called upon to keep the madam from attacking his client.
Gallagher simply said, “Mrs. Sweet, you’re drunk.”
“And to think, I actually felt sorry for you, because you lost your son.” The slur in her words was pronounced. “But you lost him long ago. And you’re still the same bastard you’ve always been.” With that, she stormed across the parlor into one of the two adjoining apartments, and slammed the door behind her.
Harry set his cigar down in the ashtray at his elbow. “She’ll come to her senses in the morning.” He stood. “I have arrangements to make for the morrow.”
“Of course,” De Bruijn took the hint and rose, glancing at the ornate ormolu clock on the parlor mantel.
Still early.
Plenty of time to put his own change of plans in effect and pay a surprise visit on Mrs. Stannert and, with luck, Antonia Gizzi.
Chapter Nineteen
As soon as Harry departed, Inez stormed up to the apartment, ready to whip the living daylights out of Antonia. She couldn’t fathom what had compelled her ward, first of all, to skip school, and then to eavesdrop and take the information directly to the one man who could cause their lives to tumble about their ears.
What the hell was she thinking?
But Antonia wasn’t there.
Inez grabbed her silver-backed hairbrush and brought it with her to the store, ready to mete out punishment when the truant finally appeared.
But as the hours ticked by and there was no sign of her, anger began to darken into worry.
Where was she? Could something have happened to her? Surely she didn’t run away. Most likely, she was somewhere in town, reluctant to come home. Inez knew that, as often as she admonished Antonia to avoid the Barbary
