Inez paced from the office to the lesson room, ears attuned for the clank of the entry bell. Instead, she heard the sweet strains of a violin coming from the front of the store. Curious, she ventured into the showroom. The music was coming from the repair room.
John Hee?
He must have come in while she was upstairs looking for Antonia. Inez headed to the repair alcove and twitched the curtain aside. John Hee stood, his back to her, playing to the brick wall and the counter where he did repairs. She waited, hating to break the flow of music. After about a minute, she cleared her throat. Hee lowered the violin and turned around, “Mrs. Stannert,” he said, seeming not at all surprised to see her there. “Testing the tone,” he added, as if by way of explanation. “To see if soundpost in correct place.”
“Lovely music,” said Inez. “I didn’t want to interrupt you. However, I am wondering, have you seen Antonia?” She surveyed the room. A partially disassembled brass instrument along with bits of brass tubing, springs, and tools occupied one side of the counter. On the far end, some small Oriental curios were half visible in a rucksack.
Hee returned to the counter, closed the satchel, and shut the violin in its case. “She not upstairs?”
“No.” Inez’s throat constricted. “It is close to dark. She is never this late.”
“Time for me to go,” said Hee. “I will look for her on my way.”
“If she is in Chinatown this time of night…” Inez couldn’t finish the sentence.
Hee shrugged into his jacket and picked up his wide-brimmed hat. “She has much common sense. Do not worry, Mrs. Stannert. She take care of herself.”
Inez hoped so. She turned and opened the curtain. Startled, she stepped back, inadvertently treading on the toe of Hee’s boot.
A strange gentleman stood on the other side of the display case of music boxes. However, he wasn’t looking at the merchandise, but at her, as if he had been waiting for Inez and John Hee to appear.
Inez’s first thought: Why didn’t I hear the bell?
Cantankerous though it was, it had been, up to now, reliable, and she was well attuned to its metallic note, hearing its alert even from the back rooms.
Her next thought: How long has he been standing there? Followed by: Who is he?
Her initial impression of him was that, whoever he was, he was a neat and careful man. From his brushed dark gray derby to the muted checked overcoat in somber browns and grays to his polished black boots, he appeared no different from the city’s multitudes of businessmen. A bamboo walking stick with an L-shaped, elegantly carved ivory handle provided the single mark of distinction. He had straight dark hair, a short, well-groomed Van Dyke beard, the mustache curling up a bit at the ends. His large brown eyes focused unwaveringly upon her. In a voice as careful and neat as his appearance, he asked, “Do I have the pleasure of addressing Mrs. Stannert?”
John Hee moved to stand by her side. Her hand automatically slid into the hidden pocket of her skirt before she recalled it was empty. The small Remington Smoot pocket revolver she had always carried with her in Leadville was not there but tucked away in her nightstand upstairs.
The gentleman’s gaze didn’t shift, but Inez sensed he was quite aware of Hee’s movements and her inadvertent hand-to-pocket gesture.
She didn’t see any reason to deny who she was. My bloody name is now writ in black and gilt on the store’s window right beside Nico’s. “Yes, I am Mrs. Stannert. And you are?”
He tipped his hat. “De Bruijn. Wolter Roeland de Bruijn.”
Inez sucked in her breath. “From Mr. Gallagher, yes?”
“Correct.”
Inez set her jaw. Harry certainly wasted no time. First, he tells me that I am to work with Flo and his henchman de Bruijn to find his son’s murderer. Then, he sends de Bruijn to dictate how we are to do his bidding. Inez turned to John Hee. “Thank you, John. You may go.”
“I stay, do more repairs.”
Inez was grateful to him for offering to stay so she would not be alone in the store with a stranger.
“It’s quite all right, Mr. Hee. I was expecting Mr. de Bruijn. Just not this evening.” She shot the detective a venomous glance.
John Hee nodded and, with a final glance at de Bruijn, walked toward the door, his rucksack over one shoulder.
Inez called to him, “If you would, please turn the sign to CLOSED.”
He did, and the bell declared his departure with a soft clunk. Inez crossed her arms and said without preamble, “As you no doubt know, Mr. Gallagher came here earlier today and said what he intended to say. He was quite clear. Are you here to expand upon his demands?”
“I am not here about that. Although since you brought it up, I think it would be wise if you, Mrs. Sweet, and I met to coordinate our activities. Perhaps tomorrow morning at nine in the American Dining Room of the Palace Hotel? Breakfast courtesy of Mr. Gallagher, of course.”
“I don’t need Mr. Gallagher’s charity,” snapped Inez. “A free breakfast will hardly make up for him threatening to rip my life to shreds.”
“True. But he has lost his son and now wishes us to work together to find out the who and why behind his son’s death. We haven’t much time. The least we can do is be efficient in our investigation and not duplicate efforts.”
“Very well. Tomorrow morning at the Palace Hotel.” Inez came out from behind the music box display case, aiming for the door. “I shall let you out.”
De Bruijn shifted to block her path. “Excellent. However, I am here on another matter.”
A prickle of wariness moved down her neck. “What then?”
“Antonia Gizzi.”
The prickle became a chill. “Who are you?”
“Wolter Roeland de
