De Bruijn was not a fan of the vigilante approach and told Gallagher so. “We should cooperate with the police and allow them to do their job. They will be far more engaged, now that they know the victim is your son, and they have far more resources than I do.”
“You have Mrs. Stannert and Mrs. Sweet,” said Gallagher. “Do not underestimate either of them.”
De Bruijn refrained from shaking his head. What sort of contributions could Gallagher imagine that a madam of a Leadville brothel and a businesswoman, astute though she may be, would offer to his investigation?
“And if you must employ others for tasks—this Pinkerton woman O’Connell you mentioned, ruffians, whoever—do so. You have a free rein. Money is no object. Timely results are.”
And time was ticking away.
De Bruijn coughed and discreetly pulled out his handkerchief, the true purpose being to block, at least a little, the stench from the waterfront.
Detective Lynch grinned. “’Tis an almighty stink in this part of town. South of Market dumps its garbage just a few blocks upstream. Nearly three hundred wagons a day is the number I hear. Scavengers sift through it looking for rags, old bottles, scraps of iron, oyster shells, whatever might be useful. The rest is shoveled into the water. Although it seems a sin to call what flows here ‘water.’”
De Bruijn tucked his handkerchief away. “So, this is where the body was found.” He stood with the detective by the foot of Long Bridge, gazing into the listless brown murk that filled the canal.
“That’s right,” said the detective. “The officers who arrived first fished him out with pike poles. Quite the entertainment for the neighborhood’s idlers and ne’er-do-wells, I wager.”
De Bruijn could see that he would learn nothing from the scene. “Have you any notion who might have perpetrated the crime? I understand you were assigned to the case and have worked this area for a long time. I suspect you are better able to hazard an educated guess than the other detectives on the force.”
The policeman smoothed his ginger mustache, attempting to look solemn but obviously gratified to be asked. He led de Bruijn away from the waterfront to Berry Street, saying, “True. I spent my early years walking these streets and still come ’round on occasion. I like to keep my face familiar to the folks who live and work here, and keep an eye on the hoodlums and scoundrels. Confidence games and swindles are part of city life, and not just in the Barbary Coast and the stock exchange.”
De Bruijn gave a small smile, acknowledging the joke.
“You mentioned hoodlums. Do you think the young gentleman in question might have been laid upon and murdered by locals, by happenchance?”
“Well, there’re also those who come and go on the waterfront, ye know. In this area, we have more ‘coasting jacks,’ the seamen who ply the coast and work both land and water. The deep-water jack tars, who come in on ships bound for the harbor at China Basin, are far more at the mercy of the Barbary Coast crimp houses and criminals than the seamen here on the channel. As for the local hoodlums, murder isn’t their game. They’d just as soon use a blackjack to render a man unconscious, steal his purse and pocket watch, and leave him to wake with a bad headache and empty pockets.”
He paused. “Now, I was made to understand I am to cooperate fully with you. I was also told the fellow we fished out wasn’t your ordinary joe down on his luck but the son of a wealthy East Coast investor. Furthermore, I understand you, a private detective, are here to find out what happened to the poor lad, God rest his soul, and help bring to justice whatever criminal took his life away.”
Lynch glanced at de Bruijn. “That last is my job, of course, but it’s been a strange case from the start. First, I was told he was one of God’s unknown creatures and we should not spend too much time on him when other cases were clamoring for our attention. Then he was identified as a penniless musician by two women claiming to be distant family. Finally, he is determined to be the son of a wealthy out-of-town investor of some influence.”
“I can see where it would all be very disconcerting,” said de Bruijn.
Lynch buried his hands in his pockets. De Bruijn could see them bunch into fists beneath the fabric and the muscles in his jaw working. “And then, I am told to take a strictly ‘hands-off’ policy on investigating, unless directed to do so. And to meet with you. All this, mind you, in rapid succession, over the space of a few days.”
De Bruijn wished Gallagher had not been so heavy-handed in insisting that the chief shut down the police investigation. Detective Lynch was obviously sharp and well-connected in the neighborhood where the murder occurred. He would be a worthy ally in this endeavor. De Bruijn thought quickly. Mr. Gallagher did say money is no object. Just results. And that I am authorized to “hire” anyone I chose.
“I assure you that I, and by extension my client, are grateful for your time and insights. Furthermore, we would be most grateful for any information that would shed light on this heinous crime. I am prepared, with my client’s full knowledge and blessing, to express that gratitude generously.”
Detective Lynch stopped on the walkway and gave de Bruijn a sharp look. De Bruijn returned the glance blandly.
Lynch lifted his hat to pass a sleeve over his forehead. It was warm, but that was San Francisco—cool in the morning, not so, as the day progressed. He
