Someone had killed Jamie. And according to what de Bruijn said and she had seen, it was a brutal attack, which went far past a blow or two. It was an attack fueled by a passion of the most heinous sort. But Welles stood to lose much, if found out. Family, reputation, everything.
Would a family man do such a thing?
Look how much he’s lost, not just last week, but also in the past. It can all add up, whispered that little voice inside of her.
Inez watched the pianist as he strode through the showroom to the entry door and stepped out into the street to greet one of their sheet-music suppliers. Would she now have to add Thomas Welles to her list of possible suspects? The list only seemed to grow, while the only thing growing shorter was time.
Chapter Twenty-eight
After leaving the store, Inez returned to the apartment to write a quick note to Carmella. She then tore it up. What could she say that wouldn’t sound suspicious if found by Nico? Finally, she went to the corner where she had found the boy who had delivered the message to Flo. The boy was there, hands in pockets, whistling.
Inez approached him and said, “Do you remember me?”
He looked up, pulled on the brim of his cap, and said, “Sure. You’re the lady with the message to Mrs. Florence Sweet at the Palace Hotel about hats. D’you have another message for her?”
“I have another message, yes, but not for Mrs. Sweet.” She explained she wanted him to go to a private residence in the Western Addition—she gave him the address—and ask for Miss Donato. “If the door is answered by a gentleman, say you have the wrong house, apologize, and leave.” She thought it unlikely Nico would be home. It was late enough in the day that by the time the messenger arrived, Nico would be on his way to the music store or already there.
The boy looked intrigued. “Crikey.”
Inez continued, “If Miss Donato is home, tell her Mrs. Stannert says, ‘Your friends know and your brother will know soon. Act accordingly. All is well, do not worry, I shall be by to see you in a few days.’”
“What if she has a message for you?”
Inez pointed down the street. “See the door next to the music store?”
“Sure.”
“Have her write a note, seal it, address the envelope to Mrs. Stannert, and slide it under that door.” She gave him two dimes, thinking the additional distance and time it would take to complete his task was worth it.
Next on her list: Haskell.
A short walk brought her to a three-story building. She paused inside the lobby, preparing herself for the climb up a staircase of narrow, steep stairs. Next to the wooden balustrade, which looked as if it could benefit from a good scrubbing and polishing, was a small sign pointing upward that said “The Workingman’s Voice—Organize, unite, be heard!” Below, was the encouraging annotation “Third Floor,” accompanied by an arrow.
Clutching her satchel and closed umbrella in one hand, Inez gripped the railing with the other and began her ascent.
A steady stream of men moved in the opposite direction. Many had the “air of the sea” about them while others appeared to be in league with the printing trade, if their ink-stained hands and clothes were any indication. All were unfailingly polite, saying variations of “Excuse me, ma’am,” and stepping aside to let her pass.
She felt their eyes on her back and guessed that visitors of the female persuasion were few and far between at The Workingman’s Voice. By the time she had made her way to the door of the newspaper office, she was beginning to think that perhaps she should have tried to catch Haskell at the end of the day.
Nothing to be done about it now. I am here, and I am not leaving without talking to Haskell himself. Too, there were other reasons. Welles had refused to say much. She hesitated to approach Nico directly. If dour Welles looked askance at her digging into the background of the early union, how would volatile Nico respond?
No, it was best to talk to Haskell, who, although an enthusiastic supporter and advocate of the labor unions and efforts in the city, had not been a member of the musicians union.
The door opened, emitting another fellow of the printing trade. He held it so Inez could enter. Inside was a cramped office space that included three desks, unoccupied except for the towering stacks of newspapers and other printed materials, and a fourth desk nearly hidden by a clutch of men. From the gravel voice and noxious cigar smoke that erupted from the epicenter, Inez guessed that Haskell himself sat at the desk. She heard him say, “The old guard from the Workingmen’s Party was on the sandlot Sunday, but they’ve lost their fire, no surprise.”
She cleared her throat and the huddle turned toward her. Conversation stopped dead, hats came off, and the group parted, revealing Haskell squinting through the tobacco-heavy miasma. He rose from his chair, adjusting his tie and tugging his waistcoat down from its rumpled advance upwards over a not-quite-white shirt. “Mrs. Stannert! This is a surprise! But we’ll not look askance at a visit from the manager of one of the up-and-coming fine music stores of the city.” He plucked the cigar from his mouth and grinned. “Welcome to The Workingman’s Voice. You caught us doing what journalists do best—gossiping. So, what brings you to these parts?”
All those men staring at her made her uncomfortably aware of how unused she was of being the center of attention. She cleared her throat. “If I could take a few minutes of your
