“I’m guessing he did not take that well.”
Henderson looked grim.
She hazarded another step out, verbalizing her guess at what might have caused the situation to escalate. “And Monroe knew what you do here. You and Donovan. Shanghaiing, crimping.”
He shrugged. “No law against it. Go t’ the Barbary Coast. ’Tis everywhere you’ll find it.”
“Kidnapping is illegal,” Inez pointed out. “Perhaps he threatened to go to the authorities or mention it to the seamen’s champion, Frank Roney, who’d take actions against you or your business.”
He shook his head. “Roney talks, he agitates, but he’s more a nuisance than a threat to me.”
She didn’t reply. But she didn’t release the money either.
He continued, “Look, if I thought Monroe’d do something that would hurt me or the business, I’d would’ve set Donovan on him and he’d be halfway to China by now, tyin’ sailor’s knots.”
She squinted, letting her disbelief show.
“I’m nae murderer! On my mother’s grave. On the family Bible.” Then he blurted, “There’s nae profit in it.”
That, finally, she believed.
Inez released the bills and he slid them into his apron pocket.
“Any thoughts on possible enemies? He was killed shortly after he left here. It had to be someone in the area.” She pulled out a quarter eagle and tapped it idly on the scarred surface.
He leaned on the bar again, this time with the air of a co-conspirator. “Talk to Roney, that’s my advice to ye, Mr. Brown. Monroe was strong on labor. Everyone knew that. It wasn’t safe for him, especially around here, with the Whitehall boatmen seein’ the unions as a threat to their livelihoods. I warned him many a time to watch his talk. Maybe Roney knows something.”
The tapping ceased, but Inez held onto the gold coin. “Where would I find Frank Roney?”
“He’s not to be found in The Three Sheets anymore, that’s all I know.”
Inez nodded, thinking Sven Borg could probably tell her. “Anyone else come to mind who might’ve had it in for Jamie Monroe?”
Henderson hesitated.
She waited.
Finally he said, “Donovan’s a cold-blooded sort.”
Throws his mate overboard to draw the sharks away.
Inez pushed the coin across the bar and nodded toward Patrick. “The lad. Young. Strong. Surprised you and Donovan didn’t offer him a drink, throw him in a boat, and send him off on one of the ships in need of men.”
The coin vanished. Henderson said, “Eh. His mother does my laundry. Besides, where’d I find anyone else who’d play for near free, and be grateful for it?”
Inez touched the brim of her hat in thanks and left. Once outside, she inhaled deeply, filling her lungs, and let it all out with a whoosh. She headed toward Long Bridge to pick up the horsecar, thinking about what Henderson had told her. It all made sense, and although she didn’t like or trust Henderson, she believed him when he said he had nothing to do with Jamie’s death. His statement that there was “no profit in murder” rang true. However, her visit to The Three Sheets had done nothing to shorten the list of people who might have wished Jamie ill, and could have perhaps been desperate enough to kill him.
Might. Could have. Perhaps.
There were still too many equivocations and possibilities, and not enough absolutes.
Berry Street was quiet, although she heard distant voices off in the direction of the piers. The moon shone down cold, aloof. The air brushed her face, a damp caress. Her footsteps sounded loud, seeming the only ones for blocks.
As she passed by an alley, something stirred in the darkness, at the periphery of her vision. If not for that, and the fact that she was alert and stone-cold sober, she would have had no warning at all.
As it was, she was mid-turn when Donovan came at her, leather sap raised, mouth grimacing. She shouted “Stop!” at the top of her lungs, not disguising the timbre of her voice. His eyes widened as he realized he was about to attack a woman.
His momentary loss of focus gave Inez the split second she needed. She sidestepped and his momentum carried him past her. His arm arced downwards, still aiming at the spot where she had been. Inez pushed his wrist through the curve of his attack, sweeping his arm down and back. Off balance, he began falling forward. Inez slammed his unprotected nose, which gave with a satisfying pop. With a yelp of pain, he tumbled hard onto the ground.
Out came the revolver from her pocket. Donovan found himself staring at a woman dressed in men’s clothing pointing the business end of a no-nonsense handgun at his head. Her hat had tumbled off, and she brushed away strands of long hair that had escaped from beneath her collar.
Leather sap abandoned, Donovan sat up, covering his nose. Blood gushed down and over his shirt. “Jesus!” he cried out. “Fucking Mother of God! You broke my nose!”
“And you tried to knock me senseless,” Inez snarled, gun trained on his forehead.
He moaned and rocked back and forth, sitting on the pavement. “My nose.”
Inez had run out of patience. “Jamie Monroe. You know him?”
“I fucking knew him. Yeah.”
“Knew.” Past tense. “So, you are aware he’s dead.”
“Yes. Jesus! Yes.”
“You killed him.” She figured the direct attack was best. Enough with the subtleties.
“No! Why would I do that? Christ Almighty.”
“Because he was about to destroy your livelihood? Tell the law that you were shanghaiing reluctant seamen and perhaps the odd accountant or warehouse worker who was unlucky enough to stop in at The Three Sheets?”
“Augh!” His voice was muffled behind his hands and the blood. “If I thought he was going to squeal on me, I’d’ve shanghaied him myself. Put him on a ship bound far away.”
“Like you planned to do with me, I assume.”
No response.
“Who would’ve wanted him dead?”
A mumble from Donovan, then he said louder, “Henderson’s a hot-headed cocky bastard. If he thought Monroe might spill the beans to someone
