Chapter Thirty-three
Inez kept her gun in hand and visible until the uptown-bound horsecar appeared. The trip back home seemed to take a lot longer than it did going down to the wharves. Inez dragged herself to the door leading to her apartment. While digging in her pocket for the key, she looked up at the windows. No lights. Perhaps Antonia was abed and asleep. That would be a good thing. She could continued straight to her own bedroom, shuck off her reeking disguise, clean up, tumble into the bedclothes, and sink into sleep.
Her feather bed had never beckoned so seductively.
She made her way up the stairs to the small landing. Boots in hand, she opened the door and stepped into the darkened apartment, stocking-footed and silent until she hit a loose board that gave out a small creak.
“Mrs. S?” Antonia, sounding not at all sleepy. “Come here, quick!”
Alarmed by the urgency in Antonia’s voice, Inez dashed to Antonia’s room, still wearing her trousers, sack jacket, hat, and all. At the doorway, she stopped and stared. The roller shade was up and the corner streetlamp shed its full light upon a perplexing tableau.
De Bruijn lay in Antonia’s small bed, in his shirtsleeves, a wide bandage wrapped around his head. He appeared to be asleep. Antonia sat by his side on one of the kitchen chairs. She, too, was dressed in male attire. In fact, unless Inez missed her guess, it was the same suit of clothing Antonia had worn in Leadville when she’d been a street urchin passing as a newsboy and selling copies of the local paper. Antonia looked as if she wanted to jump up and give Inez a hug but didn’t want to let go of de Bruijn’s limp hand.
Just inside the door, a crumpled cloth was wadded on the floor. Inez nudged it with her foot. It appeared to be a blood-soaked pillowcase.
“The doctor says Mr. Brown’s gonna be all right,” said Antonia.
Inez looked at her ward. A flood of exclamations, imprecations, and interrogations clamored to be voiced, but Inez kept her peace, walked over to the girl and gave her a hug. Antonia wrapped her free arm around Inez’s trousered legs and buried her face in Inez’s jacket. After a moment, Inez gently pulled herself away, went to the kitchen, retrieved the second chair, and brought it back into the bedroom. She set the chair next to Antonia’s, sat down, and said, “Tell me. Everything.”
Antonia explained to Inez how she had concocted a plan to follow the detective and then twisted Mick’s arm into accompanying her, and how John Hee had headed to Chinatown and de Bruijn had followed him and she and Mick had followed de Bruijn. She emphasized how Mick had “acted the proper copper,” blowing his whistle and scaring away the thugs that tried to roll the detective. John Hee also emerged a hero in the tale, coming back to help carry de Bruijn to the store. “He couldn’t go to the Palace Hotel, he said, and he’s a musician, Mrs. Stannert. He plays one of those Chinese violins with the long neck at the Chinese Theater in Chinatown. I don’t know why Mr. Brown thinks he’s a bad guy.”
Mick had gone off to get a doctor, she added. Once he’d returned with Dr. McGee, Mick’d vanished again because as he said, he was going to get “holy heck” if he didn’t get home right away. Antonia then confessed that, to pay the physician for the visit and the syrupy medicine he’d left for the detective, she had raided the household fund—hidden not very cleverly by Inez in an English biscuit tin on the kitchen shelf. At this point, Antonia stopped her narrative to complain she didn’t understand why the Brits called the contents biscuits when they were clearly cookies.
Prodded back to her story, Antonia finished by saying the doctor had shooed her out of the room while examining de Bruijn. Afterwards he’d told her to tell her aunt that the gentleman friend of the family had a mild concussion and should be on the mend in a few days. “He said Mr. Brown needs to rest.” Antonia looked over at the detective, whose eyelids had begun to flicker. “Mr. Brown didn’t like that at all.”
“I can imagine,” said Inez drily.
De Bruijn’s eyes flew open. He appeared remarkably alert for someone whose head was swathed with gauze. “Toss out that patent medicine,” he said very distinctly. “It’s nothing but laudanum cut with a large quantity of alcohol.”
It took five minutes of arguing with a woozy but determined de Bruijn before Inez reluctantly accepted he would not stay. “The doctor will be coming to see me in the morning. See how I am faring. I told him I would be at the Palace Hotel.” He had Inez fish around in his waistcoat pocket for a business card for a carriage company and asked her if she would call them on the store’s telephone.
The card read Telephone Cab and Carriage Company, Joseph Lynch, prop.
She raised her eyebrows. “Lynch, as in the detective?”
“Martin Lynch is the police detective, and this is his cousin. Or second cousin. In any case, they have a telephone. Detective Lynch said should I require transportation any time I am in the city, all I had to do was call, mention his name, and service would be efficient and forthcoming.”
First the detective, then his son, and now his cousin. The Lynches were popping up everywhere, it seemed.
De Bruijn had managed to get himself into his waistcoat and was struggling with his jacket. He froze, his eyes narrowing as if he was trying to bring Inez into focus. “Mrs. Stannert, your clothes.” His gaze wandered over to Antonia. “And you, Antonia. What are you two doing in that apparel?”
“I’ll explain tomorrow,” she said shortly. “I fully intend to visit and check on your condition. If you are up to it, we
