Return to the home of the Musicians Protective Association’s secretary for the address of Stephen Abbott, the first name on Jamie’s list and the only one who had warranted a checkmark. If she was correct in her thinking, the list was important since Jamie had removed it from the union’s records and hidden it. Why did Jamie take it? Did he talk to Stephen Abbot? If so, did Abbott know something connected to the so-called danger that Jamie tried to warn, and then reassure Carmella about?
Finally, she had to be back in time to meet Antonia for supper—she dare not let the girl down again—and be ready for Nico at eight.
Grain by grain, more sand sifted into the bottom of the hourglass.
The physician was in de Bruijn’s hotel room on the seventh floor when Inez arrived. She waited in the open corridor dotted with tropical plants and classical statuary, cooling her heels.
When the doctor emerged, she pounced, bombarding him with questions about de Bruijn’s condition and prognosis until he unbent far enough to say, “He received a nasty blow to the head, but is recovering. I’d advise a few days of bedrest. Two or three, at the least. I suggested a nurse, but he declined vociferously. I will have the hotel staff check on him routinely and notify me if he seems worse. The curtains must stay drawn. He is fairly coherent right now. Tires easily, so keep your visit short.”
Inez thanked him and entered the room, which seemed vast in the gloom. A small lamp guttered on the nightstand. De Bruijn was propped up in bed, surrounded by a mountain of pillows. He was dressed in a clean shirt, sans collar, and a paisley dressing gown. His waistcoat and jacket hung over the back of an overstuffed chair by the heavily curtained window. His hat waited on the seat, his shoes on the floor. All in all, he seemed prepared to jump up and throw on his attire the moment he was able.
“Mrs. Stannert. Good. I need you to tell me what happened last night. Much of it has vanished from my memory.”
As best she could, she recreated the events as Antonia had related them, finishing with, “I don’t believe John Hee is in any way connected with the murder.”
“Maybe not murder,” he muttered. “But, there’s something.”
“What?”
He opened and closed his mouth, took a deep breath and slowly released it. “I cannot recall. Only that I had some certainty of misdoings. Illegalities.”
“Well, until you can recall what it is, I suggest we set John Hee aside as a suspect. I have made some progress on delving into Jamie’s union activities. I also discovered he had a set-to with a previous employer, a Mr. Henderson, who owns a crimp house and saloon called The Three Sheets.”
“Henderson,” muttered de Bruijn. “The name is familiar.”
Inez recounted what she had found out, beginning with Otto’s discovery of the hidden list of names and her subsequent visit to The Workman’s Voice. “I believe Jamie was interested in the previous union’s dissolution—the reasons for it and so on—and also was perhaps looking into the disappearance of the union’s funds. The common consensus seems to be the union treasurer, Eli Greer, made off with the money. Haskell and others apparently tried to unearth what happened, without success. I’m wondering if Jamie might have uncovered anything in that direction.”
“And?”
She shook her head. “Nothing. All my queries so far are coming up empty.”
“When would this have occurred?”
“Seven years ago.”
“A very cold trail.”
“So it appears. But I can’t help but think this list is significant and worth following up on.”
The doubt on de Bruijn’s face was plain. “Anything else?”
Inez moved on to The Three Sheets, explaining that Jamie had lost his position when another musician offered to play for less and skirting how she obtained the information. “Today,” she finished, “I’m off to track down this Stephen Abbott from the list and to see if I can’t find Frank Roney as well. Oh! I would like a couple more of your business cards, if I may.”
She had been focused on the wavering lamp flame during her report. When silence greeted her request, she glanced over to find de Bruijn with his eyes closed. Hating to wake him, but needing to clear up one last point, she cleared her throat. His eyes flew open and he said, “Yes?”
“Have you seen or heard from Mrs. Sweet?”
His brows drew together and he lifted a hand as if to run it through his hair, only to wince when he touched the bandage. “I don’t think so.” The uncertainty in his voice was new to Inez. He added, “I am almost certain I have not seen her since our last meeting.”
“Well then, I shall have to run her to ground.” Inez rose, studying him. Even in the dim light, he looked wan, his face etched in pain or perhaps exhaustion. “Can I get you anything before I go?”
“Unless you have a magic powder to make this infernal headache disappear, I am afraid not.”
Inez smiled. “Alas, I do not.”
“Well then.” He closed his eyes. “Let me know what you find out. This evening, I think I should be better. Once I rest. We need reinforcements. I must consider.” The words were coming slower, tinted with a slightly foreign cadence and an inflection Inez had not detected previously in his speech. For the first time, she wondered if de Bruijn originally hailed from the Continent.
She moved to go, and he stirred. “The Italian, a philanderer. He, the Chinaman, be careful.” he murmured, then lapsed again into unconsciousness.
Inez frowned.
The Italian? As in Nico? If so, de Bruijn wasn’t telling her anything she hadn’t ascertained about Nico’s proclivities.
And did de Bruijn mean “he” as in “the Italian,” or “he”
