As Inez debated whether to wake him yet again, he turned a little in the bed, a small snore escaping. That decided it. Loathe to wake him, she tiptoed to the overstuffed chair and proceeded to rifle his pockets with impunity. His waistcoat yielded what she sought: his business cards. Inez took two, then one more for good measure.
Now, for Flo.
Inez returned to the front desk only to learn Mrs. Sweet’s room was two doors away from de Bruijn’s. Curbing her impatience, she rode the elevator back to the seventh floor. She knocked softly, then firmly upon the designated door, with no results. No rustling inside, no imprecations hurled at the unexpected visitor, or shoe thrown in a temper against the paneled wood.
Flo was not an early riser, which led Inez to just one conclusion. Flo appeared to have fled. Inez wagered with herself the madam had either returned to Leadville or decamped to Poole’s rooms. She was betting on the latter. She didn’t think Flo would leave town without at least sending a message to her. But who could say?
From there, it was time to catch the horsecar back to the Mission Creek waterfront. Inez chafed silently as the driver stopped at what seemed like every single corner on the way. By the time she made her way to Johansson’s lumber wharf, it was noon. She stopped two men carrying their tin lunch buckets and was directed to the foreman, who said, “If you’re looking for Broken-nose Sven, you’ll find him on the pier with the others.”
She headed in the direction he was pointing. The day had warmed, and the stench of the waterway was all-encompassing. She spotted a group of men sitting on a stack of lumber, their lunch pails open. If it had been her, she would have preferred to sup far from the foul waters sluggishly lapping at the pillars beneath the pier. The men’s animated conversation, in a language Inez guessed was Swedish, came to a halt, and they watched her approach, curious. Broken-nose Sven, wearing the same blue-and-gray checked cap as previously, stood and with a remark that was unintelligible to Inez—she theorized he might have said something like “Here is the crazy lady again”—approached her.
He removed his cap. “Mrs. Stannert, good day.”
“Hello again, Mr. Borg. My apologies, but I have one last question of some urgency for you.”
“Ja?”
“Where could I find Frank Roney? I must speak with him today.”
“Well.” The word came out vell. “He is an iron molder. You will have to talk to him after work.”
He threw what sounded like a question to his lunchmates and received a torrent of responses in a foreign tongue.
Sven turned back to Inez. “Tonight, he will be at the sandlots, where the new city hall is being built. He is there first, and after the men gather, they go to Meiggs wharf to talk to the sailors. To warn them of the crimp houses and tell them about the Seamen’s Protective Union, ya know.”
“About what time would he be at the sandlots?”
He scratched one end of his walrus mustache. “After work. Five-thirty. Six o’clock.”
Six o’clock.
The sun was now overhead, demonstrating how warm San Francisco could become mid-day as fall turned to winter. A trickle of sweat ran down the back of her neck and disappeared between her shoulder blades.
She would have to be prompt with the rest of her tasks or she would miss her chance to talk to the labor activist. There would be neither time nor opportunity for her to skulk around North Beach and the wharves up there looking for Roney. Besides, after her nighttime foray into the wharf area by the Mission Creek canal, she had no desire to “test the waters” at the Barbary Coast after dark.
She thanked him and hurried off, using her umbrella as a makeshift parasol. Next stop was Baumann, the Musical Protective Association’s secretary. Inez prayed he would be home, even though she was coming well after the morning hours. The same housekeeper, with her hair more neatly pinned, answered the door. Her first words were “You said you’d be here by noon.”
“My apologies. I was unavoidably detained. Is Mr. Baumann in?”
“No, he’s not. He waited until noon then left.”
“Hell!” Inez said under her breath.
The housekeeper stiffened. “Excuse me?”
Inez back-pedaled. “I said, ‘Help!’ I really must talk with him today, soon as possible. Is there no way you can help me? Can you tell me where he is?”
The housekeeper relaxed. “I don’t alwus know where he goes, he only tells me when it’s overnight. But I’ll tell him you came by after noon. Tomorrow, come back before noon.” She shut the door.
Chapter Thirty-five
Inez stood at the closed door and briefly rested her forehead against the unyielding plank.
Tomorrow morning.
Another day gone. One day less to figure out who killed Harry Gallagher’s son.
It seemed an impossible task.
Inez returned to her quarters and, mindful of the clock, proceeded to rifle through the large, upright wardrobe trunk holding her finery from her days in Leadville. Back then, she regularly dressed formally for Saturday evenings, the better to distract her players from their cards. There were also the various balls, formal events, and soirées she had attended, first with her husband Mark Stannert, later with Reverend Sands. Inez caressed the fine fabrics—satin, silk, velvet, cashmere, brocade. They whispered of times past, desires which waxed and waned. Her hand hovered over one dress, a mix of greens, satin insets on a dark green velvet overdress, lace tracing the décolletage, flowing in a soft waterfall down the front of the bodice. It was the dress she had worn nearly two years ago when she attended
