She nodded, thinking Harry Gallagher would probably not welcome the sympathies of a dyed-in-wool union man. On impulse, she added, “I wish you well with your efforts on behalf of the workingman and woman. Workingwomen need the help of men such as yourself all the more. They have no vote, no voice, and also labor for others under difficult and dangerous circumstances.”
“That they do, Mrs. Stannert. And thank you.”
Walking up Kearney, Inez thought over what Roney had told her. She trusted his knowledge and intuition regarding the labor activities and attitudes in the city. After all, Roney was certainly more in tune with such than either she or de Bruijn. Roney’s remarks had only served to put aside some of the possibilities she and de Bruijn had been pursuing.
She sighed, frustrated. Perhaps tonight would be different. If she had a chance to meet Poole, she could take the measure of the man and gain some insights into whether he might have orchestrated Jamie’s murder. After all, who would have better reason for murderous intent than the father of a daughter who was jilted and shamed in the public sphere into taking her own life?
Chapter Thirty-six
His head hurt like the devil, but that wasn’t the worst of it.
The worst of it was the fact he had been caught flat-footed, as if he were an amateur.
He had too many distractions, de Bruijn decided. Distractions which had pulled his concentration and focus from the investigation.
Concerns about Antonia. Trying to keep track of what Mrs. Stannert was doing. Plus wondering where Mrs. Sweet had vanished to. He suspected Mrs. Sweet had moved lock, stock, and barrel into Poole’s suite. But as things stood, he could hardly go down to the front desk and put forth the necessarily discreet inquiries. Standing up, dressing, and moving from the bedroom to the parlor had been enough to set his head spinning. It felt as though the sharp edge of an axe was trying to split the back of his skull wide open.
And, of course, there was the investigation into the murder of his client’s son. The threads he had so carefully gathered up and followed. At least, had been following, up to the moment he ignored his best instincts and had dashed into that damnable alley in Chinatown.
His current circumstances had forced him to acknowledge he needed someone who could act in his stead, who had the skills and abilities to do what needed to be done. What he should have been doing.
Which was why, having placed a call and received a positive response, he now sat in the overstuffed chair in the parlor of his rooms at the Palace Hotel. Waiting, with the curtains mostly closed, because he still could not handle full daylight.
A light knock at the door prompted him to say, “Enter” in a voice which sounded like thunder to his own ears.
Elizabeth O’Connell came in and he tried to rise.
“No need, Mr. de Bruijn. Stay as you are.”
He settled back. She cocked her head, inspecting him as she removed her gloves. “I must say, that is not your best look.”
His hand rose to the bandage cushioning the crown of his head. “A nuisance, at the very least.” He indicated the chair facing his own.
“How many days before you can be out and about again?” She sat and positioned her satchel on her lap.
He halved the number of days the physician had advised. “Perhaps two. In the meantime, events are in motion, and I need your assistance.”
“Of course.”
He handed her a folded sheet of paper on which he had penned his instructions, a process which had taken him a ridiculously long time to complete. “This is what I want you to do.”
Miss O’Connell opened and scanned the page. “A fair list. I cannot split myself into three, obviously. I will need assistance. I have authorization to hire associates? They come with the most impeccable credentials and are circumspect, of course.”
“Of course.” He was having trouble forming the words.
“Do you have a preference as to where I should start?”
Normally, he would have been able to respond thus-and-so is the first priority, such-and-such is the second. But his head was throbbing and felt filled with water. He heard and understood her words as if from a great distance. He swam to the surface long enough to say, “I suggest you start with the third item. The gentleman.”
Miss O’Connell folded the paper into quarters and slid it into her satchel. “I shall get busy and report when I have something concrete. Mr. Gallagher is due in the city, when, precisely?”
“It could be Monday, but best to have this business concluded by Sunday, if possible.” He closed his eyes. The throbbing slowed.
“Very well,” she said from the other side, where the light still lurked. “Mr. Gallagher will have nothing to complain of when he returns.”
“Remember, what we need is proof.”
“I am aware of the objectives and the desired results. You can count on me, Mr. de Bruijn.”
“Good.” Her skirts rustled through the fatigue threatening to drag him into sleep. A few moments later the door hissed open and shut over the thick carpet, leaving him in blessed silence, the memory of her departing words a balm: you can count on me.
Chapter Thirty-seven
The bell downstairs rang promptly at eight, and Inez descended, pulling her satin-and-cashmere manteau about her shoulders. She opened the door to Nico, dressed in his evening finery.
“Signora Stannert, you are squisito, exquisite!” He doffed his top hat with a flourish and an admiring glance. “You have been hiding your light under a bushel all this time. You outshine the stars.”
Inez wanted to roll her eyes. Instead she smiled and said, “Thank you, Mr. Donato.”
He looks different, somehow.
Nico offered her his arm. “Please. Allow me. Signore Welles is coming with us. For a recital, I always make certain to gather the musicians together in one carriage. It is my way of assuring we all arrive or none of
