Bessie crossed her arms. “Molly, it’s the devil or the deep blue sea. They won’t believe him.” She turned to Inez, eyes intent. “It’s either turn himself in or vanish for good. I think his best chance is to leave.” She had to lift her voice to be heard above Molly’s wail of anguish. “Leave and never come back. But first, we have to find him.”
A small sound up on the landing made Inez and the Mays look up. Antonia was gazing down, still in her nightclothes, a stricken expression on her face. “Patrick’s in trouble? They think he killed Jamie Monroe?”
Inez pointed up at her. “Back inside, Antonia.”
Without a word, Antonia retreated.
“Monroe? That’s the name Lynch gave the lad they pulled from under the bridge.” Bessie stared at Inez. “You knew him.”
“I did.” Inez’s mind raced frantically. Suddenly, her day was complicated many times over. “I will do what I can. The best way to clear Patrick is to find the real killer.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Molly in despair. “The police, they’re not looking for anyone but Patrick. D’you mean me and Bessie have to find the murderer? How are we to do that?”
Inez looked from sister to sister and finally said, “Not you. Me.”
Chapter Forty
Inez grabbed her reticule from the stand by the door, pulled out a few coins, and gave them to the sisters. “Take these. Give them to Patrick if he shows up. He will need to be careful, but perhaps he can take a ferry across the bay, make his way to Sacramento. They won’t look for him there. He must manage for just a while until I straighten this out. Then he can return.”
Molly promised through her sobs that if Patrick should reappear, she would insist he disappear again.
After the sisters left, Inez rummaged in her handbag, checking for the business cards she had lifted from de Bruijn’s waistcoat. Assured they were still there, she returned upstairs and added her pocket revolver to the bag. She headed out, calling, “Antonia, I am leaving. Fix yourself breakfast and work on your school assignments while I’m gone. I have a lot to do today, but I’ll be back in time for dinner.”
A muffled “All right,” emerged from behind the closed bedroom door as she left.
Once outside, Inez glanced toward the store. It was before noon, so Welles had yet to arrive. What about Nico? whispered a little voice inside. Inez silenced the voice. She had other, more important worries on her mind today.
Pulling out Jamie’s list, she read again the address Haskell had neatly printed out for her. She walked around the corner onto Kearney and hailed a passing hack. It was Saturday and surely early enough to catch Baumann, the Musical Protective Association’s secretary, at home.
When she approached the secretary’s house, she was pleasantly surprised to see a gentleman tending to a rosebush in the tiny pocket garden. “Mr. Baumann?” she inquired.
He turned around, spectacles perched on the end of his nose, shears in hand. “Yes?”
“I was here yesterday and the day before. My apologies to you and your housekeeper for being late yesterday.” She held out her hand.
He removed his gardening glove and they shook. “Ah, yes,” he said. “About the association. First, may I offer condolences if they are in order, Mrs….?”
Inez allowed herself a brief smile and said, “Again, my apologies. I did not explain my business as it was a sensitive matter, and I did not want to disclose it to anyone but you.”
She fished out one of de Bruijn’s business cards from her reticule and handed it to him. “Mrs. Wilhelmina de Bruijn.”
He took the card, read it, and raised his eyebrows. “A female private investigator? First time I’ve met one. And what does this ‘finder of the lost’ mean?”
“Well, Mr. Baumann, in this case, it means I am looking for the whereabouts of one of your members who is due to come into a bit of money. Unfortunately, he is not listed in the city directory.”
Baumann adjusted his spectacles and said, “This sounds like good news for a change. Most of the visits I receive on association business are sad affairs. Please, come in.”
Once they were inside, his housekeeper magically appeared, barking, “Shoes! Dirt! I just cleaned the floors!” and then, just as mysteriously, vanished into the back of the house.
Baumann set his shears, cap, and heavy gloves aside, removed his shoes, and slipped on what looked like an exceedingly comfortable pair of velvet carpet slippers. Inez admired their finely beaded roses while he noted, “Martha’s bark is worse than her bite. I’m quite used to it, but she sometimes terrorizes the visitors.” He showed Inez to the parlor, asking, “What is the name of the gentleman in question?”
“Stephen Abbott.”
Baumann nodded and shuffled across the hall to a small office. She watched him go behind a desk, pull out an oversized record book, and turn the large pages. She held her breath, hoping he would not slam it shut and declare Abbott not on the roles. When she saw him pick up a pen, dip it in a bottle of ink, and draw a piece of paper toward himself, she inwardly rejoiced.
After scratching on the paper, he closed the heavy book and returned to her, waving the scrap to dry the ink. “Yes, Mr. Abbott is one of our members, and has been receiving assistance for some years now. A sad case, according to my records. He has moved around frequently. If you are not familiar with San Francisco, I should warn you, Mrs. de Bruijn, to be prepared. He does not live in the best part of town presently.”
Inez took the paper and examined the address. “Am I correct in thinking this is in the Barbary Coast area?”
“Indeed.” He removed his glasses and cleaned
