Her stomach clenched. “And?”
“He expects to be here the day after tomorrow.”
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Hack driver Joseph Lynch, Detective Lynch’s cousin or second cousin—Inez couldn’t recall which—stood by the half-open carriage door as if to block Inez from disembarking onto Battery Street.
“I am certain. I was warned this was not the best part of town.” Inez scooted over on the bench and leaned on the door, pushing it open.
Joseph Lynch seemed disinclined to relinquish the door to his passenger. “How about I go with you?”
“And leave your rig unattended? Absolutely not. This will not take long, I promise. Just wait here, as we discussed.”
The slant of sun was beginning to cast long shadows across the street. Inez had no desire to be out and about after or even close to dusk. The names of some of the Barbary Coast’s bloodier quarters whispered through her mind—Murders’ Corner. Deadman’s Alley.
She had prepared herself for the day’s activities by wearing sensible boots and walking skirts, and she had her pocket revolver. She was alert, wary, but not afraid of setting foot on the Coast.
According to Baumann’s scrap of paper, Stephen Abbott lived on the second floor of the disintegrating building before her, above what appeared to be a concert saloon or dance-house of the lowest kind. Music of a sort leaked from behind the crooked closed door and shuttered windows. A man and a woman lurched from a nearby alley and made for the door. The woman turned to glance at Inez, who caught a glimpse of empty eyes and a vacant face, abundantly painted and powdered. The woman’s male companion pulled her roughly into the dim interior of the establishment. Inez registered flickering light and darting shadows before the door slammed shut.
It was all reminiscent of Leadville’s red-light district. Inez recalled the times she had ventured into its most desperate areas—Tiger Alley, where gamblers gathered to “buck the tiger” at disreputable gambling dens, and Stillborn Alley, named after the unwanted infants of prostitutes plying their trade in the district. Then, as now, I must be careful, be on my guard. But I must also remember: Most of the people here are destitute, lost, desperate. The devils that lurk and look to harm will not be out and about until dark has enveloped all.
She had already transferred money from her purse into her skirt pocket along with the list of names. Her gun was in her coat pocket within easy reach.
At least there appeared to be a separate door to the second floor, so she would not need to venture into the warren below. She hastened to the door, which opened readily without key or latch. The stench of urine and vomit assaulted her senses. She left the door ajar to bring light into the gloomy interior, stepped around a puddle of uncertain origin, and headed up the stairs.
A small window on the landing presented her with three unpainted doors, all closed. Which one was Abbott’s? She walked the small hallway, barely wide enough to accommodate a single person. Two of the doors yielded no clues as to their occupants. The third, at the very end of the hall, sported a brass doorknocker of a cherub blowing a trumpet. Taking a gamble that this was the musician’s door, Inez knocked.
There was some scrabbling inside followed by the trembling voice of an elderly man. “Who’s there? I’ve got a shotgun. I’ll blow you t’pieces if you try to come through the door.”
Inez pulled out her revolver and flattened herself against the wall, away from the door. “Mr. Abbott,” she called back. “I was given your address by Mr. Baumann, from the Musical Protective Association. I need to talk to you. I can make it worth your while.”
“Who are you?” the voice was still suspicious, despite her invocation of Baumann’s name.
“Mrs. Wilhemina de Bruijn. A private investigator. I have a card, if you would like to see it.”
“Slip it under the door, face-up.”
Inez did as she was told. And waited.
Finally, she heard the scrape of a lock being pulled back. The door creaked open. “Come in,” said the voice behind the door.
Inez tightened her grip on her revolver, put her finger on the trigger, and slowly pushed the door open wider so she could enter. Once inside, she swung about.
The door creaked shut behind her revealing an elderly man, nearly bent double, a few strands of gray hair crossing the top of his head. He craned his head upwards to view her. He held no shotgun, and indeed, Inez could not see how he could have picked one up, much less held it. The finger joints of his empty hands were contracted with knotted protuberances, the fingers themselves bent and crooked, overlapping and curling. He must have caught her staring, for he held up his hands and said, “Y’see, I must be careful about who’s on the other side of the door. No more trumpet-playing for me, either. Hasn’t been for a long time now.” He nudged the business card with his foot. “Ye can pick up your card, Mrs. de Bruijn, if ye wouldn’t mind.”
Subdued, Inez did as he suggested.
He said, “What business d’ye have that would be ‘worth my while’ to hear ye?” With a slow and crooked wobble, he headed to a straight-backed chair, gesturing with an elbow to the only other chair in the room. Inez sat and looked around. Two candles burned on a small table that leaned perilously. The curtains were in tatters. A small warming stove held nothing warm upon it. Inez wondered what he did for meals, how he cooked, how he took care of himself.
He leaned forward in his chair. “It’s a lucky thing for me I used to work for the proprietor of this august establishment, back in the day. He takes pity on me and brings me what’s left once the customers downstairs are done with the eating and are
