Jass (Valentin St. Cyr Mysteries) Page 14

  "What kind of rumors?"

  "Some woman shows up late, picks a fellow, and takes him somewhere to fuck all night, then disappears again like a ghost. And nobody ever sees her again."

  Valentin sat back. What Mangetta related was a twist on a story that surfaced every few years. The phantom woman comes out of nowhere to select one lucky candidate, works him until his yancy is about to fall off, then slips back into the night. The tale went around, getting all tangled up with voodoo, and eventually fell apart under the weight of exaggeration. The woman became a gorgeous octoroon; she could wind for six hours, eight, twelve, without missing a beat; she made strong men cry and sent weak men to the infirmary, broken into pieces. In reality, it was just a special Storyville version of a haint, more hoodoo fiction for the gullible. They had been telling the same stories for fifty years, going back to epics about legendary bawds like America Williams and Mary Duffy.

  Mangetta saw the expression on the detective's face and raised his hands. "I'm just telling you what I heard," he said. "Anyway, I believe Jeff had a woman. A sweet looker, from what I heard."

  "She is."

  "You've seen her?" Valentin nodded, working to keep a straight face. Mangetta smiled slyly. "Well, what do you think, maybe it was her? Maybe she caught him with someone else and made him pay for it? She seem like the type that could kill a man?"

  "Everybody's the type," the detective said. "So anyone could have done it. It's not going to be that easy." Out of habit, he took a glance around to see if any parties were listening too closely. Then he said, "Do you know Terrence Lacombe?"

  Mangetta's brow furrowed. "Plays clarinet?"

  "Played," Valentin said. "He's dead. He had an overdose."

  The saloon keeper's eyes widened. "And he was in the band with..

  "That's right."

  Mangetta counted down his fingers, murmuring. "Mumford, Noiret, Lacombe..." Then: "Treau Martín. Played bass fiddle."

  "Is he—"

  "Yeah, he's still around. Don't play music no more. Got religion and gave it up."

  "Who else?"

  Mangetta hesitated briefly, then bent his head to whisper a name. Valentin stared at him. The saloon keeper nodded slowly, with much drama.

  "Damn!" he said. "And him? Is he...?"

  "Alive, as far as I know." Valentin looked troubled by the news and Mangetta eyed him speculatively. "You ain't had a case to work on for a while, eh?"

  "Nothing like this."

  Mangetta lifted his glass in a small toast. "Well, then, buona fortuna, paisan."

  Valentin raised his glass as well, though it was only out of courtesy.

  He took a car to Philip Street and walked along the dirt path. As soon as he rounded the corner and saw the New Orleans Police wagon standing in the street in front of the rooming house, he knew he was too late. He felt his stomach drop as he realized that it was starting all over again.

  There were two coppers leaning against the side of the rig, smoking cigarillos. They were both young rookie patrolmen, their faces shiny with the flush of youth, with wispy mustaches and thin beards. They looked Valentin up and down as he approached, and the taller of the two straightened up from his slouch.

  Valentin said, "What happened here?"

  "Who's askin'?" the partner said.

  "My name's St. Cyr. I work for Tom Anderson."

  The two patrolmen exchanged a glance. The partner tossed his butt away, hitched his trousers, and climbed the gallery steps to disappear through the open door. The taller copper made a point of ignoring him, concentrating instead on his smoke. A few moments went by and Valentin was startled to see Lieutenant Picot appear in the doorway, his suit buttoned tight around his thick middle and his derby perched high on his round head. He was sporting his usual cool and narrow-eyed glare. He waved the patrolmen away and beckoned St. Cyr closer.

  Valentin came to the bottom of the steps. Picot regarded him with a notable lack of surprise. "What do you want here?" he inquired.

  "Is it the landlady?" Picot didn't reply. "What happened?"

  "Somebody bashed her a good one in the back of the head," the copper said.

  "Is she dead?"

  "I'd say so."

  "Can I have a look?"

  "No, you can't have a look," Picot snapped. "Look at what? You think we don't know the difference between dead and alive? There ain't nothin' to see in there no how. Place is clean. Looks like she was about to leave out."

  "She was," Valentin said.

  Picot cocked an eyebrow. "Oh? And how would you know that?"

  "I talked to her. Yesterday."

  "Is that right?" Now the copper produced a wolfish grin. "Well, then, we could wrap this case up in a hurry if you want to go ahead and confess." The leer faded. "You came back today why?"

  "To ... ask her something."

  "About?"

  The detective returned the favor, keeping his face stony and his mouth shut.

  "Well, it don't matter, because she ain't available for questioning," the lieutenant said. "So you might as well go home." He put his hands in the pockets of his jacket, making a show of blocking the doorway.

  Valentin got the message. The subject was closed. The detective thought about mentioning Noiret, or Mumford or Terrence Lacombe, for that matter, just to see Picot's reaction. Then he realized it would get him nothing but another blank look, so he turned to leave.

  The copper wasn't quite finished. "Goddamn, St. Cyr, you're some kind of curse, ain't you?" he said in a snide tone. "You come back to work and right away the bodies start piling up. It's a damn wonder anyone comes near you." He couldn't hide his amusement.

  Valentin walked away without asking the other obvious question: what was the lieutenant doing so far afield when his precinct stopped one block south of Canal Street? He wouldn't get an answer to that one, either. At least not there.

  He turned the corner at Second Street and went wandering aimlessly up and down the adjoining blocks, his hands clasped behind him and his gaze fixed on the banquette.

  His guess was the landlady had been murdered because of Noiret. And perhaps because she had spoken to a detective, using a sly lie that of course he would uncover and then come back to resolve. Why didn't she just come out and tell him, then? He mulled that one. It had to be because she wanted to get out of town before he showed up again. Which led to the possibility she had left something for him, a clue or message of some sort. Then he wondered if the crude, homely woman was that clever. She might have been smart, but she wasn't smart enough and with Valentin's help she was dead.

  It was true. Just like that, he had cracked a door on someone's dirty little secret. Just like that, he had played an unwitting role in a plot to keep it that way. Just like that, a murder had been committed and he was in the thick of it.

  Circling back to Philip Street now would be a waste of time. Picot wouldn't leave a speck of evidence behind for him. They were back where they belonged, butting heads, doing battle.

  Lieutenant Picot waited around for them to load the woman's body in the wagon and cart it off to join Noiret and Mumford at the morgue, another worthless piece of back-of-town trash disposed of. The lieutenant sometimes thought it would be a very good thing if every person residing south of Canal and east of Basin could be dispatched so efficiently.

  He stepped onto the gallery and stood watching until the hack became a small dot far down Philip Street, then took a moment to look up and down the block, just in case St. Cyr had gotten it in his head to sneak back around for a look at the crime scene. Not that he really expected it; the poor fool had looked beaten as he skulked away along the dirt path. It was no wonder. In the space of forty-eight hours, he had lost his woman, saddled himself with a case that went nowhere, and left a corpse in his wake.

  He hadn't even had the nerve to ask what a precinct lieutenant from the other side of town was doing there, though Picot could see in his eyes that he wanted to. He had an answer ready, a "favor for a fellow officer,"
or something like that. He didn't care if St. Cyr believed it or not. It was none of his damned business what any New Orleans policeman did.

  When he was sure that neither the detective nor any other prying eyes were about, he went into his pocket and drew out the white envelope that had been found on the mantelpiece. It was a stroke of luck that it had not been snatched away before he got to it. Someone was in too much of a hurry or too dim to realize that it could be evidence. Now the lieutenant tore open one end, drew out the single sheet of paper, and read the words that were scrawled there.

  The handwriting was rough and he read slowly, his lips moving and his brow stitching as if he was translating from a foreign tongue. When he got to the end, he stood without moving for a half minute. Then he went into his vest pocket for a lucifer, struck it on the gallery post, and put it to the corner of the page. When the flame crawled up to lick his fingers, he let the breeze take the ashes and scatter them like black snowflakes over the packed dirt street.

  Valentin walked all the way home, twenty long blocks. He locked the door behind him, took off his jacket, and draped it over the morris chair. He sat down on the couch and unbuttoned his shirt with slow fingers. His feet were aching from all the walking, so he took his shoes off, too. He put his head back and stared up at the cracks in the ceiling, trying to make sense out of what he knew.

  It wasn't much; not yet. All he had were pieces. Three musicians who had played in a band together had died in the space of a week. The landlady at the house where one of them had been murdered was also dead. Picot was lurking, doing his best to keep him at bay. It seemed that if there was a connection, it would be obvious, and yet he couldn't see it.

  After tossing it this way and that, he closed his eyes and dozed off. Odd images slipped through his half-awake mind. Justine was standing in the middle of the room. She was telling him something, but she was speaking too low or he had gone deaf, because he couldn't catch a word of it. The door opened, letting in a rush of wind, and she was gone. She walked away down Magazine Street, looking back over her shoulder, her face cold and accusing. He knew he should go after her and tried to make his legs move, only to find them as stiff as wood....

  A sudden hard rapping brought him out of the dream. His head felt foggy and his mouth was dry. He stood up, took three stumbling steps, and opened the door to find Beansoup standing there, regarding him with quizzical eyes.

  Valentin rubbed his face. "What is it?"

  "Mr. Anderson wants you to come in early this evening," the kid said, looking him up and down.

  "What time is it now?"

  Beansoup grinned. "What time is it?" he chortled. "Round four o'clock."

  Valentin let out a little grunt of disgust. He'd been asleep for over two hours. "All right, then."

  The kid was making an effort to peer past him and so he moved away, leaving the door open. Beansoup took the invitation and stepped inside. He followed the detective into the kitchen and watched him down a glass of water from the spigot. He fidgeted for a few seconds, then screwed up his courage and in a hushed voice said, "Miss Justine ain't here no more?"

  Valentin shook his head. He saw the crestfallen look on the kid's face and decided to have mercy on him. "It wasn't your fault," he said gently. "She would have gone anyway. She wanted to get away from here."

  Beansoup nodded gravely. "Where did she go?"

  Valentin shrugged. "I guess she found herself a situation."

  "You don't know for sure?"

  "I don't know for sure, no."

  Beansoup frowned, troubled by the news.

  "What's Mr. Tom want me for?" Valentin asked him.

  "Didn't say. Just that he wants you in early."

  "Then I need to get dressed."

  Beansoup backed away to let him pass. The detective went into the bedroom and began putting out his things for the evening at work. After a few quiet minutes, he heard the front door close. Beansoup had left without a word.

  By the time Justine finished her errands and the driver deposited her and her packages at the apartment, her head was pounding. She hurried into the toilet to draw some of her medicine, then came out into the front room to wait for it to take hold. She sat down on the love seat and gazed vacantly at the bags that Mr. Paul's driver had left inside the door.

  Like a dutiful mistress, she had made market and then went to Mayerof's to purchase other items for the household, using money that the driver provided. Soon she would get up, unpack them, and get on with her other duties in the service of her benefactor.

  She had slept fitfully and woke up in a dark mood. For the first time in over two years, she was a bought woman again, a piece of merchandise. She had gotten past the hardest part, though, and had to admit it could have been worse.

  When the moment came, he had stuttered, hedged, and flitted about, never quite getting to the point of a demand. It was no surprise. Even with her mind addled by her medicine, she was already figuring him out. She went about performing the seduction, which was also part of her duties.

  She had poured another drink to relax him, then took his arm and guided him into the bedroom. He sat down on the bed, looking all the more unnerved. She turned her back and asked him to undo the hooks of her dress. He obliged, though it took him so much time that she started to get bored. When he finally got her undone, she made a languid show of drawing herself out of the sleeves and then letting the top drop away. She raised her eyes and caught her reflection in the tall mirror on the wall. Without a rib-crunching corset, it was a pretty picture, her flesh tawny against the white lace edge of her camisole. Most any man with a pulse would have snapped to attention at the mere sight of her. When she glanced over her shoulder at Mr. Paul, though, she saw him looking embarrassed, as if he had seen something shameful.

  She asked him to finish with the hooks that went over her rump. He did a little better this time. She stepped out of her dress and let it swirl around her and fall to the floor. She stood before him, posing in her silk camisole. He didn't move, barely batted an eye. She slipped down beside him on the edge of the bed and murmured something about helping him with his clothes. She unbuttoned his shirt, then reached to undo the buttons on his trousers.

  Without warning, he pounced, and for a moment, she thought perhaps he was a lover after all. He wasn't, though; with flailing hands, he pushed her onto her back and got busy, first stripping off her camisole, then pushing his trousers down around his knees. He lay on her, his weight crushing her into the soft mattress, and huffed away.

  It was over in less than a minute. He immediately rolled off her and went about pulling up his trousers. He buttoned his shirt shakily. He did not look at her, as flustered as a schoolboy on his first frolic. She was pondering this when he mumbled about having to go home. And just like that, he was out the door. She heard the motorcar cough to life on the street below, then putter away.

  She thought about what had happened. Though in truth she had barely felt him, for the first time in almost two years, she had allowed a man inside her who was not Valentin. She felt a part of her heart shatter like thin glass and hot tears brimmed in her eyes, then rolled off her cheeks and onto the soft pillow. Behind this came a rush of anger at Valentin for putting her there in the first place.

  It would have been better if Mr. Paul had been all ferocious and had gone digging for China, working her until she turned to jelly inside. At least that might have erased thoughts of Valentin from her mind, if only for a moment. Instead she discovered a boy in a man's body and realized that if she had been looking to get revenge, she had chosen the wrong fellow.

  Valentin stopped for dinner on the way to work. He got to the Café as dusk was descending and went up to the second-floor office, to find the King of Storyville behind his desk, muttering into his telephone set. He raised one eyebrow in greeting and pointed to one of the chairs. Valentin sat down to wait and marvel idly at the man's inexhaustible energies.

  Day and night, he seemed never to stop. As a L
ouisiana state senator, now in his third term, he was required to attend to the many needs of his New Orleans Parish. Louisiana politics was a turgid business, like the soil upon which the lower half of the state was planted, thriving with life and fetid with decay. New Orleans, especially rich and wet, spawned a particular breed of parasitic life-form that found a haven in various local and state offices. So Anderson spent long days and longer nights rubbing shoulders with corrupt louts and honorable statesmen alike.

  He also had the mundane day-to-day concerns of Storyville to mind. He was too protective of his power to share much of it; and so he fussed regularly with the most trifling matters. The benefit being that little went on around those streets without his knowledge and blessing.

  He was up late most nights at the Café. There was always some dignitary, sports figure, or renowned artiste in town, someone who demanded a visit to Anderson to prove his own prestige. After which the totsy gentleman would head down the line to have his whims sated by one of the District's able sporting women. Just hosting these individuals meant that Anderson's presence was expected on Basin Street six nights out of seven.

  From what Valentin could tell, it was Café business that was keeping Anderson on the telephone at that moment, a dispute about the wholesale price of certain liqueurs. He listened for another half minute, drumming his fingers, then spoke a few clipped words, dropped the handpiece into its cradle, and pushed the ornate box aside.

  "You might consider getting yourself one of these contraptions," he said, nodding brusquely to his telephone set. "Half the homes and most of the businesses in New Orleans have one. It would save me having to send some street Arab every time I need you."