Jass (Valentin St. Cyr Mysteries) Page 18

  Just before he left, there was a knock on the door. One of Mr. Gaspare's young clerks from downstairs had a message from Frank Mangetta, requesting that the detective come by his establishment as soon as possible.

  Lieutenant J. Picot stood by the window, watching a line of heavy gray clouds roll in from the west. There would be rain by afternoon, and heavy, by the looks of it. The Picayune said it was going to last for days.

  In Picot's hand were two pieces of paper. One was the report of the recovering of a body from the river, one Charles Martin, a former musician. Though it had just come in, the news would soon be all over town, including in the ear of Valentin St. Cyr.

  How foolish he had been to imagine that Valentin would stay off the game. He had been an idiot, sending those thugs to Robertson Street. They had overdone their task by assaulting the madam and their ruse hadn't fooled the Creole detective one bit. Now he was getting busy, peeking through cracks and turning over rocks. In no time, he would turn over one too many, and there'd be real trouble.

  It galled Picot that people dropped dead all over town, but somehow St. Cyr never got a scratch, even though he planted himself right in the middle of all sorts of mayhem. It was like he wore some kind of armor. It was one of the reasons Tom Anderson used him.

  The Creole had already begun to unwind the first strands of the case, and Picot felt powerless to do anything about it. He knew that St. Cyr would eventually figure out why those musicians had turned up dead and again embarrass the New Orleans Police Department. It was bad news for the department. It was worse news for Picot for a whole other reason.

  With a growing sense of panic, the lieutenant had gone looking for something that would stop St. Cyr. The man's entire family was gone, so there was no angle there. The woman who had stayed with him for the last two years had just packed up and left him—another dead end. Picot knew about the island girl who had been with Jefferson Mumford and was now staying in St. Cyr's rooms. Though it was strange business, it was nothing he could use. The girl had only been in the city for a year and had behaved herself. St. Cyr was just that lucky. No one like her had ever shown up on J. Picot's doorstep.

  The lieutenant went back to the first girl, Justine Mancarre, and realized that he knew nothing about her, which was a mistake any way he looked at it. He went to work fixing that. He sent one of his people to speak to Antonia Gonzales, as the girl had rented a room from the Basin Street madam when she first arrived in the city. Miss Antonia couldn't say much, only that Justine had been on the road in traveling shows for some time. It was a common tale and it led nowhere. Then one of the other girls mentioned in passing that she had spoken once or twice about Evangeline Parish.

  It was a start. Picot was aware of the fact that a decent portion of the denizens of uptown New Orleans were either running or hiding from something. Over a period of twenty-four hours, telegrams flew and telephone calls crept back and forth between his precinct and the parish. The information came in bits and pieces; soon enough, it began to add up. Picot got excited. The name Mancarre had struck a chord with someone in the sheriff's office. The final bit arrived in the form of a telegram, the other paper that he held in his hand.

  He could barely contain himself. Suddenly everything had changed around, and it was his turn to run the game and set things right. He was a police officer. He, not some damned Creole detective, was the authority and the power in those parts. It was time to settle that business once and for all.

  Picot moved away from the window and went to his desk. He snatched up the handpiece of the telephone set, then hesitated for a moment. When St. Cyr found out what he was doing, there would be hell to pay. The detective might even come looking to kill him. Picot knew the man could do violence. He knew about McTier the Georgia gambler and others who had crossed him. He knew what a risk he was taking. It didn't matter; there was no other way. He had only one hand to play.

  He picked up the phone and asked the operator to connect him to the police commissioner's office.

  Valentin found Frank Mangetta behind the bar, muttering furiously because his day man had gotten drunk at Groshell's Dance Hall the night before and could not be roused from his bed. Valentin received a curt nod of greeting as he settled down to wait. Mangetta careened between the saloon and the grocery to the cadence of a vile string of English and Italian curses.

  After about twenty minutes, there was a break in business and the saloon keeper stepped over to lay an elbow on the bar. He got down to business before it got noisy again.

  "I don't know if you heard this or not..."

  The saloon keeper gave a look that sent a chill running up Valentin's spine. "Heard what?"

  "They pulled Treau Martin's body out of the river this morning."

  "Jesus! What happened?"

  "He was crossing on the ferry and he went in. He drowned. I guess it could have been an accident."

  "It wasn't any accident, Frank." He shook his head grimly. "Now there's only the one left."

  "Ain't anybody seen him in a long time," Mangetta said. "He might already be gone."

  Neither man spoke a name. There was no need. Even a cynical type like Valentin saw no need to tempt fate that carelessly.

  Justine heard a familiar piping voice calling from the banquette and in her half drowse, imagined that she was on Magazine Street. She told herself she was dreaming. Then the voice called again, this time louder and accompanied by a sharp whistle. She got up from the couch where she had fallen asleep and pushed one of the street windows open.

  Beansoup was back, standing on the banquette below, this time with his friend Louis from the Waif's Home at his side. He lifted a dirty hand and waved the envelope he held there. "I got a message for you," he called up.

  Through the fog in her head, she felt a tiny tingle of excitement. If it was Beansoup calling, the message could be from Valentin. She waved for the boys to come inside, and a minute later there was a knock.

  Beansoup led Louis into the apartment and stopped to survey the fine furnishings. Then he turned his attention to Miss Justine. She didn't look so good. Her hair was frowsy; her face was a bit gray; her eyes were too wet and seemed unable to fix on anything. She was wearing a kimono and didn't seem to care that it was hanging open, revealing her thin camisole. Beansoup was embarrassed, but kept staring, too. After a short glance, Louis wouldn't look at her at all.

  She cleared her throat and said, "Well?"

  Beansoup handed over the envelope. When she opened it and took out the folded sheet, she discovered that it was not from Valentin at all. Her dismay was mixed with her astonishment that it was a missive from Tom Anderson, the King of Storyville himself.

  The note, on fine cream-colored paper, requested her presence at the Arlington on Saturday at two o'clock in the afternoon "on a matter of some importance." Anderson had apparently penned it himself. The script was thick and sloppy, the scrawl of a man of substance in a hurry.

  She looked at the two boys. They were both keeping their eyes averted, and she realized that they were embarrassed that she looked such a mess. She put the envelope and paper between her teeth and fumbled about tying the sash of her kimono. She took the papers out of her mouth and ran the fingers of her free hand through the hopeless mess of her hair. She cleared her throat again. "I don't understand," she said. "What's this about?"

  Beansoup shrugged. "I don't know. He said bring it to you, that's all."

  She went to get her purse and handed each boy a Liberty quarter. "Tell Mr. Anderson I'll be there," she said.

  Beansoup held the coin in his palm, absently, as if there was something else on his mind. Then he jerked his head once and led Louis out the door and down the steps. The street door banged and they were gone.

  Justine sat down on the divan and looked at the note again. It was very strange. She had no idea what Tom Anderson could want with her. It was true that he was Valentin's employer. He was probably familiar with Paul Baudel, too. Still, he'd never paid attention to he
r before. Whatever it was, she'd find out soon enough. Even if she wasn't curious about it, there was no way she could have refused an invitation from the King of Storyville.

  Valentin spent another half hour at Mangetta's. The day bartender didn't show his face and there was another rush of business, so the saloon keeper left him alone with his thoughts. It was just as well that the Sicilian was busy and not refilling his empty glass. He did not want the habit of drinking during the day to add to his troubles.

  It started to rain and he gazed out the window for some long minutes. Then he turned around and laid the sheet of paper on the bar, took his fountain pen from his pocket, and started to scribble, names and shapes and lines in random patterns.

  Every one of the players in a single jass band save one was dead, each one most likely murdered. It could not be coincidence. Four men—each a musician, each colored, and all having played together in one small band, along with a woman connected to at least one of them—dying in the space of two weeks led to only one conclusion. The question wasn't "if" anymore, but "why?" What had they done, what had they seen, or what did they know that had made them targets for murder?

  And so quickly that Valentin couldn't catch up. Two were gone before he had lifted a finger. Two more had died while he was trying to make up his mind whether or not to investigate. The landlady on Philip Street had passed him a hint that he never got to use, dying before he could get back to her.

  There was only one member of that band left. Maybe. No one knew what happened to the man whom neither Valentin nor Frank Mangetta wanted to name.

  Valentin drank the last drops of his brandy, nodded a thank-you to the flustered Sicilian, and went outside to stand on the banquette, smoke one of his cigarillos, and watch the afternoon traffic creep through the rain. After a few puffs, he tossed the butt into the gutter swollen with water, garbage, and horse manure. He pulled his collar up, bent his head, and strode off.

  He was fairly soaked by the time he got to the building on St. Charles where Jelly Roll Morton kept his rooms. He climbed the three flights of stairs and spent a good five minutes rapping on the door and calling out before he finally heard the sounds of life from inside. Morton, looking like a train wreck, opened the door. He glared, then waved him inside with a growl of irritation. "What?"

  "I'll only be a minute," Valentin said. "Then you can go back to bed."

  "What's wrong now? Is somebody else dead?"

  "Yes," the detective said. "Somebody else is dead."

  Morton started to come awake. "Jesus!"

  Valentin sat down on a café chair. Morton planted himself on his couch, a fine overstuffed affair of walnut and brocade.

  "Treau Martín," Valentin said. "The bass fiddle player in the Union Hall band."

  He allowed a moment for the news to sink in, glancing over Morton's shoulder and through the bedroom door. He saw dark limbs tangled in the sheets atop the four-poster bed. The woman was coffee colored, just like Justine, and for the briefest instant, he felt his heart thump and his stomach clutch; then he saw the long, thick hair and relaxed.

  Morton snapped his fingers to bring his attention back. "So what the hell is going on?"

  "All those fellows who played in that band are dead, except for one."

  As hard as Morton tried to keep his face blank, his eyes flicked, giving him away.

  Valentin said, "I need to find him, Jelly."

  The piano man was quiet for long seconds as the rain rattled the windowpanes. Then he said, "You better go see my godmother."

  As she went about tidying herself and the apartment in preparation for Paul's appearance, Justine picked up Tom Anderson's note a half-dozen times, then put it down again. Her curiosity was quickly turning into unease. What did the King of Storyville want with her? It had to do with Valentin, of course. There was no other connection. Unless...

  She brushed the thought away, but the unsettling feeling remained. There was something about Mr. Anderson, the way he seemed to know everything about everyone. Valentin had told her once that the man was like God, lording over Storyville and its denizens. It had never occurred to her that he might know things about her, too. She was a nobody, another back-of-town sporting girl, one out of the thousands. Now she realized that she was different because of Valentin St. Cyr, Anderson's right-hand man. Maybe, like God, he kept a ledger and her name was on it, along with an accounting of her sins.

  That drove her mind on a jag and sent her rushing to the bathroom, where she brought up what little was in her stomach. She was glad that the apartment had a new flush toilet and she didn't have to clean a mess. She wiped her mouth and drank some water from the tap. Then she opened the cabinet over the sink and took down the amber-colored bottle that held her prescription. This time she put a full dose and then some into the glass of water. She knew her mind wouldn't be right when it took hold, but it didn't matter. Paul wouldn't care. He was already beginning to ignore her, and his interest in frolicking with her was a sham. She could guess what was coming next: he would ask only for French and Greek, because he didn't want her as a woman at all. He was just playing his part in the farce that his position in New Orleans society demanded. She'd seen it before.

  She studied her face in the mirror as she drank the medicine down. She saw lines creeping from her eyes. Twenty-four and there were lines from her eyes.

  She put the dropper back in the bottle and then held it up to the light. She had just visited the apothecary and it was almost full. It occurred to her that all she had to do was drink the contents in one quick swallow and her troubles would be over. There would be no broken heart over Valentin St. Cyr. There would be no disgust over what she had to do with Paul Baudel. There would be no facing Tom Anderson tomorrow. There would be no past, no history of a dirty, broken-down, foul-smelling shack along the bayou north of Ville Platte haunting her. There would be nothing, only a blessed darkness.

  She regarded her face more seriously, looking into her own eyes to see a light that made her smile. No, not that; not today and not ever. Though sporting girls did it all the time, her life was too precious to end. She wouldn't let Valentin or Paul or Mr. Tom Anderson or any of the other men who passed through with such arrogance drive her that far down. Never.

  She put the bottle back in the cabinet and left the bathroom, turning out the light.

  It was a noisy, busy night at the Cafe. Some dignitaries from out of town, rich business types, had appeared without notice, and there was a scramble to make sure their every whim was sated. They took over two of the best tables and ordered champagne all around. The band played tunes at their request. The gamblers sniffed the air, then got up to welcome the gentlemen and ask if they might perhaps like to join in a game of cards.

  Valentin did not see Tom Anderson all evening. The King of Storyville was on the premises; the detective could tell from the bottle of the best Scotch whiskey that was hustled from the bar through the back hall to the office upstairs. When Valentin asked the head bartender who was visiting, the response was a blank shake of the head. He cornered the waiter who had been serving Anderson and learned that there were two men in the office, and one of them was Chief O'Connor. The other, he believed, was a city official, perhaps an alderman. Whatever was going on was a solemn affair, the waiter whispered, and on a Friday night yet.

  Valentin had a prickling sense that what was being discussed upstairs had something to do with him and the dead musicians. Maybe it was finally dawning on someone that there was something brewing.

  He thought about creating an excuse to knock on Anderson's door, then realized that it would be too much of a ruse. The King of Storyville would know exactly what he was doing and chase him off. So he waited for some trouble or problem that would give him good reason to break in on the little party and at least catch a glimpse of these mysterious guests and overhear a snippet of their conversation. Nothing happened, though; the gentlemen behaved like angels for once, and everyone was having a marvelous time, drinking, g
ambling, eyeing the pretty octoroons, and dancing to the music from the six-piece band.

  Later, when Valentin inquired again, he was told that Anderson and his guests had departed, their destinations unknown.

  Dominique tried to sleep, got up, lied down again, stared at the wall. She couldn't stay still. There were too many ghosts about, too many sounds in the night that told her spirits were getting restless. Or maybe it wasn't spirits at all. Maybe it was that woman. Justine. She might well be the one who had been lurking about, stirring up the air as she put some kind of juju around the door, as a way to witching her replacement into leaving out. Dominique had been hearing footsteps and the creaking of the hinges of the street door, had seen the slips of shadow that disappeared around a corner just as she got to the balcony.

  Enough was enough, she decided. In the morning she would visit a shop and buy some things of her own to put around the door. At least she could put something out when Valentin was gone. He didn't believe, wouldn't stand for it. She'd do it anyway. They both needed the help.

  She hadn't meant to carry whatever had got on Jeff Mumford to Mr. Valentin's rooms. She had only been looking for a place to hide from fear and get relief from her loneliness at having her man taken away. The Creole detective, so quiet and respectful, seemed like a safe choice in a city full of men with nothing but bad intentions.

  He was a gentleman. Still, Jeff or no Jeff, grief or no grief, she was ready almost right away for him to come to the bed. Something about him made her want to grab hold and not let go. She understood why Justine would want back in.

  That quadroon wasn't going to go without a fight, even though she was the one who had left him. Now she was sneaking around, worrying their door, laying who knew what kind of charms about. Dominique was ready for anything Justine could bring. She would fight back with her own hoodoo. She wasn't going anywhere.