Jass (Valentin St. Cyr Mysteries) Page 19

  It was late, almost midnight, and Lieutenant Picot waited on the dark street corner. The collar of his overcoat was turned up and his derby pulled down low. He kept his hands in his pockets and his back turned to the street, lest anyone who might recognize him happen by. The wind was blowing through the treetops, shaking more rain down on the streets and banquettes.

  Aside from the faint hissing of the drizzle, it was quiet on the corner. Up and down the streets in four directions, the stately homes of white Americans of means stood in elegant silence. Through tall windows, he spied chandeliers all aglow and, beneath them, figures moving in ballets of wealth and position. If he went closer, he would hear their mellow voices and rich laughter, the low whispers of servants, and the music from Victrolas.

  He'd been waiting and he wondered what he would do if she didn't appear. Then, moments later, she was there, as stealthily as if one of the shadows had materialized into human form. She was wearing a long coat and a shawl that she had drawn up over her head like a fascinator, so he could barely make out her features.

  Picot didn't speak for a long moment; he couldn't. Each time he tried, something caught in his throat and he had to turn his face away.

  She grew impatient. "Well?"

  "There are five people dead," the lieutenant said, sounding grim.

  "Five?" She seemed impressed by the number. "Is that right?"

  "I can't keep it hidden."

  "You're a police officer," she said brusquely. "You can do anything you want. You've kept all sorts of things hidden. You're quite good at it." The voice was almost teasing, but with an edge like a sharp blade, a sound he never got used to.

  "This is no comedy!" he hissed at her. "Crimes have been committed!"

  "Be calm, now," she warned him, softening her tone.

  He took a breath, settled himself. "Five dead. I'd say that evens the score. More than evens it."

  She shook her head. "Not yet."

  "There's someone who can stop it now," he warned her.

  "And who would that be?"

  "That one I told you about. Tom Anderson's man. The Creole detective St. Cyr."

  "Don't worry about him. Or anyone else, either."

  "He's no fool."

  "We'll see who's a fool and who isn't," she murmured.

  "I can't help you."

  "I didn't ask you to," she said petulantly, with a schoolgirl's lilt. She looked back along the street, fixing her eyes on the facade of a Victorian house that was halfway down the block on the other side. A streetlamp stood before it, casting a glow of amber over the sculptured front garden. She turned back to him, smiling deliberately. "Is that all you have to say?"

  "This is goin' to end bad," Picot said. "I got a feeling."

  She laid a familiar hand on his arm. "You were always so superstitious," she said. She took the hand away, drew the shawl farther over her head until it almost shrouded her eyes. She made a wave, a common little motion, and then drifted off, back into the shadows of the quiet street.

  TWELVE

  Saturday dawned with a sun that was first pale yellow then hazy white as it cut through the chill of the autumn morning. The rain had stopped sometime in the middle of the night, leaving the streets shiny wet. The sun rose high enough to poke through windows and chase the shadows away. It wasn't yet warm enough to burn off the puddles, so water stood in tiny ponds among the cobblestones and glistened when the rays struck them, making some streets look like they were paved with diamonds.

  It was market day and the wagons clattered into the city from the Delta farms. It was also a day for enjoying the city's earthier delights, and trains chugged into Union Station and unloaded hundreds of men and boys who were lucky enough to be off work.

  One such citizen, fresh out of the fields, with his face scrubbed, his hair oiled and parted, and his week's pay heavy in his pockets, stepped onto the platform, as wide-eyed and giddy as a schoolboy.

  As he crossed Basin Street for his first look at Storyville, he saw a comely quadroon, startlingly pretty even with her face partially hidden by a thin veil. Other men along the banquette stopped and turned as she went by. Winks and whispers lapped in her wake. Just because none of them could ever afford such a prize, there was no law that said they couldn't look.

  Later, after the young man's day was done, after he had tasted rye whiskey and a sporting woman, after he had spent his last dime and climbed aboard the train that would carry him off to the tedium of his backwoods home, he would recall the first image that greeted him, a woman the color of latte with doe eyes and a curving figure that made promises, a walking mystery that he would never fathom.

  Justine arrived on the gallery of Josie Arlington's mansion a few minutes before the specified time of two o'clock.

  She was alert for once, having gone to bed early and slept through the night. Paul had shown up at his usual time and they had chatted over brandy. At least she thought so; she didn't really remember. She did recall the way he watched her, with pointed frowns and little mutters of annoyance. Abruptly, he drained his glass, mumbled something about a society obligation, got up, and left. She took off the fancy dress she had put on for him and went to bed. She was still a little groggy when she woke, and it took the better part of the morning for her head to clear. She thought about taking another small dose of her medicine to brace herself for the appointment, then decided against it. She didn't want to miss anything because her mind was dull.

  This day she wore a broad-brimmed rose-colored hat with a crimson veil to conceal her features. When she got to Basin Street, she passed through the crowd of men who had just crossed over from Union Station, caught their stares, and heard their whispers. She hurried to the door of the Arlington, thinking that all she needed was for Beansoup—or, god forbid, Valentin—to spot her.

  One of Miss Josie's girls came to the door, ushered her inside, up the staircase, and down the long hallway. For just a moment, she entertained the bizarre notion that Mr. Anderson was going to be waiting in one of the doves' rooms, intending to make use of the appointments and of her.

  However, the door at the end of the hall upon which the girl knocked opened into a cozy sitting room. Justine stepped inside. A couch and two armchairs were arranged about a fine Turkish carpet. A linen bureau was against one wall with a mirror in a walnut frame over it. On the top was a tray with a decanter of brandy and four crystal glasses. A chandelier glittered overhead. The street window was draped in lacy curtains that fluttered in the afternoon breeze.

  Tom Anderson rose from one of the armchairs, so broad and solid that he gave an impression of taking up a good portion of the room. His blue eyes were kind as he waved her to the sofa and waited for her to sit down, take off her hat, and place it on the cushion next to her.

  "If those things get any bigger, you ladies are going to have to hire someone to wear them for you," he said, with a wry smile. "Would you like some refreshment?" he asked her, gesturing toward the brandy.

  She shook her head. "No, thank you, Mr. Anderson."

  He waved his hand again, and the girl, who had been waiting, stepped back into the hall and closed the door. Justine was relieved that he hadn't invited her to address him with more familiarity—"Mr. Tom," for instance. There was something unnerving about the way he watched her. Her instinct told her to keep a distance from this man, who just happened to be the most powerful person in the city of New Orleans. She felt like she was at the mouth of a trap and would get snatched and gobbled up if she wasn't careful.

  The King of Storyville, on the other hand, seemed quite at ease as he settled into the chair and picked up the cigar that had been smoking in the glass ashtray on the stand at his elbow. The clattering of wagon wheels, the occasional sputtering automobile engine, and the loud breaths of engines puffing out of the station drifted inside through the open window.

  Through the strings of smoke, Tom Anderson regarded Justine frankly. She truly was a pretty dove, and he had a moment's regret that he had never vis
ited her when she first arrived at Miss Antonia's. She had a fine body, too, lithe as a cat. St. Cyr was a lucky fellow. That was her surface. He turned a sharp eye to what was going on underneath her skin and sensed a tension there. He knew about her visits to the apothecary, knew she was walking along an edge with a steep drop on the other side. He wondered if Paul Baudel had seen it yet and if he was going to put up with it.

  He noticed her watching him in return, with faint suspicion rising in her eyes, and spoke up promptly. "It must have been a surprise to get my message."

  "Yes, sir, it was," she said.

  "How are things?" he inquired. "Are you satisfied with your arrangement with Mr. Baudel?"

  "It's only been these few days," she said. "He's a kind man, though."

  Hearing a false note in her voice, Anderson said, "Do you plan to stay with him?"

  Justine nodded, even more baffled. He was talking to her as if he assumed she would divulge her private affairs, though this was only the third time she had spoken to him, the first two having consisted of the words "hello" and "good-bye" after being introduced by Valentin.

  In fact, the King of Storyville had kept an eye on her since she first took the room with Antonia Gonzales. He had heard the story about St. Cyr saving her from the brute that had her cornered in another house. When he learned that the detective had developed a special interest in her, he put out some feelers. Those who visited her claimed she was very capable, always clean, and quite energetic. She did not drink to excess, did not dabble in hop or whiff cocaine. She knew how to read and write and could keep up a conversation. She was too young and pretty to be bought and sold by the minute, and spent most of her time in the company of men of means and rounders who were flush for a few days or weeks. He was more intrigued when he learned that she became the only sporting woman that Valentin visited and that they socialized on the weekends, going for walks in the park and to band concerts out on the lake, like a courting couple.

  When the Black Rose murders began and sporting girls were dying one after another, Valentin took her out of the house and into his own rooms. She stayed there, giving up the life for him. There were even whispers that they might get married at some point.

  That never happened. In the wake of the murders, St. Cyr went into a long funk that had now reached the point of driving her out the door and into the bed of another man. At the same time, Anderson's spies reported that she had been acting strangely. Even now, he had a sense of something not quite right about her. Her dark eyes flicked this way and that, as if she was looking for something that had gone missing.

  He let out what he hoped was a paternal sigh and said, "The truth is, I brought you here to talk to you about Valentin."

  "Yessir?"

  "You were with him for a long time."

  "But I'm not anymore, sir," she said, too sharply. "Someone else is."

  He nodded deliberately. "Oh, yes, the black girl." He tapped the ash from his cigar. "I think that might just be a matter of him licking his wounds. We'll see soon enough, I suppose."

  This was all delivered in that oddly familiar way, and it puzzled her even more. What was she doing there? She had always heard what a clever man Anderson was. She had also heard the gossip about his appetites for women, and she wondered again if this was all a ruse to get his hands on her. She couldn't fail to notice how his eyes glittered as they navigated her face and body. He might well think that with Valentin out of the picture, he could move in on her. For all she knew, he had been admiring her all along and now saw his chance. She knew men well enough to understand what lengths they would travel just to get between a girl's legs. And yet that didn't quite make sense, either. The King of Storyville could have any woman, or as many women as he fancied, with the wink of one eye.

  All this went through her mind in the space of a few seconds. She didn't know what else to do, so she decided to play just a little slow and see if he would voice his true intentions.

  "He's been in my employ for a good while," Anderson was saying. "I don't want to see him landing in trouble."

  Justine said, "Oh, he handles himself quite well."

  "Yes, he does," the King of Storyville agreed. "That's why I've kept him around. But you know better than anyone that he's changed. Look what happened last year. Things could have gone much worse. For him and for you."

  Her face flushed. "It turned out all right in the end," she said in a low voice.

  "And it's fortunate that it did," Anderson said matter-of-factly. "It might not be the same next time."

  "I don't under—"

  "He's about to get into water over his head," the white man told her, his voice hardening. "I know you want to help him. And help yourself, too."

  Justine gazed at him, frankly puzzled. There seemed to be a whole different conversation going on than the one she was hearing, like someone was speaking in the next room. She wasn't skilled enough at this sort of scheming, and when she didn't pick up the hints he was dangling, he let out a little sigh of impatience. She thought, Too bad; let him come out and say what was on his mind.

  "You know, everybody has secrets," he stated, and gave her a piercing look.

  A small light came glimmering along the edge of her thoughts and she was suddenly alert. "Yessir," she said carefully. "I suppose that's true."

  "And everyone should be allowed to keep their secrets to themselves. Don't you agree?"

  She nodded slowly. The way he kept staring at her with those cool eyes was making her nervous. She felt her heart begin to race.

  Anderson paused again, puffed his cigar, let out a long trail of smoke. Then he said, "Valentin doesn't know about Ville Platte, does he?"

  The room went black for a second and she felt like she was falling into a dark pit. She grabbed on to the arms of the chair and shook her head slowly and stiffly.

  "Well, he doesn't have to," Anderson murmured. "No one has to know. That's what I mean by keeping secrets." He paused. "But I need your help."

  Now Justine's mind jumped forward in frantic leaps. It was all too much. How did he know? After a moment, she began, "I don't..." She swallowed tensely. "I don't understand what you're asking, Mr. Anderson."

  He settled back. "It would be better for everyone if Valentin just stopped what he was doing and got back to his regular work around the District."

  She gave him a baffled look.

  "What I want is for him to drop this investigation he's been working."

  "I can't make him do anything," she said. "I'm not with him anymore. And he works for you."

  Anderson's face got severe. "I wish it was that simple. Maybe a year ago, it was. Now if I order him to stop, he'll tell me to go fuck myself and then walk out on me. He's changed, Justine. He doesn't listen to anyone anymore. Of course, you already know that."

  She did know. And yet it was absurd to think she could do any better with him than the man now fuming in the armchair, the King of Storyville himself.

  He apparently thought otherwise. "He has to know how badly it could go for you if certain information gets into the wrong hands," he went on, giving his words an even harsher edge. "Like the name you've been using and your current whereabouts."

  She stopped cold, feeling the blood drain from her face as the room closed in on her even more. Her face broke out in a sweat, and for a few seconds she thought she was going to be sick.

  The nausea passed and she realized with a sense of deep dread what was on the table. That feeling gave way to a rush of anger and she felt like lunging at him. Then she had to fight an urge to bolt for the door, run out into the cool of the autumn afternoon, and keep going until New Orleans and Tom Anderson and Valentin St. Cyr were all far behind and forgotten.

  "So you need to talk to him," Anderson finished.

  "I can't..."

  "All that time you were with him counts for something. You can make him listen."

  She sat silently. She didn't know what to say.

  "Just talk to him and explain th
e situation," he said, more calmly. "Tell him what's at risk if he doesn't stop. That's all. Can you do that?"

  She thought about it for a few anguished seconds. "Yes, sir, I suppose so."

  "Good. That's all I ask." He stood up and she followed suit. "Now, is there anything I can do for you? Anything you need that I can provide?"

  She understood. He was now offering payment for the deceit of plotting behind Valentin's back. She shook her head. "No, sir, nothing."

  "Well, then..." He stepped around her and opened the door. Miss Arlington's girl was waiting in the hall to escort her out.

  "My car will take you home," Tom Anderson said. He put one of his big hands on her shoulder to gently guide her along. "Thank you for your time."

  She took a last glance into his eyes, to see if she could catch something there. It was no use; he was too good of an actor and his face, though pleasant, was closed, revealing nothing. She arranged her broad-brimmed hat and took a moment to get the veil set right.

  Anderson's Winton automobile was waiting outside. As she descended the gallery steps, the driver hopped down. She waved him off and instead went to the corner crossed over Basin Street, and walked out of the sun and into the cool darkness of Union Station.

  She went to the wall where the schedules were posted and stopped to study the destinations. She didn't want to think about what had just happened. She remembered when she was small, she loved visiting the station and reading the schedules with the names of all the faraway places that a person could go. She once promised herself that she would visit every one. Now, all these years later, she stood reading the signs and feeling an old impulse to move. She had money in her purse to buy a ticket. She didn't have any idea of which of the destinations she would choose. It didn't really matter. She could turn up anywhere on earth and make a living, she reflected grimly, just by lying on her back and lifting her skirts.

  She read down the slats of white wood with the names of cities painted on them, conjuring vague pictures in her head: Houston, St. Louis, Memphis, Chicago, Atlanta, New York. Then there were the smaller destinations: Lafayette, Bayou Breaux, Villiere, and others that she recalled some from when she had traveled with the tent shows and carnivals.