Jass (Valentin St. Cyr Mysteries) Read online

  When he didn't come to bed by midnight, she gave up and drifted off. At one point, she came awake when the front door creaked open and then closed. She drowsily wondered where he had gone, if he had run off to meet Justine under the cover of night. Maybe he was just another false-hearted rounder like Jeff Mumford after all, one of those who would take pleasure in her body and then steal away to enjoy another. If he was, she'd know what to do about it. She had learned a long time ago, at her mother's knee, how to deal with evil men, or anyone else who crossed her.

  Gradually, she let go of her bloodthirsty thoughts and fell back to sleep. She rose partway out of her slumber a second time to the sound of footsteps on the landing. She dreamed then that he would come in, slip through the shadows, undress, and love her. But there was no more sound, he didn't appear, and she dropped off once more.

  Valentin walked to the river and stood on the levee, watching the freighters and barges slide through the inky darkness as he tried to make some sense of the jumble that he now had on his plate.

  Morton had been correct that someone had stalked musicians and eliminated them. He was wrong about the reason. Now, just as he got closer to finding out what it might be, Tom Anderson wanted the investigation over. When Valentin wouldn't bend to his will, he pulled some dire secret Justine was holding as his trump card. Lurking at every corner was Lieutenant Picot. Why the copper was so determined to have him out of the way was another mystery that was thickening the stew. It had to be more than personal dislike. It had to be more than the competition with the police department. He wondered if and how Anderson and Picot were in it together.

  He was confounded by the realization that Justine had hidden something from him that was worth her life. He wondered what she had done that was so terrible that Anderson could hold it over both of them like a bloody sword. He was convinced that it was somehow tied in with the murders of the jass players; he just couldn't see how. He would find out, though.

  He thought about going back home, then sat down on the levee instead. Dominique was another dilemma for him to wrangle. She was such a wonder that he felt like he could spend half his waking hours exploring the uncharted territory of her lush body. It wasn't going to be like that. He had won her without lifting a finger, but her strange island ways, her demands for attention, and her jealousy over Justine were already driving him to distraction. She was alone and frightened and clinging to him like a child. She seemed to have forgotten her plans to go home to Tobago. She hadn't mentioned it once since he'd allowed her to stay. He suspected that, having found a sanctuary, she had decided that she wasn't about to give it up.

  Valentin sat for a while longer, mulling this web of troubles, sensing shadows closing in around him. Then a freighter's horn moaned, a chilling sound from a ghostly vessel far down the river. He gave a start, feeling suddenly uneasy. Justine would be safe in her Frenchman's rooms. At the same time, Dominique slept alone and unguarded in his bed on Magazine Street. The door had been breached before.

  He hurried down from the levee and walked at a fast clip back to his rooms. Twice he swore that he heard footsteps behind him, only to turn and find an empty banquette as far as he could see. By the time he turned the key and stepped inside, his curls were wet with sweat and he was panting like a dog.

  All was well. He found Dominique deep in sleep, her full body stretched along his mattress. He undressed without making a sound, but when he came to bed, she opened her eyes, smiled, and reached for him.

  "Come here, Valentin, suh," she murmured in a voice as soft and sweet as the night breeze. "For a minute there, I thought I lost you."

  THIRTEEN

  Tom Anderson was enjoying an after-church luncheon at Germaine's on Ursulines in the company of Father Cassidy of St. Ignatius, city of New Orleans alderman Alphonse Badel, and Billy Struve, the busy-bee publisher of The Blue Book guides to the Tenderloin. Struve was a gossipmonger of superior skills, and one of the King of Storyville's most able spies.

  They were talking over a problem in the Jew Quarter when the front door opened and Valentin St. Cyr strode in.

  Struve nudged the King of Storyville and tilted his head. As soon as Anderson laid eyes on the Creole detective's face, he knew that he had made a rare miscalculation. For the past week he'd had a sense of losing some of his legendary control, and now it looked like there was going to be trouble. He gave nothing away, though, and kept his expression neutral as he excused himself, stood up, and ambled around the back of the dining room and through the archway to the bar. Struve followed a few paces behind. St. Cyr started across the floor, weaving around tables crowded with church-dressed Americans.

  The state of Louisiana was officially dry on Sundays. This was New Orleans, though, and Germaine's bar stayed open. At the moment there were only two customers, huddled together over glasses of Raleigh Rye. Anderson waited while one of the Mississippi toughs who were always lurking somewhere nearby stepped over to whisper to the pair. They listened, then turned their heads in unison to see the King of Storyville standing there. Without a word, they took their feet off the brass rail and walked out, leaving their drinks. After another few hushed words from the roughneck, the bartender realized he had forgotten something in the storeroom and promptly evaporated.

  The King of Storyville took off his spectacles and laid them atop the bar, as if getting ready for fisticuffs. It had been awhile, but he had been a brawling youth and could still put up a fight, or so he believed.

  When Valentin came through the archway, his face was such a cold mask that the roughneck straightened like a hound going on point. Then he caught Anderson's gesture, a mere flick of a finger, that told him to stand down and let the detective pass. He relaxed, though he never took his eyes off the Creole. Struve glanced between the two men and decided it was his turn to back out of the line of fire. He took refuge at the far end of the bar, still close enough to hear if they raised their voices.

  Tom Anderson lifted his chin in a posture of regal aplomb. When Valentin met his stare, it was like two sabers clashing. There was no need for niceties. "What are you holding on Justine?" the detective demanded.

  "You don't take that tone of voice with me, sir." Anderson drummed his fingers on the bar. "Your concern for her is very touching. You weren't so concerned when she walked out on you. You weren't concerned enough to stop her from taking up with that Frenchman. You weren't so concerned that it kept you from bringing someone else to your bed."

  Valentin forced his voice steady. "I want to know what you have on her."

  The King of Storyville cut the air with one hand. "It's up to her to tell you. If she trusts you, that is."

  Valentin understood perfectly that this was a ploy to knock him off balance. And it did deflect him, though only for a second. "You're using her to keep me from going after whoever murdered those jass players," he said. "It's blackmail."

  Anderson folded his arms across his chest and shook his head. "It's not blackmail, my friend. It's persuasion. And if I can't persuade you, I'm going to take you off the table. I don't pay you to make problems. I pay you to fix them."

  "What problems?" the detective said, and now the King of Storyville looked like he wished he had bitten his tongue.

  It didn't matter; Valentin wasn't going to win the exchange. He had spent the morning nursing his anger and now he'd let it get the best of him and walked into a trap. He had given away Justine's deceit and now she was in deeper trouble. He silently cursed Anderson's cunning and his own stupidity.

  "I'll save you the trouble of firing me this time," he said.

  Anderson cocked his head to one side. His hard frown went away and he grinned indulgently, as if listening to a child's bragging. "You want to quit on me? And what will that accomplish?"

  Valentin, his face flushing, wanted to say, I'll be out from under your heel, but he kept quiet.

  Anderson's smile turned chilly. "You better think about what you're saying. You quit on me, and you won't be able to earn a dam
n dime. You'll have to move so far back-of-town just to find a place to hang your hat, you'll be halfway to St. Louis. You'll be finished."

  "Then I'll be finished," Valentin said, and walked out. As he reached the archway, he turned around and said, "But I'm going to find out who did those murders."

  A gust of wind came swirling along the banquette and up his back, as if to lift and propel him away. He was a block over on St. Philip Street, when it dawned on him what had transpired in Germaine's bar.

  Not only had he defied the King of Storyville; he had done it in front of witnesses that included the gossip hound Billy Struve. He was going to pay a price. He didn't know what it would be, only that it would be painful. There would be more trouble for Justine. Anderson might even decide to come after Dominique. He could do anything he wanted to.

  Valentin looked over his shoulder. For all he knew, the King of Storyville had already dispatched his roughnecks to chase him down, beat him to a bloody heap, and drag him back.

  He crossed over into the District at Bienville Street, ducked into the alleyway behind Frank Toro's Saloon and leaned against the back wall of the building. He patted his pockets for a smoke, found none. He closed his eyes, listening to the jostle of the street.

  An alien blade of fear poked through his gut. He wasn't worried about anything Anderson's man might do. He had handled rougher sorts. He was afraid that he had done exactly what the King of Storyville said, which was to quite efficiently cut his own throat. It had been stupid, because he could now end up disgraced and shoved so far away that he'd never break the very case that had brought him there.

  His mind went calm, something he could have used with Anderson at Germaine's. Like a fool, he had let his true feelings rise up and pour out in a rush. He saw Anderson's face again, in anger and then derision. He had blundered with the threat of quitting and the bluster of the promise to close the case. The King of Storyville could relax. Valentin posed no threat to whomever or whatever he was protecting.

  He suddenly recalled a story Struve once told him. Some years in the past, a successful pimp who generally behaved himself one day decided to put two sisters on the street who were too young for Tom Anderson's comfort. Anderson sent a polite request that the pimp send the girls back home, wherever that was. The request was ignored; the sisters were already turning a nice profit. Then Anderson sent a message that the pimp had twenty-four hours to get out of Storyville. The fellow sent word back for Anderson to mind his own business, that he wasn't going anywhere and neither were the girls. By daybreak he was gone, as completely as if he had been turned to dust and blown away, and was never seen or heard from again. The sisters were cleaned up and put on a train back to their family in Ohio.

  When Valentin asked if Anderson had the man killed, Struve laughed and said that he doubted it. More likely, the King of Storyville simply had someone explain to the fellow that by sundown he and his various broken limbs would be occupying a bed in Charity Hospital, and when he could walk again, he would be locked away in Parish Prison and would not see the light of day for a very long time.

  Valentin himself had been an arm of the authority that Anderson wielded in those parts. If you crossed him, your next stop was the ticket window at Union Station, if you were lucky. Now the tables were turned and the detective spent an idle moment thinking about where he would go if he had to choose.

  In any case, he was not about to crawl back to beg for his job. It was too late. Maybe it was time for a change. He had been on a slow descent, and he needed more than anything to break that spiral and fix what was wrong. Though it was also possible that one of Anderson's men was at that moment purchasing him a ticket to parts unknown.

  When he got back to Magazine Street, he found that he couldn't sit still and told Dominique to put on a walking dress. She hurried to get ready, delighted for a chance to get out of the house. She snatched up a hat and a coverlet to lay on the ground.

  On the streetcar across town, they got odd looks from the other passengers, and it dawned on Valentin that this was the first time the two of them had been out in public. It was one thing for him to be squiring a quadroon like Justine around town. It was quite another to be escorting someone like Dominique. There was no getting around her dark mahogany skin and darker ebony eyes.

  He didn't care; indeed, he was in a mood to stare back. Dominique saw the looks and thought how different it was on Tobago. There, no one cared whether she was with a man who was as pink as a seashell or the blackest nigger on the island.

  Not so in downtown New Orleans, though once they crossed Basin Street, she relaxed. The puzzled and resentful stares were now fixed on Valentin, and they came from the colored passengers showing their resentment at someone who appeared to be a white man bedding one of their own.

  They transferred to the Esplanade Belt and rode four blocks west to Dumaine Street. The car was crowded, and as they drew near the stop, they saw gaggles of pedestrians crossing over the tracks and into the park, a sea of parasols and derby hats. It was a pretty fall day, with high, puffy clouds and a cool breeze off the Gulf.

  A wagon had been pulled onto the grass, and Valentin got in line to buy them both a boudin wrapped in waxed paper and a bottle of Chero-Cola. Dominique laid the coverlet on the grass, and they sat down to eat and watch the swelling crowd. When they finished, they got up, folded the blanket, and strolled closer to the bandstand. The crowd changed, shifting by degrees to take in more whites and Creoles. So Dominique was now one of only a few darker faces.

  They came upon a row of large tents that had been erected along one of the pathways, staffed by Negro waiters pouring libations and offering light snacks. These were private areas, cordoned by long ribbons that were tied to wooden stakes. They were passing near one of the tents when Valentin glanced over to see Justine standing with a gentleman who could only be her Frenchman. They were outside the tent, just on the other side of the cordon. She was wearing a demure cotton walking dress and held a parasol over her shoulder. She looked lovely, like the daughter of some well-off Creole family, and yet there was something wrong about her appearance that Valentin couldn't put his finger on.

  She must have sensed his stare, because she turned her head. Dominique noticed, too, and he felt her tense beside him. Justine looked from him to the black girl and the women's gazes met in midair. Though Dominique was bristling, Justine stared back at her with a blank wonder.

  Paul Baudel turned around to say something to Justine and saw the three of them standing there, frozen, like cats in an alley. He looked Valentin up and down, then glanced at the pretty young black-skinned girl. He looked sidelong at Justine and saw that she had gone into another of her dazes. With a sigh of annoyance, he touched her arm and hissed something quick and biting. The spell was broken. She blinked, then nodded and turned away obediently. The Frenchman led her into the shade of the tent, where other white men with their dusky companions drank and talked.

  Dominique watched them walk off. "What's she doin' out here?" she blurted.

  "The same thing we are," Valentin said, placatingly. "She can go anywhere she wants."

  "She just better stay in there where she belongs," Dominique said.

  Valentin let out a sudden laugh. It caught her by surprise and her anger went away. He offered his arm, and as they started moving off, he glanced back over his shoulder. "So that's her fellow," he murmured.

  Dominique said, "He dresses right well."

  Valentin found this comment funny as well, and his mouth crooked gently.

  Dominique smiled up at him, then pointed off toward the bandstand. "Maybe we could find us a place over there," she said. "I mean way over there."

  They got back home late in the afternoon. Though he didn't see them again, he had thought about Justine and the Frenchman throughout the day. He didn't know what to make of it. It was the first time he had seen her in the light since the morning she had walked out. That one close look told him that she did look different, like someone he
had met somewhere but couldn't quite place.

  He followed Dominique up the stairs, feeling wearier with every step. As he opened the door, he paused to consider that Anderson was not likely to let him keep the rooms. The downtown flat had been offered years ago, as part of their original arrangement. There was no reason that he should be allowed to stay there. For tonight, though, he still had a home.

  When they got inside, Dominique took off her hat and placed it on the arm of the couch. She stood in profile in the afternoon light that was coming through the window and just beginning to turn gold. He was startled in that moment at how beautiful she looked and was humbled that she had come to him. It was still a mystery to him why she had done it, but he decided that pondering that could wait until tomorrow, too.

  She looked at him, saw the odd, dreamy expression on his face, and said, "Suh?"

  He studied her face for a moment, then stepped behind her and began undoing the hooks down the back of her dress, slowly, revealing her dark skin inches at a time. She closed her eyes and bent her head forward. When his fingertips touched her flesh, she caught her breath. Once the hooks were undone to her waist, he took the dress in his fingers and pushed it off her shoulders. She was wearing a ribbed vest of soft cotton underneath. With the same slow movements, he undid the hooks on the back of her skirt. He opened the last one, and the skirt dropped to the floor around her feet.

  She turned to face him. He brought his hands up, held her face, kissed her mouth. She sighed softly, the tiniest breath, tasting of cinnamon. He put his hands on her shoulders and moved the straps of her vest down over her arms. She smiled at him and he saw the coy look in her eyes. He pushed her gently down onto the couch.

  Afterward, they curled for a long time, not speaking at all, as the sun dropped, turned deeper gold, then a dark, bloody orange.