Jass (Valentin St. Cyr Mysteries) Page 23

  The juicy word that the victim had just replaced Justine Mancarre in St. Cyr's bed raised eyebrows and stirred gossip all over the streets. The girl was murdered in the very rooms kept by Tom Anderson's private detective! Even the Mascot sent a scribbler out to sniff around, for it was just the kind of spicy, bloody drama that Storyville readers devoured. The mystery made it all the more delectable. Who was Dominique Godet and what had she done to deserve such a gruesome fate? The whispers sizzled from the mansions of Basin Street to the Robertson Street cribs.

  Tom Anderson was so stunned when he heard the news that he went to his office and closed the door. Within the hour he had spoken to the police department and knew as much as anyone else. The girl had been surprised, beaten, and strangled to death. Though her clothes had been torn, there was not yet word about a sexual attack. There were no clues pointing to a guilty party. Lieutenant Picot, who was in charge of the investigation, had been heard to mutter vaguely about St. Cyr himself, though no one seriously considered the Creole detective a suspect.

  So it was either a random crime, which meant the girl had trouble no one knew about, or she had gotten in the way of someone who had come after St. Cyr. The word on the street leaned toward the latter, since the Creole detective had enemies. Poor Dominique Godet had simply picked the wrong man.

  Anderson's spies reported that St. Cyr sat in a daze while Lieutenant Picot's officers tore his rooms apart looking for clues. They had left without finding anything of value. When Picot questioned him, the subject had answered in a voice that was dead with shock.

  That Dominique was such a vague presence only stoked the fires of gossip. She hadn't been in New Orleans very long, and Mumford had kept her away from the sharp eyes and quick hands of the back-of-town rounders. She was alone, and no family or friends had yet come forward on her behalf. Anderson sent word that he was to be notified regarding the disposition of the body, which had been carried off to the morgue for a preliminary autopsy. He offered to pay the freight back to her island if no one else appeared to take responsibility for her.

  That done, he left instructions that he was not to be disturbed and huddled in his office with his bottle of brandy. He sat and drank, sensing that matters were once again tilting out of control. He had corralled St. Cyr, fixed the problem, settled things. Or so he thought; now another murder had occurred and there would be worse trouble brewing.

  Running Storyville was a balancing act that Tom Anderson performed with a delicacy that belied his lumbering size, yet he had stumbled like some common oaf. He hadn't counted down all the factors with his customary keen eye and had badly misplayed his hand. Instead of trusting St. Cyr, he had deferred to the judgments of others. He had made the betrayal worse by using Justine Mancarre and her dark secret for leverage. It had been one mistake, one miscalculation piled atop another, and now he had a mess on his hands that he didn't know how to fix. He felt weakened and full of anxiety about what he'd done. He was all too aware that the one person who could have come to his rescue had just been shattered.

  He drained his glass, refilled it. He took a moment to remind himself that he was the King of Storyville, then settled down to figure a way to save himself.

  That very night, Jelly Roll Morton and his cronies at the Frenchman's set their tongues to wagging, already starting the rumor that it was somehow connected to the murder of Jeff Mumford and the other musicians. And so the word spread.

  Anderson had his people watching for St. Cyr. He wasn't surprised when the detective didn't appear at all on Monday. He would be devastated, probably stumbling around half crazy. It would be a horrible blow, even though he had known the girl only a matter of days. No doubt he would believe that it was his fault. And maybe it was.

  When Tuesday brought no sightings of the detective, the King of Storyville sent the Basin Street Arab called Beansoup and his little tag-along Negro friend with the big eyes to sniff around. The boys reported back that there didn't seem to be anyone home at the Magazine Street address. The windows were dark, the curtains drawn. They had climbed the steps, knocked, and called St. Cyr's name. There was no sound of movement from inside. Beansoup had the presence of mind to go back downstairs and step into Gaspare's to ask after the Creole detective. Mr. Gaspare said he had seen him and thought to add vague condolences about the terrible tragedy. They asked down the street at Bechamin's, too, and got the same response.

  Anderson put out more feelers and was surprised to learn that the detective may have been at one or more of the low-rent dives far out on Rampart Street, though no one would swear it was him. This fellow, whoever he was, bought glasses of Raleigh Rye that he drank at a corner table. Then he got up and left, only to appear at another saloon down the way, where he repeated the performance.

  The King of Storyville grew more uneasy. St. Cyr brooding in his rooms was one thing. Having him stalking uptown haunts and seething over the poor girl's death was quite another. Who knew what kind of trouble he might stir up?

  When Wednesday came around and the detective still hadn't shown his face, Anderson began to wonder if something was seriously amiss. Maybe he had left town. Maybe he had fallen into misadventure and had ended up at Charity Hospital or was lying dead in an alley somewhere. He even entertained the thought of St. Cyr taking his own life, then dismissed it. He wouldn't do it. No, Anderson's gut sense told him that he was out in the city somewhere, prowling like a wounded animal.

  When evening rolled around with no more word, Anderson sent one of his toughs in his Winton motorcar to St. Charles Avenue to collect Jelly Roll Morton with orders to drive to Magazine Street and break the door off its hinges, if need be, in order to locate St. Cyr or produce a clue to this whereabouts.

  Morton had forgotten his silk scarf and pulled his suit coat tight around his throat as the motorcar rattled and bounced through the cool October night. He was not looking forward to the end of the ride. Anderson was plenty worried, or they wouldn't be going to these lengths. He had to be thinking that St. Cyr had gone crazy over the killing of the girl and was fearful of what he might do.

  Valentin didn't seem like the type to go berserk, but what if he had come apart? He had lost Justine to the Frenchman and then Mumford's girl had suffered a terrible attack in his own rooms. And what about the four musicians and the landlady on Philip Street? All this mad violence going on, and he couldn't stop it. Who knew what he might do now?

  They banged into the rut of a missing cobble. The thought of the detective all distraught like some character in a tragic opera made Morton snicker grimly and the driver, one of Tom Anderson's Mississippi toughs, gave him a dull glance. Though the fellow was a lout, Jelly Roll was glad he had company on this errand. The whole mess was giving him a morbid feeling, and he wondered if he just should have kept his mouth shut in the beginning and saved everyone a lot of woe.

  As anxious as he was, when they got to Magazine Street, he insisted on going up alone. He was worried about what Valentin might do if Anderson's man started taking down the door. The roughneck shrugged, folded his thick arms, and leaned on the fender of the Winton to wait.

  Morton went upstairs and started knocking and calling. He announced that he wasn't leaving and that Anderson's henchman was waiting to break in. He cajoled and pleaded. He finally announced that in thirty seconds the fellow downstairs would be taking over. He felt like a fool, realizing all the while that he might be talking to empty rooms.

  He was about to give up when he heard movement from inside, a slight shuffling of feet. The door opened. Morton caught a glimpse of a man's back as he moved away.

  "Shut it behind you," a voice muttered.

  Morton went inside and closed the door. He could just make out the detective standing in the shadows on the other side of the room. "Can I turn on a light?" he asked, and before Valentin could answer, he switched on the lamp that was on the stand next to the door.

  He was shocked by what he saw. Valentin looked like one of the derelicts that peopled the street
s of the District, day and night, human scarecrows. He was wearing a white shirt that had a yellow dinge to it and was stained with brown splotches of drink. His curling hair was more than unkempt. He hadn't shaved and the beginnings of a beard stubbled his cheeks, chin, and upper lip. He was wearing gray cotton trousers, also stained. His feet were bare and looked dirty. The only thing Morton could think to say was, "Jesus, look at you!"

  Valentin waved a curt hand. He went over to the French doors that opened onto the balcony, pulled the curtain back an inch, and looked outside. "You brought Anderson's car," he said. His voice was low and raspy, like he had an ague.

  "He sent me," Morton told him. "That's one of his roughnecks down there."

  "You can send him on." He stepped back.

  Morton went to the door and out onto the landing, catching a whiff of something unpleasant. He leaned over the railing and called down for Anderson's man to go to the Café with the message that all was well. He went back inside the apartment as the Winton's engine gurgled to life. The car rattled away.

  Morton sat down on the couch. Valentin was moving between the bedroom and kitchen like a creature submerged in muddy water. The air in the room was close and held an odd mix of odors, sweat, tobacco smoke, whiskey, and another scent. Someone had been at a hop pipe.

  He didn't know what to make of any of it. He had never seen Valentin this way, though he had been around long enough to know that rounders were rounders and fell prey to bad habits. The only surprise was that he hadn't done it sooner.

  Morton knew that for the eighteen months since the end of the Black Rose murders, the detective had been holding his breath. Maybe it was a good thing that he had let it out before he exploded. It was awful that it had taken the vicious murder of a young girl to bring it on. Of course, there was also the possibility that he was taking the first step in the direction of the gutter. Morton had seen it more times than he could count and it started out just like this.

  No; even now, Valentin was trying to regain some order. He disappeared into the bathroom and there was the sound of water splashing. When he reappeared, he said, "I lost my watch. What time is it?"

  When Morton looked at his own watch and told him the hour, Valentin was silent for a long breath. Then he cleared his throat and said, "What day?"

  "Wednesday. Almost Thursday."

  "You don't have to go to work?"

  "Mr. Anderson took care of it."

  Valentin blinked. An odd look crept across his face. "Any bodies turn up lately?"

  "Not that I heard," Morton told him.

  He was quiet again. "Why did Anderson send you?" he asked presently.

  "He was concerned."

  The Creole detective let out a rough grunt of a laugh, then slouched down into the morris chair. He rubbed his face with his hands, then left them over his eyes.

  "Where have you been?" Morton said.

  After the crime scene had been gone over and the last of the coppers departed, Valentin closed the door, pulled the shades, and tumbled headfirst down into a tunnel of despair. Once again, his blind arrogance had brought on a tragedy. This time around it was worse. He had only the vaguest claim to the case, or what there was of it. No one save a handful of musicians cared and he could have left it alone, a mystery that would become another chapter in Storyville's thick book of sordid legends. Now, because of him, an innocent young girl had lost her life, and he still hadn't found the first clue that might lead to a solution to the mystery.

  He sank deeper into darkness. At one point, there was a knock on the door. He thought it might be Justine, coming to console him. He didn't answer and whoever it was went away.

  He related these bare facts to Morton. What he didn't describe was the arc of his anguish over poor Dominique. She had come to him, scared, alone, and in need of assistance. She had shown him kindness and affection, she had offered him her lush body, and now she was dead. He had seen her that last time before they dropped the sheet over her and she looked beautiful even in death, her face sweet and her flesh as vibrant as if it was still bursting with life.

  After uncounted hours went by, he had suddenly roused himself and, in a baffled rage, went out on the street with bad intentions in mind. His first stop was a Rampart Street saloon, where he had some quick drinks. Then he went to the apothecary on the corner of First Street. The druggist had been a source of information over the years and had often provided the Creole detective with whatever potion might loosen an informant's tongue.

  He filled Valentin's request without blinking an eye, even though he'd just come from his warm bed. The detective tucked the envelope in his vest pocket with a muttered word of thanks. His next stop was a tiny shop with Chinee characters on the door. He was in and out in a matter of minutes with a round pill wrapped in gold paper that he tucked away. Then he went home.

  The next forty-eight hours were lost in a haze. He drank and smoked and sniffed. Numbing his brain with rye whiskey, burning it with coca, and then soothing it with hop. He did not remember sleeping or eating. He stayed in the dark, save for the light of a few flickering candles. The daylight barely passed the drawn curtains.

  "And that's all?" Morton asked him.

  Valentin shrugged. He did not want to explain the dark cave he had entered in the thrall of the liquor, opium, and cocaine. He did not want to revisit the haunting visions of his father and mother and sister and brother, Bolden, Justine, and Dominique as they paraded through his mind and then surrounded him with their accusing eyes.

  He did not want to describe the awful dark thing that grew in the pit of his gut, a terrible shape, like some serpent rising up to devour him. It was a fearful beast without form or dimension, and he had the dim sense that if freed, it would turn back and swallow him whole. Such were the insane thoughts that went rushing through his head.

  But it was all too much. At one point, at the bottom of the worst hour, he burst onto Magazine Street and staggered south to the river. He stayed there under the first glimmer of dawn, aware of the ships passing, but seeing little and feeling less. He let the muddy water, deep and roiling, calm him. Then he ambled back home just before daybreak and, finally, was able to sleep. That was all, until Morton's knock on the door.

  "What happened to ... What did they do with Dominique?" he asked.

  "I believe she's at Gasquet's," Morton said. "Mr. Anderson's taking care of that. Gonna send her back home."

  Valentin nodded slowly and then fell silent. Morton remained quiet, too. He didn't know what to say about any of it. So he just watched and waited, and for a brief, strange instant, something came across the detective's face that he had never seen before, a dark shadow that could only be grief. Morton had heard about his family and knew firsthand about Bolden. Now an innocent girl had been taken. The piano man saw all of it in those gray eyes, and for one small moment he thought something was about to break. Then, just as quickly, it was gone. Valentin's back straightened, his gaze hardened, and he let out a long breath.

  Morton sat back, relieved that it hadn't gone any further. Valentin turned his head and met the piano man's worried face. "It's all right, Ferd," he said. "You did what he asked. Now you need to get away from it. Just don't say anything more."

  "I feel like it's my fault."

  "It's not your fault," Valentin said flatly. "If I would have been paying attention, we'd have the killer. And Dominique would be alive."

  The piano man brooded for another moment. "What happens now?" he said.

  "You can tell Mr. Anderson that I've been ill, but that I'm recovering."

  Morton stood up. He reached out to place a hand on St. Cyr's shoulder, then thought better of it and slipped to the door and opened it.

  "Ferd?" Morton stopped. "You can tell him something else. Tell him I'm going to finish what I started."

  FIFTEEN

  No one around uptown New Orleans ever learned his true name. He first went by the moniker "Brother John." He was small of stature, hard muscled, with skin a b
urned bronze color, with long straight hair that he sometimes tied back Indian style and eyes a dazzling, hypnotic shade of green. No one knew where he came from, either; he just appeared back-of-town one day in aught-five, a battered horn in hand, looking for work in a band. It turned out that he was a player of meager skills and, when he couldn't find anyone to hire him on (this was New Orleans, after all), he decided that voodoo might be a more promising career.

  It certainly came easier. All a fellow needed was a good act, babbling gibberish while fussing with roots and bones, and the superstitious types would come flocking. Brother John worked a Negro and Creole clientele, helping himself to their hard-earned dollars and taking his pleasure with the young women.

  It was through some of the colored maids that he first came to the attention of white ladies who were keen on the supernatural, the type who adored the Ouija, numerology, table-tapping, and ghosts, and found himself invited into American parlors on the wealthy side of New Orleans.

  The trouble began when one woman in particular fell under his spell in a dramatic way. Like the spider to the fly, he drew her out of her brick antebellum mansion and into his low-down digs, a bare, roach-infested room along an alleyway off Franklin Street, not much bigger than a crib, with just enough space for the iron bed that they proceeded to press into near-constant service.

  Brother John believed that his ship had come in, that he had captured a goose that would lay him a golden egg, for the woman was married to a rich Irish Channel doctor. John went about servicing her insatiable needs day after day and in every conceivable fashion, but his reward never came. The woman refused to do his bidding and bring him money, jewelry, or fine silver from her home, insisting that all the good fucking should be payment enough. At that point, it began to dawn on Brother John how deranged the woman was and what mortal danger he was inviting for nothing, save some jellyroll that was not all that sweet. So when she arrived the next day, she discovered that he had vacated his premises for parts unknown.