Jass (Valentin St. Cyr Mysteries) Page 28

  The Sicilian finally couldn't stand it any longer and stepped up to him. "Valentino ... compare ... basta, eh?"

  "Fuck basta,'" Valentin said, his gray eyes all bloody.

  "Andi—"

  "Fuck it!" the detective snarled. "Fuck all of you! Motherfuckers!" Along the bar, heads started turning. He jabbed a bellicose finger at Mangetta. "Especially that fucking Picot. I got the goddamn goods on him, Frank. I'm gonna finish him and that damn woman, too!"

  "What the hell are you talking about?" Mangetta hissed urgently. "Be quiet!"

  Valentin snarled something and grabbed for the bottle. Mangetta was quicker. "That's enough!" he said, snatching it away. "You're drunk. Now, quiet down."

  "Quiet down or what?" he barked.

  "Or what?" The saloon keeper's olive face turned shades darker. "Or I'm gonna throw your guappo ass out on the street there."

  Valentin pushed himself away from the bar and stood there, tilting one way and then the other, working to keep his glaring eyes fixed on the saloon keeper. "Va'fottere," he said. "You and all the rest of them and especially that fucking Picot!"

  He turned around and marched slowly and righteously to the door, banging his shoulder into the jamb as he passed outside. Mangetta came from behind the bar and went to stand in the doorway, watching him weave away. He thought about following him, then decided against it. He had never seen Valentin this way, and who knew what he'd do if challenged. So he let him go.

  A voice behind him said, "What the hell's his problem?"

  Valentin was coming up on Basin Street, taking careful steps as he tried to slow the spinning of his head. It had been a long time since he had downed so much so fast, and he was reeling all over the banquette. In his drunken state, he felt himself slipping toward an abyss, as images of Dominique, alive and then dead, came into his mind. He knew dimly that if he let it happen, it would ruin everything, and so he put his total intent on placing one foot in front of the other and making it to his destination.

  By the time he reached the thoroughfare, he could walk with only stumbling, and he had put thoughts of poor Dominique aside. He cut down the alleyway and pushed through the back door of Fewclothes Cabaret. When the cooks saw who it was, they nodded and went back to work. He stepped to the porcelain sink and splashed cold water on his face. Then he drew himself a cup of coffee from the urn, carried it to the corner of the kitchen, and sat down on the sacks of rice that were stacked there.

  He was into his third cup when Beansoup came bursting through the back door, his face all sweaty and his hair sticking up in clownish licks.

  Valentin could now stand without swaying and got to his feet. "Well?" he said. "What happened?"

  "He called for a hack," Beansoup reported. "After he left, I went inside. One of his coppers said he went to Prytania Street."

  "Prytania Street?" Valentin said. "Are you sure?"

  "Sure, I'm sure, goddamnit!"

  "All right, all right," Valentin said. "Did you get—"

  "Number twenty-six hundred twenty-three."

  "Are you sure it was Prytania Street?"

  Beansoup treated him to a scathing look.

  "What about the car?"

  "Waitin' on the corner," Beansoup said, all snappy in his efficiency.

  Valentin carried his empty cup to the sideboard and splashed another handful of cold water on his face.

  "All right," he said. "Let's go."

  The car, a two-seater Model N with a bed for hauling attached to the chassis behind the seats, was parked across Iberville Street. Sitting behind the wheel was a former New Orleans patrolman named Whaley. He had wanted off the force and Valentin set him up with a job driving and running errands for one of the uptown ward bosses. He felt like he owed the detective and was always ready with a favor, like using his employer's car on personal business.

  When he saw Valentin coming across the street, he jumped down and started twisting the crank. The engine hiccuped, coughed, and gurgled before settling down to a steady chug. Valentin pulled himself into the passenger seat. He offered Beansoup his hand, one professional to another. "Good work!" he said. The kid's elfin face broke wide open in a giddy smile and he waved happily as they drove off.

  The automobile was light and as quick as a hornet, and they sped down Basin Street and then south on Canal, dodging around the streetcars. The cool wind was welcome, helping to clear his head some more. There was a light rain coming down when they got across town and it stung his face like needles. Whaley asked if he wanted him to stop and raise the canvas top. Valentin shook his head and told him to keep going.

  They turned onto St. Charles for a few blocks, then headed down St. Mary Street toward the river. A right turn onto Prytania Street took them into the Garden District, the preserve of New Orleans' upper-class Americans. Old and heavy sycamore and live oaks spread their limbs over the small mansions and broad Victorians, all of them pristine and kept that way by the efforts of staffs of Negro help, some of whom were just now trudging home. Valentin wondered if Picot was somehow connected with one of the servants. He hoped to find out directly; that, and more.

  The elaborate comedy of getting drunk and shouting vile threats had worked exactly as he had hoped it would. One of Picot's spies had rushed into the precinct to pass the word along. Valentin had stationed Beansoup close by, and as soon as the lieutenant bolted out the door, the kid strolled in. Picot had left word where he was headed, and it took Beansoup no time at all to pry the information loose.

  It was on the money. When they reached the twenty-five hundred block, Valentin saw the police hack parked up ahead. He told Whaley to pull to the curb and shut off the engine.

  He hit the banquette at a trot. The hack was on the other side of the street, a uniformed officer up on the seat huddled under an umbrella as the rain drizzled down. Valentin passed by unnoticed, then slowed his steps, trying to peer through the blue darkness and silver mist.

  He heard them before he saw them. First was Picot's guttural voice, whispering urgently. The woman murmured an answer, low and calm. Valentin saw them then, picking Picot's short bulk and a woman in a walking dress out of the shadows. Picot held an umbrella in one hand and waved the other one about in agitation. The woman didn't move at all.

  There was no way that Valentin could get close enough to hear them without being spotted. He could tell that Picot's utterances were getting shorter, until he was down to a couple words at a time. There was pronounced silence in the midst of the hissing rain. The woman moved away as lightly as if she was gliding on air. Picot watched her go, then turned around and started for the hack, walking slowly, his head bent. He pulled himself up and the driver snapped the reins. The slap and jangle of the harness faded away.

  Valentin stopped across the street from No. 2623 just as the woman was lifting her skirts to mount the gallery steps. The door opened, but before she went in, she turned to look back down the street in the direction that Picot had gone. Valentin saw her face then; and the profile cast in the pale yellowish light from the foyer looked like a cameo. She wasn't any servant. She was white, handsome in a patrician way, with molded cheeks, an upturned nose, a full, bowed mouth. Her hair was rolled above her ears in the coiffure of the day. Her gaze lingered in the distance, and then she stepped inside. The door closed behind her and the light was gone.

  Valentin looked up and down the street, then crossed the wet cobbles to the corner of the property. The house was stately, a Victorian with a wide gallery and leaded windows draped with lace curtains. It was bordered by a wrought-iron fence atop a brick footing. The lights were on inside and he could see figures moving about like a shadow box.

  He took a quick glance over his shoulder, then vaulted over the fence, praying that the family didn't keep a dog around. He stood in the front garden among the azaleas and dogwoods, listening for anything unusual, then stepped out from the foliage and crept around to the side of the house. The branches of a poplar tree stretched overhead, sheltering him fr
om some of the downpour. Still, anyone who was looking later would find his footprints in the soggy earth. There was nothing he could do about that now.

  He came up on the window of leaded glass and peeked inside on the dining room. A man in a three-piece suit sat on the left side of a large table that was covered with white linen. He appeared to be in his fifties, slender, graying, not in the best of health, and yet he had that unmistakable look of wealth about him. His elegant hands rested on either side of a plate of untouched food. There was a full wineglass before him. Across the table was another place setting and an empty chair. It appeared that the woman had gotten up in the middle of her dinner and gone out in the rain to meet Lieutenant J. Picot. Valentin wondered what would drive her to do that.

  Now the door on the other side of the room slid open. The man didn't look up as the woman took her place at the table. He used his napkin to dab his lips with an expression of distaste, then returned it to his lap.

  Though the sheer curtains veiled his view, Valentin was closer now and could study her. She had a certain society presence, and yet there was something not quite right about the picture. After a moment, he realized that she looked somehow familiar, though he couldn't imagine that he'd ever met her. Still, there were features of her face that reminded him of someone. Her dark hair was done up just so. She wore a fine but simple day dress. The gold band on her finger glimmered in the light of the electric chandelier.

  When she picked up her knife and fork to resume eating, the man started speaking in a measured voice that was too low for Valentin to hear, but the detective could sense the tension. Between sentences, the ends of his mouth turned down in bitter curls and the cords in his neck went taut. The woman responded with a cold look, then abruptly pushed her plate aside and lifted her wineglass to her lips, staring at him over the crystal rim.

  The wind came up, rustling leaves that scratched the window above Valentin's head, and the woman looked over. He stood still, holding his breath as her eyes appeared to move down and stop at his face. He knew she couldn't see him out there, and yet a smile, knowing and bemused, crossed her face for a few seconds. The man said something sharp and she turned back to him, her gaze going icy and her nostrils flaring. The man dabbed his thin lips once more.

  She drank off what was left in her glass and stood up, looming over to mutter a harsh sentence. He drew away, treating her to a stare that was almost hateful. She went to the doors, threw both sides open, and made her exit. The man gazed at her empty chair with morose eyes.

  The wind rose up again, shaking the branches, and Valentin used the cover to slip back along to the front of the house, over the fence, and onto the banquette. He went all the way around the two blocks, startling Whaley when he came up from behind.

  "You see what you wanted to see?" the driver said.

  "I saw who I wanted to see."

  "You mean Picot?"

  "I mean Emma Lee Smith."

  Whaley's Irish brow furrowed. "Who?"

  "Let's go home," Valentin said.

  Lieutenant Picot had no sooner walked back into his office and taken off his dripping coat and hat than Tyler scurried in, looking more and more like a rodent every time he came into view. He reported that someone had told someone who told someone who told him that St. Cyr was seen riding in a tin lizzie that was being driven by an ex-copper named Whaley, just as the car turned off St. Mary Street onto St. Charles, heading downtown.

  Picot turned away so that Tyler couldn't see his face. All he could think was that St. Cyr knew, goddamn him! He was getting closer and there would be no stopping him. It was as if two runaway trains were steaming toward each other and there was nothing he could do to keep them from crashing.

  NINETEEN

  The street door squeaked ever so slightly and footsteps came padding up the stairwell. Valentin thought he was dreaming. When a step creaked—the loose one, sixth from the top—he came fully awake and swung his legs off the couch.

  From the light through the window and the noise from the street, he judged it to be around eight o'clock. Too early for visitors. He rubbed his face to get some blood flowing and perked an ear. There was no doubt, someone was coming up the stairs at a hesitant pace. He kept still and waited.

  After Whaley left him at his door, he dragged himself upstairs and collapsed on the couch like a dead man, wearied to the bone by the days of strain and the lingering effects of the glasses of Raleigh Rye he had swilled at Mangetta's.

  Blearily, he looked at the door and saw no key dangling. He had been so exhausted that he had forgotten to lock it. So whoever was now stepping onto the landing could simply turn the knob and walk right in. He couldn't remember ever doing that before and hissed out a curse at his stupidity—now of all times.

  He got to his feet, willing his stiff legs to support him. At least he had taken his shoes off and could move without making a sound. Feeling around to his back pocket, he drew out his sap. If this visitor came bursting in with a gun or a blade, he'd be in trouble.

  He sensed the body on the other side of the door, heard a soft sigh of movement. He held his breath and gripped the sap tighter. The silence lasted five seconds. Then the steps retreated down the stairs.

  He jerked the door open and quickly moved onto the landing. Justine stood gazing up at him. She looked abashed, perhaps a little fearful, her eyes blinking nervously. She glanced at his hand and he realized that he was still gripping his sap at a right angle to his body, as if ready to swing it.

  He put it back in his pocket. "What are you doing here?" he asked her. When she didn't answer, he said, "Won't you be missed on Girod Street?"

  "I don't care," she said. "If he wants to put me out, I don't care." There was another silence, this one longer. "I'm sorry, I don't know why I came here." She turned to descend the stairs.

  "Wait," he said.

  He told her to have a seat while he got cleaned up.

  She said, "I can make coffee. If you don't mind, I mean."

  "All right, then."

  She went into the kitchen, got the percolator going, and took down cups. It was a ritual she had repeated hundreds of times, and now she felt clumsy and out of place, as if she had been gone a year, rather than a handful of days. Where had she lost that time?

  When she heard him come out of the bathroom, she poured two cups full and went about fixing his the way he liked it, with much cream and just a touch of sugar. She carried both cups into the front room. He sat down in the morris chair. She sat on the couch.

  In the quiet moments that followed, she sensed something kinder in his bearing, if not forgiveness for her betrayal, at least respite from the cloud of blame that had been hanging over her. She knew it was not in his nature to forswear a slight and was grateful for his small act of mercy.

  "Did you find her?" she asked presently.

  "What's that?"

  "The woman you were looking for. Did you find her?"

  "I did," he said, then went about recounting the hours since he had seen her last.

  "I put on a show up at Mangetta's and got Picot to run to her. I followed him and saw her with him. Then I spied inside her house." He described the silent drama between husband and wife that played out on the other side of the glass.

  Justine said, "Are you sure it's her?"

  "Who else could it be? The name on the house is Gerard. Maybe Smith really is her maiden name. Maybe it's all fake. I'll have to find out who she really is and how she's tied to these killings." He paused. "It might not be easy. Her tracks might already be covered. I don't know why Picot's helping her, but if there's anything in the police files, it's most likely gone."

  Justine considered. "So she still might get away clean."

  "Yes, she might."

  She looked at his face and allowed herself a thin smile. "She won't," she said. "You won't let her. No one ever beats you, Valentin."

  He didn't know what to say to that. He got a sense that she wasn't just talking about the ne'er-do-wells
whom he had run to ground over the years and decided it was best to let it pass.

  Justine stirred her coffee absently. "And what about after?"

  "After?"

  "After it's finished. Whatever happens. What will you do then?"

  He got quiet, staring moodily into his cup. "I don't think I'll be able to stay in New Orleans. Not after all this. I went against Tom Anderson, the police, the mayor's office. They won't let that pass. I'll be finished here."

  She nodded slowly, as if she had expected it. For a brief second, she felt her heart dropping and fought an urge to weep. "And what about Ville Platte?" she said in a muted voice.

  "Nobody will touch you," he said. "I'll make sure of it."

  "You think you can do that?"

  He shrugged. "Nobody beats me."

  She gave him a sharp look, saw that he wasn't mocking her.

  He put his cup aside and stood up. "I'm sorry," he said. "I don't have much time. I have to finish this today."

  "Shall I stay here?" she said, keeping her gaze averted.

  "No. Go back to Girod Street." He saw her shoulders heave. "I'll come see you later."

  When she got up to go, she wanted to say something, or touch him for a moment. Then she saw his eyes had turned inward, intent on the task at hand, and she left without another word.

  The offices of the Picayune were in a block building on the corner of Camp and Poydras streets. As always, the Sunday edition was posted in the front windows of the building, and at the moment three men stood reading, two with their hats tilted back and their hands in their pockets, the third, an older gentleman who perused the front page with a magnifying glass that would have done Sherlock Holmes proud.

  It was Valentin's habit to read the newspaper every morning without fail. He realized now that he hadn't seen one in days, so he stole a quick glance as he passed by. There were no screaming headlines. He hadn't missed any catastrophes. He glimpsed at a story about the Bryan-Taft race for the White House, another about problems with sugar imports from Cuba.