He nodded. “Yes. Your Police Superintendent. Hennessy was ambushed and killed in a spray of gunfire—the night of October fifteenth, I believe?”
“Yes. He had been pursuing the activities of the Italian Mafia along the docks for some time. It is widely believed they assassinated him.”
“And yet the nineteen men charged with the conspiracy were never convicted, as I recall.”
I snorted in disgust. “Disgracefully shoddy work on our part. Instead of going after only the men responsible, they rounded up some poor laborers—some were just off the boat and weren’t even in New Orleans when Hennessy was killed!”
“There were also rumors of jury tampering.”
I shrugged. “Undoubtedly. But by that time, what did it matter? Everyone in the city was in the grip of anti-Italian fervor. And the events that followed were shameful, Mr. Holmes—shameful!”
“You are referring to the murder of the defendants?”
I shuddered. “Pulled from their jail cells by an angry mob of six thousands citizens. They were murdered in cold blood, Mr. Holmes! I have never been so ashamed of my city.”
“Nine were shot and two hanged, I believe?”
“Yes—and no one was ever charged in their deaths. The justice system that turns a blind eye to such a travesty is a poor affair indeed. I am still appalled by such a naked display of prejudice and vigilante vengeance. Do you know that the Italian government was so outraged that it broke off diplomatic relations with this country?”
Holmes ran a long finger around the rim of his coffee cup. “I believe I heard something to that effect.”
“Rightly so, in my mind, Mr. Holmes. However, I must tell you that view is not a popular one, at least not among the non-Italian population of this city. Since that time, everyone has been more than a little on edge, and suspicions between various cultural groups have become more pronounced, the lines between them sharper.”
Holmes shook his head. “That is unfortunate. But you believe that some of these more ruthless characters might be trying to intimidate your friend?”
“It’s possible. What I don’t understand is why they haven’t threatened him directly.”
“Perhaps they have, and he has yet to tell you.”
“That wouldn’t be like Charles. We were at school together—we have no secrets from each other.”
Holmes lifted one eyebrow and put down his coffee cup. His hands were long and slender, yet, I fancied, capable of great strength.
“My dear Captain Brasseaux, it is often the people we least expect to have secrets who surprise us by keeping the darkest things hidden from us.”
Holmes looked around the café as if he thought someone might be eavesdropping on our conversation. Then he turned to me and lowered his voice.
“What of this voodoo priestess, Madame Celeste—what do you know of her? Would she have any reason to wish your friend ill?”
“Not that I know of. Everyone knows who she is, but I had no idea she knew Charles.”
“Perhaps it is her business to know things. In any case, I think a visit to Madame Celeste is indicated.”
We finished our coffee quickly and headed off toward the heart of the French Quarter. Madame Celeste’s residence was not hard to find; everyone in the neighborhood seemed to know where she lived. It was not far from Antoine’s Restaurant, a favorite among both locals and the swelling tide of tourists and vacationers who streamed through our town this time of year. Though their presence was good for our economy, it made my job harder; guarding them from pickpockets, burglars, and garrotters was like trying to protect a large, placid herd of sheep from a pack of hungry wolves. You could always spot the tourists, with their stolid, passive faces, often trailing a brood of stodgy, equally dull-faced children behind them, gazing up at the elaborate wrought-iron balconies of the French Quarter. The sight of them made me wince, because they are sitting ducks for our city’s ever-present criminal element—they might just as well have signs around their necks reading “PLEASE ROB ME,” or “LOOK NO FURTHER—EASY MARK.” Somehow, though, our rising crime rate doesn’t deter them, and they keep coming, stepping out of their coaches and rail carriages like lemmings swarming from cliffs into the sea below.
Holmes and I shouldered our way through the thickening throngs of sightseers until we reached Madame Celeste’s building. Her apartment was in a rather elegant rooming house on Royal Street—on the first floor, naturally, given her aversion to climbing stairs.
We soon discovered that Madame Celeste did not make appointments, nor did she keep regular hours. After knocking loudly, we tried the door, but it was locked securely, with no signs of life within. We went around to the back entrance, where there was a note taped to the door: “Out—retourner temps à temps,” a vague enough promise that we cooled our heels in the oyster bar across the street, consoling ourselves with a few dozen blue points. Finally, after an hour of waiting, I left a note indicating that I wished to see her at her earliest convenience. When Holmes suggested we pay a call to Charles and Evangeline, I agreed immediately, and we hopped on the St. Charles Avenue trolley.
Charles and Evangeline Latille lived in one of the grand houses along St. Charles Street in the part of town known as the Garden District. The Latilles were not Acadian like my father’s family, but pure French Creole, and could trace their ancestry back centuries to Provençal nobility; a branch of the family had settled in New Orleans in the mid 1700s. The Latilles who settled in the New World were a practical-minded lot, and started a shipping business that continued more or less unabated through to Charles, who took over managing the firm when his father died some years back. Though perhaps he lacked the keen business instincts of his forebears, Charles did his best to carry on and support himself and his sister.
As Holmes and I ascended the stairs to the front entrance of the house, I turned to look at him. Though he was trying to hide it, he was evidently winded, leaning on the stoop railing for support. I rang the bell.
“Are you sure you’re all right, Mr. Holmes?” I said.
“Perfectly all right, thank you,” he replied, unsuccessfully stifling a cough. He was obviously lying, but just then the door opened and I had no more opportunity to question him further.
We entered the house, admitted by Esthmé, the ancient octoroon who had been with the Latilles for as long as I could remember and whose family had served them for three generations. Her face was a fine network of wrinkles, like a delicate lace handkerchief that had been folded many times. Her eyes were clear, though, and her back was straight and stiff as a sapling, though she favored one leg slightly when she walked. Her hair was only just turning from black to grey, and a few wisps fluttered from the green bandana she wore in winter and summer.
“Evenun’, Missah Lucien,” Esthmé said, casting a dubious glance at Holmes. Esthmé did not grant her favor lightly, and even after all our years of association, I was not quite sure if she approved of me. My pedigree certainly wasn’t up to that of the Latilles—and from time to time over the years, Esthmé made it quite plain that she knew this. Social status counts in New Orleans; ancestry and pedigree is important, and it wasn’t uncommon for servants of grand families to look down upon anyone who did not match the social standing of their masters.
“Hello, Esthmé,” I replied, handing her my hat. “How’s your lumbago these days?”
“Oh, cain’t say as how I kin complain. It done bother me sumpthin’ terrible last month, but fo’ some reason it ain’t been comin’ back these past weeks.”
“Perhaps it’s that new ointment the doctor gave you to rub on it,” Holmes remarked.
Esthmé stared at him, her long jaw slack with amazement, but Just then Evangeline came flying down the hallway, and I forgot all about Esthmé and her lumbago. My beloved wore a simple lemon yellow dress, devoid of frills and frippery, but my heart nearly stopped at the sight of her. Her jet-black hair, usually up in a perfect chignon, was disordered and hung around her neck in damp rin
glets.
“Lucien, darling, thank heavens you’ve come!” Evangeline cried, wrapping her fragrant white arms around me, and I felt faint with the intoxicating mixture of love and desire. She clearly had been crying. Her pretty mouth trembled, and her dark eyelashes were heavy with tears.
“What is it, Evy darling?”
“It—it’s Charles. He’s not well. Thank heaven you’ve come!”
“What’s the matter?” I said, fear seeping into my bones.
“Come see for yourself,” she replied—then, with a quick glance at Holmes, she lowered her eyes. “I beg your pardon, sir; where are my manners?”
“Not at all, madam; I can plainly see you are distressed,” he answered gently. “Perhaps I may even be of some assistance.”
“Permit me to introduce my fiancée, Evangeline Latille. Evy, this is Mr.—” I froze. In the heat of the moment, I had forgotten Holmes’s alias.
“Altamont, Jean Paul Altamont,” Holmes said smoothly, barely missing a beat. I breathed what I hoped was a silent sigh of relief.
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Altamont,” said Evangeline. “I hope you’ll forgive a foolish woman’s rantings, but I am so terribly worried about my brother.”
“Understandably so, I’m sure,” Holmes replied. “Where is he?”
“This way,” she said, leading us up the wide central staircase off the entrance hall. There was no sign of the redoubtable Esthmé, who had discreetly withdrawn. I had grown up in the Latille house as much as in my own, and I knew every scratch in the thick oak banister, every nick in the maple wainscoting, every knot in the floorboards. I had left pieces of my soul in the branches of the great elm tree we used to climb in the backyard, and the boy in me lingered underneath the huge magnolias that lined the front garden, seeking the shade of their broad leaves, inhaling their soft fragrance. I was no more a stranger in this house than I was in my own, and yet, when I followed Evangeline down the corridor to Charles’s bedroom, another chill ran through me. It was swift and sharp, short as the flight of a swallow, but it shook me. I turned to look at Holmes to see if he felt anything; but his lips were compressed, his eyes sharp, as if he were studying everything around him. I did not like his pallor; his cheeks were unnaturally flushed, and sweat stood out on his face, though the evening was quite cool.
When we got to Charles’s room, though, I was even more appalled at the sight of my friend. He lay huddled on his bed, the bedclothes up to his chin, clutching at them with whitened knuckles. As we entered the darkened room I could hear him moaning softly—he seemed only vaguely aware of our presence. I turned to Evangeline.
“How long has he been like this?”
“Since this afternoon. He took sick after lunch.”
“Why didn’t you fetch a doctor?” I asked impatiently. The minute the words were out of my mouth, I regretted them. Poor Evangeline dissolved into tears and was unable to answer me. I cursed myself for the unnecessary harshness in my voice, but it had been a trying day, and my nerves were on edge. To top it off, I couldn’t help wondering if my friend’s pitiful condition was related somehow to Madame Celeste’s dire warning. I didn’t want to capitulate to superstition, but when you grow up in southern Louisiana, it is difficult to banish such thoughts. Ridiculous as my logical mind told me it was, the thought struck to my brain like molasses on corn bread: Charles Latille was the victim of a voodoo curse.
Mr. Holmes, however, seemed to have no such predilections; he was the very soul of rationality and action. He bent over Charles and checked his pulse, then laid a hand upon his forehead. Charles looked up at him.
“Are—you—a doctor?” His voice was thin and ragged.
Holmes shook his head. “No, Mr. Latille, though I have some medical knowledge by association, you might say. Forgive my forwardness, but you look as though you could use some medical care. Your friend and your sister are quite worried about you.”
“I’ll be all right,” Charles muttered weakly. “Probably just a spot of food poisoning.” He looked up at me apologetically. “Probably one too many oysters at lunch.”
It was so like Charles to be embarrassed about what he perceived as weakness. Though well over six feet tall, he was slight of build and delicate, like his sister. Gangly and spindly as an over-watered house plant, he was never very strong as a child and was the object of bullying at school. In fact, our friendship was cemented early on when I rescued him from the clutches of a big half-Cajun, half-Choctaw called Bottlenose Joe. Joe, whose nickname derived from his unusually prodigious proboscis, had Charles half-choked, half-scared to death when I showed up and suggested he pick on someone more able to defend himself. I am not especially tall, but the Brasseaux men are all built like bulls—my father came from a long line of bar brawlers. He taught me how to square off against any opponent, and I was able to give Bottlenose Joe something to think about for a while. He never came near Charles again.
That pattern of rescuing my friend from scrapes continued throughout our boyhood—there was something about him, a softness, maybe, that drew bullies to him. Whatever the reason, he was the closest thing I had to a brother, and I took it upon myself to assure his safety while we were growing up. I never regretted it—he was clever and kind and always had pretty girls after him, so I got the pick of his leftovers, as it were.
Charles had the same dark hair and pale complexion as his sister, but just then his face was star , fish-belly white, all the color drained from his cheeks. I tried to smile, to make a pretense of not being concerned. Evangeline’s tears had dried, but her face was a mask of concern. She stood at the foot of his bed, wringing her hands.
“What are your symptoms, if you don’t mind my asking?” said Holmes.
“Vomiting, stomach pains, sweating, cramps—pretty much like food poisoning,” he replied.
“I see. And where did you dine for lunch?”
He managed a weak smile. “Same place I always do—Antoine’s.”
“Ah, yes,” Holmes remarked. “Quite a respectable place, from what I’ve heard.”
“The best,” said Charles. “So you’re not from around here, then?”
Holmes ignored the question. “Well, you are correct in your assumption that fresh seafood does not always behave itself, no matter what the chef’s credentials. At any rate, you appear to be in no immediate danger.” He turned to me. “I suggest we let your friend get some rest now.”
“Very well,” I said.
Before we left, Evangeline fluffed up her brother’s pillows and kissed him softly on the cheek. We left the door ajar behind us and tiptoed down the hall, descending the main staircase quietly. When we reached the foyer, Esthmé was coming from the direction of the kitchen, carrying a bowl of milk in her hand.
“That damn cat done gone and run off!” she muttered, heading toward the back door leading out to the garden.
“Excuse me for a moment,” said Holmes. “Did you say you’ve lost your cat?”
Esthmé stopped and turned to face us. “It’s the strangest thing, monsieur, don’ ya know. Never knew that cat to refuse a bowl a’ milk afore.”
“How long has she been missing?” Holmes inquired.
Esthmé shrugged. “Mos’ all afternoon. And usually she keeps me company whilst I chop da vegetables, so then.”
Holmes nodded. “I see. Would you be kind enough to notify me when the cat reappears?”
Esthmé blinked. “It’s jes a cat, sir.”
That was my reaction exactly, and I told Holmes as much as we headed off to catch the St. Charles Avenue trolley. I have a cabin out on the bayou just across from the Lower Ninth Ward, and I had convinced Mr. Holmes to stay with me rather than book a hotel in town. I must confess my motive was partially selfish: the thought of playing host to the greatest detective in the world filled me with excitement. There would be time, perhaps, to pick his brain about some of his most difficult cases, and maybe even ask him about a few of my unsolved ones. Though I had risen to precinct captain, in m
y heart I would always be a city police detective; my happiest days were when I was out gathering evidence and chasing criminals through our grimy, gritty streets. And I was engaged in the same pursuit once more, but this time with the help of the incomparable Sherlock Holmes.
“Why were you so interested in Esthmé’s cat?” I asked as the trolley car clattered along the tracks. It was late, and the car was practically empty, the conductor sitting sleepy-eyed at his wheel, his cap pulled down low over his face. “Surely the disappearance of a cat is a mere trifle.”
“My dear Captain Brasseaux,” he replied, “sometimes an entire case turns upon a mere trifle, as you call it.”
I was silent for some time, then I turned to him. “Mr. Holmes, this may sound like a foolish question, but … do you believe in curses?”
“Believe in them? Well, I suppose you could say I believe in the power of suggestion—that when a man believes himself to be cursed, his life may well turn out badly.”
“But do you think one person has the ability to put a spell on another?”
“There are many kinds of enchantments, Captain,” he replied thoughtfully. “And many things between birth and death we do not understand. So I suppose I would have to say that I do believe it is possible for a person to fall under another’s spell.”
I could not know then how his words were to haunt me in the days to come.
I cooked dinner for the two of us that night, crawfish with “dirty rice,” a Cajun specialty, and Holmes seemed to enjoy the meal. I persuaded him to lie on the couch while I cleared the dishes; when I had finished washing up, I returned to the living room to find him sound asleep. I draped a blanket over him, turned out the lights, and tiptoed off to my own bed, disappointed there would be no late-night discussion of past cases, but also somewhat relieved. I was exhausted. I fell asleep immediately, to a night filled with troubled dreams in which I was being pursued through the swamps and bayous by an unknown assailant wearing a mask.
Somewhere out in the night, an owl hooted.
Holmes went with me to the station early the next morning. Though it was Sergeant Pierce’s job to call roll, by eight-thirty he still hadn’t shown up, so I did it myself, then dismissed my men out to their regular beats. The last few days had been fairly quiet, but with Carnival in full swing, there would always be purse snatchers, pickpockets, and bar brawls—the usual pre–Mardi Gras petty crimes. We also had several undercover agents assigned to cover the growing Mafia presence on the docks.
Sherlock Holmes: The Hidden Years Page 33
