Chasing the Devil's Tail

by David Fulmer

  Countess Willie V Piazza took the Creole detective's arm and walked him through the parlor. At a mahogany table next to the street window, three men—two white, one who looked like a Mexican—sat talking in low voices. Their whispers stopped and they glanced coldly at Valentin as he and the Countess entered the room. He recognized one of the white men, Guy Molony, a murky, secretive rounder and sometime Pinkerton man. The other two were strangers. By habit, Valentin noted their features, pushed them into a drawer in his memory, all in the few seconds it took to reach the far side of the room.

  Though Molony's partners were dressed in identical clean white shirts and cotton trousers, they were swarthy and rough-edged, like they belonged in some jungle outpost. Their faces glowed in fierce shades of red as they drank from glasses of whiskey. The white fellow's hair was cropped in short, spiky points and the Mexican's black curls were slick with oil. Molony, looking like a particularly dapper fancy man that day, turned away before Valentin could address him.

  Valentin escorted Countess Piazza through an archway and into a sitting room cluttered with ornate bric-a-brac on little shelves. The madam released his arm and drew the sliding doors closed. She gestured to a French chair as she took a seat that resembled a throne. "What's Molony up to now?" Valentin asked as he sat down, an automatic response to intruders on his territory. Then he remembered it wasn't his territory anymore, at least not by Tom Anderson's reckoning.

  The Countess arranged herself. "He's got a couple wild boys out there," she said with a sly smile. "They're mercenaries. Soldiers of fortune. Lee Christmas and Manuel something." She laughed lightly. "Molony tells me they're going to assemble an army and invade the country of Honduras." Valentin raised his eyebrows in polite surprise and the madam shrugged her round, elegant shoulders. "Who knows?" she said. "Perhaps I can some day say that a revolution was hatched right out there in my parlor."

  The madam was clearly delighted at the idea. Valentin, who knew little of affairs outside the District, and cared less, said nothing. The doors slid open a few feet and one of the girls, a pretty quadroon like all the residents of the house, stepped into the room and bent to whisper in the Countess' ear.

  Valentin watched his host as she spoke to the girl in a low voice, still baffled by her hospitality.

  He had left his rooms, walked the eight blocks to Conti Street and went around to Antonia Gonzales'. At that door, he was told that the madam was indisposed, could he please call back another time? He then walked back to Basin Street to Lulu White's, where he received a similar message—the madam was said to be busy with a special customer—though the girl at the door whispered that Miss White expressed her regards. Tom Anderson's warning hadn't been an idle one, and so he mounted the gallery steps of Willie V Piazza's mansion expecting yet another curt dismissal.

  He was surprised, though, when the madam herself appeared and waved a quick hand, ushering him inside, though she did pause to cast a furtive glance up and down the street. Of all the women who had contracted his services, Countess Piazza was the one he would have thought most eager to be rid of him. While her taste for Continental conventions—including intrigue—demanded private security, Valentin knew she thought him the least of an array of evils, the best pick from a crude litter of thugs, hoodlums, and road tramps. She kept him always at arm's length; they had exchanged at most a few dozen words in all the months he had worked for her, most of them to explain that an appearance once a week was all that was required unless, of course, a situation arose.

  The only time he had ever been called to the house outside of his regular weekly visit was to dissuade an amorous Spanish prince from throwing himself from a second-story window. The prince was distraught because one of the Countess' lovelier quadroons would neither return his pledge of undying love nor accept his invitation to sail to Spain to become his mistress. The girl was Arkansas-born and didn't want to be so far from her kin. Valentin talked the broken-hearted prince down from the window ledge and sent him and his aggrieved Castilian heart away.

  Countess Piazza rewarded the Creole detective with an extra twenty-dollar gold piece, but never said a word about the incident. She had expected the discreet touch.

  Of course, she was not without her pretensions. Though her swarthy skin, long, fleshy nose, heavy eyebrows and coal black hair loudly proclaimed Italian blood, Willie Piazza was no more a countess than Valentin was a saint. But she was so convincing in the role that it never occurred to anyone around the District to question it; and no one close to her would presume to pry into her affairs, least of all her private security man. It remained a mystery and part of their bargain. If there was still a bargain for them to keep.

  She waved the quadroon girl away and turned to Valentin with a sigh and a frown. "How did things ever come to this?" she said and her tone, precise and cultured, held a tragic note. "Poor, dear Florence Mantley. Thrown from a window. May her soul rest in peace." Valentin nodded gravely. "And now you, Mr. St. Cyr," she went on. "It seems they've taken to killing the messenger."

  Valentin gazed at the madam, a bit startled.

  "You've paid a visit to Miss Antonia and Lulu White?" she went on, studying her fingernails. "And they sent you on your way?"

  "Yes, they did."

  "Did they tell you in person?"

  "No, ma'am."

  The Countess shook her head angrily. "Antonia called me up on the telephone. She got a message from Lulu White. Who got a message from Hilma Burt. Who informed her that Mr. Anderson preferred that we not retain the services of Mr. St. Cyr. The reason being that your mishandling of these murders is a black eye to all of us. And there was some mention of your friendship with King Bolden." Valentin nodded glumly. "Well, Hilma Burt and Lulu White and Antonia Gonzales don't run my business," the madam went on. "You won't get that sort of treatment at this address. I owe you that much."

  He let out a sharp breath.

  "Those two should be ashamed," the Countess said. "Tom Anderson should be ashamed. And I'm appalled that I have to be a party to it." Her tone turned regretful. "But you understand that I can't conduct business without Anderson's blessing." She shook her head slowly, looking troubled. "Why he thinks you're at fault, I don't know."

  "He says I let him down be—"

  "You?" the madam broke in. "I don't see his friends in the police department cleaning up this mess. All those detectives, the pride of New Orleans, they don't have one idea about what to do, and somehow it becomes your fault? That's an odd bit of logic, I'd say."

  Valentin said, "They believe King Bolden is the guilty party and that he's my responsibility."

  The madam paused to regard him. "And what do you believe, Valentin?"

  He stared down at the designs in the thick carpet, creeping vines entwined with creeping vines. "I know him," he said. "We grew up together. I don't think he has the nature." He grimaced. "I happen to know what it takes to kill a person."

  Countess Piazza sat back. "Oh, yes. That fellow over in Algiers." Her black eyebrows knit together. "But people do change, don't they?" she mused. When Valentin didn't speak up, she added, "Friend or no friend, he is a disturbed man. That's a fact." She folded her hands in her lap. "What about the other part? Do you believe you're responsible for him?"

  "I believe I'm his last chance," he said.

  The madam nodded thoughtfully, then sighed once and extended ring-adorned fingers that held a small envelope. "This is something to help you along," she said. "i hope one day i will find you back in my employ. But for now..." She sighed again, deeply, then wished him luck and called for one of her girls to see him out.

  He was grateful for Countess Piazza's sentiments and the five gold pieces he had found in the envelope. But fifty dollars wouldn't last forever, and her kind thoughts wouldn't buy him as much as a ride on the No. 34 streetcar. Now, as he wandered north on Basin Street, eyes downcast, he tried to imagine how he would make up for the money he was going to lose. Maybe, after all of it was over, he'd end up down on the do
cks, just like his father.

  His brooding was interrupted by a tug at his sleeve. LeMenthe—Mr. Jelly Roll Morton—had come along behind him without a word.

  "How's tricks?" the piano player asked, eyeing him carefully.

  "They could be better," Valentin replied.

  Jelly Roll was trying to act cool and calm, but he was wearing a little nervous smile and he kept pulling his hands in and out of the pockets of his cotton trousers. "How was your visit with my godmother?" he said.

  "It was ... helpful," Valentin told him.

  "I thought she'd put you right on them murders." Valentin made a noncommittal shrug and the piano man's brow furrowed. "It's just too damn bad about Bolden," he said.

  Valentin blinked. Who had said anything about Bolden?

  "He shoulda never messed with that hoodoo," Morton pronounced, getting excited. "It got him good. He's just all full of bad juju."

  "Maybe so," Valentin said, thinking that maybe Morton and all the rest of them were right. It was all the voodoo. He was ready to believe anything.

  "You know what I say?" Morton muttered. "I say you better be damned careful if you go chasin' the devil's tail. 'Cause you just might catch it." With that, he turned and sauntered away.

  FOURTEEN

  Bas wants to know who is the one they have dubbed the "Black Rose Killer" in the spate of recent deaths in the Tenderloin?

  It seems that the dastardly fellow leaves a black rose behind wherever he causes his mayhem, hence the name.

  Someone knows who it is, but isn't saying.

  —THE SUN

  Valentin felt curiously at ease for a fellow who faced Monday with an empty plate before him.

  He had arrived back at his rooms the evening before to find that Beansoup had shown up at the door on an uninvited visit. Justine took pity on the boy and insisted that he stay for dinner. So they spent the evening sitting at the kitchen table and later on the balcony, he and Justine drinking wine and listening to Beansoup tell preposterous stories about his exploits. When it got late, she invited him to sleep on the couch and she made him a fine bed there. Valentin stood by, a silent witness to her continued nesting. With Beansoup tucked in and snoring softly, they went to the bedroom and frolicked before falling into a sound sleep.

  That one evening with no talk of murders or crazy King Bolden or anything at all about Storyville had worked to lighten his spirits. What was done was done, and he was surprised to find himself feeling a certain relief. He shoved aside his guilt at leaving Bolden to his own devices. He had lost his livelihood defending that maniac, and that should be enough for old time's sake. It wasn't like they were the best of friends anymore; those days were long gone. He didn't even think much about what he was going to do next. For one day, he would attend to his own simple pleasures.

  Even the weather was cooperating, the streets morning bright. Downstairs at the tobacco shop, he exchanged pleasantries with old Gaspare, bought himself a packet of Richmond Straight Cuts, and put a nickel on the counter for the morning edition of The Sun, like any other regular fellow. He had to smile at the picture he must have presented as he stepped onto the banquette.

  He leaned against a lamppost to peruse his paper. He noted with appropriate interest that the murder trial of Leonard K. Thaw was still the big national story, with a debate over the sanity of the killer of millionaire Stanford White marking the headline. Further down the page was news of a war brewing in Nicaragua, items on the battle over railroad trusts, and a visit by the Ambassador from Japan. There was also notice of the passing of a prominent New Orleans attorney and a cartoon drawing of Teddy Roosevelt with huge mustache, teeth and glasses on a globe-sized head, perched upon a tiny pony. There was no mention of the Storyville murders, at least no front-page mention.

  He almost didn't bother to go any further, but his curiosity led him on and there it was on page two, a story about the grand funeral of Miss Florence Mantley, late of Basin Street. It was a transparent piece that mourned the madam's passing and made only slight reference to the "undisclosed accident" that had caused her tragic death. It seemed Anderson and the police had managed to keep Miss Mantley off the killer's resume, at least for the moment. Good luck to them, he mused vacantly.

  Turning another page, his eye was caught by the column by the character who went by the moniker "Bas Bleu," known as the prime monger (and often creator) of gossip from the Uptown streets. The fellow, who through much subterfuge kept his identity unknown, feared no one, not Anderson, nor the Mayor, nor the Police Department, nor the criminal elements. He barked at the stuffy Americans on one side of Basin Street and the scarlet kings and queens on the other. His ear was to the wind and he would flaunt a rumor in the blink of an eye.

  Bas led this day's charge with some banter about a certain prominent madam's recent dramatic weight gain. He turned his attention to a local businessman, "old Jew Myers," and a suspicious contract to sew uniforms for the police department. Then he plunged on to a screed about the "strange passing of Miss Florence Mantley, in the wake of the violent deaths of at least four sporting girls in the Tenderloin." Valentin straightened, feeling uneasy, and read on.

  What is afoot in Anderson County? The good word has it that a certain obstacle has been removed from the case (with a 'good riddance' from Mr. Tom, Chief O'Connor, and the hoi-polloi of the demi-monde), and the police now have a clear path to ending this terrible string of crimes, which some are calling the "black rose murders." It seems this certain fellow had neither the nerve nor the wits to handle such serious business and has been put quite rightly in his place.

  Valentin stared at the print, feeling his breath grow short as a rush of blood rose to his face. He cursed, then let out a bitter laugh at the sheer audacity of the item. He read it again, galled as much by the words on the page as what—and who—was behind them. The nix was out on him and it could have come only from one source: Anderson, no doubt by way of Billy Struve. It was intended to get Uptown whispering, to clear a path so that Buddy Bolden could be lynched without a rope. It was so clever he had to admire it. He crumpled the newspaper, pitched it directly into the gutter and stalked away down Magazine Street.

  Justine had opened the door and stepped onto the balcony just as he appeared on the banquette, so close that she could almost read the newspaper over his shoulder. She saw him lean his lazy body on the lamppost and read over the front page. She saw him turn unhurriedly to the inside and peruse another page, looking so at ease and she thought of calling his name, surprising him, just to see the look on his face. He turned another page and she saw him tense. He read for a moment, then looked away, shook his head, and started reading again, his posture going all stiff with anger.

  A few moments later, he crumpled the paper, looking like he wanted instead to tear it into pieces. He tossed it into the gutter and stalked away, his head bent to the banquette, as if there was something hanging onto his coattails that neither his jerking steps nor the morning breeze from the river could dislodge.

  She watched him stop on the corner at Gravier, stare at some point in the distance, then continue at a foot-dragging pace, a man swimming upstream in a river of trouble. She hurried down to the street, bought herself a copy of The Sun, and scanned it until she found the article. Reading slowly, she felt her heart sink. For a little while, she had thought it was all over.

  For the next two days, he skulked about, barely uttering a word to her. She kept busy with the rooms and did her best to stay out of his way. He disappeared for long hours without explaining, and at night he made no move to her, but tossed about so much that she barely slept at all. Beansoup, however, had found Valentin's couch much to his liking, and Justine didn't have the heart to send him back out on the street. He wandered who knew where during the days, but he always found his way back to Magazine Street in time for dinner.

  One afternoon, he showed up with a small Negro boy from the Colored Waifs Home named Louis something. Beansoup, it turned out, had bragged to his frien
ds about the Creole detective and the Creole detective's friend King Bolden, and young Louis was eager to get a close-up look at the famous trumpet player. Disappointment showed in his button eyes when he found that King Bolden was not on the premises. Justine invited him to stay and eat, but he refused politely and went away.

  Valentin walked up the steps to his rooms on Wednesday afternoon, just as a hard rain returned to pelt the streets. Justine was sitting on the couch, reading one of his books. After a few minutes, she caught him acting strangely, walking around, glancing at her with his eyebrows knit, then sitting down, getting up, and doing it all over again. Finally, catching another of his looks, she said, "What's the matter?"

  "I was an obstacle," he said. She closed the book. He stood in the middle of the room, his arms crossed. "You should see the way they look at me on the street. Like I'm the one did those murders."

  "But what do you care what them people think?"

  He began pacing up and down. "That's not it. Don't you see? Now they'll say Bolden's guilty, but they couldn't hang charges on him because his pal St. Cyr got in the way."

  "Well, there ain't nothin' you can do about that," she said quietly.

  Valentin scowled and nodded briefly. "Maybe not. But before he's arrested, convicted and put to death, some evidence of his guilt would be in order."

  She saw the sudden glimmer in his eye. "But, you're out of it now," she reminded him. "You said so yourself."

  He stopped pacing and clapped his hands together in sudden animation. "Exactly! I don't work for Anderson anymore, and I sure don't have to worry about Picot and the coppers. I was an obstacle. They wanted me out of the way and they got their wish."

  "But didn't Mr. Anderson say—"

  "All he said was that I wasn't working for him," he told her. "He didn't tell me not—" He stopped and stared blankly at the wall for a moment, as a notion came and went. He shook his head. "I can do whatever I want. And what I want is to find out once and for all if Buddy had anything to do with those murders."