"Not for good, just to see you. How do you feel?"
"Pretty good for someone my age who took a load of buckshot in his chest. Lucky you were there, Snow, or he'd have finished me off."
She went over to his bed and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “The police think I was somehow involved with this Tommy Franz, but I barely knew the man. He only had lunch with me a few times."
Colonel Grandpere frowned. “He did? That man was no good."
There was a noise at the door and Ben turned to see Bedelia Grandpere entering. “Well, Matty. You've come back."
The colonel's daughter gave her a sour look. “Only for a visit. I thought you'd be in mourning after Rubin was killed."
Bedelia ignored her remark and went to the colonel's bedside. “We'd better be going,” Ben suggested to Matty. He thought he understood one reason why she'd left home.
* * * *
Colonel Grandpere returned to the plantation two days later, accompanied by Bedelia. Ben had only to collect his pay and move on. He'd done the job as best he could and there was nothing else for him in the city. He would head back to Texas later that day.
And yet, there was something unsettling about the entire matter, even after Inspector Withers assured him no charges would be brought against him for shooting Tommy Franz. “It was self-defense,” he told Ben. “The man had already shot two people."
"Have you been able to trace the dynamite?"
Withers spread out Ben's list on his desk. “It appears he got it from one of these big plantations, or else he brought it in from upriver."
Ben was staring at the sheet of paper, suddenly wondering how he could have been so dumb. “I'm on my way out to Horseshoe Plantation to collect my fee and return their horse. It might be a good idea if you came with me."
Inspector Withers gave him an appraising look. “All right,” he said finally. “If you want me to."
They reached the plantation a half-hour later, and Bedelia ushered them to her husband's study. It was a more masculine room than the parlor where Ben and the colonel had first met, with bookshelves holding Civil War histories and volumes on sugarcane cultivation. “Good to see you on your feet again, Colonel,” the detective said.
"It's a miracle I'm still alive,” Grandpere told him. “I have you to thank, Mr. Snow.” He handed over a check, which Ben quietly pocketed.
"Will you be going back to Texas?” Bedelia asked.
"There, or somewhere else. I'm a wanderer."
Colonel Grandpere smiled. “You can do a good deal of wandering with the money I paid you."
Ben was uncertain till that moment what he would do, but he knew he could not leave New Orleans with the truth untold. “It's hardly enough to commit murder for you."
The color drained from the old man's face. “What are you trying to say, Mr. Snow?"
"That this entire charade was carefully planned by you for the purpose of killing Rubin Danials. You then arranged for me to kill your triggerman, Tommy Franz, insuring that you'd be safe. It would have been the nearest thing to a perfect crime I've ever come across.” Bedelia was staring at him, open-mouthed. She turned to her husband and demanded, “What is he saying? Tell me it's not true!"
"Darling, the man is insane."
Inspector Withers joined in the conversation. “Why would the colonel want Danials dead?"
"Matty made a remark that implied Bedelia might have had a relationship with him. If that was the case, or if the colonel even suspected it, he'd have a motive.” Bedelia said nothing, and averted her husband's gaze. “I think the colonel hired Tommy Franz just as he hired me. He supplied him with dynamite to damage some of the sugar train's tracks, and then hired me to guard them. It was Tommy's own idea to meet up with Matty. Last night the colonel said he received a telephone message that the bomber was near the tracks, but the nearest neighbor seemed surprised at our presence. That was just a trick to get Danials and me out there. He probably told Franz that I'd be along as a witness that the killer shot him, too."
"But they were both shot!” Withers protested.
"Were they? How could one man have his chest ripped open while the other was barely scratched and his horse not even touched? Remember that sheet of paper I used to list the dynamite sellers and their customers? I'd given it to the colonel and he placed it in the breast pocket of his jacket. You found it there after he'd been shot. But I remembered thinking later that the paper was so thick no light passed through it. No light. How could the buckshot have gone through the colonel's jacket and shirt to cause those minor surface wounds without penetrating that paper? It couldn't have! Franz's first shot was strong enough to kill Rubin Danials outright, but the second shell contained only powder, no buckshot. The colonel had made careful holes in his jacket and shirt beforehand—which went unnoticed in the dark—and even nicked himself with a knife to produce a bit of blood. A dozen rounds of buckshot were stuck to his skin with drops of glue. Franz was to fire the first barrel, killing Danials, and then the second barrel before running off. What he didn't know was that the colonel had brought along a gunfighter to kill him, too."
"You figured all that out from the sheet of paper?"
"There were no holes in it. This is the only possible explanation."
The colonel started to rise, reaching for his cane, but Bedelia got there first. She raised it and swung at him, and she might have killed him if Withers hadn't grabbed her and pulled her away.
* * * *
Later, as Ben Snow walked from his hotel to the train, he heard the sound of a saxophone from somewhere on Basin Street. It was the first music he'd heard since the end of Mardi Gras, and he paused for a few minutes to enjoy it. New Orleans was a great city. It always would be.
Copyright © 2006 Edward D. Hoch
THE DEATH OF BIG DADDY by Dick Lochte
New Orleans-born Dick Lochte's first novel, Sleeping Dog, won the Nero Wolfe Award and was named one of the 100 Favorite Mysteries of the Century by the Independent Booksellers Association. Two of his crime novels feature his hometown: Blue Bayou and The Neon Smile. His ninth novel, Croaked!, is set in California, where he now lives with his wife and son. In this story we see New Orleans circa 1970.
On that afternoon in May, so many years ago, every seat on the Delta flight from New York must have been filled, judging by the mass of departing passengers staggering into the bright terminal at Moisant International. Still, I had no trouble at all spotting my quarry. He was the only passenger wearing a slightly rumpled white linen suit, a flowery Hawaiian shirt open at the neck, large dark sunglasses, a jaunty beret, and an expression of utter bewilderment on his moderately famous, bearded face.
"Tom?” I said.
"Eh?” He backed away in near terror.
"It's Harold LeBlanc."
When that had no apparent effect, I added, “From the Royal Street Bookshop in the Quarter."
His spine seemed to unlock, which I took as a good sign. “Harol', o’ course. You mus’ fo'give me, baby. I am not myself at the moment. I mistook you for a reporter. They've been doggin’ me since that Cavett Show. What a pleasure seein’ you again."
He swayed and I reached out a hand to steady him. “You okay?"
That prompted one of his oddly humorless, cackling laughs. “Not eg-zack-ly. I may need your assistance to make it to the baggage section."
I offered him my arm, and off we went.
"It's the airline's fault,” he said. “There was some mix-up about my First Class arrangement. I explained that I could not fly Coach because of my condition, my fear of suffocation. I'm afraid I had to rant a bit, but I sincerely doubt they would have treated Mr. Neil Simon so offhandedly.” He smiled and emitted another cackle.
"Eventually they saw the error of their ways and, to compensate, overdid the kindness, supplying me with several more vodka martinis than I actually needed. Do you think you could retrieve my luggage for me, baby? The theater was supposed to send somebody, but they either forgot or chang
ed their mind."
"They sent me,” I said.
"Ah, a splendid choice,” he said. “I shall take it as a sign my ghastly notices have not used up all of my cachet.” Another cackle.
* * * *
In spite of the still-boiling three-o'clock sun and the humidity that has always blanketed New Orleans, Tom insisted I lower the top on my Mustang for the drive to his house in the French Quarter. “I am devoted to tropical climates,” he said. “It's why I keep residences here and in Key West."
Not being devoted to tropical climates, I turned on the car's air conditioner once we were on our way. This amused him immensely. “Icy air in an open car,” he said, shouting through the wind. “Ah, technology.
"How are they treating my Cat, by the way?"
He asked the question with a forced casual air, as if the answer weren't as important as the cigarette he was trying to light in the wind.
I told him in truth that I had no idea what they were doing with his play. “We nonparticipants have been locked out of rehearsals. Harmon Kane's orders."
"That sounds like Harmon.” He gave up on the cigarette and put it and a black holder back into his coat pocket. “I was not exactly overjoyed to hear he was directing the production as well as starring in it. He's a bit too much of a ‘genius,’ if you know what I mean. It's made him persona non grata in Hollywood. Tends to be hard on his players, which must make it especially rough for local actors. But I expect his Big Daddy will be something to see."
"A columnist for the Picayune said it was the first time an actor might have to go on a diet to play the role."
This time the cackle had some mirth to it. “He has been mistaken for the Goodyear blimp,” he said. “But there was a time when he was as svelte as you, Harol'. Before his appetites got the better of him. Speaking of which, how's he been behavin’ himself?"
"I've caught his act a few times,” I said. “Most recently in Antoine's, cursing his waiter for having the temerity to bring him an after-dinner coffee he hadn't requested."
"Was he in the bag?"
"I hope so."
"Prob'ly didn't understand that in this tradition-lovin’ section of the world an after-dinner demitasse is considered part of the meal,” Tom said with an air of dismay. “He took the brew to be the waiter's commentary on his inebriated state."
"I suppose,” I said.
"And, of course, he was playing to the room and to the wide-eyed admirers at his table."
"Just one wide-eyed tablemate,” I said. “Eugenia Broussard, an artist at Webber Advertising and our local Kim Stanley. She's playing Maggie the Cat."
"They ... involved romantically?"
"I gather they are."
Tom sighed. “Never a good idea to mix business with romance,” he said. “I learned that lesson a long time ago."
He leaned back and closed his eyes, offering his face to the sun. “Were the ‘sixties good for you, Harol'?” he asked.
Though we were only a few years past that decade, the answer to the question required some thought. I'd survived my wife's death, quit my job at the same ad agency where Eugenia now worked, bought the bookstore, seen my country enter a war it couldn't possibly win, and lost a son to the priesthood ... well, better lost to that than to a sniper's bullet.
"It was the worst period of my life,” Tom continued, making me realize his question had been rhetorical. “After Night of the Iguana, everything went to pieces. Plays folding almost before they opened. The critics like vultures feedin’ on my stringy old remains.
"Frank dying.” That would be Frank Merlo, his long-time companion, a cancer victim. “And Diana Barrymore. And my dear Carson.” Carson McCullers. “So many of my friends. All gone. All the doomed people."
I couldn't think of a thing to say to that.
After a few minutes of silence, he said, “Don't pay any attention to me, Harol'. It's those martinis talkin'. I have survived the ‘sixties. I'm alive and reasonably healthy. My past plays are being performed and I have new ones on the horizon. I am sitting in an air-cooled automobile with the sun on my face, heading into a city that is my spiritual home. As the great Robert Louis Stevenson once noted, ‘The world is filled with such a number of things, it's a wonder we all aren't happy as kings.’”
* * * *
At the entrance to his two-story house on Dumaine Street, I offered to help him with his single piece of luggage but he assured me that he could handle it. “That delightfully windblown drive has delivered me into sobriety,” he said, “a state that I shall attempt to alter at the first opportunity."
"I have several first editions of Roman Spring and some of the plays at the store I'd like you to sign,” I said. “How long will you be in town?"
"Maybe a week, this trip,” he said. “I told Megan I'd look in on the final rehearsal tomorrow. And then the opening night, of course. You'll be there, right?"
Megan Carey, the play's producer, and I had been keeping company for a while. I told him I'd be on hand opening night.
"Good,” he said. “I'll try to stop by the bookstore before then. Otherwise, I'll see you at the theater."
* * * *
It rained the next afternoon, just enough to clean the French Quarter's streets and cool and freshen the night air for the usual flock of tourists.
In those days, I often kept the shop open late on the weekends, ever the optimist as I watched the crowds pass by with their go-cups and Pat O'Brien glasses in hand. That Friday night, just as I was about to turn the sign around on the door, Tom appeared. With him was Jason Dupuis, a blond, blue-eyed young man (in his twenties, I guessed) who'd been tending bar at the Barataria Lounge when Harmon Kane noticed his resemblance to Paul Newman and cast him as Brick, the alcoholic husband of Maggie the Cat in Tom's play.
Tom was dressed in suit and tie. Jason, who had the habit of staring at you with an insolent sneer that I presumed was his “method” pose, wore patched Levis, battered tennis shoes, a flounced white silk pirate shirt, and, in spite of the season, a blue velvet blazer. The three colorful plastic bead necklaces he wore were either his homage to Mardi Gras or a sign that the hippie influence had not quite vanished from the earth.
He strolled by the shelves studying titles while Tom sat at my desk, signing the small stack of books.
"How went the rehearsal?” I asked.
"The Broussard girl is surprisingly effective,” Tom said. “As is Mr. Dupuis.” He grinned, glanced at the young bartender-actor, who was pretending not to hear, and continued. “Harmon is a splendid Big Daddy, almost on a par with Mr. Ives."
He signed the final book with a flourish, placed the pen on the desk, and rose to his feet, swaying slightly. “Durin’ our drive in from the airport, you neglected to mention that you and Megan Carey were an item, as they say."
"I didn't think you'd be interested."
"Ah'm always interested in matters of the heart,” he said, his eyes drifting unconsciously to Jason, who was perusing a book. “Anyway, the rest of the cast is adequate, at the very least."
"And eager to take on New York,” I said.
"What do you mean?"
"Megan tells me that Harmon is bringing the production to New York,” I said. “Isn't he?"
"He'd better be,” Jason said, suddenly aware of our discussion.
"You both are askin’ the wrong man,” Tom said. “Ah'm just the playwright, the last to know."
"I gave up my job at the lounge,” Jason said. “Harmon better be playing straight."
"Did you like slingin’ drinks?” Tom asked.
"It was okay."
"Was it as satisfyin’ as acting?"
"Hell, no."
"Then whatever happens, Harmon did you a favor."
Jason begrudgingly admitted this was true.
He held out a well-thumbed trade paperback of An Actor Prepares. “I'd like this,” he said.
Tom took out his wallet, but I told him to put it away. “It's just a reader copy."
; "That's very sweet of you, Harol',” he said. “We're off to The Absinthe House for cocktails. Love to have you join us."
I thanked him, but declined. Three was a crowd and booze was something else I'd left behind in the ‘sixties.
"Till the big night, then,” Tom said.
* * * *
The Saenger Theatre has stood on the corner of Canal and Rampart since the ‘twenties, when, after a three-year period of careful construction (at a cost of $2.5 million), it emerged as the city's leading home for silent films and stage plays. In the ‘thirties, talking movies became its sole attractions.
They remained so until the mid ‘sixties, when a renovation, partially financed by the sale of eleven of the building's original twelve stunning chandeliers, transported from a vacation spot for French royalty near Versailles, resulted in a “piggy-back” theater. A wall transformed the balcony into a cinema, while the ground floor served as a 2,700-seat venue for touring theatricals.
That Saturday evening, it was standing-room only. The idea of being present on opening night of a Tennessee Williams play, directed by and starring the near-legendary Harmon Kane, with the playwright himself in attendance, was almost too much for New Orleans’ social- and literary-minded citizens to handle. They arrived in force, dressed to the nines.
And, judging by their cheers as the curtain descended on Eugenia Broussard's Maggie and Jason Dupuis’ Brick facing an uncertain future, they enjoyed the play as much as I did.
"You've got a hit,” I said to Megan.
She was never less than lovely, but her smile that night turned her transcendent. “I think you're right. Harold, I'm going to have a play on Broadway."
The members of the large cast assembled for their curtain calls. After considerable clapping and bravos, the actors portraying the house servants and the “little no-neck monster” children curtsied and left the stage, followed by the show's unctuous Reverend Tooker (a life-insurance salesman named Carl Godet) and the brusque Doctor Baugh (New Orleans Recreational Department's Sam Gottfried).
Next to exit were Jacques Boudreaux (a druggist who appeared frequently in local stage productions) and Felicia Martinez (the hostess of a children's show on WWL-TV) who had appeared as Big Daddy's mendacious son Gooper and his tart-tongued wife Mae.
EQMM, November 2006 Page 5
