by F. M. Parker
One of the birds hopped upon the end of the huntress’s seat. It struggled to overcome the instinctive fear that it had of these large, two-legged creatures. Suddenly it fluttered its wings, trying to startle the human into movement.
The huntress peered out through a slit between her eyelids. The prey was less than a foot from the bait. She prepared to spring the trap.
The second bird came up on the seat with a flap of its wings. At the encroachment, the first bird darted for the bait.
* * *
Morissot found Old Ella on the park bench in a remote corner of Jackson Square. He halted and stood quietly observing her. She did not stir, slumped against the back of the bench. Her left hand lay on the torn dress of her lap while her right hand, with fingers spread wide, was outstretched on the seat. A broken crust of moldy bread lay on the palm of her hand. Two gray and brown pigeons were drawing close to her in short, nervous stop and goes.
One of the pigeons sprang ahead of its partner, and its head dived down to grab the bread.
Ella’s hand suddenly convulsed, her long fingers closing on the bird’s head. The left hand swung across to clamp the back of the bird and smother the fluttering wings. Ella gave a twist to the head of the bird and then another turn, and immediately covered the dead bird inside a fold of her dress.
She swept a hasty look around to see if anyone had noticed her killing the park pigeon. No one was in front of her. She turned to check to the rear.
“Lezin Morissot, why are you spying on an old woman?” she asked angrily. “Go watch the young women who can do you some good.”
Morissot smiled. “Today you are the woman I want to see.”
Ella laughed, her toothless old mouth opening in a dark pink-lined pit. “A lie is better than nothing. I need some money. I hope you want me to do some work for you.”
Lezin sat down beside Ella. “There is something you can do for me. I want to know all you can find out about a man who calls himself Timothy Wollfolk. He has an office near the waterfront at Toulouse and Front Street. Follow him for the next few days. Tell me everything he does.”
Ella was one of the beggars common in New Orleans.
She lived in the loft of an abandoned building on the east side of Vieux Carre. She was gaunt and stooped, and dressed in her raggedy clothing, she could go anywhere without arousing suspicion.
Her face was nothing but crinkled black parchment, black to the point that it seemed to have a purple cast to it. However, inside her slightly bulging forehead was a mind that noted everything and forgot nothing.
Lezin took several silver coins from his pocket and handed two dollars to Ella. “Here is your pay.” He gave her a third coin. “This man may have a buggy or horse; you may have to hire a coach to keep up.”
It would be unlikely that she would ever ride. She could walk nearly as fast as one of the Chickasaw Indians.
“I’ll bring you good information,” Ella promised.
“I know you will. You have never failed me.” Lezin reached out and petted the back of her black hand. “Be careful of this man. Don’t do something that will get you hurt.”
“Is he dangerous?”
“I only know that he is a savage fighter.”
“I shall be watchful of him. Where is he now?”
“Just a short way from here at the waterfront warehouse of A. Wollfolk. That’s opposite Toulouse Street.” Lezin described Lew to Ella.
“I’ll find him.”
“Good. Two days from now at this time, meet me right here. If for some reason you can’t meet me then, come to my home as soon as you can.”
“I’ll do exactly as you say.”
“Remember, be careful and take no chances with this man.” Lezin turned and walked from the square.
Ella rubbed the back of her hand where Lezin had petted her. That was the first time another human had touched her in many days, oh, so many days. That caring „ kindness from Lezin, a strong man afraid of nothing, was worth more than his money. But the money was good too, she thought, not wanting to belittle it and somehow bring bad luck and thus lose the coins.
* * *
At the corner of Exchange Alley and Conti Street, the little boy with the wooden sword pranced about the sidewalk thrusting and parrying against an invisible opponent. He halted and peeked for a moment through the open door to the inside at the men in the fencing school, then he recommenced his own battle against an imaginary foe.
Lew watched the tyke for a minute and then headed down Exchange Alley. He wanted to see this place where the use of sword and pistol was taught. He read the names of the famous dueling masters on the side of the buildings: L’Alouette, Montiasse, Croquere, and many others. He had heard that there were more than fifty maitres d’ armes on this street.
Someone cursed in French from within one of the open doors. Lew, drawn by curiosity, turned and entered.
A slightly built man in a white shirt and trousers closely contoured to his body stood facing a second man. Both held rapiers—thin, two-edged swords—in their hands. Blood seeped slowly from the upper arm of the younger man and formed a growing red stain on his shirt.
“Edmond, I could have killed you just as easily as I pricked your arm,” said the older man. “I have told you before how to hold your defense. Just so.” The fencing master took the stance. “But you always forget in the excitement of the contest. So this time I teach you a harsher lesson. Hereafter I think you will remember. I do not want you to die on the end of someone’s sword.”
“Yes, Monsieur Baudoin. I shall not forget this lesson,” said the student with a wry smile.
“The wound is but a tiny thing. Continue your lesson to the end and then see a doctor. Go and practice with Emile.”
Baudoin walked to Lew. “Do you wish to obtain the skill to fight the duel, monsieur?”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” Lew said. “But I haven’t yet made up my mind.”
“What is your name?”
“Timothy Wollfolk.”
“You are related to Albert Wollfolk?”
“Yes, he was my uncle.”
“My name is Yves Baudoin. I’m sorry about his death. He often practiced here. He was a very good fencer.”
“Do you teach the use of the pistol?”
“I certainly do. I have a shooting hall on the outskirts of town. We practice there, where the sound will not disturb others.”
“Pistols are more to my liking,” Lew said.
“You have dueled with pistols?”
“Yes,” Lew replied shortly.
Baudoin held Lew’s eyes for a moment. Often the bravery of a man could be read there. Then he spoke. “I don’t encourage spectators. But observe what goes on here for a little if you wish. I must return to my students.” Baudoin strode away down the long hall.
Lew watched the master duelist give his instructions to the men, young and middle-aged and one who appeared quite old. His blade would move with amazing swiftness when he demonstrated an attack or defensive movement, then he would do it in slow motion and again rapidly. His students copied his actions with varying degrees of skill.
Lew left the practice gymnasium. He hailed a hackney and directed the driver to take him to Rampart Street. He did not think he would spend much time in the big house in the Garden District. His appetite for Cécile would not soon be satisfied.
* * *
Lew, his eyes upon Cécile, leaned against the corner of the cottage wall near the carriageway. She was standing on a worn marble bench near the rear of the courtyard, reaching out for the red flower on the top of a climber rose. She caught the blossom, broke it free, and jumped down to the ground.
She raised her hand to put the flower in her hair, but froze there with it lifted. She became alert, listening like some wild creature of the forest. Abruptly she twisted, to stare directly at Lew.
They looked at each other through the shadows under the old trees. Suddenly she laughed, a wholesome sound. The melody of i
t filled the walled courtyard. She ran toward him like a strong wind, full of vibrant energy.
She came straight to him and threw her arms around his neck. She rubbed her cheek against his and then reared back to look at him. “Do you ever make love before it’s dark?” she asked.
Lew hugged her for an answer and she gave a little sigh of pleasure.
12
“We have our cost of operation calculated,” Lew said. “Now we need to decide how much profit to add to come up with a final bid offer.” He looked intently at Datson and Spandling. “What amount do you two recommend?”
Spandling had written on a large blackboard the daily cost to operate the docks, warehouse, drays, and the workers’ wages. A separate array of numbers—the estimated time required to do the bid items on the several contracts—had been prepared by Datson and Ruffier. The Negro boss had returned to the docks.
“By examining your uncle’s last bid, it appears he added in a thirty-percent profit margin,” Spandling said.
“That seems like a fair profit,” Lew said. “But how much can we really bid and still get enough of those contracts to keep our men and equipment busy?”
Lew spoke to Tim. “What do you recommend, Sam?” The man had said almost nothing since his arrival early in the morning.
Tim shrugged. “Thirty percent should get us contracts. Perhaps a one-hundred-percent profit would also. That difference means many thousands of dollars.”
“Is that the best answers you men have?” Lew said.
“We don’t know the cost of our competitors, or how j they will bid,” Tim said.
Lew climbed to his feet. “You two prepare all the necessary papers. Just leave off the final dollar amounts. Sam, when that work is finished, come down to the docks. I’ll meet you there in an hour. I have a plan.” He strode from the office and into the street.
* * *
Lew silently read the two numbers on the piece of paper the president of the Mechanics and Traders Bank on Canal Street had handed to him. The A. Wollfolk Warehouse and Dockage Company account had a balance of one hundred and seventy thousand dollars. The Wollfolk private deposits totalled one hundred and eighty-three thousand dollars. Either sum was a huge fortune, much greater than Lew had ever thought possible that he would control.
He could withdraw the money from both accounts and leave New Orleans at this very minute and travel to Europe and live like a king, or go back to Texas and build an empire. Should he remain here, something could happen at any moment to expose his false claim to the Wollfolk fortune.
But even as Lew thought of grabbing the money and running, he knew he would not, regardless of the very real danger to him. He liked the challenge to him of keeping the Wollfolk company operating and profitable. But more than that, if murder had been committed in the death of Albert Wollfolk, Lew wanted to find those responsible for it. That would be further payment for the fortune that had suddenly fallen into his hands. And it would be justice. The lawman in Lew felt good about that.
Lew brought his attention back to the bank official. “Thank you for your help. My uncle trusted you and your bank. I shall do the same.”
“Thank you, Mr. Wollfolk. We are pleased that you have decided to leave your accounts with us.”
“Good day, sir,” Lew said.
* * *
“Walk with me along the waterfront,” Lew said to Tim. “As we do that, check the amount of unused docks, if any, and also how much warehouse space is empty.”
“I understand what you are doing,” Tim said, moving off in step with Lew. “The capacity of the waterfront owned by your competitors that is not being used should give us a very good idea of how closely they will bid on contracts. However, we can merely look up and down the river and see that there is little space not being used.”
“True. Also I’ve walked part of the waterfront before. I can see that there are just as many ships waiting to get into the shore to unload or load as there was three days ago. However, few of them are contracted to us. But mainly I asked you to meet me here so I’d have a chance to talk with you alone.”
“What about?”
“Spandling is very old. He could become ill and be unable to work. I want you to go over the books with him. Be prepared to take over his. job as head bookkeeper. In fact, be my head bookkeeper without saying anything at this moment.”
“I’ll do that,” Tim said.
“Good.” Lew lengthened his stride, swerving around a line of men rolling barrels of molasses from a long shed and toward a berthed ship.
Tim stared frankly at the man who had falsely taken his place. He seemed cocksure of himself. What kind of conspiracy had he devised to take over the Wollfolk properties? Who else was involved? Where were the men who had shot Tim? He would find out those things and then there would come a reckoning for all the wrongs done him.
As Lew and Tim completed their tour of the waterfront, the wind began to blow in damp gusts, sweeping in from the forested swampland south of the river. The dampness congealed to rain, the drops pitting the surface of the river in millions of tiny craters and peppering the docks and ships.
“Let’s find shelter in the warehouse,” Lew called to Tim, and broke into a run for the building.
Julius raised his hand in acknowledgment of the presence of the two men as they ran into the end of the warehouse. They seated themselves at the battered wooden desk. The big black boss continued to direct the loading of the drays as they dashed in and gathered in the dryness of the building.
“What do you think?” Lew asked, sweeping his arm to indicate the docks below them.
“I’d say less than five percent of the available capacity of the waterfront is not being used,” Tim replied. “And that five percent is probably unused because of scheduling problems. Some awfully big profits can be made here.” Tim could not help but add, “Your uncle was a smart businessman to own such valuable property.”
Lew looked closely at Tim, his eyes sharp and probing.
Tim tried to keep his expression noncommittal. Had he said too much? He would have to be careful when around the impostor. He must not become suspicious of who Tim was.
“I agree,” Lew said. He looked out into the rain.
An old black woman, soaked through by the cold rain, was edging toward the door of the warehouse. Lew saw her shiver. He motioned to her. “Come into the dry,” he called.
The woman bobbed her head and scuttled in under the roof of the building. She watched Lew with quick black eyes as she came to a stop.
“Wrap yourself in one of those and get warm.” Lew pointed at a pile of large cotton sacks nearby.
The woman did as suggested, folding one of the sacks about her. She sat down on the floor against the wall. She became absolutely motionless, only her eyes rolling now and then to check Lew.
Tim roamed his sight out across the docks to the berthed ships, and beyond them to the indistinct shapes of the vessels at anchor in the river. The stevedores and deckhands of the ships had vanished as if melted away by the rain. Tim knew they were still there hunkered down under the dry tarpaulins covering the cargo stored on the docks, or in the cabins or holds of ships. But for the moment, the deserted wet waterfront seemed a dismal place. A dark pall of anger fell upon Tim as he considered his recent bad luck and the false Wollfolk so close to him. The ache of his wounds seemed to increase. He moved in his chair to a more comfortable position.
Lew noted the grimace on the accountant’s face. “You have been hurt?”
“Yes. A horse fell with me. I’ll soon be well.”
Lew turned his attention to the outside. “It rains too damn much here. I’ve been told that a lot of rain brings a plague to the city.”
“I’ve heard the same thing from the steamboat men that run the river. Sometimes they refuse to bring cargo to New Orleans when the fever hits here.”
The two men fell silent. The storm grew more boisterous, whipping sprays of water in the open doors. Thunder rumbled
off to the south. The rain drummed on the rooftop and cascaded down in noisy waterfalls to the ground.
Gradually the rain slackened to a drizzle. Julius ordered the drays back to work.
Lew stood up. “We’ll get a little wet, but let’s go on to the office.”
“All right,” Tim said.
They left at a rapid walk toward Toulouse Street. Behind them the black woman rose with a groan. Cold rain made her old bones ache. She moved off in a shuffle after the white men.
Upon arrival at his office, Lew went directly to his desk. Spandling had placed the contracts in a neat pile. Lew began to fill in the final bid offer. The first contained an estimated 30-percent profit. For each contract thereafter, the bid contained a profit 10 percent larger than the previous one. His offer on the last contract would give him more than a 200-percent gain.
Lew recorded his bids on a sheet of paper and put it in his pocket. He sealed each bid offering. He would deliver them himself. When the results of the bidding became known, he would know how his competitors bid, for at some point in his graduated series of profit margins, the contract would go to someone else.
* * *
The skeleton of the large clipper ship Honest Traveler was held upright by long wooden beams anchored against the out-bowing ribs and the sides of the dry dock. Her keel rested on several round wooden rollers prevented from moving by angular chock blocks driven in tightly.
Three tall masts and various piles of ships timbers lay nearby.
“Are you sure the ship can be ready in four months?” Lew asked Cue Sorensen, the shipbuilder in Algiers.
“Most certainly. The hardest part is over. And that is getting all the necessary materials on hand. We have it all, the hard oak for the hull and even the choice spruce from Maine for the masts. I’ve got a sailmaker cutting the sails. If you give me the word, I can have her ready for sea in three months.”
“You have that word. Get her ready. But I’m surprised that the month you lost wouldn’t have delayed completion.”
