Neal Rafferty New Orleans Mystery #1: The Killing Circle (A Neal Rafferty New Orleans Mystery)

by Chris Wiltz

  I told her I was impressed and asked her about Louie before she could get going on religion again.

  “Louie's her regular boyfriend. He's a big brute of a thing. Mean looking. When he's here they stay up all night drinking and fighting. He stays for a couple of days and then he's gone for a while. After he leaves I see a lot of liquor bottles in her garbage. I'm always glad when he leaves because then I can get some sleep. But I never complained about the noise. Not one time, Rafferty. So one night I was feeling kind of sad and lonely and I thought a drink might cheer me up. I didn't have any liquor here so I went upstairs and asked her if she would give me some. Just one drink. She outright lied and told me she didn't have any. I've put up with enough yelling and stomping around up there that her lying like that made me mad. I told her I'd appreciate it if she'd keep the noise down. So she tells me she'd appreciate it if I'd keep my nose out of her business. I told her if the noise didn't stop I was going to call the landlord. She told me she didn't care if I called the landlord. Well, I guess she didn't. She left the next day. You know what, Rafferty? I didn't mind all the noise half as much as I minded her lying to me. I can't stand that kind of dishonesty. If you'll lie, then you'll steal. If you'll steal, then you'll murder.”

  “Did Miss McDermott leave with Louie?”

  “No, she left with a woman. And you know what else, Rafferty? I think she left on the sneak.” I raised my eyebrows. “You know, without letting the landlord know. There hasn't been a soul up there at all since she left. Not anyone even to clean up.”

  Now there was a bit of information I could use. I asked her about the woman.

  “She was here about half an hour before they left.”

  “Did you know her?”

  “I don't know anyone who goes around with her.”

  “Let me phrase that a bit differently. Had you ever seen her before?”

  “Never.”

  “What did the woman look like?”

  “That I can't tell you.”

  “I thought you saw them leave together.”

  “I did, but she had on one of those wide-brimmed hats.”

  “Then how do you know you never saw her before?”

  “Look, Rafferty,” she said giving me a multiple wink, “I didn't even need my glasses to know that. I never saw any women visit up there. Only men.”

  “Could you tell if she was short or tall or old or young?”

  “All I could tell through the curtain,” she pointed at the sheer on the window, “was that she was on the thin side.”

  I reached over and patted her on the shoulder. “Thanks, Mrs. Parry. You've been a great help.”

  “I smell liquor on your breath,” she said, her glasses glinting.

  “That's strange. I just had an onion before I came up here.”

  “Funny, Rafferty. You got any more?”

  I told her I didn't, but I'd bring her some if I came back.

  “You do that, Rafferty. If I miss something because I don't have these on,” she said fingering the wire on her glasses, “I still hear pretty good.” Her nose was pretty good, too, if she could smell a brandy over an hour old.

  She followed me out on the landing and watched me leave. I went back down to the courtyard and stayed there for a few minutes. I wanted to take a look around Lucy's apartment, but I didn't want Mrs. Parry to see me going back up there. She might think that was dishonest, or, worse, she might want to come with me. I started back up keeping close to the wall until I reached her doorway. I stopped for a minute to listen. I could hear water running. I ducked down and passed in front of the window and stopped again. The door didn't open. I moved toward the other side of the landing until I could just see in. She was standing at the sink. I hoped her peripheral vision wasn't too good and started up the stairs. I waited a moment in front of Lucy's door. I heard nothing.

  I tried the door. It was locked. A thin strip of metal was peeling away from the side of the slated window high on the opposite wall. I pulled it off and went to work on the lock.

  Lucy hadn't bothered to clear the trash out of her apartment. Clothes were heaped in one corner and a few pairs of chewed shoes were scattered about. In the kitchen there were empty Jim Beam bottles, some pots and utensils. I opened the refrigerator. There was nothing in it but half a bottle of soda water. In the second room the bed had been stripped down to a stained mattress. There were more discards and empty bottles. I looked in the clothes closet. Coat hangers and a wad of crumpled newspaper were on the floor. I picked up the newspaper and looked through it. It was a few pages from the society section dated August 17, the day before Lucy had left. There was an article about a tea given by Mrs. Mathilde Fleming. It described who had been there and what they had worn. I wondered if it was a clue.

  I went into the bathroom, which was right off the bedroom. On top of the toilet tank was a plastic brush with some reddish hairs tangled in it and a can of shaving cream. That was all. In the third small room behind the bedroom was an empty bookcase with an old Underwood on top of it.

  I was making my way back to the front door poking around once more in case I had missed something when I heard the heavy tread on the stairs. It reached Lucy's door and then a pounding started that jarred the walls of the apartment so hard that the pots rattled around the drain-board.

  A man's voice called out, “Lucy, open up,” in a demanding tenor. He kept banging. “Come on, Lucy,” he whined, “it's me.” He started kicking the door.

  I opened up for him. He stared stupidly at me, swaying slightly. True to Mrs. Parry's description he was big, but his muscles had gone to flab. I looked at his brown hair that was too short for his big face and the tiny, half-inch bangs that edged his forehead. He was the Boy Scout I had played pool with at Curly's. Big boy, still stinking of bourbon, had been playing with more firewater and was not too steady on his feet.

  “Where's Lucy?” he yelled and looked past me into the room. His lower lip stuck out in a snarling pout as he took in the abandoned apartment. He more or less stumbled inside and went to take a look at the bedroon. “What the hell is going on here?” he demanded, turning back to me.

  “Looks like we both missed her,” I said.

  “Who are you?” He came over for a closer look. “Yeah, I thought so. You're that pip-squeak Zeringue's friend. That son of a bitch pickpocketed me and I don't plan to forget it.”

  “You better watch who you call a pickpocket.”

  “You watch, asshole. I'm gonna get him for it.”

  “Don't fool with Zeringue, pal.”

  He stepped closer, putting up a menacing fist. “What are you doing here, asshole?” I looked hard at him, feeling the anger rise into my throat. “Tell me where she is.”

  I shouldn't have, but I baited him. “I wouldn't tell you even if she wanted you to know.”

  “Why you son of a lousy . . .” he trailed off to concentrate on his big arm that was coming around in a mighty swing meant for my head. I ducked. He must have been too drunk to pull his punch because it kept going. It was forceful enough that it took him with it. He fell flat on the floor and his face hit with such a smack that it gave me sympathy pains. I heard soft flip-flops coming up the stairs. Mrs. Parry arrived securing her glasses to her face. She looked at the collapsed Boy Scout.

  “Did you kill him, Rafferty?” she asked. He began to snore.

  “Is that Louie?”

  “That's him alright.”

  I took her by the arm. “Well, I think he's going to be here for a while.” She resisted my effort to lead her away. “I checked, Mrs. Parry. All the bottles are empty.” We went down to her landing. “Look,” I told her, “that fellow's likely to be mad when he gets up. If he tries to give you any trouble, call the police.”

  “You don't have to worry about me.” She was annoyed. “What I want to know, Rafferty, is why did you sneak back up here and break into that apartment?”

  “I hate for you to put it quite like that, Mrs. Parry. Let's just say I suspec
ted possible foul play up there.”

  “You know, I'm not so sure you're on the level, Rafferty.”

  I ran out of bribes when I gave her my last pack of cigarettes.

  It was ten-thirty when I got to the car. By now Rankin would have shaken Catherine down and be hot on Fleming's trail. That meant Fleming would be calling my apartment and office looking for me. He would have to wait. I had one more stop to make to satisfy my curiosity.

  8

  * * *

  Rafferty on Location

  I stopped at an all-night drugstore on Canal Street to look up André’s address. The usual array of Latin pimps was standing on the corner or leaning up against the building with their knees bent at forty-five-degree angles.

  There were two Robert Andrés listed, one at 3201 Coliseum, a Garden District address, the other in Gentilly. I put my money on the first, and took Magazine Street uptown. To quiet the persistent rumblings of my stomach, I turned into the Channel on Third Street and grabbed a beer at Parasol's. And while it was still on my mind, I got a fifth of Jim Beam to keep in the car in case I visited Mrs. Parry again.

  The 3200 block of Coliseum was shrouded with massive oak trees. Where I expected 3201 to be, a high ligustrum hedge obscured the house. Cattails had taken over the iron gate, making it hard to find in the dark. It gave a squeal of stress as I pushed it back.

  The yard would have been a great location for an episode of Ramar of the Jungle. Grass was fast obliterating the brick walkway to the house, a large raised cottage. Even in the darkness I could see dark paint peeling away from the banisters and railing around the portico. Long French windows at the sides of the front door were shuttered but I could see light trying to seep through on the right side. As I stepped up to the door a board groaned at the nuisance of my late visit. I pushed the yellowed ivory bell anyway.

  I heard ice tinkling before he opened the door. He stood with a drink and cigarette in one hand, eyeing me with an amused expression. The deep purple smoking jacket he was wearing tinged his white hair the same color. He took the cigarette out of the hand holding the drink and caressed it on the way to his lips. I opened my mouth to speak but he beat me to it.

  “My dear fellow,” he said through a cloud of smoke in an accent I could have hung Yorkshire pudding on, “there aren't many who would venture through my gardens at night. You must be anxious to see me.”

  “Anxious and brave.” I showed him my ID. “Neal Rafferty, investigator. Private.”

  “How very interesting. I can't imagine what you would want to see me about.” His eyes crinkled playfully. “Well, maybe I do have one small idea. Does that alert your curiosity, Mr. Rafferty?”

  “Not much. I figure you know why I'm here.”

  “Come now, Mr. Rafferty, you're taking all the fun out of it. Why don't you come in? Perhaps I can convince you to take a more sporting attitude.” He turned and walked back into the wide hallway separating the two sides of the house.

  The exterior had about as much in common with the interior as the Desire project has with the Garden District. Deep blue carpeting ran the length of the hall and the walls were stark white. There was no furniture, only paintings hung as if they were being shown in a gallery. Above each in the high ceiling was a single spotlight. The effect was quite impressive. The paintings were varied: Some were portraits of rather singular faces done in muted pastels; others were abstracts in vivid, running colors. There were a few still lifes. I examined the portrait closest to me. The face was in movement, its lines contorted and flowing into the background as if it were looking out from a pool of running water. The amused expression identified it as André. Scrawled in large black letters in the lower right corner was the signature Lise.

  “A tribute by a talented young woman, wouldn't you say? Please make yourself comfortable in my study. I'll be with you momentarily.” He gestured at a half-opened door and took off to the rear of the house.

  In the middle of the study a Tensor lamp lit up an overstuffed leather chair. The rest of the room was darkened by towering brown bookshelves. My eyes were adjusting to the change when I got the feeling I was being observed. I locked my eyes with a giant frog sitting on top of a writing table under a shuttered window. His ruby eyes bulged in their sockets at me. All over the book-lined room, from every vantage point, on top of the shelves, the books, peering out from a potted palm, scattered on the floor, frogs glistened and winked. There must have been a hundred of them, all peering straight at me as if my entrance had alerted their danger signals. A little one perched on an ottoman even had his head dipped in my direction to get a better view. Under this scrutiny, I eased back in a Morris chair, also in the middle of the room, and turned on the floor lamp next to it. André had been reading. The book lay open on a side table next to the leather chair. There was a ring of water where his glass had been. I leaned over to see the title of the book. It was called States of Consciousness.

  André came in carrying a bottle of Hennessey and two snifters. “I hope my friends have kept you amused.”

  “Don't you know it's rude to stare at people that way?”

  He chuckled. “I don't suppose anyone's ever bothered to tell them.” He poured the cognac and handed me one.

  “Since you seem to know why I'm here, André, why don't you tell me about it.”

  He asked seriously, “About what?” but his amusement returned before he finished the question.

  “About Garber.”

  “I know he's dead, but, then, I imagine you know that, too.”

  “Then maybe you know that your name was plastered all over his memo sheet. Have any idea why?” He lit a cigarette, looking at me over the flame. “Let me guess, André. These deductions are hard, but I think I've got it. You must be the mysterious ‘prospective buyer;’ the one interested in the Blake books.”

  “How clever of you.”

  “Yeah, I'm real ingenious. Why those particular books, André?”

  “I'm a great admirer of William Blake's. I like books in general.” He gazed fondly around the room. “I like owning them for the sake of owning them. That's actually a rather common obsession. You see, Rafferty, I'm not unsympathetic to your plight. I'm trying to help you with the more difficult deductions.”

  “Gee, thanks, André. That's real chipper of you. Why the Blake books? I ask again at the risk of being accused of senile repetition.”

  “Honestly, Rafferty, I'm not trying to be crafty. I repeat, at the same risk, I admire Blake. I admire all of the English poets of that period. My shelves contain collections of Wordsworth, Byron, Shelley, Keats, Landor. But they sadly lack any good collection of Blake. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Did your collections of Wordsworth, Byron, Shelley, Keats, and whoever all cost ninety thousand dollars?”

  He smiled and stuck his cigarette into the corner of it.

  “Were you trying to ruffle Fleming with the offer?”

  “No, no, Rafferty. You're off the track now. The offer was made without Fleming's knowledge of who was making it. The offer was made directly to Garber and with explicit instructions that he should not tell Fleming who was making it.”

  “Why the mystery?”

  “Why not? I enjoy a good mystery. Anyway, if Fleming had been interested in selling, why should he care who was doing the buying as long as the price was right?”

  “What made you think Fleming was interested in selling?”

  “I didn't think he was.”

  “You're making more sense all the time, André. How did you know he had bought the books to begin with?”

  “I'm not as provincial as I may appear to be, Rafferty. I read newspapers as well as books.”

  “Okay, André. Your point.” I sighed. “Let's go back again. Why the offer if you didn't think Fleming was interested in selling?”

  “Let's just say that ninety thousand dollars is a lot of money. Maybe I didn't want to part with it, so I felt safe offering to buy the books.”

  “Okay, I
get it. We'll just skip that one.”

  We sat back smoking cigarettes, drinking brandy, eyeing each other. My head felt like someone had pumped a pound of helium into it.

  I asked quietly, “Where are the books, André?”

  His eyebrows moved toward his nose. “But, my dear fellow, don't tell me they're missing!”

  “Don't act like you don't know, André. You seem to know about everything else.”

  “Mine is the knowledge of the general public, Rafferty. That interesting tidbit was not mentioned in the newscast. I suppose Fleming made sure it wasn't. A display of his inability to control everything would embarrass him.”

  “You know what interests me, André? How you knew to contact Garber about the books. That he had them the general public did not know.” For an instance the mirth left his face, but just for an instant. If I'd blinked, I'd have missed it like you miss a postage-stamp town. I knew it was childish, but I was immensely pleased with myself.