by David Fulmer
With a curse, he swung his legs off the bed, lurched into the front room, and crossed it in a few strides to grab the handset from its cradle.
"Valentin?" Though the connection was poor and the sound tinny, he knew the voice right away: Antonia Gonzales. Without a moment's pause, the madam blurted the news about a guest shot dead at her front door. The fellow was lying out in the gutter. The police had been called. And Each was on the way to collect him.
It came out in such a clipped rush that Valentin stood holding the handset against his ear, staring dumbly out the front window at the half-moon that was perched over the river.
"Mr. Valentin?"
"I'm here."
"Please, I need your help."
Valentin knew he was supposed to say, I'm sorry, no. I can't... Instead, he whispered, "All right, I'll be waiting," and dropped the handset back in the cradle.
He stood there for a silent moment, wondering why the hell he hadn't just spoken the no that was on the tip of his tongue. He could get the operator to ring her back, of course, but Beansoup—no, it was Each now—might be rolling down Spain Street any minute.
A more immediate problem was waiting in the bedroom. Even if Justine had slept through the jangling of the telephone, she'd find soon enough what had transpired.
Soon, indeed; he found her propped slightly against the headboard, her arms crossed.
"Who's calling you in the middle of the night?" she said.
For a wild second, he thought about running back out the door. "It was Miss Antonia," he said.
Justine frowned. "What does she want?"
"She wants me to come to the mansion."
"When?" she inquired, drawing out the torture.
"Now. Bean—I mean Each is on his way with her car."
"Why?"
"So I won't have to walk or take a street—"
"You know what I mean." She gave him a scathing look. "Why the hell does she want you at this hour?"
"One of her customers was murdered. Right outside the door."
That caught her, though just for a heartbeat. "Which customer?"
"She didn't say."
The putter of an automobile engine rounding the corner from Chartres Street distracted her and she glanced toward the open window. "He's driving now?"
"Yes. He works for her."
This information brought her attention back to the subject at hand, and she watched him, waiting.
"I told her I'd come," he said.
She kept staring, her eyes opaque. The automobile rattled to the curb in front, and the engine coughed and died. Springs squeaked, a door creaked, and footsteps clopped up the stairwell. Finally, the rap of knuckles on the jamb.
Valentin made a clumsy gesture that was followed by a clumsy escape into the front room. Justine knew it was a coward's trick to allow Each to get inside rather than go to the balcony and tell him to wait on the banquette. She had always been fond of the kid.
She got up, pulled on a kimono, and stepped into the bedroom doorway. Each was standing in the middle of their living room. Now as before, he appeared abashed at the sight of her, unable to settle on friend, sister, mother, or object of desire. He had known her as a bit of each over the years.
She yawned prettily, and began talking to him. She hadn't seen him in over a year, and marveled at how he was finally losing his childish gawkiness on his way to becoming a man.
His real name was Emile Carter, and he now went by "Each," a mangling of his initials. As "Beansoup," he had been a fixture on the Storyville streets, one of the urchins who ran errands for the sports and rounders for nickels while working their own small games. Along the way, he had appointed himself Valentin's assistant and ended up spending more than a few nights snoring on the couch in the detective's flat on Magazine Street.
Though he had grown up, he still exhibited the same faintly baffled eyes and jittery bounce that had marked him as such a local character when he was a kid. Now the law said he had reached majority and could step into any of the Storyville saloons or music halls and order a drink of whiskey. He could sit at a table and gamble his money on a roll of the dice or turn of a card. He could pay for one of the nearly two thousand women who worked the houses along the twenty square blocks, though the last Valentin recalled, he had been hooked to a young maid who worked for the Benedict family of Esplanade Ridge.
The detective would ask him about her, and while he was at it, about the pistol that was clearly weighting one pocket of his threadbare jacket. Each with a weapon was trouble waiting to happen. All that would wait. The detective ducked back into the bedroom to throw on some clothes and take a jacket down from a hanger.
As they went out the door, Justine offered the kid a pointedly sweet good-bye and ignored Valentin completely.
Outside Each cranked the engine of the Paterson, and they climbed up and sped away. Valentin was faintly astonished by the kid's nimble skill at the steering wheel and hand controls as he maneuvered the touring car down the block to Esplanade and turned north, picking up speed. The wind and road noise made it hard to talk, but he needed something to take his mind off the expression on Justine's face, and so he had Each tell him what had happened on Basin Street.
The kid had been on the scene and described how it had developed from the moment he'd left the corner.
They had to stop for a horse-drawn hack at the corner of North Rampart. Valentin said, "So you actually saw the shooting?"
"What I saw was a muzzle flash," Each said. "Then the man—Mr. Bolls—just fell over."
"And the fellow who ran off?"
"I didn't see his face. Just that he was small and kind of thin. Wearing a derby. It happened really fast, and ... I didn't see nothing else..."
The hack clopped out of the way, and Each pushed the accelerator handle. As they traveled on, the detective changed the subject to inquire about Betsy, a young mulatto maid Each had met while helping Valentin on the Benedict murder case.
Each blushed a little. "I don't see her so much anymore."
"But you do see her?"
"Now and again."
"And how is Miss Benedict?"
Each kept his eyes on the street. "I guess she's doing all right. Last Betsy said, she was engaged to be married."
"I see." They left it at that.
A few blocks on, Each maneuvered the Paterson around the corner from St. Louis onto Basin Street, then slowed and stopped. Valentin could make out a gathering crowd just beyond the Bienville intersection, with figures shifting about in the deep gray light.
He pointed and Each pulled to the curb. Laying a hand on the kid's arm, he said, "Leave the pistol under the seat."
Each started, made a face, then did as he was told. They climbed down and approached the scene, keeping to the shadows of the banquette. Valentin picked out the police contingent, four uniformed officers and two detectives. He didn't see Captain J. Picot among their number, always good news.
On the other hand, none of the officers on the scene had recognized him. One of the detectives who was helping the beat coppers chase away the onlookers stopped to poke a finger into his chest. "Move back, fellow."
"What's your name, detective?" Valentin said, keeping his voice even.
"Weeks," the cop huffed. "Not that it's any of your goddamn business. I believe I just told you to move back."
Valentin was obliging when a second detective stepped up, the first one who looked familiar. His name was McKinney and he had been a patrolman when they'd last met, over three years ago at the scene of another murder. At the time McKinney had been little more than an apple-cheeked boy, a greenhorn. Now he had traded in his blue uniform for a detective's street wear: tight-fitting suit, overcoat, leather gloves, dark derby.
The tall detective ticked a finger to the brim of the hat in greeting. "Mr. St. Cyr," he said, smiling slightly.
"McKinney, correct?"
"James McKinney, yes, sir."
"You're a detective now?"
&nbs
p; "Third grade," McKinney said. "But only part of the week. I still walk a beat down in the Ninth Ward." He smiled curiously. "What are you doing here?"
"Miss Antonia sent for me."
McKinney turned to his partner and said something in a low voice. Weeks shrugged, gave the Creole detective another glance, and moved away.
Keeping his tone deliberate, Valentin said, "What do you have?"
McKinney took a glance around, then reported as if St. Cyr had a right to know.
Twenty paces away, Detective Weeks was pulling Each aside to ask him about St. Cyr. The kid explained quickly that the detective had been on the force years ago, then left to serve as right-hand man to Tom Anderson. He mentioned the Benedict case that had started on Rampart Street, the killings of the jass players, and what they had called "the Black Rose murders." There were a dozen lesser cases that the Creole had handled before deciding to walk away and leave it all behind.
"So what's he doing here?" the cop demanded. Each shrugged.
The object of their attention was at that moment crouching over the late Mr. Bolls, noting the fatal wound in his chest, and the curiosity of the shaky cut running from below the orbit of the right eye down to the thick chin. McKinney explained that Bolls was a well-to-do businessman, a family man from the Irish Channel, and a regular visitor at Miss Antonia's, one of those dozens of polite and respectable middle-aged fellows who happen to enjoy the physical favors of the young women at that address.
Valentin pointed to the slice across the victim's mouth, cheek, and chin. "What's this?"
"I don't know. The girl said it wasn't there when he left out. I guess it could have happened somehow when he fell, but..."
Valentin caught a hitch in McKinney's voice and glanced at him. "But what?"
McKinney said, "Well, I don't know if it means anything."
"Go ahead."
"You know about the body that turned up in the house on Liberty Street the other night?"
"I heard about it."
"I saw it at the morgue. And there was the same kind of cut. Thin like that." He drew a line across his face.
Valentin's eyes narrowed. "So whoever shot him could have been cutting this one when Each drove up."
"What for?"
"I don't have any idea." The Creole detective stood up. McKinney followed suit, and they gazed down at Mr. Bolls's body. He looked like a pleasant fellow; and a wealthy one, in a new and very fine suit.
"Was anything taken?" Valentin asked idly.
The cop shook his head. "He still has his cash and all. And we didn't find nothing on the street." He turned to spit a thin stream of tobacco juice into the gutter.
Valentin noticed the crowd edging close again and said, "You want to cover him now."
McKinney turned away to tell one of the patrolmen to fetch a sheet. The two detectives shook hands, and Valentin moved away, recalling that all the time he was working in Storyville, the police had standing orders to steer clear of him. And yet there had always been a few who chose to treat him with respect, as McKinney had on this night. He hoped it wouldn't curse the officer as it had some of the others.
He found Each standing on the banquette with Detective Weeks. As soon as he approached, the cop backed away, then went about directing the uniformed officers who were herding the onlookers who had spilled across the street. Any gathering back-of-town was an excuse for a party, and bottles had already appeared. If the police didn't move them along, they'd soon be dancing.
Valentin crooked a finger and led Each into the narrow gap between Miss Antonia's and the next house. They took turns lighting lucifers. It was no surprise to find the killer's escape route all but ruined by the coppers tramping in and out. A dozen footprints were scattered in the soft dirt, with no way of telling which ones might belong to the one who had murdered Bolls. Just to be sure, they worked the passageway all the way to the back of the house, then covered the garden, too.
They arrived on the street by way of the alley and skirted the crowd to mount Miss Antonia's front steps. The girls were crowded at the windows, watching the spectacle, and Each grinned and winked at them like a regular rounder until Valentin plucked his sleeve.
They found the madam inside. Without a word, she nodded toward the sitting room. Each closed the door behind them.
"What a hell of a thing this is," Miss Antonia said.
"Tell me about the victim," Valentin said.
"He never caused any trouble. He didn't mind spending his money. All the girls liked him fine. He spent most of his visits lately with Clarice."
"And tonight?"
"He came in around nine o'clock, like always," the madam said. "He had a drink in the parlor, and then she took him to her room for the rest of the evening. When they came downstairs, I had the boy go fetch the car. I was in the sitting room when I heard all the noise. I went out on the gallery and saw him lying down there in the gutter."
"No one else saw or heard anything?"
She tilted her head toward Each. "Just him."
Valentin said, "All right, call the girl, please."
Clarice had been told to wait in the parlor and now stepped into Miss Antonia's office, looking frightened. After a few questions, Valentin ascertained that she knew nothing of value. She wasn't faking, just another simple country girl who had come to the city to make her way.
Valentin guessed that Mr. Bolls was the first of her customers to die. He wouldn't be her last. He dismissed her with a thank-you, then turned back to the madam.
"This wasn't random," he said. "That fellow was lying in wait to get him. And if that's the case, it has nothing to do with you."
"Except that he died on my doorstep," the madam said.
"It could have happened anywhere."
"It happened here."
"A few days, and it'll be forgotten."
Miss Antonia heard the dismissive note in his voice. She said, "Did you know that just the other night a man turned up dead in a house two streets back?"
Valentin almost smiled. Of course, she'd heard about how he treated the young maid who had appeared at his door. "You think that's got something to do with this?"
"I don't know. Maybe someone should find out."
"That's not my—" He stopped, resumed. "That's Mr. Tom's job."
"Mr. Tom is asleep at the switch," the madam shot back in a low voice. Her stare was black and direct, and the message was clear.
"Miss Antonia...," he began, and then stopped. They both knew she was stepping over a line. Their friendship and this night's one favor didn't change the fact that he no longer worked in Storyville. Things were different now. At the same time, he couldn't just brush this good-hearted woman away. They'd known each other a long time, and she'd shown him kindness over the years.
"I'll keep an eye out, in case something else happens. I can do that."
"Something else like another body turning up?"
His gray eyes went cool, and the madam realized she had pushed him as far as he'd go. She relented, whispering a thank-you. Valentin nodded to Each to go out ahead of him.
More police had arrived on Basin Street. A horse-drawn hack was parked at an angle to the curb, along with a police sedan, effectively shielding the view of the four coppers lifting Mr. Bolls's body and sliding it onto the bed of the hack. The tailgate squeaked closed, and the driver climbed into the seat. A snap of the reins, and the hack creaked away over the cobbles.
Valentin told Each he preferred to walk home, then descended the steps and wandered around until he found James McKinney.
Tilting his head to the cop's ear, he said, "Check the morgue again." McKinney hiked an inquisitive eyebrow. "Just in case," Valentin said.
McKinney nodded and said, "All right, sir. I'll do that."
The detective had just reached the opposite side of the street when a new Buick 10 rattled by and came to a sudden stop. A squat man in a suit that was too tight for his frame clambered down and scurried into the thinning throng. He made
such a fuss pushing through that Valentin paused to watch. It took him a few seconds to recognize Honore Jacob, one of the Storyville landlords and the owner of Miss Antonia's mansion. He was in a fluster, and Valentin heard him babbling angrily.
"That's two bodies!" he cried to no one in particular. "Two, goddamnit!" The cops who were standing by treated him to blank stares, which inflamed him all the more. He threw up his hands and mounted the steps to Miss Antonia's gallery. Following him at a lazy pace was the young man who had been driving the Buick. In a perfect suit and riding cap pulled to one side, he rounded the crowd as if to keep from getting something foul on his person.
Valentin turned for home, knowing that Justine would be waiting. He'd need the whole walk to compose his speech.
Once the excitement had died down, Mr. Honore had gone away, fuming in frustration, and the police cleared the street and made their exit. Miss Antonia returned to her sitting room, her opium pipe, and her Victrola.
She closed the door, and so didn't see Clarice pick up the telephone, wait for the operator, and then whisper a number. Minutes later the telephone rang in the foyer at the house on Perrier Street.
SEVEN
Tom Anderson felt as if he had just dropped off to sleep when his wife shook him awake to tell him he had a telephone call.
He let out a weary groan. "Now what?"
"It's Billy," Gertrude said. "Something about somebody getting shot."
Anderson threw off the sheets, lurched from the bed, and in his nightshirt padded along the hall and down the staircase to the foyer to snatch up the telephone. "Billy?"
"Fellow got shot dead on Basin Street." Struve's voice was breathless and a little giddy. "Front of Antonia Gonzales's."
"Who was it?"
"One of her customers. Fellow named Bolls."
The name sounded familiar, though Anderson couldn't quite place it. "Who did it?"
"No one knows. Whoever it was ran off." Struve described how the victim had been met by a miscreant with a pistol. The killer had been interrupted before anything valuable could be lifted. What happened after had been a small mob scene on Basin Street. "And listen to this," he continued in a stage whisper. "St. Cyr was up there."
