by David Fulmer
Valentin was in the front room pouring two short glasses of brandy when the downstairs door squeaked and quick footsteps pounded up the staircase. He reached the door just as Justine appeared from the bedroom, wrapped in her kimono. It wasn't Each this time, but a kid who could have been him five years before. The boy didn't say a word as he handed Valentin a slip of paper.
Opening it, the detective found an address on St. Louis Street on top, the name "McKinney" on the bottom, and a diagonal slash of ink across the middle.
It took twenty minutes for the first of the police automobiles to arrive. By that time the house was almost entirely empty. Only the young boy who ran errands and an older fellow named Mr. Thorpe, one of the men who managed the house, remained behind. Those policemen who didn't already know about the address soon found out by way of the whispers and snickers.
Because Laurence Deveaux's body lay in the narrow space between two buildings, it was easy enough keeping curious onlookers at bay. The police wagons and the uniformed officers were there for all to see; but without a body in clear view, the men passing by assumed it was just some small matter and moved on.
James McKinney had been at the precinct when the call came in. He hurried to the scene and was allowed back to see the body. Borrowing a lamp from one of the coppers, he bent down and saw what he expected; this time the line was scrawled from the temple to the jaw, slicing thinly across the dead Mr. Deveaux's cheeks and mouth. McKinney could tell that the wound had been made by a hurried hand.
He straightened and returned the lamp to the officer. Back on St. Louis, he asked around in a low voice until someone was able to tell him that St. Cyr lived on Spain Street, between Royal and Decatur, over an importer's office. It took no time at all for him to whistle up one of the dozen of street Arabs who were always in earshot and hand him a scrawled note.
Even though it was Sunday night—Monday morning, to be exact—and as quiet as it got in the District, the police stood by helplessly as the news of another killing, the third in a week, made a furious sprint up and down the streets and then beyond.
Laurence Deveaux's body had been discovered at 12:30 by another gentleman leaving the premises, and by two o'clock every madam on Basin Street had been roused with the news. Only a few saloons remained open, but the story hopped from one to the next of those that were, finally reaching the ear of Billy Struve, who stumbled to a phone to call Tom Anderson.
Within minutes of the 2:30 bells, a cast of characters had materialized on St. Louis Street. Captain J. Picot stalked about, wearing his usual mask of annoyance. A white Packard Victoria touring car arrived, and the King of Storyville, looking tired and rumpled, climbed down from the passenger seat. Each had arrived and was wandering around, trying to look important. Detective McKinney went about assisting at the scene. None of these men spoke to or even looked at each other. Though anyone watching would have noticed that the four kept stealing occasional glances to the south end of the street and in the general direction of the river, as if they were expecting someone.
Valentin surprised them all by coming in from the direction of Franklin Avenue. Before he did that, though, he spent some minutes standing in the darkness of the alley behind the house and watching the activity in the walkway. He could not see the body from that angle, only the officers, whose faces were cast in the glow of the hand lamps.
Each noticed him first and ambled over to give the detective a rundown in a few clipped sentences. Valentin was startled to learn the victim's identity. He had read about Deveaux in the Picayune. The man was known in all the right circles around the city. His recitals at the Opera House were major events, and he had played for J. P. Morgan, the king of Spain, and several governors.
Valentin felt Each nudging him and looked up to see Tom Anderson standing on the banquette, his driver on one side and a dazed-looking Billy Struve on the other. Anderson was staring in his direction, and the two men exchanged a nod. Turning his head, he saw Detective McKinney, and the policeman stopped writing on his pad to shake his head slightly. And as if the worst had been saved for last, Valentin felt a cold glare that could only come from Captain Picot and caught sight of that familiar glowering countenance not twenty paces away.
All the players seemed to be waiting for the Creole detective to make a move. The King of Storyville broke the impasse, crooking a finger in one direction to beckon Valentin to his side and then in the other to summon Captain Picot. The two men joined him on the banquette. Anderson spoke first to the captain, who listened, then gave a nod that seemed to have been wrenched from his neck with pliers. He turned and murmured to Valentin, who nodded in kind.
Walking away, the detective waved a sharp hand for Each to join him and treated McKinney to a quick glance that wasn't quick enough; Captain Picot, who by now had steam blowing from his ears, saw it and grimaced.
Each strutted past the coppers to join Valentin, and the two of them made their way along the walkway between the houses. In spite of the forlorn business at hand, the portable gas lamps cast a glow as welcoming as a campfire. The detective noticed the line cut across Deveaux's smooth and regal face. It was the work of one man claiming a third victim.
Valentin was assailed by an unsettling sense that he had a chance to turn around and walk away. Justine would be waiting for him to do just that. This grisly business was truly none of his affair.
After a final moment's hesitation, he stepped forward and bent down over the corpse of Laurence Deveaux.
TEN
Justine didn't have to ask to know that Valentin was going against her wishes and risking the good deal he had with the St. Charles Avenue lawyers to heed the call of the scarlet streets of Storyville. She had seen the look in his eye when he raced out the door in the middle of the night, a glimmer that broadcast that he was on the prowl. She knew that while she couldn't turn him around, she wasn't about to let him go on his merry way, either.
She wanted him to suffer, so when morning came, she made him sit at the kitchen table and stutter out an explanation for his errant actions. He did a poor job. Caught up in the moment, he had hurried off to the scene of the third crime at a special house for men who preferred the company of their own gender. Justine wasn't sure if that was supposed to sway her in some way. What did she care about people's tastes? Her concern was what sort of reason the Creole detective who sat across from her could provide for defying her so rudely.
She leaned against the sideboard with her arms crossed and expression taut, waiting with forced patience for him to explain why any of this was more important than the good life they had been assembling. He squirmed like a misbehaving schoolboy until her impatience turned into exasperation.
"You said you wouldn't go back."
"I'm not going back," he said. "Not exactly."
She wasn't having any of it. "And what do you expect me to do? Shall I go back, too?"
He looked startled, which satisfied her. Let him think about the weight of his actions. He said, "Don't do that."
"Why not?"
"Because—"
"You can say no," she snapped. "You don't owe any of them anything."
Valentin sighed and said, "I know."
"Then why are you doing this?"
He looked at her directly for the first time since he'd sat down. "Because I'm the only one who can," he said.
Ned the janitor didn't say a word when Mr. Tom stepped through the front door. He merely raised one white eyebrow and tilted his old head slightly. Anderson peered down the length of the bar to see Honore Jacob pacing, his hands clasped behind his back in a posture of overfed aggravation.
The King of Storyville let out an audible sigh that must have carried in the empty room, because Jacob wheeled around with an agitated grunt of his own. Though it had been almost five days, it seemed like the landlord had just left and now was back. Anderson was relieved that his rude spawn wasn't along for this visit.
"I've been waiting for you," Jacob said, as if it wasn't obvio
us.
At that moment Tom Anderson wanted nothing so much as to call to Ned for a stiff brandy. But he knew what kind of picture that would present, especially to a fussy and suspicious soul like Jacob, so instead he asked the janitor to fetch him a fresh cup of coffee and refill his guest's. With a tug at the lapels of his jacket, he lumbered to the table. He made a gesture, and the landlord sat down.
"This is a fine damned mess," Jacob said.
"It's a terrible thing," Anderson agreed soberly.
"A terrible thing? Dead men turning up on my properties? I'd say that's more than a terrible thing. It's a goddamned calamity, is what. Good lord! What are you going to do about it?" The King of Storyville drew back, stung and annoyed. Jacob retreated, though only slightly. "For Christ's sake, Tom. You think anyone needs this kind of trouble? Especially now?"
Anderson cocked an eyebrow. "What do you mean, now?"
The landlord posed a petulant look. "Everyone's talking, saying Storyville's coming apart at the seams. It's all I hear. The madams say they can't pay rent because they don't have enough business. So there's no money to keep up appearances. And they can't give the coppers the usual amount, so the damned criminals have the run of the place. The whole District is falling apart. The mayor's on the warpath. And now this!"
Jacob had taken the tone of an adult scolding a child, his voice climbing the scale from grouse to grate, and Anderson, feeling the heat rise in his chest, bristled.
"You be quiet and listen to me." He leaned forward like a dog pulling at its chain. The landlord, sensing he'd gone too far, blinked nervously. Easing the edge in his voice slightly, the King of Storyville said, "We're having hard times. We've had them before. Things go poorly, then they get better. As for these killings, I know it's serious. I'll take care of it. Whoever's responsible will be stopped. Dead or put away. That's a guarantee."
At that moment Ned stepped up with the two cups of coffee, left them, and moved off, though he kept his ears wide open. In the tense pause that followed, both men took a first sip of coffee, and the King of Storyville was pleased to discover that the old janitor had read his mind and spiced his cup with a stiff shot of brandy.
Frowning puckishly, Honore Jacob placed his cup in the saucer. "You're sure?"
Anderson settled back as the brandy calmed his nerves. "You just watch and see," he said.
Louis Jacob steered the Buick to the Basin Street curb just as an ancient darkie pushed the doors open for his father to pass through. Though the daylight cast the interior of the restaurant in shadow, he felt Tom Anderson peering out at him, like a crusty old alligator half submerged in swamp water, battered but still dangerous.
His father performed a noisy climb up and flopped into the tufted passenger seat with a heavy gust of breath. He whipped out a handkerchief to mop his brow, then waved it in the direction of the French Quarter. Louis shifted the transmission into gear and pushed the accelerator handle.
By the time they arrived on Royal Street, he had heard his father's rendition of the meeting with Anderson three times. The King of Storyville had made promises. It was a terrible situation but not hopeless. Just a madman running loose. Valentin St. Cyr had come out from wherever he'd been hiding for the past few years to take care of it.
Louis smiled slightly at the mention of the name. Honore let himself down to the banquette in front of the building.
"You can take the car to the garage," he said.
"I will," Louis said. "First I have a small errand."
Justine and Valentin were equally relieved that Monday was her day to make market. She dressed in silence, and the kiss she delivered as she left their rooms was suited more for a distant cousin than the man with whom she shared a bed.
Once the door had closed behind her, Valentin felt a small butterfly of panic in his chest, a twinge of dread that in some small way he had lost her. It was a good thing that he was exhausted from lack of sleep, the long walks to and from the District, and tangling with Justine before and after the fact. He went into the bedroom, undressed, and crawled in under the sheet.
Tired as he was, sleep didn't come right away. Gazing up at the cracks in the plaster ceiling, he wondered frankly if his pride was leading him to a terrible mistake. Even so, it didn't change the fact that someone was slithering around Storyville under the cover of night, murdering men and taking the trouble of cutting into their flesh, a lunatic to be sure, and a danger to the streets.
The question he had posed to Justine was not just a retort. Who else could bring down such a killer? The police? Not with Captain Picot in charge. Tom Anderson might once have been able to rouse the entire department with a few words whispered into the right official's ear. But not anymore, and so Picot could drag his feet even more than usual and hope for the worst.
The French Market on North Peters Street had for over 120 years been a daily celebration of New Orleans' palate. The market, located on the edge of the Quarter, opened well before dawn and went full steam until around one o'clock, when traffic began to wind down. Up to that point, it was a beehive of the noise, color, and motion of commerce that rang with old echoes.
Working-class women and maids from homes in the Garden District, Esplanade Ridge, and the Storyville mansions assembled to forage and haggle. The male contingent was represented by chefs who insisted on selecting their own foodstuffs, servants in various shades of brown, and hapless husbands who found themselves traipsing like pack mules behind their busy wives. On the intersecting streets, hacks and automobiles waited to help carry the women and their purchases to kitchens all over the city.
Justine loved the market and spent a good part of her Mondays grazing. Her mother had taught her to cook a bit, and she learned more on the road, including how to make a feast out of next to nothing.
For the rest of the week, she shopped with a bucket and rope. The produce hawker would roll along the curb, and the lady of the house would call down her needs and lower a bucket with coins at the bottom on a rope. Once filled, the bucket went up and the wagon rolled away, and on to the next address.
Justine much preferred the market, and loved to wander alone up and down the aisles, taking in the colors and the scents. It was like strolling into the mouth of a cornucopia.
On this day, though, her thoughts were on Valentin and how he had maneuvered his way back into Storyville. The betrayal wasn't so blatant that she had him cornered; he was too clever—or maybe lucky—for that. She knew as well as anyone how he could work the streets. Still, he was breaking his promise to her.
She was so absorbed in these thoughts that three times she had to go back to vendors she had passed by mistake. Walking away from the third, she topped off her morning by running directly into the chest of a man coming the other way. The basket over her arm tipped, and oranges, onions, sassafras, peppers, limes, and garlic came tumbling out. The other half of the collision muttered an apology and immediately bent down to grab what he could, even scuttling part of the way under a stand to chase down an errant orange.
When he crawled back out and straightened up, she found herself looking into a face so striking that her breath caught for a moment. The unblemished flesh had a slight tan cast set off by a near-perfect nose, full lips, and chiseled cheekbones. The eyes were the pale green color of Riesling wine. Dark blond hair, longish and straight, was carefully combed and oiled. He looked like nothing so much as a cameo, and she guessed that he took much care to create the effect. Along with this, he smelled good; the obvious benefit of a cologne, and not one that many men would employ.
With all this, there was something predatory about him, and he gazed openly into her eyes as he brushed the dust from the sleeves of his day coat. She stuttered apologies, stumbling over her words and making no sense whatsoever. Gently, with a small smile, he dropped the last orange back into her basket.
"I'm so sorry," she said for the fifth time.
"It was my fault. Please forgive me."
"No, really, I wasn't watching ..
. I was..." She got lost again.
His white smile stayed in place and, tilting his head, he said, "Will you let me buy you a cup of coffee?" The small café with the bakery counter was only a few paces behind her. He caught her eye again and served up a deeper smile. "Please."
With one smooth motion, he cupped her elbow in one hand and swept the basket from her forearm with the other. He steered her out of the foot traffic to the recess of the café and then to a table. She was relieved when he stepped away to fetch their refreshments; she needed a moment.
In the years since she had been "ruined," it had been the rare man who could rouse her. She knew them too well. The kind ones bored her, and the dangerous types were more like thieves in the night. So it had always required a particular touch to get through her defenses. Valentin had possessed it, and one day she woke up to find he had breached her wall. She hadn't been able to shake him, even when he wandered away or she had to put him out.
This handsome fellow who was now turning away from the counter with two cups had the same sort of wicked charm, but his came more in ebbs. Justine took hold of herself. She had no intention of falling for some charmer's play, though she didn't mind the attention at all. Let Valentin see her now; how she wished he could...
By the time her new friend reached the table, his progress marked by a dozen other female eyes, she was ready. He put her cup down, settled himself, and resumed his study of her face. She wondered for a moment if the French Market might be his turf, a place to hunt pretty women, looking for his next free ride.
"I didn't ask your name," he said, giving her a dimpled smile.
She was trying to recall if she'd ever met a man who was so feminine and yet brashly male at the same time. Keeping her cool, she gave an absent shrug. "And you haven't said yours."
