by David Fulmer
He bowed slightly, like a true gentleman. "It's Louis," he said. He was clearly some snake, his tongue all but flicking into the air around her, and she guessed that he had sunk his fangs into the flesh of more than a few helpless young creatures.
Her vanity was pained to realize that she was too old for him. He couldn't be more than twenty-one. Still, she was flattered, more so when she noticed the looks from the ladies at other tables, as if they had discovered someone who could make their romantic dreams come true—unlike their husbands or even their secret lovers. Justine knew better. Still, she couldn't ignore the stares being cast her way.
The young man across the table did not seem aware of the attention as he fixed his clear green eyes on her. She decided he was one of those who treated seduction as an art.
Even so, she wasn't about to fall for his wiles. Flattered or not, she wasn't angry enough with Valentin to betray him by slipping off to a private room with some handsome fox.
She considered that there were sporting girls and maids from mansions on the premises, and one or more might carry the little scene at the French Market back to Storyville on the tip of her wagging tongue, and from there it might find its way to Valentin's ear. So he wanted to run off and play detective on the streets of the red-light district? Let him think she might engage in some sport of her own.
This went through her head as she sat half listening to Louis talk—about himself, mostly, which didn't surprise her a bit. First it was about his home, then the schools he had attended, then his family, old French and moneyed. And so on. Score a point for Mr. St. Cyr, who didn't speak that much at all, especially not about his life. She dropped in at the middle of something about his plans for the future.
"...an academy," he was saying. "With a literary salon and a music conservatory and an art studio. And"—he smiled—"it would be reserved for women."
"So you could have your pick of the flock?"
He ignored the quip. "You don't believe that women can create? Be artistic? I think that's been proven wrong. Why, just think of..." And on he went. He knew what he was doing, fairly oozing sincerity, and she threw up a shield to deflect him.
"And where will you get the money for this academy full of young women?" she interrupted.
Louis stopped to steal a lazy glance around the room. The reaction from the other tables resembled a pack of dogs going on point.
"Oh, I have some ideas." He shrugged. "Now tell me something about you."
It was almost noon when Valentin woke up. Justine was not back from the French Market, and he rolled out of bed, took a quick bath, dressed, ate a biscuit with a slice of ham, and hurried out the door. In true coward fashion, he cut down Franklin Avenue to avoid running into her. As furtive as a rodent, he rounded the park and entered the District by way of North Rampart Street, circling behind Union Station and crossing over to duck under the colonnade of the corner building.
He knocked on the heavy doors and waited. A dark face peered out through the leaded glass, and the bolt cracked.
"Well, look who we got here," Ned said, pushing the door wide. "Ain't seen you in what, a few years?"
Valentin stepped inside. "How are you, Ned?"
"Day older and a dollar shorter, that's how." The janitor's grin took a crooked turn, and he lowered his voice. "I believe the man's been waitin' for you," he said.
Valentin made his way along the familiar marble-topped bar with its brass rail and rolling ridges of liquor bottles. The chandeliers glistened overhead, and though the spittoons gleamed roundly every ten paces, the carpet held more stains than he remembered, and many of the floor tiles that it intersected were cracked. The bandstand was empty, and any sound brought back a lonely echo. It all looked a little worn out, and yet the Café was by far still the grandest room for dining, dancing, drinking, and dicing in the city of New Orleans.
Tom Anderson did not look up from his papers at Valentin's approach. The detective stopped to help himself to a cup of coffee from the copper urn at the end of the bar, the chicory rising to his nostrils, a local perfume. It was a ritual he had performed a thousand times, and in that instant more months dropped away.
When he turned around, he found the King of Storyville peering at him over the tops of wire-rimmed spectacles. Anderson smiled slightly and waved him to the opposite chair.
Ned came along the back of the bar and stepped to the urn to refill his employer's cup. Valentin was surprised; Anderson had always made a point of serving himself and his guests the morning coffee. Never one to demand kowtowing from the help, he was in fact often criticized for treating the darker races too kindly. Indeed, his right-hand man for the better part of ten years had been a Creole.
That same Creole sat waiting for the King of Storyville to pour a bit of sugar and a drop of cream into his cup.
Stirring idly, Anderson said, "How are you, Valentin?"
The detective said, "I'm well."
"You're still on Spain Street?"
He nodded. Of course, Anderson knew this. The game had begun.
"And your work with those attorneys? How are you getting along there?"
"All right. It pays well."
"I can imagine."
They went around in this dance for a few minutes. Since Valentin was the one who had walked out, he knew he was responsible for the patchwork. Anderson was waiting, so at the next silence, he said, "The murder of this Bolls fellow..."
"Yes?"
"Miss Antonia asked for my help."
"And you agreed."
"I told her I'd see if there was anything I could do."
Anderson's eyebrows arched politely; he hadn't lost his flair for exaggeration. "And so?"
"And so I've come to ask your permission to go on with the investigation. And to ask for any help you can offer."
The King of Storyville regarded him steadily, and Valentin could all but hear the gears churning behind the blue eyes. Though Anderson would appreciate the gesture, there was no way he could greet the detective's return with open arms, no matter how much relief it brought.
Valentin said, "Or I could let the police handle it."
Anderson shook his head slowly and gave out a short laugh. "Not while Picot's sitting in that office." He sipped his coffee, sobering. "We need this creature stopped."
Valentin understood that this was as much as he was going to get by way of a welcome back and moved on to the business at hand. "Is there anything you can tell me?"
"I can tell you that Honore Jacob thinks someone is out to get him."
"Because the three bodies turned up at properties he owns?"
Anderson nodded. "That's correct."
Valentin said, "Then I'll need to talk to him."
"Who, Jacob?" Anderson snickered. "You can try. He'll do the talking."
"Does he keep an office?"
"Yes, down on Royal Street. If he's not there, you'll likely find him in the bar at the Lafayette House."
Valentin stole a glance at the clock over the bar. "I'm sorry." He rose from his chair. "I have an appointment."
The King of Storyville gave him a wry look. "What do you think those lawyers will have to say about you working here again?"
The detective sighed and said, "I'm about to find out."
"And here we all thought you were gone for good," Anderson said.
"So did I." Valentin thanked the King of Storyville for his time and made his exit.
Justine allowed Louis to escort her out of the market. He carried her basket and offered her a ride in his red Buick 10. She accepted the help to the street but refused the ride, assuming that like most men, this one was after something. He should have been easy enough to fathom, except that the look in his eye, as if he was amused by a private joke, kept throwing her off. That, and what seemed an honest attraction to her.
He wasn't incensed that she refused his offer. Shrugging agreeably, he shook her hand with a slight bow, then let his gaze rake over her one more time, from the hem of her d
ress to her face, before backing away.
She fell into the crowd waiting for the streetcar and watched him saunter off. The engine of the gleaming Buick started on one crank, and Louis hopped behind the wheel and spent a few seconds pulling on driving goggles and a pair of fine leather gloves. From his posture, it was clear he knew that she—or at least some woman—had her eyes on him. With deft hands, he released the brake and engaged the transmission. The roadster stuttered away from the curb and zoomed down Decatur Street, leaving a faint cloud of smoke, just as the streetcar came grinding to the stop.
Justine thought about him as she rode along and pictured Valentin on the balcony watching as she rolled up and was helped down from the seat of that fine red phaeton. Or if he wasn't home, one of the neighbors seeing and reporting back. The daydream brought a smile to her face, and she wondered if she should have accepted the ride after all, if nothing else for a chance to put Mr. Valentin St. Cyr in his place.
The Creole detective stopped at the doors of Mansell, Maines, and Velline, undecided about mentioning the business in the District. Though Valentin had not signed a contract with the firm, Sam Ross had been good to him, and the least he could do was tell the attorney that he was about to go soiling the cuffs of his trousers on the banquettes of Storyville. Since he had already traveled there on Ross's behalf, he might even be entertained.
This was not the case. Once they finished the day's business, Valentin announced in an offhand way that he would be taking part in an investigation of the murder of Burton Bolls.
The attorney's brow went into a furrow. "You can't do that."
"Pardon me?"
"You can't do that," Ross repeated in a sharper tone. "We can't have someone employed by this firm working for the likes of Tom Anderson." He laughed without a trace of humor. "My God! What the hell were you thinking?"
"I'm not employed by the firm," Valentin said carefully. "And I'm not working for Mr. Anderson. I'm not working for anyone. I'm just ... I'm doing a favor."
"For who?"
"One of the madams. Her name's Miss An—"
"A madam!" Ross shot a glance at the door and lowered his voice a notch. "In one of those bordellos?"
Valentin wanted to say, No, fool, in a grocery store. Instead he said, "Yes, but she's—"
"I'm sorry, no." The attorney was abrupt. "We have a police department to handle crime in this city. Including Storyville."
"They don't do a very good job. Especially in Storyville."
"That's too bad. But you can't be on our books and work in that place, too."
"I told you, I'm not work—"
"Yes, yes, I heard. You're doing a favor. It amounts to the same thing. And we can't have it. It's Storyville, for God's sake!"
"Then what about James Beck?"
"That's different. We sent you. An unfortunate necessity." Ross tapped his pen. "By the way, have you settled with that woman?"
Valentin ignored the question. "The victim of this murder was a good citizen."
The attorney shrugged, clearly annoyed that they were still on the subject. "But not one of our good citizens." He waved a dismissive hand. "Just tell this madam that you're not available. She'll find someone else."
The detective spent a few seconds fidgeting in his seat as he digested this. Then he said, "I can't do that."
"Excuse me?"
"I promised her I'd help."
"Promised a madam." The attorney's voice was flat.
Valentin felt a prickling beneath his skin. "That's right."
Ross sat back, regarding him with vexation. Momentarily, he said, "Do the other firms know about this?"
Valentin shook his head. "Not yet, no."
"Well, I can promise they won't stand for it any more than we will," Ross said. "They represent important people, too."
"Yes, I've seen plenty of them. In the bordellos, having a high time."
The attorney's round face pinched at the sarcasm. "Doesn't matter. That's another subject entirely."
"Unless one of them is the next victim."
Ross tossed his pen aside and stood up, cutting a brusque hand through the air. "We're not going to have a debate here," he announced. "You can't work for this firm and in Storyville at the same time. It's that simple. If that's your intention, you might as well resign right now. And it'll be the same at those firms down the street. You can count on it." He tapped a hard forefinger on his desk blotter. "Is that what you want?"
Valentin paused for a few seconds, then said, "No."
Ross relaxed and nodded with sober relief. "Good. You're making the right decision. Let them handle their problems over there, and we'll handle ours."
The detective got to his feet.
"Keep me apprised on your cases," the attorney said.
Valentin walked out of the office, down the long hallway, through the golden doors, and onto the banquette. Fifty paces along, he stopped, turned around, strolled back into the building, and made his way to the office he had just left.
He rapped on the jamb. The attorney looked up from his papers.
"I meant to say yes," Valentin said.
"What?" Ross's face reddened in ire. "You better think about this. You're making—"
"And tell Senator Beck that if his son and his pals show up in Storyville again, they won't be in a condition to walk back out."
Samuel Ross stared as the Creole detective gave a short wave of farewell and disappeared from the doorway.
All the way home, Justine wondered if Louis was following her. It would be easy enough, a simple matter of swinging his beautiful car around and tracking the streetcar until she stepped down. Idly curious, she moved all the way to the rear and, standing next to a foul-smelling Negro, peered out the window. That she didn't see the automobile didn't signify. She knew men and could see through their ploys. Now her gut told her she'd encounter him again, if not this day, then some other.
Walking along Spain Street, she glanced back several times, the last when she reached the street door of their building. Once upstairs, she put him out of her mind, knowing that the sly and handsome fellow who seemed so taken with her was likely at that very moment sniffing at some younger and prettier female. With distance, he became more of a frivolity, a butterfly that had flitted about her for a lazy hour. She had a more serious man to manage.
Valentin caught the St. Charles Line car to Canal Street. He stepped down and headed directly to Mangetta's, where he found the Sicilian getting the saloon ready for the day's business.
"Gesu, sguardo che è qui," Frank exclaimed when Valentin walked through the door. "Twice in two days."
The detective stopped in his tracks. Was that true? It seemed like his visit with Nora Bolden had happened a week ago.
"I hope it's not too early for a drink," he said.
Frank put his broom up and went to the well to fetch a bottle. Valentin leaned an elbow on the bar and watched the Sicilian pour two glasses full. He downed his in one long swallow and held out his glass.
The saloonkeeper refilled it. "What happened?"
"I quit my job with the attorneys."
"When?"
"About a half hour ago."
"All of them?"
"She's going to kill me," Valentin moaned.
Frank laughed a little. "Eh, she'll understand. Tell her you'll be spending more of your time around here."
"She knows better," Valentin said, brooding. "She told me that if I come back, that means she can, too."
"Oh." Frank pondered gravely for a few quiet seconds, then sighed. "That's a good woman right there."
Valentin said, "I know." He sipped nervously under the watchful eye of the older man. "Maybe if I can get it cleaned up in a hurry, I can get hired on again." He took another shaky sip. "I've already got a good lead."
"What lead?"
"Do you know Honore Jacob?" Two Sicilian eyes rolled to the ceiling. "What?"
"He's cafone, that's all," Frank said. "What about him?"
&
nbsp; "The killings were on his properties. All three."
The saloonkeeper said, "Well, that's a start, eh?"
"I hope so." As cool as it was in the room, Valentin felt himself starting to sweat.
"So maybe you should go to work," Frank said.
Valentin finished what was in his glass and set it down, his expression doleful. "I have to go home first."
Each had learned some things over the years he had trailed the Creole detective, and as he came closer to filling the shoes of a regular rounder, he'd picked up his own set of spies from among the small army of Storyville street urchins. He had been talking to a rounder in front of Fewclothes Cabaret when one of them ran by with the news that Mr. Valentin had been spotted back at Mangetta's. It could only mean one thing, and so he was waiting across the street from the saloon when Valentin stepped out the door. He fell into stride with an ease honed on much practice. The detective gave the younger man a sidelong glance and a brief nod that was just as casual.
Though it wasn't all the same. Each had grown up and fancied himself some kind of a player now. That was one thing. More to the point, he had also been a witness to one of the crimes. Valentin wondered if the kid realized that he might be in danger. For all any of them knew, the killer thought he'd been caught in the act. Valentin experienced a twinge of anxiety, as if Each was Beansoup again, the snot-nosed street rat who had slept on his couch and eaten at his table all those times. Each might think himself an operator, but he didn't have the wiles or taste for violence to fend off a maniac with murder on his mind.
The detective considered mentioning this to Justine, as a way to get her to let go of her anger. Then he was ashamed at the thought of using someone she cared for in such a manner. Was he truly that much of a coward?
Each left the detective to his thoughts as they sauntered south out of the District. From the look on his face, Mr. Valentin was wrestling with something serious, and he knew to wait. They were crossing Liberty Street, a block down from where the first body had been discovered, when the silence ended.
