by David Fulmer
When he finished, the kid laid a hand on his arm and said, "I got it." His eyes shifted in such a sneaky cut that Valentin almost laughed. "You go ahead."
The detective nodded gravely, keeping in the spirit, and turned and walked away. Each idled, letting Mr. Valentin get a block or so on. He sauntered along in his path, his eye out for a tail, just like he'd been told to do.
The French Quarter was as peaceful as could be. Only a few blocks from the red-light district, and yet a world apart. This was the Vieux Carré, the old city, and they had long ago chased the madams, harlots, pimps, sports, and the clientele upon whom they preyed to the other side of the basin that had been dug for dirt to lift their fine homes out of the muck of swamp that had been downtown New Orleans.
Strolling through the Quarter, Valentin mulled the business with Honore Jacob. It was hard to accept that three men murdered at his properties was a coincidence. Though it could be so. Maybe Jacob's dice had come up snake eyes. From what he'd already heard, it was also possible that it was part of some macabre joke.
Valentin reached the corner and scanned the intersection until he saw the office on the upstairs floor over a ladies' hat shop, the windows painted with "H. Jacob & Son" in decorative letters. He lingered beneath a wrought-iron balcony across the street until he saw Each appear on the corner a block north, then cross over without as much as a glance in his direction. Valentin smiled; the kid had learned some things.
He found the street door unlocked and stepped inside to climb a staircase that had seen some use. On the second floor, he found a suite of three offices, along with a storage room in the rear. A woman of middle years and graying hair sat behind the desk in the first office.
She said, "Can I help you?"
Valentin stepped inside. "I'm here to see Mr. Jacob," he said, and received a questioning look. "It's in regard to the incidents in Storyville."
"Oh, that." The woman's face pinched. She stood up, said, "I'll be with you in a moment," and stepped around him and into the hallway.
Valentin heard a door close and, for the next half minute, the sounds of an argument. The woman's voice went one way, and a man's another, before winding down to a studied silence. The woman reappeared. Barely nodding toward the hallway, she said, "He'll see you now."
From the doorway Honore Jacob watched with terse eyes as Valentin approached. He waved the detective inside, and the two men shook hands. Jacob's grip was damp.
Everything about him was sweating, in fact. It was early on a fall morning, the ceiling fans were turning, and yet spots of perspiration had seeped through the front of the man's shirt and created arcs under his arms. His forehead was beaded, and Valentin spotted at least two rivulets from under his scalp that were heading in the direction of his cheeks. A damp handkerchief lay crumpled on his desk blotter.
Valentin had seen the landlord at a distance a few times, and Jacob of course knew St. Cyr's reputation. And yet for all their time in Storyville, they had never crossed paths. Now the landlord stared across the desk as if regarding some peculiar animal.
"You're back working for Anderson?" he said to open the conversation.
"No, sir. Miss Antonia asked me to see if I could help out."
"Can you?"
Valentin was amused by the directness. "That's why I'm here," he said. "All the victims were found on your properties. Three men dead and—"
"Four," the landlord said.
Valentin blinked. "Four?"
"You didn't know? They found a fellow on Robertson Street."
The detective took a few seconds to digest this. "So you own cribs, too?"
"A few, yes." Jacob appeared only slightly abashed. "Anyway, they dragged a body out of one of them the other day. That makes four. Now what the hell do you think of that?" It was a general expression of exasperation.
"Do you have enemies?"
"I got certain citizens I don't get on with," the landlord said. "Everyone does. That's business. This is something else. I think some maniac is trying to destroy me. By murdering people. God almighty!"
Valentin, watching for signs of phony rage, saw none. Jacob was clearly distressed. At the same time, his frustration did not earn him any sympathy. Valentin had taken a dislike to the man the moment he walked in the door. Jacob exhibited all the features of a sneak: eyes that flicked constantly, jowls that quivered, a loose mouth, and a spike of a nose, ready-made to stick into other people's business. His voice went in and out of a whine that was like a train passing through a tunnel. That didn't make him an automatic fake.
Behind the plaintive tone was a refrain the detective had heard before. Jacob's family had come from money, old French money that had been squandered away. Though he had become rich again, he was one of those who believed the world owed him the repayment of the fortune that his ne'er-do-well brother had lost. From the talk around the District, he tried to make up for some of it by gouging his tenants on one end and shorting them on the other.
Valentin would have avoided this bellyacher, except that now Jacob's trouble was Storyville's. So there he sat, listening to another stanza of mournful blues. On and on it went.
"So you have no idea who might want to harm you this way," he cut in, as much to get the landlord to stop talking as to move the discussion forward.
"I don't," he said. "I run a fair business. I pay my help the same as everyone else."
Valentin dropped his voice a notch. "Anything personal?"
"Personal?" The hooded eyes blinked. "What do you mean?"
"Such as a woman. Gambling. Dope. Anything like that."
Jacob drew back, incensed. "No, nothing."
The detective believed it. Jacob didn't strike him as one who might dally, other than perhaps the once-a-week attentions of a girl in one of the houses. Storyville landlords often received such services as part of the rent. Though it could be a dicey arrangement. Properties had been lost by way of the machinations of a crafty madam and a few skilled harlots.
Not Honore Jacob, though. He seemed not to share the French gene for pleasure and was more the kind of moneygrubber who would be too cagey about his riches to fall for such schemes. The Jacobs had already lost too much.
Valentin realized shortly that the landlord, plainly baffled by the horrible turn of events, didn't know a thing that would help him. He waited for Jacob to take a breath, then excused himself and rose from the chair.
"I'll need a list of all your properties," he said.
Jacob stopped to eye him warily. "What for?"
"I want to make sure they're secure. If I can do that, and we have a murder somewhere else, then maybe it's not your problem after all."
The landlord considered, then flicked a hand toward the front office. "My wife has all that."
His wife; that explained the arguing. Without offering his hand, he thanked Jacob for his time.
"So you'll get this fellow?" the landlord said anxiously. "I mean get rid of him?"
Valentin said, "He has to be stopped. For everyone's good." He paused to note that for all his troubles, Jacob had not offered as much as a dime to speed his efforts.
Mrs. Jacob turned over the list of addresses, making her disapproval of the entire matter plain. Valentin thanked her and made his exit. When he got to the banquette, he could feel eyes resting on him from the window above.
Each did his part and stayed out of sight all the way to the corner of North Rampart Street.
"So?" he said.
"So now we go to work."
The kid winked and grinned with delight.
They first visited Mary Jane Parker's house and spent a half hour questioning the madam and her girls about Allan Defoor. Valentin listened closely, and Each ogled the doves in their kimonos as Miss Parker described Defoor as a regular customer who never caused any kind of a stir. He was one in a thousand, and there wasn't one remarkable thing about him.
Valentin turned his attention to the four women now lounging behind the madam's chair in various sta
tes of undress. It was still early for them.
"Did Mr. Defoor ever mention having trouble with anyone?"
The girls all shook their heads solemnly.
"Problems with gambling? Or dope? Maybe some woman?"
One of the girls snickered. "He wasn't that sort."
Another one said, "He'd just have a drink, come upstairs, and then be on his way."
"He was always quick," a third said, and the others laughed.
Valentin asked that the girls be sent away so he could speak to the madam in confidence. Miss Parker could not name anyone who had a personal grudge against her. Indeed, she was a God-fearing woman who attended Mass at St. Ignatius every Sunday and paid her bills on time.
She regarded Valentin in turn. "You ain't got any idea why this happened?"
"I do," the detective said, hedging. "I just don't know enough right now." He shifted in his chair. "Speaking of bills, how do you get along with Mr. Jacob?"
Miss Parker shrugged. "He ain't no worse than the others. He won't do much unless I make noise. I ain't seen him in a year. Someone comes by to collect the rent the first of the month, that's all."
Valentin thanked her for her time, and he and Each went out onto the banquette.
"Now what?" the kid said.
"Now we pay a visit to Robertson Street."
Each groaned in disgust.
"We have to," Valentin said, and explained about the body that was found there.
It was still early enough that few of the crib girls were working, and the ones that were hadn't started drinking or smoking or whiffing, so they didn't have the energy for more than a feeble "Hey, sweetheart ... Come on over here..."
Valentin and Each strolled along, stopping now and then to question one of the girls, dropping a Liberty quarter or two to help loosen a tongue. Except for their filthy flesh, information was all they had to barter, and the Creole detective had always found the Robertson Street banquette a good place to learn things he didn't know.
Not this time, though. It was true there had been a body, but no one knew the dead man and there had been no witnesses to his killing. There were some whiskey-laden whispers about more information for sale, but Valentin divined that the harlots were only angling for more coins. Before they left, he thought to put out the word that he was to be alerted if any gangs of white boys from the good side of town came around.
St. Cyr was on the prowl, and Captain J. Picot sent orders down the line for the officers in that precinct to report in. By early afternoon he knew that the Creole detective had spent a half hour at Mangetta's, sharing an early drink with the proprietor. He had been spotted some time later crossing over in the French Quarter with the kid who called himself Each.
Picot guessed that St. Cyr had visited Honore Jacob's place of business. Then came word that the pair had reappeared in Storyville, first stopping at the house on Liberty, then heading for the filthy bottom on Robertson Street, where they walked up and down the banquette, questioning the girls about the man found dead in one of the cribs.
The captain could see what St. Cyr was up to and accorded him a moment of grudging respect. The Creole hadn't forgotten his lessons and was building his investigation one careful piece at a time, leaving no stone unturned. If only Picot had a man as good. The only one who showed any promise was McKinney, and he was far too loose a cannon to be trusted. The day would come when that young officer would find himself without a badge. Picot would see to it personally.
He pushed that notion aside and fixed his attentions on the killings. The likelihood that Jacob had roused someone's wrath had not escaped him. If not, why dead bodies at four of his properties in the space of a week? Picot had never paid much attention to the landlord, other than to send a sergeant around when Jacob "forgot" to pass along his operating fee, the graft due the police precinct. The officer collecting would always relay how much Jacob complained, as if for some reason he should not have been required to offer a contribution to the men who protected him and his properties.
Gazing out the window, Picot grew inflamed, a more or less constant condition when St. Cyr was about. None of his detectives had any suspects or motives in the killings, not even McKinney, and he knew the Creole could break the case wide open in no time. Storyville had been St. Cyr's territory, and he knew it down to the last cobblestone. It would be another black eye for the police department if he ran this murdering bastard to the ground. Picot wondered again if St. Cyr had been put on earth to make him look bad.
He let out a sigh of frustration, a man who knew he couldn't match an adversary but still had to climb in the ring.
He turned away from the window and went to the office doorway. Detective Weeks sat at his desk, plunking laboriously on a shiny black Remington typing machine. Picot looked around the room.
"Where's McKinney?"
Weeks hit a key and stopped. "At the morgue, I believe."
"What's at the morgue?"
"A body that turned up in that crib on Robertson Street."
"Who sent him down there?"
Weeks looked at the captain. "Didn't you?" he said.
The morgue attendants exchanged an eye-rolling glance when McKinney stepped through the door. The cop had become a regular visitor, and every time he showed up, they found themselves working harder than they were used to, rolling gurneys in and out of the cold locker like valets attending to some Garden District matron who couldn't decide which dress to buy for the ball. McKinney wanted to see every male victim of violence brought in during the last twenty-four hours. Each one had to be checked top to toe, front and back, for any telltale cuts.
If they thought McKinney's visit was an annoyance, it got even worse when the door opened and a man of just under medium height with olive-tinged skin and cool gray eyes walked in, trailed by a short, skinny fellow with a faint trace of a mustache above his lips.
James McKinney looked up from the body with only minor surprise. "Mr. St. Cyr."
"Detective," Valentin said.
The attendants came to attention. They knew the name and the reputation.
Valentin ignored them and nodded toward the cadaver. "Who do we have here?"
McKinney said, "Body that was discovered in a crib on Robertson Street."
Valentin stepped up to the gurney and gave the victim a once-over, his eyes drawn immediately to the line on his face.
"Just like the other ones," McKinney murmured.
"Except that it's straight across."
"Does that mean anything?"
Valentin said, "I don't know." Though he had never been one for sharing information with the police, he felt he could trust this particular cop. With a glance over his shoulder, he said, "The crib where he was found was owned by Honore Jacob."
The officer raised an eyebrow. "He owns the properties where Defoor, Bolls, and Deveaux were killed, too."
"Seems someone has it in for that man," Valentin said.
McKinney kept his eyes on the corpse. "You got any idea who this fellow might be?"
"Not yet," Valentin said. "But I will soon enough." He knew McKinney was dying to ask how exactly he'd manage that but couldn't get up the nerve. For Valentin's part, he wasn't sure where the new detective's loyalties were lying at the moment and kept his own counsel.
As if he had read these thoughts, McKinney said, "You know Captain Picot would have me skinned if he knew I was talking to you."
"Well, no one's going to say anything about either one of us being here." He made sure it was loud enough for the two men in the corner to hear him.
They spent a few minutes more examining the body. Each hung back. He had seen enough dead people in the last few days. There was nothing new anyway, and no way of telling if he had been killed in the crib or placed there after the crime, and it didn't matter.
McKinney asked if he had visited the scene.
"I went by," Valentin said. "There was nothing. Just another crib."
He stepped away from the gurney to join
Each near the door. Detective McKinney pulled the linen sheet over the victim's face and signaled the attendants that he was finished. The younger of the two stepped up and pushed the gurney into the cold locker.
Valentin addressed the other fellow. "No one's come to claim the body?"
"Not when I was here."
The Creole detective turned to McKinney. "And no missing persons reports?"
"None that fit him," McKinney said.
"Well, there was that one fellow."
The three men looked over at the junior attendant, who was standing in the locker doorway with one hand on the gurney.
"What's that?" Valentin said.
"Some fellow come by yesterday morning. He opened the door, but he didn't come in. He said, 'You got a body out of a crib in here?' And I said, 'We brought this one off Robertson Street.'"
The attendant glanced at his partner and received a hard look.
"Describe him," Valentin said.
"I really don't remember," the attendant said vaguely.
Valentin paused, then unwound from his slouch against the wall and walked over to the senior attendant. He went into his vest pocket for a Liberty dollar and handed it over.
"There's something there for both of you." He faced the other man. "Describe him."
The attendant waited for his partner to nod to say, "He was about my height. White man, but not pale. Red-faced, like he been out in the sun some. Dark hair. A mustache like this." He drew a curve over his lip from one jawline to the other. "Don't recall anything else."
"How was he dressed?"
"Regular clothes. Shirt and trousers. Oh, yeah, he wore spectacles."
Valentin waited to see if there was more. The attendant shrugged. "Thank you for the information," he said. He produced another half-dollar and flipped it through the air. "You don't tell anyone we were here. Understood?"
"No, sir, no one," the older attendant answered with a greasy grin that said he would probably do exactly the opposite.
The three men filed out the door, along the damp stone hallway, and up four steps into the cobbled alley. There, in the autumn sunlight, Valentin had a strange sense of stepping back into a role that he had played often before. It was comforting and troubling, all at the same time. Whether or not it was connected, he was feeling ravenous and thought about the restaurants in that neighborhood.
