by David Fulmer
The District was working up a buzz. No one knew what to make of the body that had been deposited at St. Louis Cemetery No. 2.
One of the coppers called to the scene was able to make a quick identification. As it turned out, old Hebert's first guess had been correct: The fellow was a drunkard, in this case a sot who went by the street moniker Stovepipe for reasons no one could ascertain. His true name was Timothy Smith, and he was a longtime fixture around the low-rent saloons on the east side of the old city. The cause of his death was a single gunshot wound to the chest.
By the middle of the morning, the coppers had roused a few of the other drunks who frequented the dives and learned that Stovepipe was a harmless sort who picked up day labor now and then and stayed in flophouses when he had a dime to pay. When he didn't, he slept in doorways. He had few friends and no kin that anyone could recall.
When the victim's long-unwashed body was delivered to the morgue, a second wound was discovered, this one a bullet hole in the back of his left thigh, halfway between the knee and buttocks. Further examination revealed no marks cut into Mr. Smith's flesh.
Valentin learned this information by placing an anonymous telephone call to the precinct at Parish Prison and locating Officer McKinney. The copper delivered the essentials, and Valentin did him the service of getting off the line quickly. He had what he needed anyway. After he hung up, he went out onto the balcony and gazed south to the river, mulling over what McKinney had reported.
Men like Timothy Smith died every day, from the damage done by their drinking, from accidents, and from spats with knife- or pistol-toting rivals. It would be fair to assume that such violence befell this poor character. He had simply chosen the gates of the cemetery to slump down and die.
Valentin saw two holes in this construction. First, the bullet wound to the chest was a replica of those that had felled the other victims. The other one was the kind intended to bring a man to the ground.
The detective imagined the drunkard ambling along and some miscreant creeping up behind to snap a shot into the back of his leg. Once Smith crumpled to his knees, it would be easy enough to move around and put the fatal shot in his heart.
The second problem was the location of the body. There was nothing nearby that would draw the victim: no saloons, no flops, no back-alley slum of lean-tos where vagrants with no other place to go huddled, drinking whatever they could over open fires. Timothy Smith didn't belong there, unless he just happened to be passing that way.
That was all, though, and with nowhere else to go with it, Valentin turned his thoughts to his unfinished business with the law firms on St. Charles. Several cases had been left open, and he needed to deliver his last reports. So while Justine changed the bedding and dusted, he spent a half hour at their Camden desk, adding final comments to the paperwork.
When he left, he called in to let her know he would be back later. If she said anything in response, he didn't hear it.
As if he needed any more blows to his pride, Tom Anderson was not consulted before Chief of Police Reynolds, after a quick few words with the mayor, decided it was time to put more officers on the streets of Storyville. At least he was informed of the decision, which was something, though not much. It was not the chief himself nor even Captain Picot who delivered the news. Instead, a detective named Weeks showed up at the Café.
The King of Storyville didn't like Weeks the moment he stepped inside. The detective swaggered his way over the threshold, plainly annoyed at his role of messenger. He all but yawned when he greeted Anderson and then said his piece without preamble. The department was going to assign a couple dozen patrolmen and five or six detectives to the District until further notice.
Anderson listened to the policeman, caught the dismissive tone, and decided it was time to send a message back.
"Tell Captain Picot that they can order a damned army down here," he said. "It's only going to make things worse. And you can tell my friends downtown that as of today, payments of any kind to policemen assigned to the District will be suspended."
Weeks frowned dubiously, as if he wasn't sure Anderson still had the clout to make such a drastic change.
The King of Storyville noted this and said, "You understand me, detective? I'm putting an order out. Not a dime."
Now Weeks flushed in ire at being placed in the middle of this mess. What did he have to do with a spat between Anderson and the chief? Not to mention learning that the ten dollars or so that he collected every week on top of his pay was about to disappear.
Anderson was finished with the cop and snapped his fingers at Ned.
"Please get Lulu White on the telephone for me," he said. "Tell her I have something important to discuss." He then turned a cold gaze on his visitor. "Was there anything else, detective?"
Picot intercepted Weeks as soon as he arrived back at the precinct. The detective repeated what Mr. Anderson had said.
"The last part," Picot said when he finished. "You sure he said that?"
"Yes, sir," Weeks said. "That was it, all right. No more payments."
Picot sighed as if in regret. Privately, he was stifling a smile. Storyville was cracking apart, top to bottom.
"Well, then," he said, keeping his tone serious. "I'll need to report this right away."
Weeks said, "I won't say nothing about it."
Picot eyed him. "Tell whoever you want, detective. It's not a secret." He treated the junior officer to a sharp glance. "All right?"
"Yes, sir," Weeks said.
Picot dismissed him and ambled back into his office.
The phone finally rang and Evelyne took the call. After hanging up, she dressed in a huffing rush and called for the car. Thomas, sensing her mood and eager to get away without having to don the livery, hurried for once, and soon they were racing to the French Quarter almost quickly enough to please her. There was no time to stop at Mayer Israel's and be transformed, so she had him drop her in front of a china shop on Ursulines. When she stepped down, she told him to go park on the street alongside Jackson Square and she'd come find him when she was finished with her shopping.
If he found any of this suspect, he didn't show it. He was happy to be away from the house, more so to have the chance to lounge about the square with the fine automobile on display.
As soon as the Winton turned the next corner, she was heading for Royal Street, keeping her head bent and hoping for the good fortune to miss being recognized. She found some humor knowing that at the same moment any number of society women were in the Quarter and in the middle of their own mischief. Though she wasn't dallying with a secret lover. She was on a far more urgent mission.
Still, it wouldn't do to be noticed, and she was relieved to reach the gates of the house.
She found him in the sunroom, which was attached to the back of the house and framed on three sides with greenhouse glass and festooned with ferns. He was seated on the wrought-iron bench, looking much at ease, which annoyed her. Men of leisure—or those who pretended to be—frankly disgusted her. Perhaps because her husband, who had barely worked a day in his life, was now rotting away from the inside, a peeling back of his frail shell to reveal no substance underneath.
Louis was the same sort, mostly window dressing. Some people were blessed with an engine that drove them, and others lived to simply go along for the ride, mere passengers. A select few others, like her, were destined to drive the trains.
Louis turned his head in a practiced motion. She was in no way dazzled by his beauty. He wasn't a good enough actor.
She got down to business. "What happened last night?"
"Nothing happened." He shrugged.
"Did I hear about a man found dead at the cemetery?"
"There's plenty of those." He made an offhand gesture.
Evelyne reached down and grabbed one of his flawless cheeks in her fingernails. Louis let out a cry.
"Don't you play with me," she said.
He grunted, his teeth clenched tight, as the pain
brought tears to his eyes. She held on long enough to leave scratches, then let go. He glared at her and rubbed at the spot where three welts had risen. He didn't look quite so pretty now, so brave, or very smart, for that matter. The young fool had no idea what she was doing. He still imagined that she was some rich woman playing a silly game. He was just as unaware of her plans for him after the dust settled.
He'd find out soon enough; they had more immediate business. "What about the dead man?" she said.
Louis let out a pouting sigh and said, "I don't know what happened. He was just some drunkard nobody cared about."
"That's right. So why did he end up dead in Storyville?"
"It wasn't Storyville," Louis said. "Not exactly."
Evelyne watched his face, especially his shifting eyes. She couldn't tell if he was just pretending to be a dunce or was really that dim. He was a fair liar and devious enough to blend truth with fiction. Which made her wonder if he was running a game of his own. She didn't think he'd dare, but then the world was full of lying scoundrels.
"All right, what else?" she said.
Louis rubbed his sore cheek for another moment to remind her what she had done, then began to smile in such a devilish way that she felt goose bumps rise on her arms and a twitch between her legs. She knew that look; he had good news for once.
Picot was careful about how he passed the information up the chain of command, simply requesting a moment of the division commander's time. At two o'clock he was standing outside the fourth-floor office.
He waited, dazzled by the stars and braiding on the uniforms that ambled by and the fine suits worn by the civilians who did a lot of business in the hallway alcoves, where no one could hear. He kept an eye out, just in case Chief Reynolds happened by.
The captain didn't know that the brass considered him half joke and half pest. No one liked or trusted him, and any time spent in his company was kept short. He was valuable only as a bull snake, allowed in the yard for his rat-catching abilities.
An officer stuck his head into the hall and summoned him. He found Commander York bent over a table, busily drawing pencil lines on a map, keeping busy being a requisite when hosting Captain Picot.
He barely glanced up from his work. "What's so important, Picot?" he said.
The captain, sensing that the senior officer prefer that he keep his distance, lingered at the door. "Sir, I sent one of my officers to pay a visit to Tom Anderson at his place of business," he said. "To extend the courtesy of telling him we would have extra officers in Storyville until the felon who's been committing the murders is apprehended."
The commander kept scribbling. Picot continued.
"Mr. Anderson told the detective he was going to pass the word that payments from the houses in the District were going to be suspended." He paused for emphasis. "Immediately."
York lifted his pencil. "I see." He pondered in what seemed an absent manner for a few seconds. Then he said, "Payments of those sort made to police officers are illegal. That means whatever Mr. Anderson threatens or does is of no concern to this department. But thank you for passing along the information."
Picot understood instantly. He muttered a thank-you, performed a slight bow, and backed out of the office.
Commander York stepped to his doorway in time to see Picot pass out into the corridor. Then he crossed directly to his desk to call Chief Reynolds.
***
The afternoon found Valentin arriving at the offices of Mansell, Maines, and Velline, his packet of files in hand. He stated his business to the secretary in the lobby. She accepted the files with one hand and handed over an envelope with the other. Valentin got the message: Take your money and leave. As he walked out, he allowed himself a glance down the long corridor toward Sam Ross's office. That door was closed.
A wave of anger swelled in the space of the hour it took the word to go down the line from the Café. As a matter of respect, Lulu White was informed first, by way of a personal call from the King of Storyville. She listened, dumbfounded, as Anderson explained that she was to cease paying tribute to officers on the beat and any other police official, all the way up to the chief.
To the madam's ear, he sounded odd, like a different person, and as he went about upsetting a system that had been in place for decades, she had to wonder if he was losing his mind. The graft was the oil in the smooth-running machine that was Storyville, insuring a basic level of order and protection. Tom Anderson had always been a generous patron. As a kid he had been a reliable police snitch, and his first saloon had served as the department's home away from home. Indeed, the very foundation of his empire had been his service as ambassador between the blue and scarlet worlds.
Now he was ordering a halt to the payments as a first salvo in a war, and it was on her shoulders to pass the word to the other madams. Before she could protest, he'd said his good-byes. She did not miss the way he had finagled her, appealing to her pride before dumping an onerous duty in her ample lap.
She selected a cigarillo from the box on her desk, fit it into her onyx holder, and struck a lucifer. The sweet tobacco always helped her relax and think.
She knew two things to be true: First, Anderson was making a terrible mistake by starting a feud at a time when things were already going so badly; second, no matter what happened, that sweet-tongued, evil-eyed Josie Arlington and the vile witch Emma Johnson would waste no time blaming her for the debacle. She had always believed herself Storyville's second-in-command. Now she would pay for that conceit.
She stopped to wonder if perhaps St. Cyr could talk him out of it. But the Creole detective would have other things on his mind. He hadn't been able to get the first scent of the killer after a night of prowling. And another body had turned up, though apparently it was just some no-account tramp.
Her thoughts now turned to how things might play out for her. It didn't look promising, but who knew? The wild swirl of events could be a run of bad luck. It could also be a fiendish plan devised by the rare wicked intelligence. Then she tried to imagine who, except for the King of Storyville and herself, had such talents and could think of no one.
In any case, she had to leave it alone. If she didn't get busy calling down the line, Anderson would be pestering her to know why. She could hear the shrieks from the other madams before they began and thought it would be a good time to light up her opium pipe instead.
The five telephones in the Picayune newsroom were all placed on one long table that was wedged into a corner so that the reporters could take turns using them. In another year, they had been told, each of the scribblers would have his own set. On this afternoon a copyboy whistled and called Donald Packer's name. The reporter pushed away from his desk, crossed the room, and picked up the telephone on the end.
He listened for a moment. Anyone watching would see the startled look on his face shift to tense and then to relief that brought along a smile. He laid the phone in the cradle and hurried off to his editor's office.
***
The evening found Tom Anderson at his office window as the first of the Black Marias pulled to the curb at the corner of Basin and Bienville streets. The specially built Model T delivery trucks were usually reserved for those instances when multiple suspects had to be transported. In the wake of a brawl, for instance, or when the drunks were unloaded off the train cars coming back from the revelries at Spanish Fort and the other lakeside resorts. The vehicles were outfitted with bars on the back windows and steel eyes on the floor where the shackles placed on unruly passengers were attached.
As Anderson watched, the rear doors of the closest vehicle opened and eight patrolmen stepped down, donning their round-topped helmets and hitching their gun belts as they hit the cobbled street. Next, a police sedan pulled up and disgorged three men in suits—detectives from the precinct at Parish Prison.
The King of Storyville experienced a dizzying spike of alarm at the thought that he might at the moment be witnessing the end of his reign. Turning from the window,
he went for his brandy, swilled one glass, and filled another. The sweet heat of the liquor calmed him, and he returned to his vantage point.
He observed the patrolmen and detectives huddling briefly, then fanning out like ants to mount their occupation of his territory. He imagined repeats of the scene on Canal, St. Louis, and Claiborne, and shook his head in dismay. The sick, sinking feeling in his gut was no joke.
A minute later his eye was caught by a familiar figure sauntering along from far down the line, and he felt his spirits rise again.
Valentin stopped to surveil the police activity from the opposite end of Basin Street, waiting until the police had moved off before he started walking again. Even then he used the cover of Union Station and the background of rolling trains to make his way to Iberville Street, then crossed over to duck inside the door of Anderson's Café.
There wasn't much business, a dozen men playing faro at tables and three more sitting at the long bar. It looked like the end rather than the beginning of a long night. Crossing the tiled floor, he stepped into the back hallway and climbed the stairs to Anderson's office.
The King of Storyville was standing at the window, brandy glass in his hand. The setting sun cast his face in pale orange. He looked tired. Turning at Valentin's entrance, he gestured to the bottle and empty glass on the tray. The detective shook his head.
"Did you see the invasion out there?"
"I saw," Valentin said.
"It's my fault," Anderson said, then described his visit from Detective Weeks and the message he'd passed to Chief Reynolds.
Valentin started to smile. "That'll make everyone happy."
"Well, it's too late to back out."
Valentin said, "You know the word went right to Picot."
"Yes, I know," the King of Storyville said with a sigh. He tilted his head to the window at the scene beyond. "What are you going to do about all this?"
