by David Fulmer
Valentin asked for a report, and in a quick whisper Jimmy said he'd seen a man amble out of the darkness, cross Iberville Street a block north, and then slip along the banquette into the alleyway.
"What about him?" the detective whispered.
"He was hunched down." Black Jimmy ducked his head in a mime. "He wasn't lookin' left nor right, neither."
"Like he knew where he was going."
"Like that, yes, sir."
"He was wearing a derby, too." Jimmy glanced at Each. "Just like you said."
"You're sure about all this?" Valentin said.
"Yeah, don't you be making up stories." Each hitched his shoulders.
Jimmy said, "I saw, all right. The hat and everything."
Valentin addressed the kid. "You stay here and keep your eyes open. It could be nothing and the one we're looking for could move right in while we ain't looking."
Black Jimmy nodded, all solemn at the gravity of the order.
The detective turned to Each. "You get up to Robertson and come around that way. You see any of your people, have them close in a half block. I want the intersection covered on every side. But everyone's to stay the hell out of sight. Nobody moves and nobody talks."
Each hurried off as Black Jimmy faded into the shadows. Valentin stepped to the corner and poked his head around. The only person in sight was a fellow standing at the bottom of a set of steps talking with someone in an open doorway. Staying close to the buildings, the detective made his way to the mouth of the alley where Black Jimmy had spotted the man.
He stopped for a moment, then strolled across, stealing an offhand glance down the alleyway. That he saw no silhouette didn't mean that no one was lurking there. Once he reached the other side, he turned back and curled his body into a shadow just off the banquette where he could study the alley more carefully without being spotted.
The moon was down and the trees in the back gardens of the houses made a canopy, so that all light was shut out. He gave his eyes a few seconds to adjust and saw nothing like a human shape and nothing moving.
He waited for a full minute until he saw Each saunter across the Iberville end of the alley. Valentin grinned slightly. The kid had tried the old trick of strolling past as if on his way somewhere, creating just enough of a stir to draw the attention of anyone who might be lurking in the dark. The detective took the opportunity to slide around the bricks and into the shadow under the back balcony of the two-story building. Each would stop as soon as he got a few paces down the street and would himself be hiding and waiting.
That's what they both did for a half minute. Valentin could pick out a few more details in the purple darkness. Another half minute passed and something moved.
The detective held his breath. Not something; someone. A man in a long coat and derby had materialized from beside a toolshed at the back of one of the properties. The fellow stood very still, took one slow step, then another, a thief's ruse that was not unlike the one Each had just pulled, intended to draw out anyone who might be lurking. If some citizen appeared, the trickster would act like he was relieving his bladder or pawing through garbage.
Apparently satisfied he was unnoticed, this one crossed to the other side of the alley in three quick strides and into the back garden of Jessie Taylor's house.
Valentin felt his heart thump, knowing it had to be the miscreant who had killed at least four strangers and then marked their bodies. Though he could not see the man's face, could not read his eyes or hear him speak, it did not occur to him that he was wrong.
Now his mind shut down and his gut took over as if he had thrown a switch. He knew that in ten silent strides he could be on the man and putting a bullet through his temple. It would be that simple. Then he would whistle up Each and Whaley, and the three of them would drag the body into the street like a hunting trophy.
But he wasn't an executioner, and so he decided instead to drive this murdering fellow into the arms of the others. By now Whaley would have been alerted and on his way and would know what to do.
Valentin first needed to let the man know he was there. It took only the slightest untoward movement, an intentional clumsiness that made a little cough in the gravel at his feet and brought the fellow's head around. A breeze came up and Valentin could smell him now, a familiar scent of flesh that was straining against unseen demons and clothes steeped in the same furious stench.
The man took a step forward and, when Valentin didn't move, took a step back. He stared for another moment, then made a sideways shift and passed through the nearest garden gate. The path around the house would take him out onto the Villere Street banquette.
Valentin, slipping through the shadows, caught movement and saw Each's gawky profile at the end of the alley. He pointed urgently to the south and then gave a sharp wave to get the kid moving. Each disappeared, and the detective went on stalking.
For his part, William Brown was in no small panic. Something was going wrong. Storyville had been quiet and still, just like the other times. He had been waiting to move in close to the house and lurk until a likely target appeared so that he could do his work and be finished. Then someone had come along to jerk him out of his dream. Not just anyone; this was a predator, too. He imagined eyes glowing catlike in the darkness. And now he was the prey. He felt the blood begin to race in his veins. Don't get caught.
The passageway was full of shadows and he took advantage, stepping quickly into the back garden of a house. He was moving away from where he was supposed to be, but that would have to wait. He found a pitch-black space below the back gallery of the house, and he crouched there and drew out his pistol.
Nothing moved as the minutes went by. Either the one stalking him had fallen as silent as a snake or he had gone away. After more minutes had passed, William decided to get to the street and use the light to his advantage, rather than squat there all night. Don't get caught.
From the shadow of a sycamore tree, Valentin saw the figure rise from beneath the gallery and creep alongside the house. He moved in as the profile was absorbed in the darkness of the cavern between the two houses, then stopped, sensing that his prey had done the same. Though he was in the open, he settled into a practiced stillness that rendered him all but invisible. He could do it so well that at times criminals had tripped over him before they realized he was there. He made himself into just another shadow.
The streets around the block were quiet; that was Whaley and Each doing their jobs. He heard a slight rustle of movement that could have been leaves falling to the ground but was the sound of the fellow moving again, either to try to finish his work or just run off.
Valentin circled around the other side of the house, picking through the narrow space a step at a time. All he needed was to stumble and twist an ankle or frighten up a cat.
When he came out onto the banquette, he saw the lone figure standing in the middle of Villere Street, halfway down the block. The fellow looked around as if searching for the correct doorway, and there was something jittery in his movements.
Valentin crept along, staying close to the houses. He knew that his men were standing in the dark of doorways and under balconies. At his signal they'd draw a web from four directions, hoping that when faced with such an array of force, the man would surrender. The shadows remained still as the detective stepped into the street, his hands out from his sides to show that he held no weapon.
The man in the derby, catching the sound of movement, turned around. Valentin stood fifty paces away, then forty. He held the fellow's gaze as if to mesmerize him, and it seemed to be working, as the stranger regarded him in return with a frank and not unfriendly curiosity.
Then, in a sudden moment, he seemed to come awake and realize where he was. He dropped a hand to his coat pocket.
Valentin said, "Don't."
A breeze off the river cut down Iberville Street to cross Marais, where it snatched the smoke out of the barrel of the Iver Johnson pistol and carried it away.
Once the shot echoed
and died, it was quiet again. Each, Whaley, and the other men stepped from their lairs and closed on the intersection. Only one person was out of place: a character who hadn't moved from an opposite corner but stood calmly observing, as if the possibility of a stray ball of lead moving his way at a hundred feet per second didn't faze him at all. He was dressed like a gentleman in a good suit and wool coat.
Lying on the cobbles, William Brown let out a long tortured wheeze and, sounding surprised, said, "Jesus Christ!" He went into shock as the bullet had blown a bloody hole next to his heart.
Valentin fixed his eyes on the body that was sprawled bleeding on the cobblestones. The man's hat had come off and rolled to a stop a few feet away. His hand was clutching at the tail of his shirt and tugging feebly. He lifted the bloody cloth in a weak fist, and Valentin saw the edge of the scar, a red V pointing downward against the parchment-white flesh, and felt the chill of a primitive dread invade his bones. The grasping hand dropped, and the fellow let out what sounded like a sigh of relief before going still.
Valentin said, "Someone please call the police."
He heard a voice yell, "Drop the weapon!" and turned his head to see two patrolmen closing on him, their Colt service pistols held out before them. His own revolver was hanging loose in his limp right hand, and he knelt down to lay it on the cobblestones.
One of the cops holstered his weapon and quickly slapped cuffs on the detective, while his partner kicked the Iver Johnson out of the way.
"Everybody keep back!" the senior of the two coppers yelled. Once those on the scene had followed orders, the officers seemed unsure how to proceed. Word had come down some time ago instructing patrolmen to refrain from grilling suspects after serious crimes. That was the detectives' job. They could only address the basic information.
"What's your name?"
"Valentin St. Cyr."
"Address?"
"Six twenty-seven Spain Street."
"Age?"
Valentin had to think for a moment. "Thirty-nine."
The senior officer wanted to ask about the dead body lying a few feet away. Instead, he stood there with his gaze shifting between the handcuffed Creole and the victim. A few minutes passed as the onlookers huddled on the banquettes of the four corners. From the distance a siren wailed, and within another minute a police wagon pulled up and screeched to a stop.
Tom Anderson was roused from an edgy slumber by the maid knocking and calling that someone needed him at the front door. His gout had flared, and he lumbered into the foyer on tender feet, grumbling like a bear.
The kid they used to call Beansoup was standing on the gallery, all fretful. He was stunned to see the King of Storyville in a nightshirt, looking common and old.
"You're—"
"Emile Carter. They call me—"
"Beansoup," Anderson said. "No, it's Each, is that right?"
"Yes, sir."
"What's wrong?"
"It's Mr. Valentin."
"What about him?"
"Police got him in Parish Prison."
"What for?"
"He shot down a man on Iberville Street."
Anderson took a stunned moment's pause. "Was it the one he was after?"
"I think so."
"You think so?"
Each started to stutter an explanation when Anderson cut him off. "Never mind. I'll take care of it." He waved a hand. "You go on," he said, and closed the door. Each backed away, then trotted off into the night.
Inside, the King of Storyville found that the noise had awakened his wife, who now stood at the top of the staircase in her dressing gown.
She said, "What is it, Tom?"
"Go back to bed," he told her.
He sat down at the rolltop desk in his office off the foyer. His first call was to Parish Prison to ascertain that St. Cyr had indeed been arrested and was now confined.
"Yes, sir, they brought him in about a half hour ago," the jailer said.
The King of Storyville thanked him and broke the connection. He next asked the operator to connect him to Chief Reynolds's home.
The chief sounded sleepy and grouchy. "What the hell, Tom? It's the middle of the night."
Anderson bristled in turn at the chief's peeved tone. He could rightly argue that Reynolds might not hold the office if it wasn't for strings he had pulled. But this was no time to raise the point. He got directly to it: St. Cyr was locked down in jail, and the King of Storyville wanted him out.
Reynolds was irked by Anderson's gall, asking for a favor after the trouble he'd started over the payments from Storyville. After an irate few seconds, he said, "He's working for you again?"
"Not exactly."
"Explain that."
"Not now. Later. I'll post the bail if need be, but I want him on the street. Tonight."
"What's the charge?" Reynolds sounded testy again.
"He shot a man."
"Dead?"
"From what I understand."
"A homicide?" The chief's voice went up a notch. "And you want him out?"
"The victim was the one who committed those murders."
Even with this information, Reynolds hesitated. Time was, a chief of police would have snapped into action without a single word. John O'Connor had worked with him as a partner to keep the District safe and profitable. But O'Connor had died suddenly, and a model of crisp efficiency named William Reynolds had taken his place. Though he didn't sound so crisp or efficient at that moment.
Anderson hoped he wouldn't have to get nasty and drag out any of the dirt he had on the department, going back fifteen years. He had to consider if St. Cyr's freedom was worth that gamble. Thankfully, it wasn't necessary. With another grudging grunt, the chief said he would call down to Parish Prison and take care of it.
"I'll have him released on your personal bond within the hour," the chief said. "Send someone to pick him up at the back door. I don't want him on the street. And if I find out it wasn't self-defense, he'll be right back in there. Do we understand each other?"
Anderson rolled his eyes at the lecturing tone. "Yes, of course. Let's just get on with it."
Captain Picot could barely believe his ears and his luck. One of the men who had been hired to help St. Cyr happened also to be one of his spies and sent word back through the evening. Nothing much was happening, and Picot was hoping fervently that the Creole detective would sputter, fail, and go home.
That would have been satisfactory. When he received the news that St. Cyr had encountered a man in the middle of the intersection at Iberville and Marais streets and shot him dead, he was beside himself with joy. Even if he had cornered this particular killer, he didn't have the right to execute him. Storyville wasn't the Wild West, after all.
The captain had a late drink of whiskey to celebrate, then went to bed and slept like a baby. He was looking forward to waking up and paying a visit to the jail, just for the simple pleasure of seeing the Creole detective behind bars.
But by the time all this news had reached him, St. Cyr was already gone.
Valentin bribed one of the guards to send for Each. It didn't take long to find him; once he got back from delivering the news to Tom Anderson, the kid had kept a dutiful vigil outside the jail. He now hurried down the stairs and along the corridor to the cells.
"What's the word?" the detective whispered.
Each lowered his own voice. "They found a knife on him, too. Coppers are saying he's the one. They ain't very happy it was you shot him, though."
"Has he been identified?"
"Not that I heard." The kid regarded Valentin carefully, curious about how a man would act in the wake of a killing. As usual, though, the Creole detective's face showed little.
"I heard someone say Mr. Tom called Chief Reynolds and the chief is going to send the word to let you go."
"When?"
"Don't know about that."
Valentin considered. Even with Anderson putting on the pressure, if Picot had his way, he'd be there awhile.
"Go see Justine," he said. "Tell her what happened, but don't make it bloody. Tell her it's over, and that I'm coming home."
The detective waved him away, and he hurried back down the corridor.
When Each came knocking, Justine invited him in. He stayed out on the landing, all breathless as he recounted what had transpired in Storyville and where it had landed Mr. Valentin. Her brow furrowed as she listened, as if she was trying to decide if the news was good or bad. When he finished, she thanked him and closed the door, leaving him standing there.
The call came down at 3:00 A.M. The prisoner was released and escorted to the back exit, where Anderson's driver was waiting for him, along with Each and Whaley. They climbed into the Packard Victoria touring car and drove to Spain Street, where Valentin stepped down with a weary wave of thanks. The Packard rattled off into the night.
Justine heard the automobile pull to the curb outside, the mutter of voices, and the street door opening and closing. Slow steps ascended the stairwell. She unlocked the door and stood back.
He didn't look too bad for someone who had shot a man to death and spent half the night in jail. Before she walked off, leaving a cloud of anger in her wake, she said, "Mr. Tom says for you to call him right away." She closed and locked the bathroom door behind her, and Valentin heard the hiss of running water.
He found Anderson's telephone number and asked the operator to connect him. Anderson's drowsy maid answered and told him the King of Storyville couldn't sleep and had gone to the Café. He got the operator a second time.
Ned's creaky voice came on the line. "Who's there?"
"Ned, this is Valentin St. Cyr."
"Mr. Valentin. Y'all right, sir?"
Valentin was grateful. "I'm all right. Is Mr. Tom there?"
"He is," Ned said. "Stay on the line."
Ned's voice was replaced by Tom Anderson's. He got right to the point. "The best thing you can do is get out of sight."
