by David Fulmer
Valentin stood at the top of the driveway that curved downward from the broad stone veranda of the administration building, watching idly as a wagon filled with produce for the kitchen rambled through the gate. The gate swung closed, and the hack creaked as it rolled around the building.
Seeing Buddy for the first time in years had thrown his thoughts in a jumble. Though his old friend cut a figure that was beyond blue, it was at least a relief to know that his mind still had anchors, however small, and that photographs from a happier time remained in corners of his memory.
Valentin didn't know what to make of the odd tale of the two strangers—one a patient, the other a visitor—talking about him and Storyville. He knew it could be nothing more than a tangle of words, spoken or imagined, that got muddled up in Bolden's broken mind. The detective saw no pattern to it at all and no reason to give it any more thought.
As he started down the incline to catch the wagon to the station, he glanced back over his shoulder and wondered if he'd ever have reason to come back and see Buddy again.
The train pulled out as the autumn sun was falling and rolled to the southwest, picking up speed, then slowing and coming to a huffing stop at the Slaughter station. Two other passengers got on, drummers with their cases, looking worn out after a day's selling door-to-door.
Neither man would have the faintest clue about their fellow rider's last twenty-four hours. It was about this time the prior evening that he had been laying his trap. Before the night was over, his Iver Johnson .32 had claimed another victim, and the killer who had stalked the red-light district was on his way to the city morgue, the expense of a trial and hanging saved by the quick snap of a trigger. If Valentin wasn't a hero, he had at least done the District a service. He had been in jail, then set free, only to face Justine's wrath. He had made a trip to a madhouse to visit his childhood friend, maybe for the last time.
All that, and in less than one sweep of the clock. With any luck, things would be quiet when he got back to the city.
If only he could get some relief from the nagging, niggling worm that kept whispering that there was something more to Buddy's strange recollection. He gazed out the window at the flat landscape passing his window in the falling light. Could it really be coincidence that Buddy had begun speaking his name at the same moment he became embroiled in a case of multiple murder? It seemed unlikely, and yet all he took away from the hospital was shifting smoke.
The lights of another passing village flickered outside the window. Home was only two hours away. He could see no reason not to settle into the slow waters of his former life; except for the messy business about no longer having a job and the whirring tempest of Justine's anger, of course. Neither represented a permanent state of affairs. He slouched down and thought about how to manage those dilemmas until the squeal of air brakes snapped him out of it.
The train crawled into the station at Zachary. He sat very still for a few seconds, then got to his feet, hurried down the aisle past the two weary drummers, and stepped out onto the platform. The sign on the side of the terminal house said the next northbound train would arrive in thirty minutes. He sat down on the bench to wait.
The sun had gone down and the moon was rising over New Orleans. Evelyne Dallencort roused Thomas to carry her to the musical revue at the State Palace Theater on Canal Street. The young Negro had no sooner driven away than she turned to the doorman and asked him to whistle up another automobile for her.
The driver, a sober-faced mulatto, barely glanced at her, waiting for his instructions. She laid them out precisely and then dropped a Liberty half-dollar onto the seat next to him. He picked up the coin, threw the shift lever forward, and they were off.
She had him chauffeur her down Basin Street and then along Franklin, Liberty, and Marais. She took in the sights, making a busy list in her head. She spent an hour so engaged, and then told the driver to head south. In fifteen minutes the automobile came to a stop at the corner of Spain and Decatur and she sat quietly, observing one building and then the next, up and down both banquettes.
She then asked the driver to carry her home to Perrier Street and to take his time.
It was a dozen short miles back to Jackson, and Valentin walked the rest of the way to the hospital from the station rather than take a hack or jitney. In a fast forty minutes, he was standing in the darkness opposite the main building, quiet now that most of the staff had gone home, and scanning the horizon like a stalking cat. As he crossed over, it occurred to him that any doubt that he was back to his old ways was getting drubbed. He fell into his creeping habits as if drawing on familiar clothes.
Getting past the guard in the lobby proved easier than he expected. He was lurking between two of the columns on the veranda, working on a plan to sneak inside, when the doors opened and the guard stepped out and then to the edge of the veranda, where he stopped to light a cigarette. The face of the middle-aged white man was thin and drawn in the glow of the lucifer. Valentin didn't see a weapon; a front-desk guard wouldn't require one.
When the guard stepped off the veranda to enjoy the stars in the night sky, Valentin made a hushed trot to the door and pulled it open just wide enough to slip through. He quickly crossed the lobby to the corridor, then made himself part of the wall, in case the guard had been alerted by the swish of the door.
He waited for a half minute before poking his head out. The lobby remained empty and quiet. A few steps forward gave him an angle to the front window, and he could see the guard lolling in the same place, the tip of his cigarette an orange dot in the darkness.
He padded to the end of the east corridor and didn't find what he was looking for. Passing back across the lobby, he entered the opposite corridor. At the far end, he found a door with the word RECORDS painted on the glass. The lock was an old-fashioned type that he cracked by jiggling one of his skeleton keys for a few seconds.
He struck four lucifers before he found the drawer marked PATIENT RELEASES. The files were arranged by date, and he selected the first one, tagged as SEPTEMBER-OCTOBER. He didn't have enough lucifers left to be able to read through it, so he carried the file to the corridor and stepped out the exit to the north side of the building, taking care to block the door open with a stone.
The grounds were quiet and the lights in the windows of the wards glowed softly. At this time of night, staff and patients would be eating supper, which would be followed by evening recreation, then lights out by eight or so. No one was about, so Valentin leaned against the brick wall under the feeble glow of the bare bulb that was mounted over the door.
He flipped through the October releases and found eight files in all. He stopped at the fifth one.
The name written in the box at the top was "Brown, William P." Valentin read quickly through the essentials and found that Brown was from Merryville and had been committed by the Beauregard Parish sheriff. The reason for the commitment was a vague "Recommended by Court." Also noted in a box at the top of the page was the patient's assigned room: W-328.
Brown had been diagnosed as suffering from dementia prae-cox, a phrase that covered a vast array of mental disorders and meant the doctors didn't know what was wrong with him, other than a brand of insanity. There were a series of comments noting "some improvement" or "no improvement" over the months he had been a patient. The other notations were in the nature of "quiet" and "calm." Apparently, Mr. Brown had not been a problem for the staff.
Given that there was no notation of any illness or injury, the patient's death must have come as a surprise. He was transferred to the infirmary on the evening of September 29. He died two days later. Brown spent October 1, the final day of his life, at the State Hospital for the Insane. The last note read: "Body released to family for burial," followed by a pair of indecipherable initials.
Valentin closed the file and gazed across the grounds. Within three weeks after William Brown had died, five bodies had turned up in Storyville. A few days later, Valentin chased a deranged white man to
the middle of a Storyville street and shot him dead.
The detective opened the folder to review the details. Brown's height and weight were listed as five feet six inches tall and 140 pounds. It certainly fit the man who had bled his life out on the cobbles of the Storyville intersection. It appeared that once Brown had been discharged from the hospital, he began a journey that landed him in the line of fire of the Creole detective's Iver Johnson pistol.
One more quick scan revealed nothing else of value, and he closed the folder. Pulling the door open, he peered along the still corridor, then stepped inside and made his way back to the Records room and returned the file to its drawer. When he poked his head out again, he saw the guard at the lobby desk, his feet up as he read a penny magazine. The detective made a soundless exit out the side door.
It was still quiet and he was crossing the grounds when he came upon the white ward, clearly noted by the large W high on the corner of the building. He circled around and noticed no activity behind the windows. The entrance at the end of the building was covered by a peaked roof, and just above it he saw a small window that had been left open a few inches. He made another quick scan of the grounds, then began a quick shinny up the post and onto the roof. The window opened with a soft squeak, and he was peering down a long hallway, the wood floors shiny beneath the electric sconces that were spaced along the walls.
He slipped over the sill and lowered the window behind him. The room numbers on the floor began at 200. He waited, listening for any errant sound, then started up the stairwell. Stopping to peek out the hexagonal window on the first landing, he viewed the lights of the dining hall. The doors had just opened to emit a slow parade of patients, accompanied by guards.
He didn't have much time. With a sprint up the remaining stairs, he hurried into the corridor and made a beeline for room 328, at the far end.
Three iron-frame beds were arranged on either side, with a small night table at each, and all but one dressed with sheets and a blanket and pillow. A patient sat upright in one of the dressed beds, watching the visitor with dull eyes. The man did not speak at all as the detective made a circuit of the room. Valentin reached the undressed bed and noticed something different about the wall behind the headboard. He stepped closer and peered between the rails.
By the slight shading, it appeared that the patch of wall had been freshly painted. Just beneath the fresh paint, someone had scratched the same design over and over, in near-perfect rows.
He straightened and turned to the patient, who had continued to watch him in silence.
"Brown?" he asked.
The patient cleared his throat as if unused to speaking and said, "He used to sleep there."
"Before he died?"
The man appeared puzzled. "Before they took him away."
Noise seeped into the hallway, and Valentin stepped out of the room just in time to meet the wave of patients returning from dinner. He was barely noticed in the hubbub and weaved through the bodies, down the stairs, and out the door without being stopped or questioned.
An hour later he was stepping off the platform and onto the late express train to New Orleans.
Louis was lounging against the sweeping fender of the Buick, smoking a Straight Cut, when she emerged on the balcony. She stood staring in his direction, so motionless she could herself have been a shadow. She lingered for a long minute, then stepped back inside.
Louis had flicked away his cigarette and was circling around to the driver's side when the street door opened and she appeared on the banquette. She looked up and down Spain Street before stepping onto the cobblestones.
He noticed that she was dressed well, with a long walking skirt and shirtwaist and a shawl draped over her shoulders, pale silk embroidered with peacocks and fern branches.
As she drew near, he straightened, coming to attention like a servant. This gave her a moment's pause, and she laughed under her breath. He didn't say a word, simply opening the passenger side door and offering his hand to help her onto the running board. He closed the door and moved to the front of the Buick. The engine caught on the first crank, and he hopped nimbly behind the wheel, opened the choke, and advanced the spark until the twelve cylinders settled into a purring idle.
They rode back into the city the same way they had driven out on the previous Tuesday night, along the same streets, and in the same silence.
She didn't know where he was taking her. She also didn't know what he was after, though the simplest answer was the same thing they all wanted: the sweet prize nestling between her legs. Though he hadn't made any moves in that direction, and his gaze when he appeared in the professor's basement classroom was not carnal, only inquisitive, as if he couldn't quite fathom her, either. He had watched her face, and his eyes had roamed idly to her bare bosom. He slipped out as deftly as he had appeared.
She pondered these odd maneuvers as he wheeled the phaeton around Union Station, over the tracks, and onto Basin Street. She couldn't read a thing from his expression. He kept his eyes on the streets as he drove placidly down the line and then turned into the French Quarter. He steered the automobile along Royal Street. Just past Dauphine, he pulled to the curb in front of an old French house fronted by an iron gate and a courtyard. He shut off the engine.
She turned to face him and said, "Well?"
By the time he finally stepped off the train at Union Station, Valentin was drained, having spent the afternoon and evening in the bidding of others. Tom Anderson told him to get out of town and he did. Nora Bolden asked if he would go see her husband and he went. Buddy described overhearing two men talking about him, and he poked his nose into that business, too. All that was left was to go home to make amends with Justine, the one person he had yet to serve this day.
He walked out of the station and onto Basin Street in time to see a red Buick 10 chug by, heading down the line. He felt a momentary flash of resentment that he didn't have the use of such a fine automobile, but instead faced being stuffed into a rattling streetcar and hauled across town like so much livestock to be dumped at a corner from where he would have to hike another three tiresome blocks. Not knowing what sort of reception was waiting when he reached his front door; maybe none at all.
He stopped to gaze across the tracks at Anderson's Café just as the door swung wide for two sharp-dressed sports, and he caught sight of chandeliers glittering over a polished tile floor that was crisscrossed by paths of red carpet. The tables were filling up, and behind the chatter he heard a jass band tootling through a song that once would have been considered a felony in proper quarters. Now it was standard entertainment for well-heeled citizens who didn't seem to have a care in the world. It seemed the word had gotten around that the evildoer who had been stalking the District was dead and everybody could relax and have a good time.
The door closed again, and Valentin walked down to the next corner to wait for the Canal Line car that would carry him to the Elysian Fields car that would carry him to Spain Street, like any other common fellow heading home far too late after a long day's work.
He was all but staggering along the Spain Street banquette when he saw her approaching from the other direction. Behind her, what appeared to be the same Buick he had seen on Basin Street was pulling away. He was confused, but his brain was too frazzled to puzzle it out. He was just glad to see her, glad to know that at least she hadn't packed her bags and moved out.
They arrived at the street door, an encounter that swam in the wide window of the import office. Regarding each other carefully, they both waited for the other to break the silence. Without a word, Valentin unlocked the door and held it open for her.
Upstairs he was relieved to find that no notes had been slipped under the door. Justine wandered into the bathroom, and he sat down on the divan and took off his shoes, feeling as dull as a rock. She stepped out of the bathroom and directly into the bedroom.
He waited until she appeared into the doorway and said, "Are you coming to bed?"
; The maid out of Josie Arlington's found him on her way home. He was lying on his back, his arms flung wide as if reaching to hold himself from falling into a pit, his dead eyes staring up at the starless blue night. Black blood had spread like a puddle beneath him.
She said, "Good lord almighty," and took a few steps closer. She had heard the talk going around the houses, and there it was, just like they said, a thin line scratched into the flesh of the poor man's brow.
She let out a low moan, then ran back the way she had come, calling for someone to help.
SIXTEEN
The telephone rang at Captain Picot's tiny house on St. Ann Street, and he sat up, blinking. Few people had his number, and he kept it out of the directory. He swung his legs off the bed and lumbered like a sailor on a pitching deck into his living room. Snatching up the handset, he grunted irritably, then listened. Within a few seconds, his sour face became a rubbery mask of delight.
He could barely keep from crowing his orders. "It's the six hundred block of Spain Street. He keeps rooms over an import office there. I'll be down in an hour."
He dropped the handset into the cradle. Finally, he told himself, after all this time. I've got him now, goddamnit. I've got that son of a bitch St. Cyr, but good.
This time instead of the telephone, it was a pounding of footsteps up the stairwell and then an urgent banging on the door. Valentin felt himself grabbed and wrenched out of the darkness by the sound of someone yelling his name, loud but muffled. With a groan Justine came awake, pulling a pillow over her head as he stumbled from the bed.
Now he could hear Each calling urgently and shivering the jamb with the force of his hand. Valentin jerked the door open.
"You got to get out!" the kid sputtered. "The coppers are comin'!"
