by David Fulmer
Each gave it to the detective in a few quick sentences. Another victim had turned up, this one found lying out on Bienville Street, shot in the chest and cut, just like the others. William Brown was not the killer, and Picot had sent a squad to apprehend St. Cyr all over again. Tom Anderson wouldn't be able to come to his rescue. He was officially targeted for arrest, and the New Orleans police were minutes away.
Valentin gaped, stupefied by this news. Justine stepped into the bedroom doorway to listen, her face grim as she tied the sash of her kimono. Each was too unnerved to steal his usual hungry peek at her.
Valentin didn't waste a second, grabbing the kid by the shoulder, turning him around, and ordering, "Watch the street." He bolted for the bedroom.
Justine stood in his path for a moment, her face unforgiving. A brief second passed and she stepped aside. He dressed in a flurry, all but jumping into his de Nimes trousers, high-topped walking shoes, and work shirt. He came out of the bedroom to find that Justine had gone into the closet for his old railroad jacket, and he gave a nod of thanks, still avoiding her eyes.
Stuffed into one of the pockets was an old wool driving cap, and once he donned it, he looked like a common laborer.
"There's a car at the corner," Each called from the balcony. "I think it's coppers."
"It is," Valentin called back. There was rarely any traffic in the neighborhood at that hour.
In another minute or so, a second car would arrive at the other end of the block. Patrolmen, closing along the banquettes, would have him hedged in on all sides, including the alley in back, on their way to pulling a net around him. He could all but see Picot's grinning face and dirty hands behind the web.
Each was reporting a second car as the detective snatched up his sap and stiletto. The police had confiscated his Iver Johnson, so he dug out his ancient Colt Bisley model. Justine lingered at the bedroom doorway, her face cool and impassive. There was nothing for either of them to say. Valentin jerked his head, and he and Each raced to the kitchen and then out the door onto the back stairs.
Once the lock clacked, Justine spent a few seconds swallowing her anger, then stepped quickly into the kitchen and shoved a mop, broom, and sack of rice against the door. Turning off all the lights, she returned to the bedroom and slipped under the covers. Only then did she allow herself to curse Valentin St. Cyr.
The rear stairwell was the only way out. Mr. Perrault, the owner of the import business, had given Valentin keys to the first floor in case of an emergency. The detective and Each now hurried through the storage room and unlocked the back door, which opened onto a narrow loading dock. Stopping in the darkness, they could hear the activity from Spain Street: the gurgle of idling engines, muted chatter, shoe leather slapping on the boards of the banquette.
Valentin saw no one moving around the back lot. He grabbed Each's sleeve and led him across the alley as the silhouette of a copper appeared at each end. They dived into the shadows of the lot on the other side and crept around the building to arrive on the banquette in front of a closed St. Roch Avenue cafe.
Each was nearly shaking with excitement. Valentin whispered instructions for him to get back to Storyville. He was to stay out of sight until he got there, then let himself be seen.
"Where you going to go?" the kid whispered back. His voice was thin with strain.
Valentin shook his head and waved him away. Once he had run off, the detective cut a jagged path through the alleys to St. Ferdinand Street, then made a turn toward the river, losing himself in the jumbled maze of shipping warehouses, small factories, and shops for the outfitting of vessels that spread out for four blocks on the other side of the tracks.
Two detectives appeared at the door. They showed Justine their gold badges and raked her with cool cop gazes. The older, shorter one said his name was Weeks and introduced his partner as McKinney. They had a warrant for the arrest of Valentin St. Cyr on a charge of murder.
Justine gazed between the two of them as if she didn't understand. "He's not here."
"Where is he?" Weeks said.
"I don't know. He left."
"When?"
"Yesterday," she said. "He was on his way to Union Station."
"He say where he was going?"
"He didn't." She kept her voice and expression flat, and the junior officer was struck in that moment by how much she resembled the Creole detective. She wasn't about to give up anything, either.
"We're going to look around, then," Weeks said.
Justine stepped back. "Look."
The pair split up and covered the four rooms within a matter of minutes. While Weeks ignored her, she caught curious glances from the one named McKinney. It was he who poked around in the kitchen, then came out to report to the senior detective.
"Nothing," he said.
"Then he's gone." Weeks treated Justine to a cold glance. "And you ain't got no idea where he went?"
Justine shook her head. The senior officer gave her a harder look. "You know we can take you in as a material witness," he said.
Justine stared back, her eyes blank. "Witness to what?"
Weeks started to say something back, then stopped. After a moment's stiff pause, he said, "Just so you understand, he's wanted on a murder charge. It ain't no joke. So if you hear from him, tell him he needs to come in. Only way it's going to get settled. Otherwise..." He let it hang.
"Otherwise what?" Justine said.
McKinney spoke up for the first time. "He's a fugitive, ma'am. That means if he runs, he could end up being shot." He saw her eyes widen and said, "It'll be better if he comes in." He fished in his pocket and handed her a card. "That's got the number of the desk at the precinct on it. In case you do hear from him."
The detectives made their exit. McKinney gave her a polite nod before closing the door behind him.
Captain Picot was pacing in his office when Weeks and McKinney arrived back. Though it was the dead of night, he was dressed all natty, as if on his way to a wedding or some other formal affair. An astonished Detective McKinney realized that the captain had gone to this trouble expecting to make a big show of the arrest of St. Cyr.
Picot came to an expectant halt when the cops stepped to his door.
Weeks threw up his hands. "We missed him."
"You what?" Picot's olive-tinged face turned an angry shade of red.
"He was gone by the time we got there. We searched all the rooms. Nothing."
Picot slammed a fist down on his desk and papers went flying.
"We've got men all around the neighborhood," Weeks said, swallowing. "Maybe they'll nab him."
Picot rolled his eyes. "No, they won't nab him," he said. "He was tipped off, and he ran." After a moment's dark pause, he said, "Well, I guess that means he's guilty, then, don't it? As if there was any doubt."
He glanced at McKinney, as if expecting a challenge. The detective kept his mouth shut and expression blank.
"Did you bring her in?"
"Bring who?" Weeks said.
"His woman."
"Those weren't our orders."
"Well, they are now," Picot said. "Go back and pick her up."
The two detectives exchanged a glance. McKinney said, "We've got nothing on her, sir."
Picot treated him to a foul stare. "Did you hear me? And while you're at it, go ahead and put out an alert on that damn Beansoup character or whatever he calls himself now."
"'Each,'" Weeks said. "He goes by 'Each.'"
Picot said, "Him, too. Find him and drag his ass in. As soon as the morning shift comes on, we'll cover every house in Storyville. Let them all know that St. Cyr killed the wrong man and then ran away. Get the word out that anyone helps him will get trouble." He flicked a hand. "Go ahead, then."
The detectives filed out. Captain Picot turned to his window and stared out at his corner of the city, knowing in his bones that wherever the Creole detective had gone, he hadn't left town and likely wouldn't. Picot preferred it that way. The two long-time riva
ls—make that enemies—were going to engage again, another battle in a war that had been going on for the better part of ten years.
Picot had come close to snagging St. Cyr before, only to have him slither from his grasp like the snake he was. This time it was different. The Creole detective had slipped, an amateur's blunder that he never would have committed had he stayed in Storyville and kept his skills sharp.
He'd lost his edge working for those St. Charles Avenue lawyers and so ended up shooting the wrong man dead. Now no one could save him, not Tom Anderson, not the madams in their mansions down the line, not any of his old cronies. Unless he could perform some feat of magic, he was as good as done.
If he was smart, Picot reflected, he'd leave New Orleans and never return, losing himself in the great muddled morass of some other city or in some nameless hamlet far away. He wouldn't, though; he was bound to this place and would linger here, even if it brought him to ruin.
The only detail the captain had to sweat was where St. Cyr had gone to ground and how long it would be before he came out into the open, as he surely would, and into the clutches of the New Orleans Police Department. It could take a day or a month. The Creole couldn't hide forever, and they'd be waiting.
In those years every city in the land contained at least one jungle, a vile, filthy, and perilous warren that sane people knew better than to visit. Such neighborhoods were beyond the pale, festering like open sores on the fringes of decent society. Most often they were located near the water, convenient for sailors and other misfits arriving and dead bodies departing, and were too poor, dirty, and disease-riddled to serve as anything except dumping grounds for dregs. The denizens were the worst humanity had to offer: thieves, rapists, hopheads, drunkards, and killers, every one of them stupid or crazy, scrabbling in the muck to stay alive for another day.
Such an enclave had grown up at the south end of Charbon-net Street, below North Peters, in the small tangle of alleys that huddled against the levee, more an encampment than a permanent quarter. It fell into the gap between New Orleans and the town of Arabi, and in another five years it would be gone like a bad memory.
They called it Brown Bottom, and it was there that Valentin decided to lose himself for a while. Shadowy, scurrying figures were the norm, and he knew no cop would come poking around there without a small army of fellow officers.
Along the alleys were hovels that passed for rooming houses, one-story affairs that catered to sailors too drunk or violent to get regular work, which was saying something.
The detective lurked for a while between two of the buildings, just him and a crumpled body that might have been dead. Once the alley hit a moment of stillness and silence, he slipped to the other side of the street and rapped on a door. He paid a half-blind, half-drunk old hag a nickel and got a ragged towel and a key.
His room was at the end of a littered hallway, about the size of a large closet, with a pallet, a chamber pot, and nothing else. The walls were mapped with stains from the leaking roof, and the reek of urine and mildew choked him. He wasn't there for the accoutrements.
It wasn't the first time he'd spent a night in such digs, and he knew what to do. The lock was worthless, so he pulled the sack of a dirty mattress away and leaned the pallet against the door, propping it closed. He folded the mattress upright into the cleanest corner and sat on the floor with his back against it and legs outstretched. Justine had thought to drop an apple in his pocket before he went out the door, and he nibbled it as he pondered his situation.
In twenty-four hours he had gone from hero to fugitive felon. He wouldn't be able to hide for long. Though the only photograph of him was lying in the back of a drawer in Papá Bellocq's studio, a police artist could come up with a good enough likeness. He could count on his face being in the hands of every cop in the city by morning. Once the word got around that he was on the run, anyone spotting him would sell the information for a dollar.
It would be easy enough for him to hop a freight smoking out of the yard behind Union Station. Railroad cops would be watching, too, but they couldn't cover every car. It would be the smart thing to do, except that he'd never be able to come back. His name would be forever tagged with the appellation of murderer, and for the rest of his days he'd risk being spotted, identified, captured. And what of Justine? What kind of life would it be for her?
Indeed, he was in deep trouble because he hadn't listened, hadn't respected her wishes. Why would she follow him down a fugitive trail?
His thoughts shifted and he recalled her approaching from the corner and the red Buick 10 slipping away in the background. He knew without asking that she had been riding in the car, and that it was the same one he'd spied on Basin Street. He had been too exhausted to ask her what it meant.
Maybe he should have stayed to find out, but from the moment he opened the door for Each, he knew his only chance was to run. Now his only choice was to stay and untangle himself from the trap.
If Justine thought her troubles were over when the two detectives walked out, she was mistaken. She drowsed fitfully and was roused within the hour by the clattering telephone. She came swaying out of the bedroom, wishing they had thrown the noisy device in the river long ago.
It was a gruff Tom Anderson calling again. He listened as Justine explained that Valentin had heard about trouble on the way and decided to leave. She was not happy about any of it and didn't provide any details.
"And he went where?" Anderson inquired, though they both understood that she wouldn't tell him even if she knew. She owed the King of Storyville less than nothing. To her, he was just another man wreaking havoc. He mumbled something about having Valentin get in touch, then clicked off.
She had just lain down again when the street door squeaked and footsteps thumped in the stairwell, followed by a hard pounding. Standing on her landing was Weeks, the senior detective from the night before, but this time accompanied by a beat cop in blue uniform and round-topped helmet.
"Captain Picot wants you at the precinct for questioning," Weeks said.
Justine recognized the name as an enemy's and considered arguing. She had nothing to tell him or anyone else. But putting up a fight would only make things worse.
"I'll need a moment to dress," she said.
From the bedroom she could hear them pacing around. They were likely wondering if she would try to escape out the back window and looked relieved when she reappeared in a plain shirtwaist.
Down on the street, they escorted her along the banquette to the corner, where a black Ford Model T with a New Orleans Police Department emblem on the door was parked. Weeks helped her into the rear seat, allowing his hand to linger on her too long. The patrolman started the engine, and they rolled off through the New Orleans dawn to a meeting with Captain J. Picot.
Each heard from one of his spies about the cops heading back to Spain Street. He arrived too late to warn Justine and had to duck into a doorway when the police sedan went by. He peeked out just in time to see the Model T round the corner, heading downtown, with her in the backseat.
Not that he could have done anything to help. The cops would be after him, too, thinking he would know where the Creole detective was hiding. Which, in fact, he did; or, at the least, had a fair idea. They had talked about it before, and Mr. Valentin had said, "If ever..."
Though it had been a long time ago, Each had never forgotten. He remembered almost every word of what the Creole detective had said over the years. Now he checked the street ahead, just as he had been taught, and when it was clear, he made his way out of the neighborhood and toward the river.
The cops brought Justine up the stairwell. The other detectives and uniformed officers stopped what they were doing and took notice. Low whistles followed her as she passed between the desks on the way to Captain Picot's office.
The captain, keeping his back to the officers and their quarry, gazed out on the dark streets. He had heard the stir outside his door and saw the visitors' reflections in the window
glass, framed like a moving-picture show.
Once they arrived in the doorway, he took his time turning around. She was as exotic to him as a wild-blooming flower and made his gut churn to think that someone like St. Cyr claimed such a prize. And not just this one; Picot knew about others, one a lovely mulatto, another a black-skinned island girl, a third a young American lady from one of the better families on Esplanade Ridge. The Creole had enjoyed them and more, goddamn his soul. All sorts of women were drawn to him.
His quadroon was something special, though, and Picot could understand why she was the only one St. Cyr held on to. Though under medium size, she had a large woman's vibrant presence. Her eyes were round and black, and her nose was curved like a Jewess's. She had pulled her black curls back in an Indian braid. Beneath her cloak, her body was full and lithe, something a man could feast on for years, or so the captain imagined ... He caught himself and straightened his shoulders.
There was more to the story. He held one of Justine Mancarre's deepest secrets, and all that kept him from using the rich morsel was that her man, that fucking Creole St. Cyr, had even darker knowledge about him. So while it was true that he and this young lovely were at a standoff, he still had some cards to play.
He had yet to meet her eyes. With a glance at the patrolman who had escorted her in, he said, "Go find a matron." The cop bowed out.
As a younger officer, Picot had taken his way with a share of the sweethearts and even wives of criminals he arrested. They were easy pickings for him. This indulgence lasted until a burglar named Duprez decided that his whore's honor was worth suicide and tried to murder the then-lieutenant second grade in broad daylight. It was good fortune that the patrolmen in Picot's company that day were crack shots, and Duprez ended up on the banquette, bleeding his life out through four holes in his chest. The last time Picot saw the wife was at Duprez's funeral parade, and her eyes were daggers. So he had her run out of town.
