by David Fulmer
"We couldn't find him."
Picot shook his head in frustration. "What about the automobile?"
"Burgundy Winton. Fine-looking touring car. That's what they said."
Picot rapped hard fingers on his desk. "All right, you call up the dealer first thing in the morning. See how many burgundy models they sold in the city. Couldn't be more than a few." He fell silent, brooding.
Weeks waited for a few seconds, then said, "Anything else, sir?"
The captain sat back. "I let St. Cyr's girl go home. But I want someone watching their rooms."
Weeks started to back out the door.
"Wait a second," Picot said. "Where the hell's McKinney?"
Exasperated, Justine said, "You shouldn't be here," and brushed past him. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught something moving at the far end of the street and turned her head in time to catch sight of a uniformed policeman crossing from one banquette to the other.
At the street door, she tried to put the key in the lock but found her hands trembling so much that it rattled. It was as if all the day's tension had somehow come to daunt that simple act. She just wanted to get inside and close the world away, only to find that she couldn't manage it.
Louis stepped to her side, wrapped her hand in his, and guided the key.
"There it is," he said.
She twisted her fingers and felt the bolt slide. "Thank you," she said.
Louis stepped back, waiting. Instead of pushing the door open, she turned to face him and saw his face cleaved by the light from the streetlamp, something strange in his eyes—something fearful.
She said, "What do you want?"
"I'm here to help you," he said. "You should know that."
She let out a curt laugh. "Help me?"
"You're in a lot of trouble."
"How would you know?"
He tilted his head slightly. "That policeman down the block? He's not after me."
"They're looking for someone," she said. "They think he's going to turn up here. But he's not."
"You mean St. Cyr."
She cocked her head warily. "That's right."
"I know the whole story."
She thought about this for a few seconds. "You and I didn't meet by accident."
"No, we didn't."
She wasn't surprised. He had been playing a game all along, but she was too tired to care. "Well, then? I asked you what you want here."
"I need to talk to you," he said. "It's important."
"Go ahead," she said. "Talk."
"Inside." He smiled, a freakish shadow of his former devilish grin. "You're alone," he said. "I can keep you company."
She almost laughed again at his show of disregard for the cloud of trouble hanging over her head, and Valentin's lingering shadow.
She watched his face for another moment. There was definitely an odd light in his eyes. Like he knew something...
Catching her gaze, he drew back uncertainly. "What is it?"
"All right then," she said. "Come in."
The Negro turned off Canal onto Magazine Street and closed on number 420, a building that Tom Anderson had once owned and where Valentin had for several years kept rooms. He had occupied the three-room flat over Gaspare's Tobacco Store, first alone, then with Justine, then without her again. It had for the most part been a good home. Now, with the upstairs windows darkened, it appeared empty and forlorn, and he wondered if anyone was living there.
Valentin glanced over at Each, who shook his head, no less puzzled at passing that location. The kid knew the address well, having spent nights on the overstuffed couch from the time he was a squirt. He recalled that there had been dark moments of mayhem in those rooms, but it had still been as close to a home as he had ever known. And now they had arrived back in its shadow.
As it turned out, the proximity was happenstance. The Winton slowed and drew to a stop a half block farther on at the corner of Poydras Street, across from Banks' Arcade, a hotel known for its fine dining room and elegant salons, but especially its fourth floor, a warren where for decades a fair share of the city's devious political and amorous intrigues had been conducted.
On the ground level, facing Magazine Street, a garden of stone sculptures, winding paths, park benches, and café tables lay mostly hidden from view by a brick and wrought-iron wall. In addition to the doors on the three sides, the building was fitted with a half-dozen private entrances. There had long been talk of a passageway under the street for those requiring the most extreme secrecy in their affairs.
Each nudged the detective, and then pushed back the canvas flap. He opened their door, and they stepped down to the banquette.
The Negro stuck his head out. "Room four-oh-eight," he said, then promptly engaged the gearbox and pulled away, swinging around the corner and into the darkness of the levee at the bottom of Front Street.
The two men stood on the corner for a moment. The detective said, "Four..."
"Oh-eight," Each said.
After a terse glance around the intersection, Valentin said, "What the hell. We're here. Let's see what it's about."
He led Each across the cobblestones to the covered walkway at the end of the garden. The soft drizzle provided extra cover as they wound along the brick path to a side door. They stepped over the threshold and into a corridor that was cast in the glow of electric lamps turned down low.
Directly on their right was a stairwell and they climbed the three flights without speaking. The door on the landing opened onto another corridor. Number 408 was the third door down. Valentin waved for Each to stay where he was. He listened for a moment, then inclined his head like a safecracker and knocked three times.
"Please come in." It was a woman's clear voice.
The detective hiked his eyebrows, a signal for Each to be on his toes, and turned the knob. They stepped inside, and the door closed behind them with a whisper of well-fitted wood.
They were standing in a small foyer that opened onto a large sitting room. A woman in a proper dress sat with a straight-backed posture on a divan that was arranged at a coffee table along with two button-tufted armchairs. Two electric lamps cast meek light, leaving her mostly in amber shadow. A tray with a full brandy decanter and two glasses had been placed on the table, along with a square box of light walnut.
"Please come in, Mr. St. Cyr," the woman said. She spoke his name with a perfect French intonation.
Valentin stepped forward into the archway. Noting that the invitation did not include him, Each hung back. The detective perked his ears for the faintest hint of another body on the premises. Unless someone was hiding in deep silence in either the bedroom or the bathroom, both to the right, they were alone. But then he was so on edge he might be missing something.
"You may have a seat," the woman said.
Valentin took one of the chairs. When the woman leaned into the muted light, he saw that she had striking features: dark haired, green eyed, full figured, and of regal profile. At the same time, the blades of probing light in her eyes and the curious tension in her finely planed face gave him pause. She was studying him in return.
Waiting for her first move, it occurred to him that in his old railroad coat and de Nimes trousers, he looked more like a workman who had come in to fix the toilet. He had forgotten to remove his hat and did so now. He spent a moment recounting the sequence that had in the span of a half hour led him from a filthy room in Brown Bottom to an elegant suite in one of the most storied hotels in the city. He knew it could still be a trap, and the police or a couple roughnecks could come bursting through the hallway door at any second.
The woman interrupted these thoughts. "My name is Evelyne Dallencort."
Valentin nodded politely and kept his mouth closed.
The woman paused, pursed her lips. "Does the name mean anything to you?"
"No, ma'am."
"Old French family. Very wealthy." She held up her left hand to show a ring studded with diamonds. "I'm a Dallencort by marriag
e."
Valentin didn't know what she expected by way of a response and kept quiet. Evelyne, appearing momentarily irked, dropped her hand. Her eyes shifted briefly to Each, then back to the detective. "You won't want your friend hearing this conversation," she said.
Valentin turned his head slightly. Each got the message and retreated to the small foyer and one of the café chairs that had been placed there. The detective knew the kid would still pick up every word with his big ears.
Now Evelyne Dallencort leaned forward another few inches. Valentin did the same, closing the space between them.
"You have quite a reputation," the woman said. "And quite a history."
"How's that?"
"Starting out as a policeman. Then Tom Anderson's man. The Storyville detective. The cases you've handled. I've heard it all."
"I don't work for Mr. Anderson anymore," Valentin said quietly. "Haven't in some time."
"Well, I'm glad to hear that." She produced a smile that hinted at hidden meaning.
After a moment's pause, she reached out with a languid hand to pluck the cork from the brandy bottle and pour the two glasses full. She handed one to him and then sat back.
The detective took a grateful sip and felt the smoky liquor swirl into his stomach and head. He hadn't the faintest idea what Evelyne Dallencort wanted with him. He did know that he couldn't afford to dally with some silly rich woman who had decided to stick her nose into his troubles. His gratitude for the help escaping from Brown Bottom was giving way to impatience with any foolishness.
Abruptly, he said, "What can I do for you, ma'am?"
Evelyne wasn't about to be rushed. She took a long few seconds to sip her brandy before saying, "Let's talk about what I can do for you, Mr. St. Cyr."
Valentin all but huffed and rolled his eyes at this melodrama. "What would that be?"
"I can keep you alive, for a start." She treated him to a wise look. "You're in a bad way. The police have a warrant out for your arrest. For killing that fellow. What was his name—Brown?"
The detective paused, nodded. Evelyne Dallencort continued.
"For your information, Mr. Brown did commit those murders. So you shot the right man."
Valentin pleased her with a startled look. "How do you know?" he said.
"I know. We can leave it at that for now."
"Then who did this last killing?"
She gazed at him for an absent moment, as if she hadn't heard the question, then began tipping her brandy glass from side to side to watch the slow tilt of the amber liquid.
"It's quite a puzzle, isn't it?" she said. "Why were those men murdered in the red-light district? If it wasn't just some madman on a rampage, that is."
Valentin studied her more closely. She was acting coy, enjoying this sport, and it occurred to him that he was dealing with a type he had encountered in the past: women of means, bored with their upper-class lives, married to men who desired them only as showpieces who would tend to their homes, children, and social responsibilities in exchange for the wealth and privilege.
Eventually dabbling in opium and casual love affairs grew tedious, and they sought wilder escapades. More than a few were drawn downtown to the scarlet swamp of Storyville, with all its sex, intrigue, and violence. Some had ended up in the kind of trouble that would have landed any other citizen in Parish Prison. But they had the money, good names, attorneys like Sam Ross, and detectives like Valentin St. Cyr to avoid paying for their sins. They would scurry back into their castles, leaving misery in their wakes.
Valentin had seen it dozens of times, and he needed to find out in a hurry if Evelyne Dallencort was one of their number. Now his ears were perked. The first errant slip of her tongue, and he and Each would be out the door.
"Mr. St. Cyr?"
He returned to the moment. "Ma'am?"
"I asked why you think those men were murdered."
Her expression was intent, and Valentin decided to indulge her and get it over with.
He said, "If it's not some lunatic, then it could be that someone has it in mind to make a problem that Storyville can't shake."
"But why?"
He mulled some more. "So it would look like such a dangerous place that no one would want to go there anymore."
Evelyne's green eyes fixed on him and she smiled absently.
"If that happened and business dried up, the authorities would have reason to shut it down for good," he said. "People have been trying to do that for fifteen years."
Evelyne produced a quick laugh that held a slightly frenetic note. "Oh, I doubt anyone would do anything quite that dramatic," she said. "Not with all that money over there." Now her eyes glistened and color rose to her cheeks. "Tens of thousands of dollars a week, isn't that correct? It's a river of gold. Not to mention all the political power that comes with it."
Valentin reflected on this curious speech, wondering how she knew the details of the scarlet economy.
The smile faded and her lips tightened in displeasure. "And all of it in the hands of Tom Anderson."
"Mr. Anderson has done very well with it," Valentin said.
"But he's not doing so well anymore, is he?" Evelyne said, her voice turning sharp. "He's old and tired, and the place has been falling apart in his hands. Don't tell me you haven't seen that. It's a terrible situation."
She posed with an imperious finger in the air. The hand came down to her lap. "Well, I plan to change that before he destroys it completely."
"Beg your pardon?" the detective said.
She paused to study him for a serious moment, then said, "Here's my proposition: I can give you the party responsible for sending Mr. Brown to commit those murders. The police will have nothing on you and you'll go free." She tipped her head in the direction of the foyer. "Your young friend will be out of trouble, too."
He stared at her, not sure whether to laugh or just get up and walk out. "I don't—"
"I'm not finished," she said. "If you wish, you can go back to work in the red-light district. I hope you will."
He had to make an effort to hold back the smile that was tugging at his mouth. "I'm sorry, I don't understand," he said. "Work for who?"
She tapped her breast as if it was obvious. "For me, Mr. Valentin."
Valentin was faintly amused, more puzzled. "Ma'am?"
"Anderson is finished," she said crisply. "He was failing already. These killings have broken his back. He should go, one way or another. I want him out. It's that simple. And I want your help moving him along."
The detective felt like snickering at this flight of fancy. She really was wasting his time. "Tom Anderson's not going anywhere," he told her.
Evelyne flipped a dismissive hand. "Not without being convinced, he's not. That's where you come in. You make him understand that his day is done. Thank him for his service and let him go on his way. How old is he, anyway? In his sixties? How much longer does he have? Does he really want to drop dead on Basin Street?"
Valentin spent a moment musing that it sounded like exactly what Tom Anderson would want: to spend his final moments in his beloved Storyville. He certainly wasn't going to just turn it over to some rich woman with a delusion about taking over. It was so preposterous that he felt a wild urge to laugh.
Evelyne Dallencort, by contrast, was dead serious.
"I'll let him keep his Café," she went on busily. "He built it, after all. But it will be one of many such establishments. Once things change on Basin Street, I mean. For the better, of course." She saw the look on the detective's face and began talking faster. "You must know that there's no room for a lady to make her way in politics, no room in any business, either. Tell me, where can a woman get anywhere, other than by spending her life on her back or her knees? Where in this man's world?"
"Ma'am, I'm—"
"In a place like Storyville, that's where. I can make a mark there. Better than any man. Even Tom Anderson. 'The King of Storyville.' Indeed!"
She drank off her brandy, pour
ed a second glass, and sat back. "So?" she said after a moment.
Valentin said, "I'm sorry. Is this why you brought me here?"
Evelyne's tone turned cool. "It is."
"Then I'm not interested."
"Why not?"
"Because what you're proposing isn't possible."
Evelyne's eyes blazed with such quick anger that he wondered if it was possible that she had directed the murders of six innocent men as part of a plot to take Storyville away from Tom Anderson. Or if she might be part of a scheme devised by someone who did have such power. There had to be men who would be eager to take Anderson's place. Either way, he wanted no part of it.
"I'm sorry," he said, and started to get up from his chair.
Evelyne waited until he started to turn away to say, "What about your woman? Justine, is it? The sporting girl from Basin Street. Her."
Valentin heard Each's chair creak, then silence.
Evelyne said, "Do you happen to know where she is at the moment?"
The detective sat down again and, forcing himself calm, folded his hands and waited for her to continue.
"She's with an associate of mine," Evelyne explained. "At your address on ... Spain Street, correct? Yes. The gentleman has instructions that if he doesn't hear from me by midnight, he'll kill her."
She either didn't notice or didn't care that Valentin's gray eyes had gone stony.
"You might have noticed him," she went on. "He drives a red Buick. He's been with her."
The detective's mind wound down and stopped cold. He heard a rustle of movement as Each started to come out of his chair. He dropped a hand to the side, signaling for the kid to stay where he was.
"If that's true, you're making a mistake," he said.
Evelyne stared right back at him, her mouth tightening severely. "Oh, it's true. And you're the one making the mistake. Don't treat me like I'm some fool, sir. I'm serious about this, and I'm not going to debate it. It's already gone too far. Seven people are dead."
She paused as if to let that fact sink in.
"Tom Anderson is old and in the way. Storyville needs new blood. So you and I are going to come to an agreement right now. Or your young lady will pay." She squared her shoulders. "And you'll end up in prison, and so will your friend in the foyer. Let's not forget about that. So think about what you're doing. And the choice before you."
