by David Fulmer
Justine heard in his seething breath his rage over letting her surprise him and his panic over the terrible blunder of failing to finish her. Now she had turned the tables, and he flailed like a child throwing a tantrum. With a last hard jerk, his arms came free.
She felt his hands wrap around her throat and start to squeeze. She fought with all the more fury, while everything before her eyes turned red.
On the street below, Valentin came skidding to a stop, frozen for a second at the tableau of the two of them entwined on the balcony with the man's hands tight on Justine's throat as she flailed furiously.
He didn't feel the Iver Johnson in his hand, didn't realize he had aimed and pulled the trigger until the shot cracked and the pistol kicked in his hand. He saw the man's head snap and wobble. The choking hands came away from Justine's neck, and she lurched back through the doorway into the living room.
Louis teetered and then went over, a clumsy puppet, arms and legs at four different angles and head lolling like a ball on a string. The dull smack of soft flesh slamming into hard stone shot up from the street. Blood spurted from his ears, nose, and mouth and flowed in a black puddle. His eyes were wide open and staring at the rooftops.
Valentin pulled his eyes off the body and looked up to see Justine now standing with her hands gripping the wrought-iron banister, her face a mask of shock. She dropped her gaze to him, and the relief that flooded his eyes brought her out of it. She watched as he lifted a hand as if to reach her and took a weak step back.
"The police," he said after a moment. "Go in and call the police." She nodded and staggered out of sight.
Valentin crouched next to Louis Jacob. The dead eyes had settled on nothing. He was finished. Glancing around, the detective noticed the dark shape of a pistol and walked over to find a nickel-plated Colt .32. He left it lie.
The street door to the building opened, and Justine edged out, pulling her embroidered shawl tight around her. She stood on the banquette and stared at Jacob. Valentin moved to her side and laid an arm around her shoulder. Seeing the red marks that Jacob had left on her throat, he found himself unable to speak. She buried her face against him and began to sob quietly.
A police siren whined from the direction of North Peters, and a minute later the first car swung around the corner and bore down, casting the Creole detective, his woman, and the corpse in the street in a wash of yellow-white light. Figures descended from behind the lamps, and Valentin was grateful that the first body to emerge was that of James McKinney.
The policeman approached carefully. "Mr. St. Cyr?" he said. "What happened?"
"There was an incident," Valentin said.
Justine drew away from him. "He had a pistol," she said in a soft, though steady voice. "He was going to kill me. I knocked it out of his hand. Then he tried to strangle me."
Valentin pointed and said, "The weapon's still in the street."
"How did he die?" the cop asked.
"I shot him from down here," Valentin said.
McKinney considered the marksmanship for a moment, then said, "All right, sir. I'll have to make a report."
"There's more to this," Valentin told him. In a few hushed sentences, he told the cop about Evelyne Dallencort, William Brown, and the late Louis Jacob.
When he finished, McKinney said, "Where is the woman now?"
"She was at the Banks' Arcade," Valentin said. "Though she may have started for her home."
"We can send detectives to both—"
"No," Valentin said. "We should go. Just you and I."
McKinney mulled for a moment. "All right, sir," he said. "But Captain Picot won't like it."
Valentin smiled dimly. "No, he won't."
The cop shrugged. "Of course, he doesn't like much of anything I do these days." He glanced around. "We're going to need a car."
The words had barely cleared his lips when a Model T of no recent vintage clattered over the cobbles from North Peters Street. Whaley was at the wheel. Behind it came Tom Anderson's gleaming white Packard Victoria. The King of Storyville sat on the right. Each was in the driver's seat.
"Take your pick," Valentin told the cop.
Evelyne heard the fracas in the background, the sounds of a struggle, a woman's voice in a cough of shock, some banging, a single gunshot, then silence. It was done. She sighed and waited patiently for Louis to come back on the line. Weak as he was, he would need time to settle himself.
She waited some more and heard the woman's voice, now faint and far away, and realized that something had gone wrong. A few seconds later the phone went dead.
Louis had failed, damn him. He had quailed and run; either that, or the quadroon had gotten the best of him. One way or the other, he was gone and St. Cyr and the girl were still alive.
Of course, the Creole detective would come after her. Forcing herself not to panic, she quickly rang the operator and asked to be connected to Anderson's Café. She perked her ears for the background noise signaling the chaos that would occur in the wake of the King of Storyville's murder.
Instead, a tired-sounding bartender came on the line. Evelyne's voice was trembling when she asked for Mr. Anderson.
With a yawn the bartender said, "Who shall I tell him is calling?"
She shrieked a curse, whirled around, and threw the telephone against the wall, bashing the plaster. Her gut churned sourly, and she ran to the bathroom before she soiled the floor. When she came back out, she had to hold on to the doorjamb to steady herself.
She stared out the dark window, seeing her careful construction shattering. She had worked so hard, planned so well! It should have been easy. Storyville had been there for the taking. Indeed, bringing Tom Anderson and his little kingdom down should have been simple. It was ripe for the picking, she would step in as its queen, send a shock wave from coast to coast, and reign supreme over a gold mine that would never be depleted, because men never tired of their carnal pleasures. How well she knew that.
Louis had found just the right man at the insane hospital. He saw to it that the mad fellow was released and his tracks covered. A hundred dollars of her husband's money well spent. The crazy character went about the killings, one by one, seemingly without rhyme or reason, just as she had planned it. Never knowing that he was on a suicide mission. She arranged for that, too.
She felt her way to the plush chair and sat down. All that brilliant strategy and now it was over. She stopped to remind herself that it had been a noble, fantastic adventure and her own private legend.
Now, if nothing else, she could still spend her days and nights going over the best moments: that instant when the stunning idea came to her; meeting Louis and finding in him a pliant servant; the murders without motive, one after another; and, finally, meeting Valentin St. Cyr face-to-face and recognizing an exotic creature, like herself...
She sighed deeply, shook her head in slow regret. So be it. Who knew, there might be another chance for her. All the great figures from history had risen from failures. Another golden opportunity could be waiting for her just down the road.
With that thought to cheer her, she got up to don her coat. It was late and she was ready to go home.
They were approaching the curb in Whaley's Model T when he caught sight of a figure exiting the building. Before the Ford had come to a full stop, Valentin jumped down from the seat and ran across the street. McKinney and Whaley followed a few seconds behind him.
The squeak of the iron gate swinging wide startled her, and she turned to see the three men stepping through the portal and then fanning out: Valentin St. Cyr and two others, one short and one tall. She emerged from the shadows and came toward them.
"I'm looking for Thomas," she stated. "My driver. Have you seen him? I'd like to go home now."
"I'm sure he's gone," Valentin said. "He doesn't want any part of this. I don't blame him."
"Then he's going to hear from me," Evelyne snipped. "If he spent less time chasing the girls and more time paying attention to his—"<
br />
"Louis Jacob is dead, Mrs. Dallencort."
Evelyne stopped for a second, then gave a dismissive shrug of her shoulders. "That's no surprise. What happened?"
The detective said, "I shot him."
She mulled the news for a moment before saying, "He was a foolish boy." She glanced around with some impatience. "I still need to be carried to my home."
Valentin nodded toward Detective McKinney. "The detective is here to escort you downtown," he said.
"Downtown?" Her lips pursed. "I live on Perrier Street."
Stepping forward, McKinney said, "Please come with me, Mrs. Dallencort."
"What for?" She was getting annoyed.
"You're going to be placed under arrest."
"Arrest?" Now she laughed lightly.
"Yes, ma'am. For murder."
Evelyne glanced from face to face, and gradually the cunning light returned to her eyes. "I didn't murder anyone." She crossed her arms in a regal posture. "You have no reason to arrest me." She waited for a moment, then chuckled again, musically. "Murder? Who has proof of such a thing?"
The Creole detective stared at her. "I'll testify to what you said upstairs. And there was a witness."
She glanced his way. "Who would that be?"
Valentin understood. Each had heard only part of what she'd said, and who'd believe a rough rounder like him, anyway. In fact, who'd believe any of it? A society woman plotting a series of murders in order to take over Storyville? It made no sense. And he had shot dead the one person who could tie such a scheme to her.
The detective gave a slight shake of his head. She was nothing if not a clever woman. He glanced at McKinney, who was watching with a frown that said he didn't like what he was hearing.
Maybe Evelyne Dallencort would get away with it. It was likely, in fact. Still, Valentin wasn't about to let her toddle off to her nice home, and McKinney wouldn't be inclined to offer her the courtesy, either. Let her sweat.
Evelyne had given herself quite an escape hatch. And Valentin had done away with the one person who had anything on her.
He regarded her for another moment, then turned to the policeman. "There's a call box out on the corner," he said. "You know where to find me." He jerked his head at Whaley. "Let's go back to Storyville."
TWENTY
They were waiting at Mangetta's: Valentin, Each, Tom Anderson, Whaley, and the saloonkeeper, who kept the wine flowing and plates of provolone, prosciutto, and hard bread full. They'd been there for hours, and the night was creeping toward dawn.
Valentin would get up to use the telephone, then come back, shaking his head. "Nothing yet."
As he sat half listening to the others, it occurred to him that somehow he had known that once the dust settled, he'd land at one of Frank's sturdy tables. As the conversation went on without him, he felt as if he was seeing Storyville laid out before him with every detail clear to his eye, a street map in three dimensions. No, it was four, he could divine the movement through time over the hours and days since the trouble began.
When he tracked and shot William Brown, he had reached down for old nerve endings to help him on this way. Brown was easy prey, a hopeless, hapless, crazed fellow who had no idea that he was being sent out to kill and then die.
For his part, Valentin had been caught in a web that had been woven by Evelyne Dallencort. In all, eight men were dead and Justine had nearly joined them. He shuddered privately for a moment, imagining what might have happened had the shot he fired gone astray. At the same time, he had a notion that he had somehow willed the bullet into Louis Jacob.
Frank was eager to hear more details of what had transpired. The detective wasn't inclined, so Each jumped in and, with some help from Whaley and Anderson, went through the night's adventure.
Valentin's thoughts drifted away again. He wondered how Evelyne had come up with her crazy scheme. At some point she met Louis Jacob, and they conspired to strike terror into the heart of the District. No one was safe. The target was Storyville and everyone in it. They had done a good job. It was true that no one had come as close to toppling the scarlet empire.
Anderson still didn't get it. Who was this woman and what did she want?
Coming out of his musings, Valentin said, "How much is Storyville worth?"
"What do you mean?"
"In a month how much money goes in and out?"
The King of Storyville paused, then said, "Almost a quarter of a million dollars."
There was a hush. The number seemed to take on substance and float above the table. With twenty square blocks of sin, it equaled three million dollars a year at a time when ten dollars a week was a fair salary.
The King of Storyville was unimpressed. He had heard the number before, written it out time and again, and bandied about by other men of importance.
"So she wanted her hands on the money?" he said. "Isn't she already plenty rich?"
Valentin said, "You know some people never have enough. And what she had was all her husband's money." He paused. "And of course she wanted power over all the women. The mansions. The saloons and dance halls..." He smiled. "She said you could keep the Café, by the way."
"Well, that was generous," Anderson said. He shook his head in wonder. "So she thought she could take over just by killing a few men?"
Valentin said, "She probably would have murdered more to get what she was after."
"To prove that I couldn't control it anymore."
"That's correct."
"I suppose she was right." The King of Storyville sighed.
"What about her partner?" Whaley said. "What was his name?"
"Louis Jacob," Valentin said. "Honore's son. I don't know why he got caught up in it. Except that he was stupid. Or greedy."
"I think it had something to do with the father," the King of Storyville said.
"I wonder what he thinks of his son now," Valentin said.
Anderson gave him a sober look. "He's grieving over his death."
The detective said, "Mrs. Dallencort was going to get rid of him, anyway. That fellow she sent to the Café was probably going to go after him next. She couldn't afford to have him stay around. Not with what he knew."
"Our own Madame Lafarge," Tom Anderson murmured.
The men at the table produced blank looks, except for Valentin, who understood and smiled slightly.
"So where is she now?" Anderson said.
"McKinney took her in," Valentin said. "He wasn't sure what he could do, but he arrested her, anyway." He stared absently at the glass before him. "I think she'll walk free."
"I think so, too."
The men looked around. Justine was standing in the doorway with James McKinney, who was wearing a crooked smile.
"Delivery for Mr. St. Cyr," he said.
Valentin stood up. "You made a good trade."
He pulled a chair out for Justine while Frank fetched another for the policeman. Fresh glasses appeared before they were settled.
"What about Mrs. Dallencort?" the detective said.
McKinney looked toward Justine, allowing her to speak first. She described how she had been placed in a cell in the colored women's section. It was Picot's doing, and he claimed to be holding her as a material witness to a shooting. To her surprise, Evelyne Dallencort was placed in the next cell. But only briefly, until the police could make room for her on the white side.
"Or because Picot wanted to see if you two were somehow in cahoots."
Justine nodded gravely. "Yes, maybe so."
Valentin couldn't take his eyes off her. She avoided his gaze.
"At first, she didn't say a word to me," she went on. "She just watched me like I was something in a cage at the zoo. She did start talking, though." The men waited for her to continue. "It was women's talk. She asked me if I was the one who was 'intimately associated' with the Creole detective. That's how she put it." She shrugged. "A little while later, the officers came in and took her away. I think to question her."
"A
nd let her go," Valentin said.
"That's right," McKinney said.
"So she just walks away now?" Anderson said. "There's nothing to hold her on?"
McKinney shook his head. "Not now, anyway."
"She's a clever woman," Valentin said. "She had it planned all along. It didn't work the way she hoped it would. But she made sure she had a way out if it came apart. And it did." He paused thoughtfully. "But she got close."
"I can't believe she thought she could pull it off," Anderson said.
"She saw Storyville as ripe for the picking," Valentin added. "Louis must have told her that you were done and that the District was falling apart and was going to get shut down unless someone stepped in. That would be like closing a gold mine."
"So she came up with this plan."
"And that's all it was until she decided to try it. Starting with finding William Brown."
Justine said. "Where did he come from?"
"Jackson," Valentin said. "The hospital."
She stared at him briefly. "Jackson? Was that why—"
"Why Bolden spoke my name. Why he wanted me out there. He overheard them say my name." He stopped to sip his wine. "They faked his death somehow. Moved him out and had the records fixed. Mrs. Dallencort would certainly have the money to bribe anyone who was willing."
The Sicilian said, "That one man did all the killing?"
"Not the last one. What was his name?"
"Parks," McKinney said. "I think the night after Mr. Valentin shot Brown, Louis murdered him. Probably Mrs. Dallencort ordered him to. Or maybe he decided to do it on his own. To up the stakes." He paused. "And it could be that he was the one who took care of the drunk they found by the cemetery. The one they called Stovepipe."
Valentin said, "That poor fellow was just in the right place." He drew a design in the air. "The wrong place, I mean."
"Was that a star?"
"He drew five-point stars like that everywhere he went," the detective said. "I saw dozens of them scratched on the wall in Jackson."
Mangetta said, "Per che?"
