Chasing the Devil's Tail (30 page)

Valentin felt curiously at ease for a fellow who faced Monday with an empty plate before him.

He had arrived back at his rooms the evening before to find that Beansoup had shown up at the door on an uninvited visit. Justine took pity on the boy and insisted that he stay for dinner. So they spent the evening sitting at the kitchen table and later on the balcony, he and Justine drinking wine and listening to Beansoup tell preposterous stories about his exploits. When it got late, she invited him to sleep on the couch and she made him a fine bed there. Valentin stood by, a silent witness to her continued nesting. With Beansoup tucked in and snoring softly, they went to the bedroom and frolicked before falling into a sound sleep.

That one evening with no talk of murders or crazy King Bolden or anything at all about Storyville had worked to lighten his spirits. What was done was done, and he was surprised to find himself feeling a certain relief. He shoved aside his guilt at leaving Bolden to his own devices. He had lost his livelihood defending that maniac, and that should be enough for old time's sake. It wasn't like they were the best of friends anymore; those days were long gone. He didn't even think much about what he was going to do next. For one day, he would attend to his own simple pleasures.

Even the weather was cooperating, the streets morning bright. Downstairs at the tobacco shop, he exchanged pleasantries with old Gaspare, bought himself a packet of Richmond Straight Cuts, and put a nickel on the counter for the morning edition of
The Sun,
like any other regular fellow. He had to smile at the picture he must have presented as he stepped onto the banquette.

He leaned against a lamppost to peruse his paper. He noted with appropriate interest that the murder trial of Leonard K. Thaw was still the big national story, with a debate over the sanity of the killer of millionaire Stanford White marking the headline. Further down the page was news of a war brewing in Nicaragua, items on the battle over railroad trusts, and a visit by the Ambassador from Japan. There was also notice of the passing of a prominent New Orleans attorney and a cartoon drawing of Teddy Roosevelt with huge mustache, teeth and glasses on a globe-sized head, perched upon a tiny pony. There was no mention of the Storyville murders, at least no front-page mention.

He almost didn't bother to go any further, but his curiosity led him on and there it was on page two, a story about the grand funeral of Miss Florence Mantley, late of Basin Street. It was a transparent piece that mourned the madam's passing
and made only slight reference to the "undisclosed accident" that had caused her tragic death. It seemed Anderson and the police had managed to keep Miss Mantley off the killer's resume, at least for the moment. Good luck to them, he mused vacantly.

Turning another page, his eye was caught by the column by the character who went by the moniker "Bas Bleu," known as the prime monger (and often creator) of gossip from the Uptown streets. The fellow, who through much subterfuge kept his identity unknown, feared no one, not Anderson, nor the Mayor, nor the Police Department, nor the criminal elements. He barked at the stuffy Americans on one side of Basin Street and the scarlet kings and queens on the other. His ear was to the wind and he would flaunt a rumor in the blink of an eye.

Bas led this day's charge with some banter about a certain prominent madam's recent dramatic weight gain. He turned his attention to a local businessman, "old Jew Myers," and a suspicious contract to sew uniforms for the police department. Then he plunged on to a screed about the "strange passing of Miss Florence Mantley, in the wake of the violent deaths of at least four sporting girls in the Tenderloin." Valentin straightened, feeling uneasy, and read on.

What is afoot in Anderson County? The good word has it that a certain obstacle has been removed from the case (with a 'good riddance' from Mr. Tom, Chief O'Connor, and the hoi-polloi of the demi-monde), and the police now have a clear path to ending this terrible string of crimes, which some are calling the "black rose murders." It seems this certain fellow had neither the nerve nor the wits to handle such serious business and has been put quite rightly in his place.

Valentin stared at the print, feeling his breath grow short as a rush of blood rose to his face. He cursed, then let out a bitter laugh at the sheer audacity of the item. He read it again, galled as much by the words on the page as what—and who—was behind them. The nix was out on him and it could have come only from one source: Anderson, no doubt by way of Billy Struve. It was intended to get Uptown whispering, to clear a path so that Buddy Bolden could be lynched without a rope. It was so clever he had to admire it. He crumpled the newspaper, pitched it directly into the gutter and stalked away down Magazine Street.

Justine had opened the door and stepped onto the balcony just as he appeared on the banquette, so close that she could almost read the newspaper over his shoulder. She saw him lean his lazy body on the lamppost and read over the front page. She saw him turn unhurriedly to the inside and peruse another page, looking so at ease and she thought of calling his name, surprising him, just to see the look on his face. He turned another page and she saw him tense. He read for a moment, then looked away, shook his head, and started reading again, his posture going all stiff with anger.

A few moments later, he crumpled the paper, looking like he wanted instead to tear it into pieces. He tossed it into the gutter and stalked away, his head bent to the banquette, as if there was something hanging onto his coattails that neither his jerking steps nor the morning breeze from the river could dislodge.

She watched him stop on the corner at Gravier, stare at some point in the distance, then continue at a foot-dragging pace, a man swimming upstream in a river of trouble. She hurried down to the street, bought herself a copy of
The Sun,
and
scanned it until she found the article. Reading slowly, she felt her heart sink. For a little while, she had thought it was all over.

For the next two days, he skulked about, barely uttering a word to her. She kept busy with the rooms and did her best to stay out of his way. He disappeared for long hours without explaining, and at night he made no move to her, but tossed about so much that she barely slept at all. Beansoup, however, had found Valentin's couch much to his liking, and Justine didn't have the heart to send him back out on the street. He wandered who knew where during the days, but he always found his way back to Magazine Street in time for dinner.

One afternoon, he showed up with a small Negro boy from the Colored Waifs Home named Louis something. Beansoup, it turned out, had bragged to his friends about the Creole detective and the Creole detective's friend King Bolden, and young Louis was eager to get a close-up look at the famous trumpet player. Disappointment showed in his button eyes when he found that King Bolden was not on the premises. Justine invited him to stay and eat, but he refused politely and went away.

Valentin walked up the steps to his rooms on Wednesday afternoon, just as a hard rain returned to pelt the streets. Justine was sitting on the couch, reading one of his books. After a few minutes, she caught him acting strangely, walking around, glancing at her with his eyebrows knit, then sitting down, getting up, and doing it all over again. Finally, catching another of his looks, she said, "What's the matter?"

"I was an
obstacle,
" he said. She closed the book. He stood in the middle of the room, his arms crossed. "You should see the way they look at me on the street. Like I'm the one did those murders."

"But what do you care what them people think?"

He began pacing up and down. "That's not it. Don't you see? Now they'll say Bolden's guilty, but they couldn't hang charges on him because his pal St. Cyr got in the way."

"Well, there ain't nothin' you can do about that," she said quietly.

Valentin scowled and nodded briefly. "Maybe not. But before he's arrested, convicted and put to death, some evidence of his guilt would be in order."

She saw the sudden glimmer in his eye. "But, you're out of it now," she reminded him. "You said so yourself."

He stopped pacing and clapped his hands together in sudden animation. "Exactly! I don't work for Anderson anymore, and I sure don't have to worry about Picot and the coppers. I was an obstacle. They wanted me out of the way and they got their wish."

"But didn't Mr. Anderson say—"

"All he said was that I wasn't working for him," he told her. "He didn't tell me not—" He stopped and stared blankly at the wall for a moment, as a notion came and went. He shook his head. "I can do whatever I want. And what I want is to find out once and for all if Buddy had anything to do with those murders."

"How?"

He thought about it. "Maybe I'll ask him."

"Do what?"

"I'll ask him if he did it," he said. "It's the one thing I haven't done since this mess began. The one thing I guarantee nobody's done. Ask him if he killed those women and see what he says."

"Well, he's not going to admit to it," she said, and looked at him thoughtfully. "But what if he does? What if he says, 'Yes, I did it.' And then he tells you how, and when, and
everything else? What if it has been him all along, Valentin? What'll you do then?"

"I'll turn him over to the coppers," Valentin said. "Or take care of it myself. Shoot him in the head and put him out of his misery."

"You could do that?"

"I could, yes," he said, looking starkly grim. "By God, after all this, if I find out it was him, I swear, I'll put him in his grave."

Magazine was getting noisy with the chatter of wagon wheels on cobblestones, the bleats of automobile horns trading with the whinnies of horses, the blue crackle of the streetcars, the early whistles of tugboats on the river. Morning light drifted through the windows.

Valentin made up a pot of coffee on the kitchen stove, chewing on a French roll while he waited for it to boil. He went back into the front room and woke Beansoup with a gentle shake. The boy sat up. He looked so comical with his hair sticking out at ridiculous angles and his befuddled expression that Valentin almost laughed.

Beansoup followed his host into the kitchen on stumbling bare feet and sat down at the table. Valentin put a cup of chicory coffee and a roll before the boy and then took the opposite chair. Beansoup slurped his coffee and gnawed hungrily at the roll, every now and again glancing over his shoulder, now wide awake and able to appreciate a peek at Justine in her nightdress.

Valentin brought his attention back around. "I need your help with something," he said and the kid stopped eating and began to grin.

After Beansoup had finished his breakfast (two more rolls, an apple and another cup of coffee), he pulled on his shoes and
went out the door, intent on his errands, but not so intent that he didn't pause for a last glance at the crack in the bedroom door before he left.

Valentin went to the balcony and watched the skinny legs and arms disappear down Magazine, then went back into the bedroom, sat down on the mattress and ran a finger along Justine's cheek. She opened her eyes and smiled softly.

"Are you coming back to bed?" she murmured.

"No," he said, "I can't sleep."

"Why dontcha just let it be?" she said. "Let the police catch him. Whoever it is."

"No," he said. He saw the expression and went ahead and admitted the rest of it. "If the coppers beat me to the killer, I can't ever show my face around here again." She frowned, and he said, "Have the kid stay here again tonight." She looked at him, surprised. "Well, he needs a place to lay his head," he said, "and it'll make me feel better."

They were silent, lost in their thoughts. He felt her hand on his arm. "You gonna be careful?" He nodded. "Real careful?" He smiled and nodded again. Her eyes wandered to the doorway. "Where's Beansoup?" she whispered. When Valentin explained that he had sent the kid off, she smiled, her eyes got smoky as she reached down, threw the coverlet aside, and pulled up the hem of her nightdress.

Late that afternoon, she stood in the doorway and watched him walk down the stairs. The street door opened and closed with a muted rattling of glass. She stepped back inside.

Beansoup sat stiffly on the couch, eyes wide with the vigilance that Valentin had told him was required for this task. Justine smiled; he looked like a startled mannequin, his bony limbs rigid, his eyes unblinking, his ears perked to the slightest untoward sound. She went to gather up the sewing she had
begun, a new set of curtains to replace the yellowed and tattered ones that had hung in the street windows, probably for years.

It was nowhere close to the time that Buddy would get to Longshoreman's Hall, but Valentin wanted to be outside, moving, doing something. So he wandered, making his way along the north end of the Vieux Carre, down the streets that crisscrossed the one square mile that had composed the original city and now constituted Creole New Orleans. He passed through the cool shadows of elegant brick houses and under the ornate, wrought iron colonnades that hung over the banquettes.

His steps led him to the corner of Orleans Street, where he found himself gazing on the cuspate spire of St. Ignatius. He studied the church building long minutes, then crossed over and climbed the stone steps to heavy oak doors adorned with heavy oak crosses.

He walked through the silence of the chapel that was heavy with the smell of incense and stepped into the narrow corridor in the back corner. He spent a moment fixing his collar and cuffs. Then he knocked sharply two times and pushed the door open without waiting for an invitation.

John Rice looked up from his desk, a pen poised over a letter, his eyes widening in surprise behind his glasses. As Valentin closed the door behind him, he saw doubt flicker over the parish clerk's face.

But then Rice composed himself and said, "Mr...."

"St. Cyr," Valentin told him, though of course the parish clerk knew what it was.

Rice laid his pen aside. "Can I help you with something?" He did not make the offer of a seat.