Jass (Valentin St. Cyr Mysteries) (28 page)

"You know. I know." She made a furious gesture back toward his flat. "Your damn black girl knows."

With that, her voice cracked and wavered like the air had gone out of her. Looking lost, she took his arm again, as if she now needed the support.

They stepped to the corner of Magazine and Gravier. After another few seconds' silence, Justine sighed, released his arm resignedly, and nodded in the direction of his rooms.

"You need to get back," she said. "She's waiting for you." When he didn't move, she hardened her voice and said, "Go."

"What about your—"

"Don't worry about it," she told him. "Just go."

Valentin hesitated for a few seconds, then walked away from her. As he moved off, Justine heard the woman's voice coming down from the balcony, sounding hollow, wounded. Valentin murmured something in response. The street door opened, casting his profile for a second as he stepped inside. Then it closed, leaving darkness.

The woman—Dominique—lingered on the balcony. It gave Justine a moment's sad pause, and she felt like weeping as she recalled all the evenings she had stood there, waiting for him to turn the corner. Then feeling him drawing closer before he actually stepped into view. She would hurry inside to greet him home. There was a little period of time, just after she had come to stay with him, when she all but lived for such moments, and would fairly swoon like a schoolgirl at his approach, as if she might topple over the railing and onto the cobbled street in a delirious, broken heap. That had ended, of course. The Black Rose murders had changed all that. She stopped waiting on the balcony or by the window when it rained. There came a point when it didn't seem to matter anymore. She tried to remember who had given up first.

The crackling of wires interrupted these dark thoughts as the Magazine Line car came grinding toward her. She held up her skirts and crossed over to the other corner, where she could step on. As the streetcar rolled away, she caught a glance of Valentin's woman, still on the balcony, again peering her way. There was something about the way she stood there, with her chin and heavy bosom thrust out, her hands on her solid hips, her eyes and claws no doubt sharpened, lurking over the street like a bird of prey defending her nest. As the tableau grew smaller in the back window, Justine wondered why she had brought her problem to Valentin at all. It looked like he was going to have plenty on his own.

Valentin spent a troubled night. As soon as he came inside, Dominique treated him to a reproachful stare that was followed by a long string of questions, which he deflected as best he could. She finally gave up and took her hurt feelings back into the kitchen.

She had prepared a nice meal, but he ate so little that she asked him if he was feeling poorly. Afterward, he sat on the couch, with a book that he did not read open on his lap. Dominique fretted, pestering him until he spoke sharply to her. When it got late, she changed into her nightgown and made it clear by her longing looks that she was ready for a repeat of the night before. He told her to go to bed, that he would be in later.

She pouted, her soft lip curling. "It's her, ain't it?"

"It's not what you think."

"No? What then?" She gave him an accusing look. "You ain't got no appetite. You ain't got two words to say to me. Now you sendin' me off to bed without you. What's wrong?"

"She's in trouble."

Dominique said, "She's in trouble all right."

She saw the look Valentin was giving her and closed her mouth.

"She didn't say anything about coming back," he told her firmly. "That's not what she wanted. She's with that Frenchman. So you don't need to be fretting about it."

She watched his face for signs of deceit, saw none. Maybe he was that able a liar, but she didn't think so. "She needs to have some respect, that's all," she said. "I'm the one in your bed now, ain't that right?"

"Yes, that's right," he said. "She's in trouble, that's all. And it's probably because of me."

Dominique frowned darkly and muttered something he couldn't catch, then went off to the bedroom to wait for him.

When he didn't come to bed by midnight, she gave up and drifted off. At one point, she came awake when the front door creaked open and then closed. She drowsily wondered where he had gone, if he had run off to meet Justine under the cover of night. Maybe he was just another false-hearted rounder like Jeff Mumford after all, one of those who would take pleasure in her body and then steal away to enjoy another. If he was, she'd know what to do about it. She had learned a long time ago, at her mother's knee, how to deal with evil men, or anyone else who crossed her.

Gradually, she let go of her bloodthirsty thoughts and fell back to sleep. She rose partway out of her slumber a second time to the sound of footsteps on the landing. She dreamed then that he would come in, slip through the shadows, undress, and love her. But there was no more sound, he didn't appear, and she dropped off once more.

Valentin walked to the river and stood on the levee, watching the freighters and barges slide through the inky darkness as he tried to make some sense of the jumble that he now had on his plate.

Morton had been correct that someone had stalked musicians and eliminated them. He was wrong about the reason. Now, just as he got closer to finding out what it might be, Tom Anderson wanted the investigation over. When Valentin wouldn't bend to his will, he pulled some dire secret Justine was holding as his trump card. Lurking at every corner was Lieutenant Picot. Why the copper was so determined to have him out of the way was another mystery that was thickening the stew. It had to be more than personal dislike. It had to be more than the competition with the police department. He wondered if and how Anderson and Picot were in it together.

He was confounded by the realization that Justine had hidden something from him that was worth her life. He wondered what she had done that was so terrible that Anderson could hold it over both of them like a bloody sword. He was convinced that it was somehow tied in with the murders of the jass players; he just couldn't see how. He would find out, though.

He thought about going back home, then sat down on the levee instead. Dominique was another dilemma for him to wrangle. She was such a wonder that he felt like he could spend half his waking hours exploring the uncharted territory of her lush body. It wasn't going to be like that. He had won her without lifting a finger, but her strange island ways, her demands for attention, and her jealousy over Justine were already driving him to distraction. She was alone and frightened and clinging to him like a child. She seemed to have forgotten her plans to go home to Tobago. She hadn't mentioned it once since he'd allowed her to stay. He suspected that, having found a sanctuary, she had decided that she wasn't about to give it up.

Valentin sat for a while longer, mulling this web of troubles, sensing shadows closing in around him. Then a freighter's horn moaned, a chilling sound from a ghostly vessel far down the river. He gave a start, feeling suddenly uneasy. Justine would be safe in her Frenchman's rooms. At the same time, Dominique slept alone and unguarded in his bed on Magazine Street. The door had been breached before.

He hurried down from the levee and walked at a fast clip back to his rooms. Twice he swore that he heard footsteps behind him, only to turn and find an empty banquette as far as he could see. By the time he turned the key and stepped inside, his curls were wet with sweat and he was panting like a dog.

All was well. He found Dominique deep in sleep, her full body stretched along his mattress. He undressed without making a sound, but when he came to bed, she opened her eyes, smiled, and reached for him.

"Come here, Valentin, suh," she murmured in a voice as soft and sweet as the night breeze. "For a minute there, I thought I lost you."

Tom Anderson was enjoying an after-church luncheon at Germaine's on Ursulines in the company of Father Cassidy of St. Ignatius, city of New Orleans alderman Alphonse Badel, and Billy Struve, the busy-bee publisher of
The Blue Book
guides to the Tenderloin. Struve was a gossipmonger of superior skills, and one of the King of Storyville's most able spies.

They were talking over a problem in the Jew Quarter when the front door opened and Valentin St. Cyr strode in.

Struve nudged the King of Storyville and tilted his head. As soon as Anderson laid eyes on the Creole detective's face, he knew that he had made a rare miscalculation. For the past week he'd had a sense of losing some of his legendary control, and now it looked like there was going to be trouble. He gave nothing away, though, and kept his expression neutral as he excused himself, stood up, and ambled around the back of the dining room and through the archway to the bar. Struve followed a few paces behind. St. Cyr started across the floor, weaving around tables crowded with church-dressed Americans.

The state of Louisiana was officially dry on Sundays. This was New Orleans, though, and Germaine's bar stayed open. At the moment there were only two customers, huddled together over glasses of Raleigh Rye. Anderson waited while one of the Mississippi toughs who were always lurking somewhere nearby stepped over to whisper to the pair. They listened, then turned their heads in unison to see the King of Storyville standing there. Without a word, they took their feet off the brass rail and walked out, leaving their drinks. After another few hushed words from the roughneck, the bartender realized he had forgotten something in the storeroom and promptly evaporated.

The King of Storyville took off his spectacles and laid them atop the bar, as if getting ready for fisticuffs. It had been awhile, but he had been a brawling youth and could still put up a fight, or so he believed.

When Valentin came through the archway, his face was such a cold mask that the roughneck straightened like a hound going on point. Then he caught Anderson's gesture, a mere flick of a finger, that told him to stand down and let the detective pass. He relaxed, though he never took his eyes off the Creole. Struve glanced between the two men and decided it was his turn to back out of the line of fire. He took refuge at the far end of the bar, still close enough to hear if they raised their voices.

Tom Anderson lifted his chin in a posture of regal aplomb. When Valentin met his stare, it was like two sabers clashing. There was no need for niceties. "What are you holding on Justine?" the detective demanded.

"You don't take that tone of voice with me, sir." Anderson drummed his fingers on the bar. "Your concern for her is very touching. You weren't so concerned when she walked out on you. You weren't concerned enough to stop her from taking up with that Frenchman. You weren't so concerned that it kept you from bringing someone else to your bed."

Valentin forced his voice steady. "I want to know what you have on her."

The King of Storyville cut the air with one hand. "It's up to her to tell you. If she trusts you, that is."

Valentin understood perfectly that this was a ploy to knock him off balance. And it did deflect him, though only for a second. "You're using her to keep me from going after whoever murdered those jass players," he said. "It's blackmail."

Anderson folded his arms across his chest and shook his head. "It's not blackmail, my friend. It's persuasion. And if I can't persuade you, I'm going to take you off the table. I don't pay you to make problems. I pay you to fix them."

"What problems?" the detective said, and now the King of Storyville looked like he wished he had bitten his tongue.

It didn't matter; Valentin wasn't going to win the exchange. He had spent the morning nursing his anger and now he'd let it get the best of him and walked into a trap. He had given away Justine's deceit and now she was in deeper trouble. He silently cursed Anderson's cunning and his own stupidity.

"I'll save you the trouble of firing me this time," he said.

Anderson cocked his head to one side. His hard frown went away and he grinned indulgently, as if listening to a child's bragging. "You want to quit on me? And what will that accomplish?"

Valentin, his face flushing, wanted to say,
I'll be out from under your heel,
but he kept quiet.

Anderson's smile turned chilly. "You better think about what you're saying. You quit on me, and you won't be able to earn a damn dime. You'll have to move so far back-of-town just to find a place to hang your hat, you'll be halfway to St. Louis. You'll be finished."

"Then I'll be finished," Valentin said, and walked out. As he reached the archway, he turned around and said, "But I'm going to find out who did those murders."

A gust of wind came swirling along the banquette and up his back, as if to lift and propel him away. He was a block over on St. Philip Street, when it dawned on him what had transpired in Germaine's bar.

Not only had he defied the King of Storyville; he had done it in front of witnesses that included the gossip hound Billy Struve. He was going to pay a price. He didn't know what it would be, only that it would be painful. There would be more trouble for Justine. Anderson might even decide to come after Dominique. He could do anything he wanted to.

Valentin looked over his shoulder. For all he knew, the King of Storyville had already dispatched his roughnecks to chase him down, beat him to a bloody heap, and drag him back.

He crossed over into the District at Bienville Street, ducked into the alleyway behind Frank Toro's Saloon and leaned against the back wall of the building. He patted his pockets for a smoke, found none. He closed his eyes, listening to the jostle of the street.