Jass (Valentin St. Cyr Mysteries) (9 page)

There was no busy pair this time. Instead, it was the stranger who had been lurking by the door in the dance hall. Jeff heard his name called and saw a flash of white teeth, beckoning him closer^ and figured that he was going to be offered to share a hop pipe, a card of cocaine, or at the very least something from a bottle. People did that for the players sometimes as a way of thanking them for the music. A year or two ago, a fellow who played jass was about as low-down as you could get, no better than a pimp or drunkard or hopeless hophead. Now people wanted to buy his drinks.

It was exactly that. From beneath the brim of the hat, white teeth gleamed again and a hand came up, holding a flask of burnished silver. It was a fine piece of work, with filigree tooled into a crest. It looked like a rich man's possession, not often seen in these parts. Its owner was either brave or a fool, because a sneak thief would cut a fellow's throat for such a rare item.

Jeff accepted the flask, turned it over in his hand, feeling the satiny finish, then pulled out the stopper, a cork set in a silver cap and attached to the body of the vessel by a tiny silver chain. The lack of a screw top told him he was holding an antique. Whatever liquor was inside had an antiquated smell, too: he caught a whiff of something like old wood. He thought absinthe, a rare blend, or something just as exotic. He was in for a treat.

The stranger gave another encouraging nod of his head, the features of the face still indistinct. Jeff tipped the flask and drank, not bothering to wipe the lip. The liquid rolled over his tongue, warm and verdant. Absinthe, to be sure, but a blend he'd never tasted before. The stranger waved a hand for him to help himself to another sip. Now the heat filled up his mouth and moved deep into his throat.

He lowered the flask, smiling his thanks as he handed it back. With a single motion, the stranger replaced the cap, took a step backward, and raised his chin so that the night's light could play across his face. Jeff felt the eyes now fixed on him with a hard glint and he had a sudden startling rush of fear. Just as suddenly, a sharp spasm rocked his guts, his throat contracted, and he staggered, dropping his guitar case to the dirt.

He lurched into the brick wall, then tried to make for the street, but his legs wouldn't obey, wobbling like they'd been broken. He felt a stabbing pain and a sudden spout of blood erupted from his mouth. His guts were on fire and he fell to the ground, vomiting another gush of blood. Now he tried to crawl, but his arms had no strength and he collapsed, his body curling as the acid heat roared through his guts. His eyes rolled up and he saw the stranger looking down at him, muttering between clenched teeth. The pain was tearing him in half, and with one long, whimpering groan, he threw himself forward in a last try for the street. Then he stopped moving, his body twisted grotesquely.

The stranger stepped around the body and bent down to spit in the dead face, then strode away, kicking at the guitar case. It flipped over and broke open and the instrument tumbled out. The edges of the cobbles gouged the polished mahogany and snapped the high strings. The stranger stalked out of the alley and hurried down Marais Street, moving through the shadows on quick legs, head bent and shoulders hunched, another weary wisp of the night, creaking away home.

Jelly Roll Morton had not nearly gotten his sleep out when someone came pounding on his St. Charles Avenue door. The dove lying stretched out next to him just let out a soft groan and burrowed under the pillow as he jerked upright, his brain going off on a jagged jaunt, picturing the police coming to arrest him for some unnamed evil deed.

The pounding continued and he heard a voice that didn't belong to any copper. It was higher, almost girlish, thin with excitement. The dove who has holding the pillow over her head muttered in annoyance and kicked a brown foot. The one who was splayed across the foot of the bed didn't make a sound, dead to the world. Morton got up and went out of the room in a woozy stagger. He threw the door wide to find Beansoup, all pink faced, sweating and gasping for air. Behind him was his shadow, the Negro boy named Louis, huffing like a little black steam engine. "What do you want?" the piano man snapped.

The kid whispered a few words. Morton's eyes went wide. He cried, "Jesus and Mary!" and told them to run to Mr. St. Cyr's.

Valentin was standing on the tiny balcony, watching the quiet Sunday morning street. He had only slept a few restless hours, and when he woke up Justine was gone, probably to early Mass. Now he saw her, approaching from the corner of Common Street. She was walking slowly, her hands folded before her as if she was still at prayer. He went back inside.

Their eyes met when she came through the door and she hesitated, wondering if he would say anything. She amused herself for a vacant moment by imagining him raging like a husband who had caught his wife dallying. She tried to picture him in a fit like that, stomping up and down the floorboards, his face red and sweating and his voice all hoarse from shouting. She couldn't do it, though, because Valentin never went in for such dramatics. She tried to recall the times that he'd allowed her a peek behind his mask. Surely she could count them on a hand. It didn't matter; she couldn't think of any now.

And he wouldn't be adding to the tally this morning. He was silent, treating her the same way he would any other suspicious person, watching and waiting for telltale signs. She decided to try to disarm him. "You missed Mass," she said, keeping her voice light. It was a small joke. He never went to church.

He gave her a vague look. "And how was it?"

"The same as always."

"Did you go to confession?"

She heard the catch in his voice and saw something behind his eyes, swimming just below the surface. She hesitated, wishing she'd never brought it up. Then she nodded.

"And do you feel better now?" he said.

When she didn't answer, he seemed to take a step back, though he didn't move an inch. She had a sudden glimmer of understanding. He thought that she had betrayed him, first by going to Basin Street, and then by not falling on her knees to beg his forgiveness over it.

Now she wanted to say something, to confess to
him
if that's what he demanded, but she couldn't think of any words that might soften the eyes that now judged and found her wanting. God might have forgiven her trespass. Valentin wasn't about to. She felt her blood rising and bit her tongue to keep from cursing right back at him for being so heartless.

She moved past him and into the bedroom to change, half hoping that he'd follow her. He stayed where he was, though, and the silence from the front room was thick, almost eerie. She undressed slowly, down to her camisole, then put on a cotton housedress.

When she stepped out into the front room again, he was gone. She went onto the balcony and looked down Magazine Street in time to see him disappear into Bechamin's.

She felt a clutch in her gut and there was a strange dry taste in her mouth. He knew about Basin Street. And what else? Miss Antonia's? Paul Baudel? And yet he still wouldn't accuse her. The thought of it made her breath come short and for a moment she imagined the look on his face if he came back through the door and found her waiting for him with one of the big kitchen knives. Maybe that would loosen his tongue.

She let the moment pass, catching her breath, slowing her pounding heart, and holding back the tears that were about to brim. She stepped back inside, closed the door behind her. She had an unsettling sense that something had just happened completely out of her sight, a battle fought and finished without a single shot being fired.

She sat down at the kitchen table with a glass of water and the amber bottle that held her prescription. The doctor had told her two drops, but he didn't know her, so she drew three, no, four, and watched them drip into the clear water. The potion became a snake the color of old blood, twisting and slithering downward. Then the liquids blended into faint reddish brown. She drank it down in three swallows and closed her eyes while it went to work.

Time passed, minutes or an hour, and her anger faded into a dull gray hum. More minutes went by, and she heard footsteps on the stairwell. The front door opened and closed, and he came into the kitchen with a tin of coffee and a paper sack in his hands. It occurred to her dimly that she had forgotten to leave him anything for breakfast. She thought about getting up, but she stayed where she was.

Valentin, crossing to the sideboard, saw Justine's cheeks flush crimson as she rose from her chair just a little unsteadily, then sat back down. He opened the sack, took a bite of the egg sandwich that Mr. Bechamin had fixed for him, and sipped from his coffee tin.

She pushed her chair out, grabbed the edge of the table, got up, and walked out into the front room. Valentin took another bite and decided that he wasn't hungry anymore. He heard the loose board under the rug squeak with her passing steps. He went to the doorway and watched her pace, her gaze fixed on the braided rug beneath her feet. She looked troubled, like she had dropped something and was searching the floor in distress.

He cleared his throat and said, "Justine?"

She was surprised that his voice had come out so soft and unsure, and she stopped, her brow stitching. Though he seemed to be watching her from far away, his eyes weren't so hard now. She wanted to say something to him and was working her mind to compose the right words when the street door banged. Rapid shoes came slapping up the stairwell and then a hand rapped staccato on the door.

Valentin opened it and found Louis standing there. The shy boy with the twinkling eyes and ready smile now looked all grave as he spoke a few hushed words. The detective stared at him, then nodded. He turned to Justine. She knew the look. Something had happened. Someone was dead.

"I need to..." He made a weary gesture. "I need to go out."

"All right, then," she said, and held his gaze until he turned away.

Valentin and Jelly Roll left the two boys in the cobbled alley that ran behind City Hall and went through the door. The Colored Section of the New Orleans City Morgue was one floor down, befittingly underground. The corridor of damp stone was narrow and dark. There was a light glowing farther along, and when they got to the open door of the large room, they found it brightly lit, almost cheerful by contrast. The electric lamps overhead reflected off surfaces of white enamel and polished steel. The shelves that lined the side walls were filled with vessels containing various organs, floating in murky liquids, like undersea creatures from some Jules Verne fiction. A thick door on the back wall opened into the cooler. The air was chilly and the thick, stinging odor of formaldehyde saturated every corner.

Four gurneys were lined up along one wall, and on each was a body covered with a sheet, black feet and pink soles protruding. A mulatto attendant was running water over his hands at the sink in the corner. He looked around when they walked in and said, "Gentlemen?"

Morton didn't speak up, so Valentin said, "Jefferson Mumford."

"Uh-huh." The attendant flicked the rest of the water from his fingers as he went over to the gurneys and started checking the tags that were affixed to the protruding big toes. Valentin recognized the man. The attendant remembered him, too; he kept glancing over his shoulder with a cloying familiarity.

When he reached the third body, he pulled the gurney away from the wall to the center of the room. "Jefferson Mumford, at your service," he quipped, and drew the sheet down halfway. He looked at the two men to see if his humor had registered. They ignored him and he grunted and moved away.

At the sight of the dead face, Morton let out a soft groan, then crossed himself and whispered something under his breath. Valentin hesitated, standing back. Hadn't he seen enough corpses to last a lifetime? Beginning with his younger brother and sister in their little coffins, their tiny lives taken by Bronze John, the yellow fever epidemic of the 1880s. After that it was his father^ murdered on the banks of Lake Pontchartrain. Then this sport and that sporting girl, dozens, all told, lying dead on a Storyville street or in a room in a Storyville house. There was Eddie McTier, the one cadaver he had created, with the help of his Iver Johnson pistol. Finally, there were the victims of the Black Rose Killer. It was a ghastly parade and he had to wonder what kind of career it was that collected so many carcasses. There was no escaping the fact that he and the dirty mulatto with the grinning yellow teeth had in common their firsthand knowledge with the dead.

He looked down at Mumford, taking a moment to remember him as he had been. Then, gradually, he pushed his mind away from all that and began a clinical examination of the remains. In his experience, the departed mostly looked peaceful in repose, their torments having evaporated with their final breaths. He noticed that Mumford's handsome face was instead reshaped into a strange mask, though, as if he was in the midst of a grimace when the bell tolled for him. He could see, as well, no wounds on the head or torso.

"What was the poison?" he inquired.

"Who said it was poison?" Then a yawn. "Strychnine."

The too-quick answer was no surprise. No one would even bother examining a Negro musician, magician, or mortician. An autopsy was out of the question. So strychnine it was.

There was nothing more to see. Valentin looked over the body once more, then pulled the sheet up and turned away.

"What happens now?" Morton said quietly.