Lost River (24 page)

Presently, her thoughts drifted back to Louis Jacob, and she spent a moment imagining a life of privileged ease before recalling that she'd tried it and failed. Though it was true that she could always play the role when it suited her, she wasn't the type to be owned.

Louis had brought something else to the table. Young, clever, and deftly handsome, he appeared to be enamored of her. She stopped for a moment to picture herself sitting high in the tufted leather seat of that fine automobile, in her best dress and Floradora hat, on parade along Basin Street...

She laughed quietly at this foolishness. Sliding down so that the water covered her ears, she closed her eyes, and for ten minutes Louis, Valentin, and the rest of the world disappeared.

Tom Anderson was up before dawn. Though one of his spies would have told him if anything had transpired overnight, he headed directly to the telephone. He called Billy Struve, but was unable to rouse that drunken fool. He thought to phone St. Cyr, then changed his mind and settled on one of his friends inside the police department. The officer reported that the only trouble in Storyville had been a brawl in Fewclothes Cabaret that was settled when one of the combatants was laid out by a nightstick. Other than that, there hadn't been a single call from the District.

Just as he was turning away, the bell gave a jangle that made him jump. It was his police spy, ringing back to whisper that a report had just that minute come in about a body found at the gates of St. Louis No. 2, of all places. The victim had been shot dead.

Feeling his gut sink, Anderson asked the copper to call back as soon as he could ascertain details. He dropped the receiver in the cradle and went off to dress for the day.

Detective Weeks decided it was best to get it over with and delivered the news as soon as Captain Picot walked through the door to the detectives' section.

"You'll want to hear this," Weeks said. "They found another body."

After what had appeared in the newspaper, the detective had been expecting an explosion of Picot proportions. Now he was astonished to see the captain's dour face relax. The olive drab eyes narrowed and that turtle mouth curved ever so slightly.

"Another body?" he said, sounding almost jovial. "Where?"

Evelyne came downstairs to find Malvina serving her husband his breakfast. The maid poured her a first cup of coffee.

"Did I hear the telephone ring earlier?" Evelyne said.

"No, ma'am," Malvina said in her flat voice. "Not this morning."

Evelyne wanted to ask if there had by chance been a message delivered to the door, but that would give too much away, and she'd already read the suspicion in Malvina's dark eyes. She wondered regularly if the maid and her lazy son were spying on her. More likely, Malvina knew something was amiss but hadn't learned any details. She was a sharp woman and would have made a good ally, except she was also a righteous sort who didn't abide anything that smacked of wickedness.

At that exact moment the maid spoke up, as innocent as a lamb. "What'll you be having for breakfast this morning, ma'am?"

Evelyne gave her a dour look and said, "I'll..." She brushed a hand through the air. "Just coffee for now." She started to leave the room, then realized she hadn't even acknowledged her husband, sitting frail and bloodless as he poked about his meager portion of soft-boiled eggs.

She said, "How are you feeling today, dear?"

Benoit whispered something she didn't catch. The enfeebled old bird could barely summon the energy to sigh. It didn't matter; they were all waiting for him to die anyway, and the sooner the better, as far as his wife was concerned.

***

Fresh from her bath and draped in an old kimono, Justine stood in the doorway and watched Valentin wrestle with sleep, pitching about and making sounds that had her thinking he was in mortal battle with some dream foe. He muttered, his brow pinched, and he clenched his fists. Then he let out a long breath, relaxed, and lay unmoving.

She made her way to the kitchen, with a detour to the front windows to peek out onto Spain Street. There was no red automobile in sight.

The telephone chattered noisily, and she gave a start and shot a vile stare across the room. It was ridiculous; the damned thing hadn't squawked in months, and they were now getting a call a day, each one delivering more bad news.

She picked up the receiver, listened for a few seconds, then thanked the caller and hung up. She wasn't about to wake Valentin. This bit of bad news could wait.

She was standing over the stove when she heard the bedsprings squeak and then water running in the bathroom. Valentin shambled to the kitchen doorway and stood for a moment as if he was a diner waiting to be seated. She took a cup down from the cupboard, filled it, and placed it on the table.

As he stirred cream and sugar into his coffee, she began slicing a potato into thin semicircles and then dropped the pieces into the sizzling frying pan.

"I didn't catch him," he said abruptly.

She glanced over her shoulder. "I figured that."

"But he was out there somewhere."

She poked at the frying potatoes. "They found a body," she said.

Staring, he put his cup down. "What?"

"They found a body early this morning."

"Where?"

"At the cemetery."

"At—" He was momentarily confused. "Which one?"

"Number Two. At the front gate."

"Who was it?"

"Some hobo, I believe."

Valentin sat back. "Oh." Then, "How do you know?"

"Mr. Tom called."

She turned back to the sizzling pan, leaving him to his thoughts. Once the potatoes had browned, she cracked two eggs over them and began to stir. She slid the mash onto a plate and pushed it under his nose. He regarded the food forlornly.

"Eat," she said.

"I'm not ver—"

"Eat." Her voice was firm.

Valentin sighed and picked up his fork.

The District was working up a buzz. No one knew what to make of the body that had been deposited at St. Louis Cemetery No. 2.

One of the coppers called to the scene was able to make a quick identification. As it turned out, old Hebert's first guess had been correct: The fellow was a drunkard, in this case a sot who went by the street moniker Stovepipe for reasons no one could ascertain. His true name was Timothy Smith, and he was a longtime fixture around the low-rent saloons on the east side of the old city. The cause of his death was a single gunshot wound to the chest.

By the middle of the morning, the coppers had roused a few of the other drunks who frequented the dives and learned that Stovepipe was a harmless sort who picked up day labor now and then and stayed in flophouses when he had a dime to pay. When he didn't, he slept in doorways. He had few friends and no kin that anyone could recall.

When the victim's long-unwashed body was delivered to the morgue, a second wound was discovered, this one a bullet hole in the back of his left thigh, halfway between the knee and buttocks. Further examination revealed no marks cut into Mr. Smith's flesh.

Valentin learned this information by placing an anonymous telephone call to the precinct at Parish Prison and locating Officer McKinney. The copper delivered the essentials, and Valentin did him the service of getting off the line quickly. He had what he needed anyway. After he hung up, he went out onto the balcony and gazed south to the river, mulling over what McKinney had reported.

Men like Timothy Smith died every day, from the damage done by their drinking, from accidents, and from spats with knife- or pistol-toting rivals. It would be fair to assume that such violence befell this poor character. He had simply chosen the gates of the cemetery to slump down and die.

Valentin saw two holes in this construction. First, the bullet wound to the chest was a replica of those that had felled the other victims. The other one was the kind intended to bring a man to the ground.

The detective imagined the drunkard ambling along and some miscreant creeping up behind to snap a shot into the back of his leg. Once Smith crumpled to his knees, it would be easy enough to move around and put the fatal shot in his heart.

The second problem was the location of the body. There was nothing nearby that would draw the victim: no saloons, no flops, no back-alley slum of lean-tos where vagrants with no other place to go huddled, drinking whatever they could over open fires. Timothy Smith didn't belong there, unless he just happened to be passing that way.

That was all, though, and with nowhere else to go with it, Valentin turned his thoughts to his unfinished business with the law firms on St. Charles. Several cases had been left open, and he needed to deliver his last reports. So while Justine changed the bedding and dusted, he spent a half hour at their Camden desk, adding final comments to the paperwork.

When he left, he called in to let her know he would be back later. If she said anything in response, he didn't hear it.

As if he needed any more blows to his pride, Tom Anderson was not consulted before Chief of Police Reynolds, after a quick few words with the mayor, decided it was time to put more officers on the streets of Storyville. At least he was informed of the decision, which was something, though not much. It was not the chief himself nor even Captain Picot who delivered the news. Instead, a detective named Weeks showed up at the Café.

The King of Storyville didn't like Weeks the moment he stepped inside. The detective swaggered his way over the threshold, plainly annoyed at his role of messenger. He all but yawned when he greeted Anderson and then said his piece without preamble. The department was going to assign a couple dozen patrolmen and five or six detectives to the District until further notice.

Anderson listened to the policeman, caught the dismissive tone, and decided it was time to send a message back.

"Tell Captain Picot that they can order a damned army down here," he said. "It's only going to make things worse. And you can tell my friends downtown that as of today, payments of any kind to policemen assigned to the District will be suspended."

Weeks frowned dubiously, as if he wasn't sure Anderson still had the clout to make such a drastic change.

The King of Storyville noted this and said, "You understand me, detective? I'm putting an order out. Not a dime."

Now Weeks flushed in ire at being placed in the middle of this mess. What did he have to do with a spat between Anderson and the chief? Not to mention learning that the ten dollars or so that he collected every week on top of his pay was about to disappear.

Anderson was finished with the cop and snapped his fingers at Ned.

"Please get Lulu White on the telephone for me," he said. "Tell her I have something important to discuss." He then turned a cold gaze on his visitor. "Was there anything else, detective?"

Picot intercepted Weeks as soon as he arrived back at the precinct. The detective repeated what Mr. Anderson had said.

"The last part," Picot said when he finished. "You sure he said that?"

"Yes, sir," Weeks said. "That was it, all right. No more payments."

Picot sighed as if in regret. Privately, he was stifling a smile. Storyville was cracking apart, top to bottom.

"Well, then," he said, keeping his tone serious. "I'll need to report this right away."

Weeks said, "I won't say nothing about it."

Picot eyed him. "Tell whoever you want, detective. It's not a secret." He treated the junior officer to a sharp glance. "All right?"

"Yes, sir," Weeks said.

Picot dismissed him and ambled back into his office.

The phone finally rang and Evelyne took the call. After hanging up, she dressed in a huffing rush and called for the car. Thomas, sensing her mood and eager to get away without having to don the livery, hurried for once, and soon they were racing to the French Quarter almost quickly enough to please her. There was no time to stop at Mayer Israel's and be transformed, so she had him drop her in front of a china shop on Ursulines. When she stepped down, she told him to go park on the street alongside Jackson Square and she'd come find him when she was finished with her shopping.

If he found any of this suspect, he didn't show it. He was happy to be away from the house, more so to have the chance to lounge about the square with the fine automobile on display.

As soon as the Winton turned the next corner, she was heading for Royal Street, keeping her head bent and hoping for the good fortune to miss being recognized. She found some humor knowing that at the same moment any number of society women were in the Quarter and in the middle of their own mischief. Though she wasn't dallying with a secret lover. She was on a far more urgent mission.

Still, it wouldn't do to be noticed, and she was relieved to reach the gates of the house.

She found him in the sunroom, which was attached to the back of the house and framed on three sides with greenhouse glass and festooned with ferns. He was seated on the wrought-iron bench, looking much at ease, which annoyed her. Men of leisure—or those who pretended to be—frankly disgusted her. Perhaps because her husband, who had barely worked a day in his life, was now rotting away from the inside, a peeling back of his frail shell to reveal no substance underneath.