Rampart Street (Valentin St. Cyr Mysteries) (20 page)

Anne Marie settled into the second chair. Instead of facing the garden, she turned in his direction, her hands clasped in her lap. It was something of a bold move for a young lady of class, and he got the distinct impression that it had been calculated.

"What do you have to report?" She came up with a thin smile. "Mr. Delouche has been inquiring."

"Not very much," he admitted. "I saw the autopsy. There were no surprises. I can tell you that what happened was not a robbery."

"How do you know?"

"Whoever shot your father stood back a ways to fire."

"And why is that not a robbery?"

"Because a thief will step up, show his weapon, and demand the goods," he explained. "So he's fairly close in. If the victim resists or tries to fight, he might shoot. That would be close range. No more than three or four feet."

"So how do you—?"

"A pistol fired at close range leaves powder on the clothing and the flesh," he said. "There was no mention of powder in the report. Also, there was some information ..." He hesitated. "... about the nature of the wound itself that tells me the shot came from a distance."

Anne Marie's face paled a little. "I see." She twisted her fingers into a nervous knot. "But this person could have decided he wanted Father's possessions and the easiest way was to ... to just ... draw his pistol ... and kill him." She looked up. "Isn't that possible?"

He shrugged. It was possible, though not likely. A Rampart Street thief would know how to pull off a heist. It wasn't something he wished to debate, though.

"What else?" she said.

"Have you heard about Charles Kane?"

"Yes, I heard what happened." She had answered too quickly, meaning she had prepared for the question.

"Your father and he had shipping companies on the river. They both did business with Henry Harris."

"That's right."

"And both died in the space of a week."

"My father was murdered. Mr. Kane drowned in the river."

"That doesn't mean they're not connected."

"How would that be?"

"Perhaps you can tell me."

She gave a start. "Excuse me?"

He backed up, shrugging casually. "Is there any reason you can think of why someone would want both your father and this Kane fellow dead?"

Her brow stitched and her lips pursed, as if the question was preposterous. It was a good act.

"I don't," she said. "I barely knew Mr. Kane."

"When was the last time your father saw him?"

"Years ago, I'm sure."

"Two men ran companies in the same business in the same place, and they both die less than a week apart. I don't think it's a coincidence."

"Well, you're the detective," she said archly.

"I am, yes, ma'am," he said.

The tense silence that followed was interrupted when Betsy stepped in with coffee. He was thinking of a different tack when Anne Marie said, "My father was a decent man. No matter what anyone says." Her tone wasn't defensive at all; more ruminative, as if a door in her memory had opened and she was peering inside. "He used to have quite a name around New Orleans," she went on. "He did very well in business. He was in all the prestigious social clubs. We had everything we needed and more. As you can see." She looked at him directly, though her stare was not clear. "My father was successful. He was
important.
And not because of Henry Harris, either."

She looked like she expected him to dispute this. Then she switched again, picking up a cup and holding it in her hands as if warming them. Valentin looked at her, then stole a glance at Betsy, who had retreated to the kitchen doorway to listen. He took the second cup and returned his attention to Anne Marie. "Is there anything you want to tell me?" he asked.

"About what?" Her voice remained distant.

"About your father. And this Kane fellow."

Her gaze came to rest on him, and again he saw something strange in her eyes. "I don't know anything more," she said deliberately. "But maybe his mistress does."

Valentin stopped to stare at her. "Excuse me?"

She all but laughed in his face. "He kept a quadroon," she said. "You didn't know about that? Oh, yes. I knew all about her. So did Mother. She's very pretty. She was at Father's funeral. She stayed in the back, but she was mourning like she was his wife."

Valentin again glanced at Betsy, then returned his attention to Anne Marie. "Your mother knew?"

"Oh, yes. It had been going on for years. It's not uncommon. As I'm sure you know."

Valentin was thinking of a way to approach the subject that had come immediately to mind when she said, "If you've got an idea that what happened to him was a scorned wife's revenge, the answer is no. My mother didn't care. Not one bit. She welcomed it." She leaned a few inches closer and lowered her voice confidentially. "She's one of those women who found acts of love ...
distasteful.
As far as I know, her last act of passion with my father was the one that produced me."

She sat back, a coy smile playing faintly around her mouth. Valentin felt his face getting hot. He had spent more nights than he could count frolicking with sporting girls who sometimes cried out in the crudest language, but something about this pretty American miss making a vague reference to that same act embarrassed him. She noticed the color in his cheeks and gave him a cunning look.

He quickly moved on. "If not your mother, then perhaps this other woman..."

"Her name is Sylvia Cardin."

"Maybe it had to do with her. Maybe there was someone else in the picture. Someone else interested in her favors. I've seen those kinds of disputes before."

"I haven't thought of that," she said. Valentin again detected the hesitation in her voice. "I suppose it could be." She stirred her coffee in an absent swirl, her gaze now troubled. He guessed that she was wrestling with the notion that she had blurted too much. Though he would have found out anyway.

"Do you know where she lives?" he said.

"In the French Quarter, I believe. You'll have to ask Mr. Delouche. He was the one who took care of her needs and gave her money."

She seemed to be indulging a certain sniveling delight that she had sprung something on him, something he should have known. In any case, he needed to counter her in some manner.

"How is your mother feeling?" he asked.

"Mother? She's"—her smile went away—"doing as well as can be expected."

"What medication is she using?"

"Excuse me?" Her eyes flashed at Betsy for a brief second.

"Oh, she didn't say anything," Valentin told her. "I know the signs." Anne Marie's face took a cool set. "How serious is her addiction?"

"She doesn't have an
addiction,
" Anne Marie said. "She has a prescription from her doctor." Her back stiffened. "What does this have to do with your investigation?"

"Probably nothing."

"Then we don't need to discuss it, do we?"

"No, ma'am."

"Are you finished with your coffee?" she said.

He put the cup down, got to his feet, and thanked her for her time.

Betsy followed him out, her dark eyes all sly. He didn't hear the door closing until he had reached the banquette.

Solomon's customer cradled his horn to his chest like it was a child, threw his free hand up in grateful farewell, and went out the door. Before the pawnbroker could come around to the counter to lock it, it swung open sharply. A shadow blocked the light from the street and Solomon blinked, just barely making out a man's hulking figure.

"Yes, sir, can I help you?"

The customer didn't answer. Solomon made a shuffling retreat behind his counter. Though he was by nature a peaceful man, he kept a loaded .32 pistol handy. The items on his walls and especially those in the glass cases were just too tempting. He'd pulled the weapon a half-dozen times and felt no hesitation about firing it if he had to. He now dropped his hand to grasp the wooden grip of the revolver.

"How can I help you?" he repeated.

"You can help yourself," the tall man said.

"How's that?" Solomon inquired politely.

"Are you doing business with St. Cyr?"

The question caught the pawnbroker by surprise. Then he recovered. "I do business with a lot of people," he said.

The tall man stepped forward, now all but looming over the counter. Solomon took in his features: a broad, scarred face; stiff, wide mustache; blank, pale eyes.

"Listen to me, Jew, I didn't ask you about a lot of people, I asked about St. Cyr."

Solomon lifted his chin to regard his visitor through his spectacles. "Do you have something to pawn? Or do you wish to make a purchase?"

The tall man studied him, almost smiling. "I want to purchase whatever that fucking Creole brought in here."

"Not for sale," Solomon said.

Leaning forward, eyes glinting, the tall man said, "Then I'll just take it."

A second later, he was staring down the barrel of an Aubrey Hammerless.

The pawnbroker said, "As I mentioned, it's not for sale." His birdlike eyes were dead calm.

The tall man took a hesitant step back. He regarded Solomon for a moment, giving a slight shake of his head. Then he turned for the door. Before he made his exit, he paused to say, "I'll give your regards to Sophie." He winked, put a silencing finger to his lips, and went out, banging the door behind him. Only then did the pawnbroker go pale and let out a shuddering breath.

In another half hour, Valentin was on St. Charles Avenue, stepping to the door of Maurice Delouche's law office. It seemed the attorney had taken a page out of Picot's book, because Valentin was made to wait the better part of an hour before he was summoned. He spent the time reading through a copy of
Harper's Weekly
that was on the low table.

Delouche offered him neither a greeting nor a seat. He merely raised his eyebrows in the most perfunctory way. Two could do that dance. The detective helped himself to one of the chairs and returned the attorney's stare. Delouche tolerated it for as long as he could, then dropped his pen with a snap and said, "Well? Are you going to sit there all day? What do you want?"p"Sylvia Cardin," Valentin said.

The attorney looked surprised, then closed his eyes as if he was enduring a spasm of pain. "Who told you...?" He sighed. "What about her?"

"I want to see her," Valentin said.

"She doesn't know anything," the attorney said. Valentin didn't bother to argue. Delouche sat back, looking old again. "You want me to arrange it?"

"I don't need you to arrange anything. I just need her address."

There was a long pause, and then the attorney gave a little cough and pulled open his desk drawer. He drew out a leather-bound book and opened it with his thin white fingers. He stopped at a certain page, picked up his pen, and wrote something on a slip of cream-colored paper. He put the pen down, closed the book, and stored it back in the drawer. Then he folded the slip of paper and pushed it to the edge of his desk. This was all performed in a moody silence, the only sound the ticking of the Junghaus clock on the wall behind Valentin's head.

The detective picked up the folded sheet and tucked it in his pocket.

Delouche lifted his pen once more and said, "Now, if you'll excuse—"

"How long has Mrs. Benedict been addicted to morphine?"

The pen hung suspended in midair, and Delouche regarded him with a blank gaze, his dry lips in a straight line. He looked like a fish that had been pulled onto a riverbank and stunned with a rock.

"Mr. Delouche?"

The eyes shifted. "What was the question?"

"Mrs. Benedict has an addiction to morphine."

"She has a prescription from her doctor," Delouche protested faintly.

"For what condition?"

"Some female problem, I believe." Valentin could barely hear him.

"So she gets morphine?"

"That's none of my affair." Delouche grimaced. "So I've been told."

For a moment he felt charitable toward the old charlatan. It seemed he had at least one soft spot. He mulled that, then put it away. "What was the ring that Benedict wore on his right hand?" he inquired.

Now the attorney looked startled, as if shocked back to the present. Color rose to his ivory cheeks, and his thin eyebrows dipped fiercely.

"What's that again?"

"Mr. Benedict was wearing a ring on his right hand the night he died. Gold with a large blue stone."

The attorney hesitated, then said, "What if he was?"

"Do you know if it had some special meaning to him?"

A moment went by and Delouche moved his head slowly from one side to the other. "I don't recall any such ring. I only saw the man once every few months."

Valentin waited, but the attorney seemed to have deflated into a glum sack of skin over frail bones. He stood up. "Thank you for your assistance," he said.