Rampart Street (Valentin St. Cyr Mysteries) (22 page)

Things had been so peaceful. She was lonely, but that was nothing new. The gentlemen she entertained were well-to-do dullards who seemed unable to think of anything but money. She was used to that, too. Why couldn't he just stay away and let things be? Why couldn't he keep traveling through those dark and empty American nights until he found whatever his brooding heart longed for, instead of coming back and upsetting her entire life?

Miss Antonia had passed on the gossip about the white woman, and then Mr. George had mentioned the daughter of the man named Benedict hiring a detective who worked Storyville. Justine had to consider that what she was doing was nothing more than meddling for her own purposes, and that annoyed her all the more.

She found herself sitting upright, her brow furrowed, as if he was at that moment across the table, receiving a round scolding. She was so
angry
at him. So angry that it made her laugh at her own foolishness.

She was so caught up in the moment that she was startled to look up and see someone standing on the gallery, peering in through the glass. She recognized the face and beckoned with her hand.

When he stepped inside, she felt a catch in her throat. She had known Beansoup since the days when she lived with Valentin on Magazine Street. He had been a regular visitor then, often sleeping overnight on the couch in the front room and eating at their table. Though he had a bed with the nuns at St. Mary's and was most at home on the streets. Somewhere along the way he had taken it upon himself to look out for them. When they went apart, he tried playing cupid to bring them back together. It seemed very important to him.

Now he sidled inside and asked how she was doing this fine afternoon, playing it casual, as if he wasn't eager to see her again. His little performance was ruined when the maid who had delivered the message came in the door moments later. He had rushed there so fast that he had beaten her back to the mansion. He blushed, all abashed, and jerked his head. "She says you want to see me?"

Justine gave him a severe look that was full of affection and said, "Why don't you visit anymore?"

Beansoup's face turned a darker shade of pink. They both knew the reason. He had seen her, day by day, in the rooms she shared with Mr. Valentin on Magazine Street. Now she was a resident of a grand Basin Street sporting house. She saw the disappointment in his pale eyes.

He said, "I've got ... I'm busy, you know ... and I..." He went through the words like he was driving down a bumpy road. "...with this and that ... you know..."

She had mercy and told him to take a seat. She got up to fix him lunch of a thick slice of bread, some Swiss cheese, a chicken drumstick, and an apple, along with a cup of coffee from the pot.

As she moved about, his eyes kept flicking below her face. She was wearing a thin shift, and the curves of her body swelled against the fabric with every motion. As silly as it seemed, he had always posed as some kind of pint-sized sport and ladies' man. Now he was old enough to be one in his own funny way. Yet he remained enough of a boy that she couldn't take offense.

She brought the plate to the table and slid it in front of him. As usual, he attacked the food. He was always hungry.

She watched him eat. "So what's this I hear, you're a musician now?"

He blushed some more. "Naw, nothin' like that ... I just play along with this here gutbucket singer now and then."

"I heard you're pretty good at it."

"I wish I was," he said, and she was moved by the way he said it. Like he meant it. He ate some more, then took a sip of his coffee and said, "So, um ... what was it you wanted?"

She sighed, and he watched her chest heave with some fascination. "It's about Valentin."

He looked up and cocked his head warily. "Oh. What about him?"

"I know you've seen him since he's been back."

Beansoup's pale eyes shifted. "He's around, sure."

"And how is he doing?"

"He's doin' all right, I guess," the kid said. "He was working at the Café. But he stopped that now. He's back at detective work. For some rich lady out Esplanade by the Jockey Club. She's a—" He stopped before he gave too much away.

"I know what he's working on," Justine said. "That's what I need to talk to him about. And I need you to carry a message to him."

The kid's eyes slid one way, then the other. "Well, I guess I can do that."

"Tell him I have information about his case," she said, dropping her voice. "If he doesn't want to see me, I can write it all down. Or we can talk on the telephone."

"All right, I'll tell him."

"Thank you." She gave him her most endearing smile and saw the color rise to his cheeks. "More coffee?" she asked.

Valentin was taking his time walking west on Canal Street. He stopped at the corner of Loyola, waiting to cross, when the Buick pulled up. The driver that had been with Nelson on Marais Street tilted his head toward the passenger seat.

"Someone wants to talk to you," he said over the chugging engine. It wasn't a threat, more a polite request. Valentin recalled how this fellow had seemed humored by the way he had talked to Nelson, and he got into the seat.

They turned the corner and went back east on Canal. When they reached Decatur Street, the driver cut north, past Jackson Square. The wind and road noise made it impossible to talk. It didn't matter; within another few minutes, they came to a stop in front of La Grenouille, one of the city's better French restaurants. Valentin knew for a fact that such establishments were only open for dinner and gave the driver a puzzled glance.

"Go on in," the driver said. "The door's open."

Valentin stepped down. "What's your name?" he asked.

"Louis Stoneman, sir." The voice was polite.

"Have we met?"

"Long time ago. In the District." He nodded toward the door. "Man's waiting for you," he said.

Valentin stepped onto the banquette and to the heavy door. As he pulled it open, Stoneman drove away from the curb.

He found Nelson standing in the archway between the foyer and the dining room. "In here," he said, and turned a thumb toward the dining room. Valentin walked in to find the room empty, the tables all set with white cloths and fine china and glasses in preparation for the evening. Then he noticed a man sitting at a table in the back corner of the room.

"Let's go," Nelson said, and led him across the floor.

The man at the table said, "Thank you, Mr. Nelson," and Nelson dipped his head and mumbled something in response. He backed away.

"Have a seat, Mr. St. Cyr," the man at the table said. "My name's William Little. I'd like a few minutes of your time."

Valentin sat, regarding William Little carefully. He guessed him to be in his fifties. Though he held himself stiff, in a carriage of cold command, there was something distinctly delicate about his features. His thin hair was going gray, parted on the side, and as neat as a pin, and his mustache was near white and trimmed to a tidy brush. The suit he wore was well tailored, a solid brown. If Valentin had to guess, he would peg Little as an accountant or banker. There was a glass filled with water, no ice, before him.

Eyes of a very pale blue studied the detective in return. "I'm a special assistant to Mr. Henry Harris," Little began. He waited for a reaction, got none, though it took a small effort on Valentin's part. Little studied him, frowned, sighed slightly. "You're conducting an investigation into the unfortunate death of John Benedict." Again, Valentin didn't respond. Little's gaze settled. "We'd like to put a stop to it," he said.

"Why is that?" Valentin asked.

Little looked perturbed by the question. His lips pursed for a petulant moment. "You know that Mr. Benedict and Mr. Harris did business over the years. He sat on our board after he retired. That makes it our concern."

Valentin frowned and scratched his ear, as if he didn't get the connection. Little clearly didn't care whether he got it or not.

"I'm sure you're aware that a man, a Negro named Lee, was arrested for Mr. Benedict's murder," he said with an air of impatience.

"I know about that," Valentin said.

"And yet you're still investigating."

"I'm working for Mr. Benedict's daughter. She's not satisfied that Lee's the guilty party."

"Why is that?" Little inquired. "Because you said so?" He didn't wait for an answer. "It seems that what we have here is a distraught daughter who is letting her emotions run away with her."

Valentin said, "She seems reasonable to me."

"There's more to this," he said, his tone shifting to snappish. "Mr. Harris is considering announcing his candidacy for United States senator. This would be a distraction. A man of his stature has enemies. There are newspapers in this town that delight in attacking him. The point is that they'll make more of this than is actually there. I'm sure you understand."

Valentin watched thoughtfully as Little came up with a faint and false smile.

"Mr. Harris is not one to allow cooperation to go unrewarded," he said. "So I'm prepared to make you an offer. You inform Miss Benedict that you're not available to continue your investigation. In return, we'll find a position for you. Security of some type. You'll be paid generously, certainly more than a pimp like Tom Anderson can offer. Though I understand you're not working for him any longer, anyway."

Valentin was not surprised that Little already had this information. It was on the street. What did concern him was that they had been watching him and he hadn't caught on. Picot's bumbling crew was one thing; this was something else, and he had to respect it.

At the same time, he detected disdain at having to do this particular piece of dirty work in Little's expression. His thin nose was all but curling as if he smelled a foul odor.

"Miss Benedict can dismiss me if she wishes," Valentin said. "I'm not going to quit."

"Tell her you changed your mind," Little said curtly. "Or that you looked into it and you now believe this nigger Lee is guilty after all. I'm sure you can think of something." He picked up his water glass. "That's simple enough, isn't it?" After taking a sip, he said, "Please understand that this isn't a negotiation. It's an offer for this one time."

Valentin thought it over for another few seconds, then pushed his chair back and stood up. "I've got to go back to work," he said. "Anyway, Mr. Harris doesn't really want to hire the likes of me, does he?" He smiled. "I just wouldn't
fit.
"

Little sat back in his chair, his mouth turning downward as he regarded the detective with the kind of blank fixation usually afforded the victim of an accident. For a moment Valentin considered that he was making a serious mistake. If that was the case, it was too late now. He turned around and walked away from the table.

Nelson, standing by at the door, came on point like a hound, and Valentin wondered if he could get his sap around quickly enough to drop him. Nelson just glared, though, and let him pass.

"You're a goddamned fool," Nelson muttered.

"That I am." Valentin stopped. Without meeting the tall man's stare, he said, "You want to stay off of Peters Street. And out of the Jew Colony."

Nelson looked down at him, smiling. "What, you making a threat?"

"It's a suggestion," the detective said vaguely.

He went out the doors onto the banquette. Stoneman and the Buick were not in sight.

As he walked along, he considered that he had just said no to one of the two or three wealthiest and most powerful men in New Orleans. And yet Little had made no argument and no threats. These people were above that. He crossed the street through the late-afternoon shadows, realizing that, in some way, they would make him pay.

The sun was beginning to fall, turning the evening sky red as Valentin turned the corner, came up on Mangetta's, and saw two figures pacing the banquette. One was Beansoup, and the other one was the newspaperman Reynard Vernel.

They were so intent on eyeing each other that they didn't see him until he was two doors down the banquette. Beansoup broke away first. Vernel was right on his heels. They came to a stumbling stop, both talking at once. Valentin picked "Justine," "drowned," and "Benedict" out of the chatter. He raised a finger and glared, and they both shut up.

"What the hell's going on here?"

"I've got a message from Miss Justine," Beansoup blurted. "She wants—"

"I have something for you on the Benedict case," Vernel said before he could finish.

"I told him he could have told me and I would have passed it on," Beansoup said, glaring at the reporter.

Valentin said, "Justine?"

Beansoup turned back to the detective with a smile and a quick nod. "She said—"

"Wait a minute," Valentin interrupted. "What's this about Benedict?"

"A man was dragged out of the river," Vernel said. "They just identified his body yesterday. His name's Charles Kane. It turns out he worked with John Benedict."

"I know about that. It's all over town."

Beansoup gave a triumphant snicker. Vernel shot him a look, flagging only for a moment. "There's a good deal more to it," he said.