Rampart Street (Valentin St. Cyr Mysteries) (25 page)

"I've been engaged by Benedict's daughter to in—"

"Anne Marie."

"That's correct."

"He talked about her." Miss Cardin's voice was blank. "Now she wants to know what happened to him, after he's gone. Well, it's too late now, isn't it?"

Valentin took note of the strange turn in the conversation and went on. "When was the last time you saw him?"

"It was ... over a month ago, I believe."

"Over a month?"

"That's right."

"Was it usually so long between your meetings?"

"No."

"Why this time?"

"Because that night I told him I didn't want to continue our ... arrangement any longer."

Valentin noted the time interval. "Why was that?" he asked evenly.

"Because I didn't wish to be with him anymore." He glanced up, saw that her expression had turned hard, as if she was bolstering herself against something. His next question was forming when she sat forward and said, "When I was fifteen years old, my mother sold me to a man old enough to be my grandfather for one hundred dollars in gold coins. He was sickly and he didn't last. Then there was a wealthy gentleman who made promises to me. He went to California and never came back. After that, I met John Benedict. I'm not a harlot, sir. I'm no one's slave, either."

Valentin met her gaze for a moment. Then he put the strange diatribe away and went back to his question. "How long did you know Mr. Benedict?"

She hesitated, then settled again. "For seven years."

"That's a long time."

"It's seven years."

"Are there any children between you?"

"Why do you ask that?"

"I'm curious."

"Do you see any?" she said. There was a sudden crisp light in her eyes as she held her cigarette before her like an upended sword and met his gaze with her black stare.

"So the last time you saw him would have been three weeks before he was killed."

After a moment she nodded.

"Do you know the details of his death?"

"Yes," she said, and her voice got quieter, darker. "I heard all about it."

"Do you have any idea why he went to Rampart Street that night?"

"No, I don't."

"Did he ever go there before?"

"If he did, he never told me about it."

"You know what it's like out there?"

"I've heard."

"It doesn't make sense, a man like him, alone on Rampart Street."

She was sharp enough to notice that it wasn't a question and said nothing as she watched a curl of smoke rise up to the ceiling.

"Do you think he might have gone there after a woman?"

He got her attention with that one. She lowered her gaze to regard him calmly, not taking offense, a cool smile lightening her face.

She straightened her spine and pushed her chest and hips toward him in one curving motion, like a wave coming in, and at the same time lowered her brow very slightly, so that she gazed at him from the tops of her hooded eyes. It was an animal motion, flush of the force of her beauty, and she did it so well that it froze him for a moment.

She brought it on, casting a heated glance at him and making movements that somehow stirred a primitive scent of mating. Subtly, in one motion, she also pulled her shoulders back and spread her knees a few inches. Valentin felt a tiny electric tingle shoot up his spine.

"What do you think?" she said in a silky voice.

He pulled his eyes away with an effort and stared down at his notebook, moving his pencil in aimless circles. It was some show, a mere few seconds of energy that would still bring any man with a pulse running, perhaps right to his bloody end. And she would somehow make it appear worth the agony. He didn't know if he'd ever seen it done better.

But when he glanced up again, he saw that the effort of mounting the carnal display had been too much for her. As quickly as she had struck the pose, she slouched back into the cushions. Her face fell. She didn't look so striking anymore, still beautiful, but in a forlorn way.

Valentin lingered on the image, then pushed himself back to the business at hand. "Are you aware of any problems he was having? Any threats to his person?"

She shrugged. "He didn't say anything to me."

He glanced at his notepad. "Do you know anything about the ring he wore on his right hand?"

She paused. "He never wore a ring, except his wedding band," she said. "And he took that off when he was here."

"You never saw him wearing a ring with a heavy gold band and a dark blue stone?"

Now she looked perturbed. "That's what I just said, isn't it? Why do you keep asking the same question?"

He dropped that line and picked up another. "Do you know the name Charles Kane?"

"No, I don't know that person."

"He died over the weekend. Drowned in the river."

Sylvia kept her eyes steady.

"He was also in the shipping business. He was a partner in a business with Mr. Benedict." He paused. "And with Henry Harris."

If he hadn't been watching her, he would have missed the tiny flick of light in her eyes. And that when she put the cigarette to her lips, she missed the mark by a fraction of an inch.

"You do know him?"

"Know who?"

"Henry Harris."

"Everyone knows who he is," she said.

"Did you ever meet him?"

She paused, then shook her head again, now with a petulance that seemed more like she was refusing something that had been placed before her. "I think..." She considered for a moment. "John introduced me to him, at a dinner. It was years ago."

"That's all?"

"I was his mistress, not his wife," she said. She came up with a strange and unreadable smile. "I didn't go to many social events that Mr. Harris hosted. Because I don't believe he cares for being around colored folk. That's what he says all the time, ain't it?"

He could tell she was getting tired of him and his questions, and he didn't want to drag it out too long and lose her for later. He took a last look about the rooms, closed his notebook, and stood up to leave. "Thank you for your ti—"

"It was terrible what happened to John," she said, cutting him off. "He didn't deserve to die that way. But he was stubborn. You couldn't tell him anything. He wouldn't
listen.
" She shook her head grimly. "I didn't want to stay in this arrangement with him. It was just time to stop. And now he's gone. We all need to leave it alone." She stubbed her cigarette out in the crystal ashtray.

Valentin looked down at her. "Miss Cardin?" It took her a moment to look up. "Did you have anything to do with his death?"

Her eyes took a set. "I'm not answering that," she said.

On that distracted note, Valentin went to the door and opened it. "If you think of anything you've forgotten, you can get a message to me at Mangetta's," he said. "It's in the District, on Mar—"

"I know where it is," she interrupted, her voice wavering oddly.

"All right, then. Thank you for your time," he said.

She was watching him. "What happened to your head?" she asked.

"It's nothing," he said. "An accident."

"You should be more careful."

He left her there, her beauty half hidden behind the gauze of smoke from her French cigarette.

When Tom Anderson arrived at the Café, he was greeted by the news about Valentin getting assaulted on Marais Street. He listened to the details, then went up the back stairs, pondering what in god's name he had started. He had thought he was doing a small service for a local politician and giving St. Cyr a chance to get back on his feet, all in a nice little package. Now his nice little package was blowing up as if it had been packed with gunpowder. The whispered word that there might be something more than a professional arrangement between the detective and his client was less surprising, though no less troubling.

Anderson had already had Chief of Police O'Connor, the family lawyer Delouche, and the city alderman Badel taking turns scolding him over it. Because it wasn't such a simple case, after all. Because it was now revealed that Benedict and the second victim, Kane, had both been in the shipping business, shoulder to shoulder with Henry Harris.

The name had as much weight as one of the many ten thousand—ton ships his factories built. Harris wasn't on the level of Pittsburgh's Carnegie, Detroit's Ford, or New York's Vanderbilt or Rockefeller, but he could sit at the next table. Anderson was not above standing in awe of Harris and his wealth and influence. Especially since Harris had not had it handed down to him, like so many lords of the affluent class. Like Anderson himself, he had built an empire out of almost nothing.

He had constructed his fortune on the ashes of the war, snapping up companies along the river from those once-proud and now-penniless defenders of the Confederacy. Harris was not a Southerner—he had claimed a bland midwestern heritage—and so he could take contracts denied to natives. He quickly amassed a small fortune, then a larger one, though he was still a dwarf when compared to the true robber barons of the cities in the North. He was good at business, better at warfare. The newspapers cast him as a gruff patriarch and a hero who had brought much wealth to the city. Even Bas Bleu, that impertinent newspaper wag, wouldn't touch Harris's exalted self.

Other gossip painted a picture of a tyrant, a man who indulged petty spites, even displaying signs of mental unbalance when he strayed away from making money. He gave to the church and all the correct charities, though he cared little about them. That was all his wife's doing. Anderson had seen photographs of the man who never smiled for anyone, much less the photographers. In truth, for all his public influence, Harris was said to be unnerved by even small crowds and the eyes of cameras, which these days were poking about everywhere.

He had for a time been a state senator like Anderson, though only for one term, to see if he wanted to run for a higher office. He decided that he despised local politicians along with the sluggish masses they represented. With his money, he wielded more power in a day than an elected local official could employ in a lifetime.

Anderson remembered him from those days in the state senate as an elegant and utterly unpleasant man. When he bothered to show his face, that is, which wasn't often. Though the two represented the same part of the state, Harris regarded Tom Anderson as a crude pimp and fixer, and spoke to him only through intermediaries.

On the rare occasion that Harris made an appearance in Baton Rouge, it was not for the people's business, but to propound certain views, railing on the senate floor like the worst of the Know-Nothings. When he quit the body, it was mostly from exasperation that so few local politicians shared his rabid opinions. Anderson hadn't heard much about him in years. His companies thrived, growing more prosperous and stretching out to engulf all sorts of ancillary businesses along the river. The word was he visited his office rarely, spending his time on his hundred-acre plantation at Nine Mile Point, along the Mississippi just north of the city, pondering a U.S. Senate campaign. It was said that he craved the power that only Washington could offer. Though he could certainly buy himself a seat, he still had to go through the tiresome motions of getting elected.

Simply keeping his ears open, the King of Storyville had learned other, more private information about Harris. He knew, for instance, that along with a wife and a litter of slothful and profligate children, Harris had kept a string of whores at his beck and call, all willing and able to endure certain unique kinds of pain.

As tasty as it was, Anderson would never use this information. In his most honest moments, he had to admit that he harbored a fear of Harris and men like him, who drew power from a source he could never summon. He knew that his name would be lost to history while Harris and his ilk would be revered for a century.

Now, thanks to Tom Anderson, a certain Creole detective was rousing the wrath of the Crescent City dragon.

Anderson knew that the attack on St. Cyr wasn't a robbery any more than Benedict's murder was. The Creole detective had little worth stealing and rarely carried more than a dollar or two in his pockets. No, this was something else. Anderson could envision the long arm of Henry Harris reaching out, and it didn't surprise him. Every time Valentin was turned loose on a case, the same thing happened. Doors that were closed flew open, loosing pandemonium. Anderson had imagined that this time it would be different, but again, St. Cyr had turned it right around. He let out a sigh of frustration as he stopped to wonder exactly how long it would take for the next body to appear.

It was the first time since just before her father's death that Anne Marie had wandered beyond the blocks around their house. For some reason, she felt like it had been much longer since she'd been away from the city.

She had picked a good day for it. The sun had come up a rosy pink through the morning mist and the branches of the live oaks with their new leaves. A light breeze carried scents of magnolia, oleander, and sweet apple. It was still cool, which meant that Anne Marie could wear a hat with a veil. Even better, clouds were coming up from the Gulf, bringing rain. They'd have use for an umbrella and that suited her purposes all the more this day. She didn't want anyone recognizing her.