Rampart Street (Valentin St. Cyr Mysteries) (30 page)

Justine started by saying, "I heard about what happened at the newspaper. I know he was a friend of yours."

Valentin nodded soberly. He really didn't need to fall into that pit right now. He wanted his wits about him; and so he was glad that he had somewhere else to focus his thoughts. Still, he didn't fail to notice how Reynolds had tensed when Justine delivered her sympathies.

Settling at the end of the table, he took his five-cent notebook and a stub of pencil from his pocket and addressed Reynolds directly. "You worked with Mr. Kane, is that correct?" he asked.

Reynolds gave a tense bob of his head. "Worked for," he said. "I was his assistant. His second-in-command."

"This was in a shipbuilding company?" the detective inquired.

"Actually, we outfitted the ships, after major construction."

"What was the name of your company?"

"Dixie Star."

"And what about Mr. Benedict?"

"He owned and managed White Cross. They built ships. Small freighters, mostly."

"What did Henry Harris have to do with these companies?"

"They supplied each other. Parts and so forth."

Valentin nodded. The windows were open, and they could hear the Basin Street traffic. He let the pause hang, a way of putting the subject just ill at ease enough to move the way he wanted. He sensed that there was something that Reynolds wanted to tell him. He just needed to be pressed on it.

"So the only connection between Benedict, Kane, and Harris was that they all ran shipbuilding companies?" the detective said.

Reynolds looked at Justine for a moment, as if for approval. "No," he said. "That's not all." He shifted his weight. "They formed a separate company. A partnership."

"To do what?"

"Import and export. Handling anything that landed on the wharves."

Valentin stared at him until Reynolds fidgeted.

"What was the name of that company?" Valentin said after a moment.

"Three V."

Valentin jotted the letters in his book as if this was new information. "What exactly did Three V mean?"

"I don't have any idea. Something they invented."

"Because no one's name starts with a V."

"I said I don't know." Reynolds gave an impatient shrug.

"Were they successful?" Valentin said.

"Oh, yes, very successful. They've had all the produce business for the past twenty years."

"What happened to the former owners?" Valentin asked, and felt Justine's stare on the side of his face.

"I believe the—"

"They were forced out, weren't they?"

Reynolds gave a start at the detective's sudden rancor. "I don't know that," he said. "I'm just telling you what happened. I didn't have anything to do with it. It wasn't my place to ask questions. We're talking about Henry Harris, for god's sake!"

"You worked for Kane," Valentin said in a quiet voice.

"Actually, before all that happened, I was offered another position at Gulf Shipping and I left Dixie Star, so I didn't..." As he trailed off, he looked at Justine, only to find her gazing at the detective.

It didn't surprise Valentin a bit that this white man was hedging. Everybody had an angle to play. He glanced down at his few notes, then moved on. "You were with Kane the night he died."

Reynolds took a breath. "I was."

"Why?"

"Why?"

"Why were you with Mr. Kane? Was it a special occasion?"

"No, we just..."

"Just what?"

"Did that now and then. He invited me and I went."

"And he was your former superior?"

"That's right."

"All right, you went out for drinks. What happened?"

"What happened was afterward he was walking to find his automobile, and I saw somebody grab him off the street and drag him away."

"Can you describe this somebody?"

Reynolds told him about the shape the figure took, the duster or cape, or even something that looked like a wing. As time passed his memory was changing on him, and he felt no less foolish than the first time he related it. When he finished, Valentin considered for a moment, then said, "What were you doing before this occurred?"

"We were drinking at the Napoleon House," Reynolds said. "Charles had too much, as usual. We left and walked through the Quarter. His automobile was parked on St. Peter."

"He was drunk?"

"Oh yes."

"Drunks get loose about what they say. Did he say anything?"

"Well, we were talking, and he—"

"I mean anything unusual."

Valentin saw the shifting in the white man's eyes.

"Mr. Reynolds?"

"He talked about John Benedict," Reynolds said. "He said that John had it coming. That's what he said. 'He got what he goddamn well had coming.'"

"What else?"

"He said some other things but I can't be sure what. He was muttering some awful things."

Valentin sat back, tapping his pencil. So Kane had known who had murdered Benedict, and why. He jotted a note, then looked up. "It sounds to me like Benedict was going to talk. Talk about what?"

"I don't
know.
" Reynolds's whole body seemed to take part in the lie. His gaze roamed and his thick frame deflated and he dropped his chin like a schoolboy. It was so blatant that Justine rolled her eyes.

The white man was getting perturbed, no doubt wishing he hadn't agreed to this. He folded his arms across his chest in a posture of disdain. It didn't work, though, and he found the Creole detective gazing at him with a blank curiosity, as if there was something on his face. He fidgeted, coughed, shifted his balance.

"Something else on your mind, sir?" Valentin asked momentarily.

"I just don't want to get blamed for..." He stopped to catch a breath. "I don't want someone coming after me. I wasn't part of it! I didn't do anything!"

For a moment Valentin thought Reynolds was going to burst into tears. He saw Justine regarding him with a lopsided frown, her eyes narrowed in disgust at the display. He put his notebook and pencil stub away. "That's all I have," he said. "Thank you for your time." He looked at Justine. "And thank you for your assistance." It was all very polite. He gathered himself to leave.

"Wait just a moment," Reynolds said in a shaky voice. "What about me?"

"What about you?" Valentin said.

"I'm going to be needing protection."

"I can't help you with that." He treated Reynolds to a cursory glance. "You can find a man in any saloon in the city. But I wouldn't worry. I don't think you're in any danger."

"You don't
think?
"

"You don't know anything, isn't that what you said?" Though the detective kept his voice even, Reynolds's broad face still flushed red. "If something important comes to mind, something you've forgotten, please send a message to me at Mangetta's on Marais Street."

Reynolds turned to Justine, as if expecting her to say something.

"I think we're finished," she murmured, with a tiny note of contempt in her voice that warmed Valentin's heart. He nodded to her and walked out of the kitchen.

Outside on the banquette, he let out a breath, as if he was coming up from underwater. He had survived seeing her with the man who was currently paying for her body. It was good, then, that Reynolds threw some things out that he could fix his mind on.

Henry Harris had, along with Benedict and Kane, created a company and named it Three V, the same as the inscription on the rings. He still didn't know what the letters meant. It had to matter, or why hide the inscription beneath the stone?

That likely was what Joe Kimball had uncovered. And in his last moments, he had tried to provide another piece of the puzzle by scratching the letter K or something like it, under the drawer. It might have stood for Kane, though that didn't really go anywhere. Something about the letter was nagging at the edge of his mind, as if it was just below the horizon, not yet clear enough to discern. It would come to him eventually. He hoped it was sooner rather than later.

He got to Esplanade just as a streetcar was pulling up, its wires crackling noisily overhead. He put his foot on the step and hopped on.

Anne Marie had spent much of the morning replaying her adventure of the day before. She felt like she had spent an afternoon in a strange land or had crossed into enemy territory, like Belle Boyd or some other famous spy. Except that she now had the disorienting feeling that Esplanade Ridge was the alien territory.

She had seen St. Cyr, too, and then the dove from the house on Basin Street. She and Betsy had followed them through the drizzling rain to Canal Street and watched them cross over. By then it was late and time to get home. Her mother had been alone all afternoon. When they got there, they found her wandering about in her nightdress, looking for something she couldn't name. Betsy took her back upstairs and got her a bowl of soup for dinner, which, to their surprise, she wolfed down, then asked for more.

Anne Marie had come awake with a vision of Valentin on a rainy Basin Street crossing her mind. The image stayed with her through the morning. She puttered aimlessly, feeling nervous and a little frightened, as if something dire but unknown was about to happen. Then Betsy came back from making market with the report that two evenings ago St. Cyr had been attacked on Marais Street and had barely escaped with his life. The maid followed this with the news of the detective's friend at the newspaper being shot to death.

Anne Marie turned away to hide her shock and hurried out of the kitchen, startling and puzzling Betsy. She went into the study and closed the door behind her. She sagged against the wall in the dark room, trying to get a fix on what had happened. The Creole detective had almost died and his friend was dead and she couldn't shake the feeling that it was her fault. She should have left it alone. But she couldn't. She couldn't.

She guessed that he would come on all the more fiercely now, determined to find out what happened. It never occurred to her that he might quit. He wasn't the type.

With that thought, she went back out into the foyer, then up to her room for a glass of brandy.

She was standing by her window, trying to decide whether to send Betsy to fetch him when the maid hurried in from the front gallery where she had been sweeping, banging the front door. She raced up the steps all excited and burst in to tell her that the Creole detective was coming up the banquette that very moment!

"Can you knock, please?" Anne Marie said, working to keep her face stern.

They heard him rapping at the front door.

"I'll see him in the sitting room," she told the maid.

"You ought to see him in this
here
room," Betsy said.

Anne Marie said, "Betsy, I swear, you—" The doorbell chimed, interrupting them. The maid hurried out the door and down the hall.

Valentin was pleased when Betsy brought coffee. He needed it. He added his usual cream and a bit of sugar while Anne Marie waited, fidgeting distractedly. She wasn't partaking this afternoon. He could feel her nervous gaze on him as he stirred his cup and took a sip.

Anne Marie thought he looked somber, not at all happy to see her, and it gave her pause. She wondered what was going through his mind, after the attack he'd suffered and the murder of his friend. He wasn't giving any clue at all and sipped his coffee until she said, "Well, then?"

He put his cup down and went about recounting his past forty-eight hours. On Tuesday night he had gone to visit Joe Kimball at the newspaper in the hopes of getting background information that would help. He told her about visiting Sylvia Cardin the previous morning. He did not mention meeting his au-lait dove at all. Late the previous evening, he finished, someone went to the newspaper morgue, cornered his friend Joe Kimball, and shot him to death there.

"Was it because of this investigation?" Anne Marie asked in a hushed voice.

He looked at her directly for the first time. "There's no other reason."

"I'm so sorry," she said, sounding sincere.

He took a moment, and then said, "I have something of your father's. It was taken from him on Rampart Street."

She raised her eyes to meet his gaze. "What is it?"

He went into his pocket, produced the ring, and held it out between them. She stared, making no move to take it.

"I don't remember ever seeing that."

"Charles Kane had one, too. Exactly the same."

She gazed at the ring for another moment. Then her eyes shifted. "How long have you had it?"

"Since Saturday."

She studied him for a moment. "Why is it important?"

"I don't have any idea." He paused. "If you don't know anything about it, I'd like to ask your mother."

Now her eyes took a cool set. "I told you, no. She's indisposed."

Valentin stared at her, feeling something rising in his chest. His gray eyes glittered hotly.