Rampart Street (Valentin St. Cyr Mysteries) (34 page)

Miss Antonia Gonzales heard it from him and told Justine when she came down from her room. The madam took the opportunity to ask after Mr. George. Justine's averted eyes and blank response told her not to be surprised if she didn't see that free-spending gentleman again. Miss Antonia gave a loud sigh of vexation. She should have known; once Valentin St. Cyr came back to town, it was only a matter of time that he'd get to her.

Tom Anderson was enjoying morning coffee and pastries in the private dining room at Gipsy Shafer's mansion when Billy Struve, his own most able informant, showed up to relate the news. Anderson chased away the girl who had been serving him, upstairs and down-, in bed and at table. After Struve repeated the details, he wondered for a moment if St. Cyr had shot the two men, then decided it wasn't likely. The Creole wasn't an assassin. Anyway, he could well guess who might have executed that bit of dirty work.

When Anne Marie stumbled in for her breakfast, Betsy jumped up to tell her about the same two men who had attacked Mr. St. Cyr on Marais Street getting shot down in the alley next to Mangetta's Saloon.

"Who were they?"

"A couple low-down rounders," Betsy told. "No good sons of bitches, that kind."

Though no one else was about, Anne Marie lowered her voice. "Do you think he did it?"

"I don't know about that," Betsy said, and went to fetch Anne Marie's eggs and coffee. The women were quiet for a few moments. Then Betsy said, "He goin' to be coming around today?"

"How would I know?" Anne Marie said. Betsy heard the odd note in her voice and turned around. Anne Marie had her hands clasped before her, and she looked like she was about to start weeping. "I did a terrible thing," she said.

Betsy, puzzled, placed a china cup of coffee on the table. "What are you talkin' about?"

"I'm afraid of what Mr. St. Cyr's going to find out."

"About what? What is it?"

"I can't tell you, Betsy. I'm sorry. It's not because I don't trust you. I do. I just can't."

"It's all right." Betsy watched her for a moment. Then she said, "I don't believe he's out to hurt you." Anne Marie heard the kindness behind the words and began to weep into her hands. Betsy hesitated for the briefest second, then put her arm around the heaving shoulders so Anne Marie could sob against her. In the seconds that followed, she mused over what that Creole detective had brought to their door.

"What have I done?" Anne Marie whimpered.

Betsy let her go on some more. "Everything's gonna be all right," she murmured.

Anne Marie caught her breath and wiped her eyes, trying to regain her composure. The moment passed and Betsy's arm went away, as she stood back. "Thank you," Anne Marie said in an impossibly soft voice.

She got up from the table. A few minutes later, as she was sweeping the floor, Betsy heard Miss Anne Marie on the telephone in the foyer. She crept into the dining room to see if she could hear, but her voice was too low, the kind of voice people used to tell secrets.

The telephone call ended and Anne Marie's steps padded up the stairs and down the hallway above. Betsy waited until she heard a door squeak open and closed. Then she went to the foyer and stood at the telephone desk.

Right there was a piece of paper and on it was a four-digit telephone number. Betsy selected a pen and copied it over on another scrap. She stopped to listen. There was not a sound from upstairs. There was a stack of mail on the desk and she went through it. There was nothing of interest. She closed the drawer and went back in the kitchen, attending to her domestic duties.

Valentin and Frank Mangetta ate a late breakfast that was actually an early lunch, trading sections of the
Picayune
without exchanging a word. The news of the killings in the alley would not make it into print until the evening editions, though no doubt with every bloody detail. As for a suspect, the police would not go corralling some innocent like Ten Penny this time. No one cared enough about either victim. And Lieutenant Picot wanted to make sure the suspicions about St. Cyr lingered for as long as possible. Valentin finished and stood up to carry his plate to the sink in the kitchen. When he came out and sat down again, he found that Frank had laid his section of newspaper aside. The saloon keeper reached for the toothpick that was next to his coffee cup and regarded the detective fixedly as he poked about with it.

"That was strange business with those two in the alley," he said after a few moments.

The detective smiled dimly. "You didn't kill them, did you, Frank?"

Mangetta tilted his head toward the bar. "All I got is that sawed-down
lupara
back there. What about you? You're the one they was after."

"Then I guess someone did me a favor."

"Maybe it was that American lady," Frank said, smirking. "Maybe she decided you needed some protection."

"I wasn't the one who got protected. Someone wanted them shut up before they ratted."

"That's probably it, all right."

Valentin went back to perusing his newspaper. "You ever have to use it?"

"Use what?"

"Your shotgun."

"Just once. And it was not a pretty sight." Frank collected the coffee cups. "But I'd do it again," he said, and walked to the kitchen.

The exchange was still on Valentin's mind when he got back upstairs. He cast a cursory glance at Angelo's door. As usual it was shut tight, and there was no light through the space at the bottom. He pictured poor Beansoup, standing there, quaking in his worn and dusty shoes after rousing the Sicilian.

In his room he stood at the dresser, opened the drawer, and dug out his sap and stiletto. Then he unfolded the oily cloth and hefted his Iver Johnson revolver. After what had happened in the alley, he had no choice but to carry it again.

Though he didn't like the idea much. He had seen how toting a pistol changed some people. He knew for a fact that more cowards than brave men carried one. A weapon gave them an authority they hadn't earned and didn't know how to use, and too often some innocent soul ended up dead.

That was the finality. A stab wound, a blow from a whalebone sap, and, sooner or later, the victim would likely walk away. A pistol was a different matter. There was a brief second of roar and smoke, and a life evaporated. He knew too well about that. And so he hated carrying that extra weight.

It didn't matter; he was back in dangerous waters. So he took the pistol along. Since he never wanted to get used to it, he tucked it in a pocket rather than a holster. This meant it took an extra heartbeat to draw it out, and that was fine with him.

Anne Marie led him into her father's study, which was on the other side of the foyer from the living room and on the front corner of the house. There was a curtained window on each outside wall. The inside walls were taken up by a bookcase filled with volumes that likely had never been read. In the center of the heavy carpet was a large oak desk with a blotter holding a set of pens and an inkwell, also looking unused for some time. Double-wicked study lamps of polished brass had been placed on either side of the blotter.

They both stood quietly for a moment. Anne Marie was clearly nervous, her eyes flitting, and he guessed that she was regretting her decision to allow him access to her father's papers. Valentin wondered if she was going to tell him to leave.

To ease her mind, he didn't go to the desk to start opening the drawers and rummaging. Instead, he stood at arm's length from her side, waiting for a signal.

Momentarily, she said, "I want to tell you again how sorry I am about your friend at the newspaper. And about what happened to you on the street. I know it's because of this case." She looked into his eyes, then looked away. "I didn't know I was going to put you in any danger."

"Somebody sure wants to stop me," he said.

"Do you know who it is?"

"I believe it's Henry Harris. Or someone acting on his behalf."

She gave a small start of alarm. "You can't stand up to someone like him."

"That's what I keep hearing." He shrugged. "But I can't stop now."

"Why not?"

"Because I already spent some of the money you paid me."

"I don't think this is funny," she said. "I mean it. You can stop if you want. I would understand you making that choice. I never knew it was going to lead to this."

Valentin gave a slight shake of his head. "I'll finish it," he said. "I have to. For Joe."

Anne Marie watched him closely and nodded.

In the silence that ensued, she became aware of how small the room felt. It was cloudy outside and the gray light was even more muted by the heavy curtains. The house was quiet. Her mother was napping, and Betsy hiding somewhere close by. Meanwhile, the Creole detective seemed to have fallen into his own reverie. He didn't move, totally relaxed, gazing at the objects on the top of the desk as if his mind was miles away.

She caught a scent from his skin, something smoky with a slight musk beneath. She knew it was the fashion for men to douse themselves with various reeking potions. Not quite as bad as the ladies, but close. Not him, though; he smelled like an ordinary man.

She could trace his profile out of the corner of her eye, and she realized that from where she stood, all she had to do was lift her arm and she'd be able to touch his face. She wondered how it would feel. She had handled a snake once at an exhibition and was mesmerized by its sleek skin, like the finest leather.

He turned his head toward her, and she saw curious gray eyes that were knowing in some way, as if he could read her thoughts. It made her feel a little dizzy, and she heard someone laugh, then realized that it was herself. The detective smiled quizzically. She coughed and covered her mouth, all the while thinking she must be going completely out of her mind. He was waiting.

She raised a hand as if to steady herself on some invisible support and found her voice. "Well," she said, letting out a low breath. "This is ... that's his desk."

He nodded. "Could you light the lamps please?"

She went to the desk and rooted through the middle drawer until she found a box of lucifers. She lit both lamps, casting an even glow. She left the flames down low.

As she stepped back, she raised her eyes to look at him. She was wearing a strange expression, her face soft and her gaze dark in the shadowy room. Valentin reached over to turn up the wick on the lamp that was nearest to him. The room took on a cheery glow and the spell was broken.

"Well, then," she said. "I'll leave you alone."

He waited like a gentleman until she stepped away. Then he pulled out the big leather chair and sat down. She stood in the doorway, looking back at him as he went about his work. At one point she seemed about to say something, and he waited until she said, "It's nothing." The next time he glanced up, she was gone.

He spent an hour and a half going through accordion files stuffed with papers without finding a single page that had any relevance to the case. Most of what he read was legal and financial and was on the White Cross letterhead. He came across numerous documents related to the house. He learned how much it had cost at purchase and that Mr. Benedict had paid cash for it. He knew how much insurance was carried in case of fire or flood.

In another packet he came upon Anne Marie's birth certificate and the Benedicts' marriage license. He learned more that he didn't care about. He didn't mind. After all the excitement of the last few days, the blood and violence, the quiet study was a refuge.

In more ways than one. As he paged idly through the files, his thoughts drifted off to Joe Kimball's wake, which would be starting just about that time. It would likely be a rowdy event, with a lot of wild-eyed, whiskey-fueled paeans to the great man. Valentin couldn't recall if Joe had any family nearby, but he had more than enough cronies to make a crowd. As much as he wanted to be there, he knew he couldn't go. It would ruin everyone's good time. And with all the drinking, someone was sure to point a finger and blame him, and the guilt would be too much to bear.

He stopped working and played the narrative leading up to the scene in the basement of the newspaper over again. He should have seen it coming. Powerful people didn't like their secrets revealed. He should have
known
that. His mind went around this circuit, time and again, and so it was a relief when Betsy appeared in the doorway to tell him she had lunch prepared.

He took a seat at the maple table while she went to the stove to fix his plate. There was only one place setting, which meant that Anne Marie wouldn't be joining him. He didn't ask why, and Betsy didn't offer an explanation.

She came from the stove with a plate of chicken and rice, done up Creole style, with tomatoes, peppers, and filé spices. He took a sip of lemonade, broke off a piece of bread, and went to work. Betsy took a glass of lemonade for herself, sat down, and watched him eat for a moment.

"Guess it's all right, then," she said.

"You're a good cook," he told her.

"That I am," she said.

He reached for his glass. "I know I've seen you around somewhere before this, Betsy."

"Is that right?"

"Where did you work before you came here?"