Rampart Street (Valentin St. Cyr Mysteries) (35 page)

"I was in service."

"What kind of service?"

"You want some more lemonade?" His glass was still almost full. He shook his head, keeping his gaze on her. To deflect him, she said, "You got any idea who shot your friend?"

"I'm not sure. It could have been one of those fellows who were shot in the alley next to Mangetta's."

"I heard they was the ones that come after you couple nights ago."

"Heard where?"

"I heard it on the street."

"Which street?"

She stared at him.

"I know you haven't been going to Storyville to make market," he said. He worked on his lunch for a few moments. "You happen to know a fellow goes by the name Beansoup?"

She looked away from him.

"Betsy?"

"He don't like being called that."

"Oh, no? What then?"

"He's been thinkin' about 'Little Junior.' So it'd be Big Charley and Little Ju—"

"Did Miss Anne Marie send you over there?"

She sighed and said, "Yes, sir. She sure did. She wanted to know about you. What she was getting herself into."

"It's all right," he said. "I already figured it out." He took another bite of his chicken.

Now she was watching him, looking bothered. "He in trouble with you?"

"Who, Beans—" He caught himself. "Emile?" He shook his head. "No, I don't think so. You're a pretty and charming young lady, Betsy."

She smiled, pleased. Though her skin was dark, he could detect the blush.

"So now maybe you can help me," he said.

"How's that?"

"Do you know anything about it that I could use?"

"No, sir," she said. "I ain't been keepin' nothing from you." She stole a glance toward the door. "The only thing I know is that she's hiding something," she whispered. "I ain't sure what. But I think you might be close to finding it."

"And that's all?"

Betsy hesitated, then went into the pocket of her apron and pulled out the slip of paper from the telephone stand. She handed it over. "She called this number and she didn't want me to hear."

He took the paper, put it away. "What else?" Valentin said.

"Nothing else that Miss Anne Marie ain't already said." She poked at her food with her fork.

"I'm going to guess Franklin Street," he said.

She came up with a cool look. "What's that, now?"

"Franklin Street is where I saw you last. But it's been a while."

She sighed impatiently. "Why are you worryin' me about this? Why dontcha leave me alone?"

"Because we're friends, Betsy."

She rolled her eyes. "Finish your lunch," she said. "You look like you need it."

***

He thanked the maid for the meal and got up from the table. She glanced over her shoulder at him as he walked out.

As he passed through the foyer, he peered up the staircase and cocked an ear. There was no sound coming from the upper floor. He went into the study, sat down at the desk, and opened another drawer, wondering frankly what he was doing there. He hadn't found a thing. He closed the drawer. This was getting him nowhere. This was a Pinkerton's job, perusing documents for clues, and not to his taste. He preferred the street.

The front door opened and closed, and he heard footsteps on the gallery. It sounded like Betsy had gone off on an errand.

Since he was there, though, he decided to finish what he had started and pulled the other drawers open, one by one, and glanced over the contents. He went all the way around and was closing the last one, the bottom right, when he noticed the corner of a legal document with a seal and bloodred ribbon attached. He took it out of the drawer. In florid script at the top of the first page was the word
Charter.
The first paragraph stated that it was a binding agreement for partnership in a company to operate under the name Three V, Ltd., to be licensed by the city of New Orleans. The principals in the company were identified as John L. Benedict, Henry C. Harris, and Charles M. Kane. The paragraphs that followed on the attached pages were filled with arcane legal language, what appeared to be a standard partnership agreement. He flipped to the last page and saw the signatures of the three principals and the date.

It was the legal verification of the arrangement George Reynolds had described and so not of any real value. Now he stopped again to ponder something that had been nagging at him: Why bother with partners at all? Certainly, Harris wouldn't need the money the others could invest. There was some other pernicious reason that he couldn't put his finger on. He'd ask Anderson when he got a chance. The King of Storyville was an encyclopedia of devious ploys.

He was flipping through the rest of the contract and finding nothing of value, when a single page slipped out and glided to the floor. When he bent down and picked it up, he realized that it wasn't part of the partnership charter at all, but a separate sheet, a letter on a heavy cream-colored paper.

He held it under one of the lamps and began to read. It was on the letterhead of the Henry Harris Companies, Ltd., and was addressed to Messrs. John Benedict and Charles Kane. It was dated the same day as the partnership agreement.

There were three paragraphs, and as he read down through them, he felt his face getting warm and his heart begin to race. He was pinching the paper so hard between his fingers that he was in danger of ripping it in half. Just as he reached the last paragraph, he jumped at the sound of footsteps on the stairs.

He quickly folded the letter and slipped it into the pocket of his jacket, which was hanging on the back of the chair.

A few seconds later, Anne Marie appeared in the doorway. She stood there for a moment, then said, "I want to see if ... Did you find anything?" She was watching him, her eyes liquid.

"Nothing helpful," he said.

She stepped over to the desk, glanced at his face, and frowned. "Is something wrong?"

"I just ... I think I could use some air." He took his jacket off the back of the chair. "I didn't find anything of use, anyway." He went about turning the lamps down low. When he stood up, she took a step back, out of his way. She licked her lips nervously, and her eyes raked the desk.

"Thank you for the courtesy," he said. "I'll come back when I have something more to report."

When he walked past her and out the door, she raised a hand and opened her mouth as if to say something. She let him go, though, without a word.

He waited until the streetcar crossed Miro Street to go digging into his pocket for the letter. For some reason, stealing it had made him uneasy, and he looked around the car, just in case someone was watching too closely. He didn't see anyone who looked at all suspicious, just a few maids and workmen heading home at the end of their day serving American New Orleans. Still, he had no doubt he was being watched, probably from some small distance. An automobile might be puttering along behind the car at that moment.

They couldn't see him and that's all that mattered. He unfolded the letter and was surprised to find his hands shaking as he read it again.

At the top, beneath scrolling letterhead, was a greeting,

My Friends,

Ours is an important task. Millions of patriotic
Americans
are counting on us, not the least of whom are our own families. The secrecy of our task is of the utmost importance. Therefore, once you've read this letter, please destroy it in the most complete fashion.

Valentin stopped there, gazing out the window at the park they were passing, the trees in their first bloom of spring. John Benedict had kept the letter, in spite of the instructions.

We lost a battle. We can lay down our arms and surrender or we can answer the call to remove a scourge upon our city and our country once and for all. In so doing, we will regain control of a commerce that is rightfully ours and reap its considerable profits. There is no iniquity in utilizing one to affect the other. Indeed it is our duty! We are joining as partners in the Three V Corporation to do precisely that.

This chance will likely never come again. Though the justifiable rage over the Hennessy case has faltered, we will not. It is time for us to strike our own blow in our own way. Let it never be said that we stood by and let the alien hordes claim victory in New Orleans, and most especially along the mighty Mississippi.

Valentin stopped, caught a breath, and went on.

As its rightful proprietors, we will take back our river and its riches. Once again, let those who are not Americans find their livelihood elsewhere. Indeed, let them all go back where they came from and if not, let them all go to Hell!

The paper rattled in his fingers and Valentin drew his eyes away for a few moments as the full import of what he was reading began to sink in. He forced himself calm, then went back to finish the final words.

We will marshal our forces, our acumen as businessmen, and the able support of those in the government who can grasp the full import of this quest. From this day hence, the invaders will not be able to buy food, fuel for their furnaces, light for their homes and shops, medicines for their maladies, or any of the staples necessary to continue the livelihood which they do not deserve.

Any company that provides any supplies or provisions to any of the families or businesses we are discussing will have their contracts with Henry Harris, Ltd., canceled. I have your agreement that the same will be in force at White Cross and Dixie Star. In this manner, we will reclaim what is America's for Americans!

Remember, we are part of something larger and grander. Let Three V be our banner as we march to victory!

God bless this great nation!

Your friend in Christ Our Savior,

Henry Harris, Esq.

Valentin sat unable to move as the car rolled west on Peters Street, the letter in his hand. He looked out the window at the pedestrians streaming by and wondered if any of them had been there at that terrible time. If any of the poor Italians or Greeks or blacks had seen their families affected. Then he noticed a white gentleman of some years, portly and in fine mettle, standing at the doorway of a hotel, waiting, no doubt, for his chauffeur, and he wanted to rush off the streetcar while it was still moving, rush up to the man, and strangle him where he stood.

The heated moment passed and he calmed himself, marveling that such an old wound could spring so fresh. He read the letter once more, this time forcing his mind to take it apart line by hateful line. It was an impassioned clarion call, a rationale for the mission of Three V, which was to starve out the importers, after which the company would accept the responsibility of taking over the trade.

Valentin saw what was lurking behind the florid language. Though Harris seemed sincere in his vitriol, animated by the same raw animosity of the Know-Nothings and other political movements that took their energy from racial hatred, the detective noted the elements of an elaborate sham, a high-blown excuse to steal. He understood why Harris wanted partners. Partly, it was a politician's cowardice; he didn't have the fortitude to carry such a plan forward by himself. Just as critically, he would have two scapegoats if it all went wrong.

As the car approached the corner of Canal and Marais streets and the Storyville rooftops appeared, Valentin felt a sudden and fervid relief that he was on familiar ground again. He bolted from his seat and was off the car before it rattled to a stop, ducking his head in the rain.

He leaned on the bar across from Frank Mangetta. "I need you to tell me something, Frank."

"Tell you what?"

"What happened after I went to live in Chicago."

Frank eyed him. "You mean about your mother?"

"No, about the Sicilians on the wharves. After the Orange Wars."

"What for? That was, what, twenty years ago."

"You were here. I need you to tell me what you remember."

The saloon keeper let out a reluctant sigh, then said, "What I remember is it started quiet. There was some talk that the shippers couldn't get supplies. They had men take wagons all the way to Mobile to find what they needed. They just couldn't keep doing it. So they couldn't get oil, couldn't get parts for the steam engines that ran the hoists and all that..." He smiled. "So they just did it all by hand. They figured out a way to load and unload the ships with muscles and their mules. That only lasted a little while. Then the word came down—don't let no Italians unload your ships. Only Americans. So every morning there was crews waiting at the gates. Our
paisanos
just had to stand there and watch..." At this, his face flushed a little and his jaw trembled with emotion.

"And the people who owned the ships went for it?"

"Enough did. It hurt them. But they still hung on. Then they went after the families. One by one. They told the stores not to sell them nothing or they'd make a ...
come se dice
... boycott? Is that right? They couldn't feed their families. And one by one, they had to give up and leave."