Rampart Street (Valentin St. Cyr Mysteries) (4 page)

The stories on the front page described jagged bits of chaos. In Philadelphia, a streetcar strike had blossomed into a general work stoppage. Strikebreakers were on the way and riots were predicted. There was flooding in Ohio, with dozens dead and thousands uprooted from their homes, all because a dam had been built with inferior materials and had come down under the onslaught of spring rains and melting snow.

Valentin smiled over an article about a group of Chicago saloon owners creating a ten-million-dollar fund to battle the temperance movement, which was determined to close all the drinking establishments in the city. He tried to imagine someone going after the New Orleans saloons. Finally, there was a sad story about an argument between two friends over a coveted space at one of New Orleans' markets turning into a fight that left one of them dead on the floor.

There was no doubt about it, these were unruly days almost everywhere, and all up and down the economic ladder.

It was quiet here, though, and within a few minutes, aromas were wafting off the big cast-iron stove in back. Frank emerged from the kitchen, carrying a plate heaped with sausage and eggs. At the first whiff of sage and black pepper, Valentin's stomach started to churn. There was superb food all around the city; indeed, New Orleans was world famous for its cuisine. And yet no downtown restaurant could serve a peasant Italian dish to match Frank Mangetta's. Valentin sometimes wondered if the real reason he had come back to the city was that he missed the cooking.

Frank, born Franco Mangetta outside Siracusa, was as round as one of his waxed provolones and had a florid face adorned with a broad swoop of a waxed mustache and topped by a broader swoop of oiled black hair. He had known Valentin's father in the old country, and had remained a friend the detective could count on. When he was small, Valentin called him "Zi' Franco"—Uncle Frank—and he had memories of sweets dropped secretly into his hand during Saturday-afternoon visits to the store.

Later Mangetta had witnessed the terrible tragedies the family endured. Valentin went away after that happened, and when he came back, the Sicilian had taken a paternal interest. He had been dubious about the young man's foray into police work and guessed correctly that he was more interested in finding out about those responsible for his father's death and about the fate of his mother than in law enforcement. His career was mercifully short, and when it was over, he went to work for Tom Anderson. That had been almost ten years ago.

After two difficult cases in three years, Valentin had disappeared from the city and the Sicilian wondered if he'd ever see him again. At one point there was a penny postcard from Kansas City, but that was all. When Valentin finally did come back, Frank was glad to offer him a place to lay his head and some good Italian meals,
come una famiglia,
as he put it. It made him feel better to have the young man whom he considered a godson under his roof.

They had a morning ritual. Once Frank brought breakfast to the table, he would fetch himself a cup of coffee and then sit down for a chat. The proprietor would have preferred to carry it out in his native tongue, however Valentin had lost far too much to converse with any ease—just as almost all of the French that his Creole mother spoke had deserted him years ago.

The detective now put his paper aside and let out a sigh of pleasure as he turned his attention to his meal. Mangetta tended to some business in the store, then reappeared, coffee cup in hand.

The two of them talked about this and that, and eventually Valentin got around to his latest bit of news. "I'm going to be doing a little job for Mr. Anderson," he said.

"Yeah? What kind of a job?"

Valentin took a sip of his coffee. "An investigation." He told him about Alderman Badel, Mr. John Benedict, and Rampart Street.

Mangetta listened, wrinkling his thick nose in finicky disgust. "Why you want to work for them people?" he said. "There ain't enough trouble around here?"

Valentin understood;
them people
referred to the Americans. "I'm just doing a favor for Anderson," he said, explaining that it was a simple matter, a rich man paying for his depravity with his life. He would be finished with it in no time.

He felt himself stuttering over the explanation. Frank eyed him, frowning. Before he could say what was on his mind, though, one of the clerks called out from the grocery about a case of cannellini filled with dented cans. He got to his feet with a grunt of annoyance.

"
Mang',
" he said. "Eat. You're still skin and bones."

Miss Antonia's phone tinkled merrily just as Justine reached the door of her office. The madam picked up the handset with one hand and held up a bejeweled finger of the other, a signal for her to wait. Justine leaned in the doorway, lending half an ear as Miss Antonia crooned honey-dripping words of flattery, which meant the person on the other end of the line was a man of means, one of those whom they depended upon to eat, to pay their rent, to buy their fine clothes. It was their business; still, Justine was always stung by these little reminders of her return to the sporting life.

At the same time, she knew a thousand women would that very morning trade places with her. She kept a room in one of the best houses on the main line of one of the most infamous red-light districts in the world. Her looks and able wits meant she entertained only wealthy downtown gentlemen and the occasional uptown sport flush with winnings. She was not hiking her bloomers for a dozen strangers a night. She did not go through cartons of stockings from spending so much time on her knees, like the women in the French houses. She did not have to take beatings to satisfy some madman's desires. She didn't have to perform lewd acts of every description for the entertainment of crowds of cigar-smoking gentlemen, as they did in French Emma Johnson's Circus. She did not pay visits to the doctor for the treatment of a disease, and she'd never had to summon Dago Annie to clean away the first traces of a trick baby. In short, she did not walk the kind of rough road that would turn her into an old woman by thirty. Indeed, if she kept her good looks and taut body, she might well end up as a mistress or even the wife of some well-to-do gentleman—though her last try had ended poorly. Being kept was not to her taste.

So her life had settled into an adequate routine that lasted until the morning Miss Antonia put her head in a spin by whispering that Valentin St. Cyr was back in town. The next days brought reports that he'd been sighted here and there, and that he was looking as ragged as a tramp. When he didn't appear on her doorstep, she had to quell an urge to go see him.

Some days later she learned that he was back in the employ of Tom Anderson and was staying in a room over Mangetta's. He was working within spitting distance of Miss Antonia's and living not too much farther away, and yet he never came to see her. Somehow she wasn't surprised. She couldn't blame him, not after she had ended up back in the same place where—

"Justine!" Miss Antonia was watching her with a vexed expression.

She blinked. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Mr. George."

"What about him?"

"I was saying that he's quite pleased with you," the madam commented. "You'll want to keep it that way. He's the head of Gulf Shipping." She acted as if Justine hadn't already heard this information a dozen times. "It's one of the largest companies on the river."

Justine stared at her blankly, and Miss Antonia let out a little hiss of irritation. She waved a hand to one of the café chairs. "Please, have a seat," she said.

Justine pulled the chair away from the wall and sat down with some reluctance. It was time for her daily grilling, the one where Miss Antonia went searching for signs that she was about to bolt out the door on the trail of a certain Creole detective.

At the same moment Justine was settling into the chair, Valentin was crossing to the south side of Basin Street, heading toward Canal. He did not look over as he passed Antonia Gonzales's mansion. A few minutes later, he was hopping on an Esplanade Line car. Another quarter hour and he stepped off at the corner of Rendon and started south.

The neighborhood Valentin entered, intersected by Esplanade, was one of the city's most pristine American enclaves. The houses were large, mostly classic French in design, many of stucco or whitewashed brick, with mansard roofs and balconies of ornate wrought iron. The windows were tall for light and ventilation. Each one sat on a large plot of land with gardens in front and large yards behind the houses, some of which backed up to the line of yew trees that defined the borders of the Jockey Club. There was not quite so much attention to family tradition here as in some older sections of town. Those who had the funds could take their place, and those who couldn't were not welcome. In fact, it was uniquely democratic in that way, though, of course, no one of color need apply.

As lovely and secure as the streets appeared, and no matter how sweet their beds of roses and camellias, Valentin knew too well what kinds of corruption dwelt behind some of the facades. He'd seen it firsthand; and it was one such scandal that had brought him there this morning.

He arrived at the Benedict address on St. Philip, feeling something like a beggar as he stepped under the balcony to knock on the heavy oak and cut-glass door adorned with a wreath of somber black roses. It gave him a long moment's pause.

The door was opened by a young mulatto girl. Though she was dressed down in black, she regarded him with bright, curious eyes and a smile that was almost impish. His first thought was that she looked familiar, and he was trying to place her when an elderly and elegantly attired Frenchman came to the foyer to greet him.

"Mr. St. Cyr?" he said, offering a thin hand. "Maurice Delouche. The Benedict family attorney." His posture was bent and his features narrow, an aging fox. His eyes were a light blue just a shade away from transparent. He glanced at the detective's worn ensemble and sighed in disappointment. Valentin guessed that the fellow had expected a Pinkerton in a three-piece suit.

The attorney bent his head to whisper. "The late Mr. Benedict's wife and daughter have requested the services of an investigator to look into his unfortunate death." He sniffed disapproval. "You should know that it was over my objection. I don't see what's to be gained. But they insist." He regarded the detective for another troubled moment, then gestured with one of his frail hands. "They're waiting in the sitting room."

With the colored maid following behind, he ushered Valentin along a corridor. The detective took a quick look into a living room and dining room and saw an assembly of white people standing around in suits and dark dresses, holding cups and glasses and little trays of food and talking in low voices. If the mourners saw him at all, they ignored him.

Delouche led him into a small parlor, where four armchairs were arranged around a coffee table and the two women were waiting.

The attorney murmured the introductions. "Mr. St. Cyr, allow me to present Mrs. Grace Benedict, the widow, and Miss Anne Marie Benedict, his daughter." He looked from one woman to the other. "Mr. Valentin St. Cyr is a private investigator referred to us by Alderman Badel." Neither the name Tom Anderson nor the word Storyville was mentioned.

Finishing his little speech, Delouche invited Valentin to take one of the vacant chairs while he took the other one.

Mrs. Benedict cleared her throat and asked in a low voice if their guest would like some refreshment. The maid who had greeted him at the front door was waiting. When Valentin shook his head, the widow flicked a hand and the girl faded away.

The detective took the moment to study the widow and the deceased's daughter. Both women had regal profiles, patrician noses, full lips, striking blue-green eyes. They were dressed alike as well, with their black skirts draping to the floor and black shirtwaists buttoned at the neck. The widow's visage, though haughty, was somehow blurred, as if out of focus. At a second glimpse, Valentin noticed that her face was hollow beneath the powder, as if she was made of fine china, and dark shadows curved under her eyes. He had seen it before and knew what it meant. By contrast, the daughter's posture was stiff and her gaze intense, like she was on alert. There was something not quite right about the poses they presented; on the other hand, he knew grief did strange things to people.

It didn't matter. He had no particular sympathy for their grief, and a flush of annoyance brought a sour taste to his mouth. These people and their privilege. With fortunes built on the sweating backs of generations of poor folk, they passed their lives untouched by the dirty world outside and its dangers. They broke rules and never paid a price. He knew for a fact that among their number were those who had gotten away with murder. Now one of theirs had died, they were desperate for help, and he had been called.

With a solemn sigh, Delouche said, "Well, then. Shall we begin?"

The daughter, who had been regarding their visitor with her steady eyes, said, "Thank you for coming, Mr. St. Cyr." She spoke the name with a Parisian lilt, barely moving her mouth as she softened each letter.

"Yes, ma'am," Valentin said, keeping his voice flat.

Mrs. Benedict raised eyes that were as glassy as a doll's and said, "We want to find out what happened to my husband." She had tried for a note of command, but her voice warbled. "I hope you can help us."

Valentin took his hands off the arms of the chair and made a steeple before his chest. "My understanding is that your husband was alone in a dangerous part of the city," he stated directly. "He ran up on some criminal and it cost him his life."