Rampart Street (Valentin St. Cyr Mysteries) (41 page)

He thought about that. Now and forever, Rampart Street would be remembered as the place where jass was born. Instead of fading away the way some had hoped, the music was in fact catching on from New York to Los Angeles. But this was the place. This was where it began. This was where Bolden and the others broke down the wall. This was where all the crowds arrived on Saturday nights to hear a crazy man play his crazy music. This was the place where they all rubbed shoulders under electric stars and the wash of loud brass. Some of them, taken by the spirit, even danced together, and that was a scandal all its own.

It came to him in that moment. He had looked in Henry Harris's pale eyes and seen a panorama of bleak disgust that drove so much of his being. Now he understood why it had to be there.

He started walking, and in a few minutes passed the place where Benedict had fallen. Another few minutes and he turned the corner at Second Street, leaving whatever was left of the bright lights of Rampart Street behind.

He stopped for dinner at a workmen's café on Decatur Street that stayed open late, then wandered through Jackson Square, taking in the sights.

When he crossed over Basin Street, he looked up at the window of the corner room of Antonia Gonzales's mansion and saw that it was dark. Sporting girls didn't often douse the lights in their rooms; they preferred to keep an eye on their customers. Justine had done it for him, of course, but that was different. He wondered where she'd gone on a Saturday night.

Mangetta's was bubbling with noise, the swelling crowd almost spilling out onto the banquette. Valentin had already enjoyed the saloon and the music the night before, and that was enough. He now edged along the alleyway, keeping an eye on back and front. Though after his performance that afternoon, he guessed that no one would be harassing him.

He let himself in and went up the stairs. After he undressed, he opened his window and sat on the sill, listening to the laughter and music from the floor below as he gazed out on the back streets of Storyville.

He wondered if Henry Harris had any idea that the story wasn't over yet. The seeds had been sown by John Benedict as he tried to reclaim some semblance of honor in his daughter's eyes. Harris thought having his men do away with Benedict and Kane, the other third of the cabal, had finished that old business, and a Creole detective in the employ of one victim's daughter was a mere nuisance. What he wouldn't count on was a betrayal by the likes of Louis Stoneman, a blank-faced underling he would barely recognize.

Valentin shifted his position. Though there was a chink in the wall, he knew it didn't mean he could destroy someone as powerful as Harris. Everyone else had been right about that while he, in his clumsy arrogance, had been wrong. He could still hurt the man, though. That would have to be enough.

With that thought, he let go of it. The final act would arrive soon enough. He switched his thoughts to something more pleasant, conjuring an image of Anne Marie Benedict, lying back on her bed and reaching for him with longing in her eyes. As if to suit his reverie, the music that floated up from the saloon was a gutbucket blues, languid and laden with a sultry heat.

A hard storm rose up on the Gulf and came through in the middle of the night. It was early in the year for such violence, but in what seemed a sudden instant, the sky was cracked into pieces like a broken bowl, with claws of lightning turning every corner of the city an electric white for the time it took a startled heart to beat. The rain came down with a driving gray weight and cast at such an angle that those unfortunate few who were on the streets swore it was horizontal.

At its height, it shook windows and rattled nerves from Chalmette to Carrollton. Small children ran to their parents' beds, while under other roofs, the waking led to a frolic under the covers as the wild rain drummed the windowpanes. For twenty minutes, no more, New Orleans was under an artillery barrage and then, just as suddenly, the storm cowed and died, leaving a few lonely rumbles of thunder and a flash of cloudy light here and there.

On St. Philip Street, Anne Marie Benedict heard her mother moan at the first mutter of thunder, and went down the hall to calm her. As she was stepping back into the hallway, she heard a noise at the front door and came to the top of the stairs just as Betsy, all soaked and looking silly, tumbled into the foyer.

The maid whispered an apology. Anne Marie thought about asking her to come into her room, so that they could talk about what had happened. Instead, she wished her a good-night and went back to her bed.

To the west, where the river buckled at Nine Mile Point, the noise and light felt like an earthquake, and the security men who ran to one of the sheds for shelter were not surprised to see Henry Harris standing at his bedroom window in a nightshirt, blasted in deathly white light as he glared out at the storm.

As always, he was alone in the room. His wife slept elsewhere. He forced himself to stay at the window, remembering the time long ago when he had been on a boat on the river and a tremendous storm rose up. Such a feeling of terror had engulfed him as he bent under a power so much greater than his own, that it rendered him null. Now, whenever there was such a gale, he would stand in the face of its furious display. And he never shed the bottomless fear.

On Marais Street, Valentin St. Cyr came awake and sat up to watch the spectacle outside the window. In the brunt of such a tempest, his efforts also seemed so puny and useless. But for some reason, he took comfort in it.

Indeed, for the long minutes that it raged, the citizens of New Orleans were helpless, no matter what their station or color. No one could escape it.

Once the storm passed, Valentin sat up for some hours, thinking about how he was going to put an end to the case.

Sunday dawned dry, the sky such a pale and wispy blue that it seemed the night's storm had been a collective dream. Only some telltale puddles and the water that stood between the cobbles remained.

Valentin did not rise until the church bells tolled eleven. He got dressed and visited the bathroom down the hall, then went down the stairs and out the storage room door and into the saloon, where he found Frank perusing the Sunday
Picayune
and sipping coffee. He nodded to the table in the center of the floor and went off to the kitchen. Valentin took the newspaper off the bar and read it as he waited. When Frank appeared with two plates in his hands, they settled down to breakfast. They didn't discuss Henry Harris, or Anne Marie Benedict, or in fact anything of substance, and they enjoyed their breakfast in peace. Though Valentin caught Frank sneaking occasional glances over the top of a page.

It was early afternoon and Anne Marie was soaking in her bath when Betsy came knocking. For once, the maid didn't barge in, but announced from the other side of the door that Mr. St. Cyr had called and he was on his way. He'd be there in an hour or so, she said.

Anne Marie said, "You may come in," and Betsy opened the door and leaned there, waiting. "Did he say what he wants?"

"He didn't, no. About his investigation, I guess."

Anne Marie nodded blankly. There was a poised and silent moment, and then her shoulders sagged and she put a distraught hand over her eyes.

"I did a terrible thing!" she said. She sounded like she was on the verge of weeping again.

"What terrible thing?"

"With Mr.... with
Valentin,
" she said. "You know what I'm talking about. It wasn't supposed to be like that."

Betsy knelt down next to the tub, took hold of Anne Marie's wrist, and pulled the hand away from her face. Anne Marie couldn't meet her gaze. "You didn't do nothin' wrong," the maid said. "It's about as natural as water."

Anne Marie let out a long, shaky sigh. "You think he's coming here to make amends?"

"You mean do right by you?" Betsy grinned. "Ask for your hand? No, ma'am, not that one. He ain't gonna do anything of the kind. You don't have to worry 'bout that at all." She found the idea comical and Anne Marie blushed and rolled her eyes.

"My god, what was I thinking?" she cried to the walls. She looked at Betsy, scandalized. "The man's
colored!
"

Betsy said, "Well, at least he looks white," and the two of them broke into laughter.

After a moment, Anne Marie settled herself. "I'll be out in a few minutes," she said. Betsy stood up and went into the hall, closing the door and leaving Anne Marie with her thoughts of Mr. Valentin St. Cyr.

They finished breakfast and Frank was cleaning up when Valentin asked him to sit down for a few minutes. The saloon keeper agreed reluctantly, as if he sensed what was coming and didn't really want to hear it.

Valentin took him through the prior forty-eight hours, omitting only his interlude with Anne Marie. Frank was livid when he heard about the visit to Nine Mile Point. He threw up his hands and his face went red.

"Everybody said don't go there and you went anyway?
Managgia idiota!
What the hell was to stop him from shooting you in the damn head?"

"I know, I know," the detective said.

"So now what?" Frank said, calming himself.

"That's what I really wanted to talk to you about."

He told Frank of the plan he had been formulating. The saloon keeper listened, shaking his head from side to side. When he finished, he waited for a reaction. Frank was too distressed, though, and sat in brooding silence. Valentin asked to use the phone.

He called around and finally located Tom Anderson at Gipsy Shafer's. The King of Storyville told him to come by sooner rather than later.

When Valentin got to Miss Shafer's mansion, Anderson met him in the kitchen, where he was enjoying a midday breakfast. A pretty Creole girl stood by the stove and didn't say a thing. Valentin explained the parts that Anderson needed to know. Then he sketched the rest of it.

After listening to what the detective had in mind to do, Anderson sighed with a familiar resignation. "There's no other way?" he asked.

"There's no other
chance,
" Valentin said. "What else am I going to do?"

"You could just let it be," Anderson said. They both knew that wouldn't happen now. "I'm sorry I got you into this."

"I'm not," Valentin said. He stood up to leave and the King of Storyville offered his hand. There was nothing else to say.

When he came to the door and their eyes met, Betsy was careful not to give anything away. She let him in and told him Miss Anne Marie was waiting in the sitting room.

"Good afternoon," Anne Marie said as he walked in. He could hear how hard she was working to keep her voice steady as she gestured him to the chair opposite. "Please have a seat."

For her part, it was as if it had been some other man who had come to her in her bedroom the day before. Not this fellow, the private detective, sitting at polite attention. She couldn't quite keep the blush out of her cheeks and was grateful that he was taking pains to ignore it. Or maybe it just didn't matter to him. Maybe, she thought, he seduced virgins from good families all the time. It wouldn't really surprise—

"I want to tell you where the investigation has led me," he said. "Because it's almost over. I think it's going to end tonight."

"Tonight?"

"That's right," he said, then paused for a moment. "Henry Harris was behind it. He arranged for your father to be killed on Rampart Street. Mr. Kane's murder, too. And the others lead back to him."

"Because of what my father was planning to expose, what those men did?"

"That's the part I know for sure. There are some other questions. I'll have the answers when it's finished."

"Can you tell me what you're going to do?"

"It's better if you don't know. I'll explain when it's over."

She was watching him speculatively. "Are you sure what you're planning will work?"

"No."

"Are you risking your life?" she asked him.

"They already missed their chances at me," he said wryly. "They've let down now. I don't think they'll see me coming."

"You don't think?" She frowned and looked away from him.

"Anyway, by tonight, it will be finished," he said. "If it doesn't come out the way I hope, there will be nothing more I can do. He'll get away with it. I wanted you to know that."

"Then I guess I better hope it comes out right, too," she said, a little sharply. He was too cool and distant for her taste. Especially after what had transpired on her bed. He was acting like it hadn't happened at all.

He got to his feet. "Well, then..."

She stood up, too, deciding she'd be damned if she was going to let him just go on his merry way, maybe to get himself killed.

"Wait a moment," she said, and held his eyes for the first time since he'd walked in. "I want you to know that I'm not a schoolgirl. I understand what happened yesterday. It's done. I couldn't change it, even if I wanted to."

"Do you?" he said, and she realized that his poise was not quite so stolid. He was looking abashed, like he thought she was ignoring what was between them.

"No, Valentin, I don't." They were both quiet for a few seconds. Then she said, "I won't make anything difficult for you. I can't. And you can't do that to me, either. Do you understand?"