Rampart Street (Valentin St. Cyr Mysteries) (43 page)

"What was the other reason?" Beansoup asked.

"That was personal," Valentin said. "He wanted to rub Benedict's nose in it. To Harris, Rampart Street is four blocks of hell. Race mixing, nigger music, drunks and hopheads, all of it. So he was saying, 'This is what you want to stand up for? This is what you get!' It was a special message."

"But they still had to get him to go there," Justine said.

Valentin said, "Harris must have let him know that if he wanted to settle it, he needed to be at a certain corner on Rampart Street at a certain hour. That was the only way. And just to rub his nose in it just a little bit more, he made him wear that ring."

The others exchanged glances, their faces belying doubt.

"The quadroon could have got him to go down there," Justine said. "He'd do it for her."

Valentin gave her an appreciative nod. "That could be. She's a bitter woman, and she wants to keep what she has. Benedict was about to wreck it." He paused. "Maybe she had no idea it was going to end in murder."

The silence that followed lasted almost half a minute. Then Reynard Vernel, no doubt thinking of all the journalistic possibilities, said, "Fascinating."

Frank shook his head. "Yeah, but what are you going to do with it?"

"I'm going to use it," Valentin said. "Tonight."

"
Che?
" The saloon keeper stared at him. "What's that mean?"

"I'm going to corner him. And finish it. Tonight."

There was another heavy pause, and then Frank said, "I'm going with you."

"I am, too," Beansoup said quickly.

"And I am, too," Vernel said.

Before Valentin could protest, Angelo cleared his throat. They all looked at him. "
Io, anche,
" he said softly. "Me, too."

Frank nodded with satisfaction, as if it was all settled. Then he looked around and said, "Who wants more wine?"

They had all been so enthralled with Valentin's story that no one had noticed the dark clouds rising. It had started to rain in thin silver slivers as Beansoup grabbed an umbrella from the corner to walk Betsy to Canal Street to get a streetcar, while Vernel grabbed another to escort Justine back to Basin Street. Both would return directly.

Valentin stood in the recess of the doorway until he spotted a couple street Arabs rounding the corner at Iberville. He whistled and they came running. He gave the two kids each a quarter and sent them off to the Vieux Carré with a message for Papá Bellocq.

In the meantime, Frank had gone into the grocery and had come out with his arms full of bread, cheese, and meat, and made up a platter. The three men sat down at one of the tables and began a quiet meal. When first Vernel and then Beansoup came back, they joined in the feast. Frank asked, and Valentin explained in more detail what he planned to do. The others listened in silence. They all had one more drink, then headed out as the last light of day was dying.

They took their time strolling through the quiet shower to Basin Street, then crossed over into the back end of the Quarter. It was quiet on this Sunday night, with few pedestrians on the streets. The men didn't talk at all.

Valentin spent the walk thinking about how much had happened in such a short span of time. Two weeks before, he had been minding his business, doing a poor job at work, hiding in his room, and aimlessly walking these same streets, sometimes all night. He had been thrown from that quiet life into the middle of a case that he could solve, but couldn't fix with any sort of satisfaction. He wasn't dealing with Storyville miscreants anymore. He had encountered someone with so much power and wealth that he didn't have to answer to anyone for anything. Or so Henry Harris had come to believe. Maybe it was true and maybe not.

Valentin thought that he had a chance to knock him off his tracks and shake his world. With a little luck, there would be no Senator Harris going to Washington, D.C. The detective realized that it was likely all he could do, without committing a murder of his own.

When they reached Bourbon Street at St. Philip, Valentin murmured for them to wait, and he cut down the alley. He knocked on the narrow door, inciting a clamor of grunts, curses, and metallic clanks from inside.

"It's Valentin, Papá," he said. "It's time to go."

Papá Bellocq threw the door open and lurched out carrying a box camera, which he shoved into the detective's hands. The door slammed behind them, and they trudged back out onto the street.

The six of them made their way through the Quarter. The rain was a blessing; no one saw them as they drew up on their destination.

When they turned the corner from Bourbon onto Ursulines, Valentin saw that they had almost arrived too late; Harris had decided to make this Sunday's visit an early one. The Essex was parked in front of Sylvia's building. Nelson was sitting sideways in the passenger seat, under the cover of the canvas top, his legs dangling onto the running board. He looked dazed with boredom. Stoneman was standing under the balcony, next to the downstairs door, smoking one of his Straight Cuts. There was nothing except the steady rain to absorb either man's attention.

Valentin waved his companions back around the corner and under the colonnade of a restaurant that was closed for the night, then ducked along the banquette on the north side of the street, opposite Sylvia Cardin's rooms. He stopped under a balcony and before a door that was fronted by plants, with ivy vines crawling down the wrought iron. Even if Nelson turned all the way around, he'd be hard-pressed to pick out the human shadow from vegetation that was shrouded in darkness and veiled by the rain.

Valentin remained still for another minute, until he heard a small commotion on the corner of Royal Street, two men arguing with a woman's voice chiming in. As they were yelling back and forth, a hack clattered up Bourbon. With this racket as cover, he stalked across the street and came up on the driver's side of the Essex. In a swift motion, he drew his Iver Johnson, opened the door, and jumped into the driver's seat. Nelson began to turn, only to find the barrel of the pistol planted in the back of his skull. He froze. Stoneman straightened, staring but remaining still. Valentin glanced over to see something in those cool eyes that he couldn't quite read.

"I'm going to give you and your friend a chance to walk away," Valentin told Nelson.

"Or what?" Nelson muttered.

The detective pulled back the hammer on the revolver. "I know what you did, Nelson. You murdered Benedict and Kane, and you sent those men after my friend. And me."

Nelson looked over at Stoneman with some urgency, only to find his partner gazing off somewhere, as if this business had nothing to do with him. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" He coughed out a cold laugh. "You going to shoot Henry Harris?"

"It's none of your affair anymore," Valentin said. "You just lost your job."

"Is that right?"

He turned his head a half inch. Valentin pressed the pistol harder into his skull.

"Just so you know, it's not just me out here," he said.

"Well?" Nelson said after a few seconds. "Now what?"

"Now you can both leave. Start walking. Keep going, and don't look back. Because if you turn around, I'll kill you."

He realized then that if Nelson decided to be a hero, he'd have to put a bullet in his brain, right there in the street. And that would be the end of it. His finger tensed on the trigger and for the briefest instant the thought crossed his mind that he might have forgotten to load the damn thing.

He didn't need it. Nelson, taking his time to show he couldn't be pushed, did move, leaning away from the revolver and stepping onto the banquette. He strolled away languidly, refusing to be hurried by the weapon now pointed at his back.

Valentin waved the barrel of the revolver and Stoneman winked and then walked off in the other direction, disappearing around the corner at Dauphine Street. Valentin lowered the weapon and turned around again to watch Nelson crossing Chartres Street. He wouldn't be coming back.

The detective whistled and Beansoup stuck his head out from around the building on the corner. The kid, Reynard Vernel, and Papá Bellocq, carrying his Bantam Special, started across the street. A second later, Frank and Angelo appeared and proceeded along the opposite banquette.

The rain had rendered this subterfuge unnecessary. If Harris happened to open the curtains and look out the window, he'd see nothing of concern. The plan had been set, though, and once Bellocq and his two companions made their creaking way along the banquette, the six of them huddled under Miss Cardin's balcony.

The detective whispered the instructions once more to make sure everyone understood. He asked Papá Bellocq to check his camera. The Frenchman muttered irritably, something about being as ready as any of them. The other men smiled briefly. Then Valentin nodded; it was time to move.

He tried the street door and found it unlocked, a good sign. He pushed it open, stepped inside, and waited, listening. There was no sound from above. He used the time to consider his plan one more time. He hoped to find Harris in some compromising position with Sylvia Cardin. Frolicking in her bed would be best, though anything intimate would do. Papá Bellocq would make a photograph; that, and the eyewitness account of Vernel the news scribbler, would be their evidence.

Though once he had it in hand, he had no idea what he would do with it. He hadn't figured that part yet. It would be enough to hold something so powerful. It would be his own version of one of Miss Echo's voodoo charms.

He knew that what he was about to do might be a foolish ploy. It could easily fail. Bellocq's camera might malfunction. Sylvia might lock herself in her bathroom and refuse to come out. On the way over from Marais Street, he had considered another half-dozen things that could go wrong.

It was too late to reconsider. He couldn't walk away now. Henry Harris was unguarded and vulnerable, and he wouldn't get another chance like this.

Hearing no more sound, he went up the narrow stairwell and stood on the landing. Beansoup slipped inside the street door, holding Bellocq's Bantam Special.

It was so quiet inside that Valentin wondered if he had been tricked, if Harris had taken Sylvia off somewhere and Nelson was a few blocks away, convulsed with laughter at the Creole detective coming up empty-handed. He was thinking about that when he heard something on the other side of the door. It was a sigh or the shuffling of a foot or the swish of fabric, he couldn't be sure. Only that someone had moved.

He waited another half minute without hearing another thing, then waved to Beansoup. Cat quiet, the kid ascended the stairwell, placed the camera on the landing, then went back down. As soon as he slipped out the door, Frank, Angelo, and Bellocq shuffled inside.

Valentin laid his hand on the doorknob and turned. It was unlocked, and again he marveled at the arrogance of the man, to think himself so secure.

The detective gave another signal. Without hesitation, Frank and Angelo took Papá Bellocq under his elbows and hoisted him up the stairs. The Frenchman was small and light, and they made the climb without incident, though Bellocq looked positively incensed at the handling.

The two Italians dropped him on the landing. Valentin handed him his camera and Bellocq deftly filled his flash powder and stood ready. The detective laid a hand on the doorknob once more, turned and pushed.

Henry Harris was standing in the middle of the floor. After a moment of surprise at the intrusion, he glared, and the same armor-plated rich man Valentin had encountered at Nine Mile Point reappeared. It was not what the detective expected, and it gave him pause. Harris didn't look guilty at all. His next thought was that Sylvia Cardin was not in sight. He felt his stomach begin to sink.

Bellocq, Frank, and Angelo moved inside as he took a quick survey of the room. Everything was in order, and yet there was something not quite right about it. The place felt empty.

"Where is she?" he asked.

Instead of answering, Harris strolled over to the window and looked out on the street. "What happened to my men?" he demanded.

"They left," Valentin said. "Where's Sylvia, Mr. Harris?"

"Sylvia?" Harris said. "Is that what you came for?" He chuckled lightly. "Oh, I put her out. She went away this afternoon. And she won't be back." He waved a vague hand. "I'm just cleaning up a little. So you're too late." He looked over and saw Bellocq standing against the wall. "You even brought a camera." He seemed to notice Frank and Angelo for the first time. "More dagos," he murmured, with some disgust. "Well, you can all just leave. There's nothing to see here. Nothing you want." He folded his arms across his chest.

The detective understood. Harris had sensed that he was a threat after all, and went about erasing Sylvia Cardin from the equation. Maybe he paid her off and then put her on a train, or maybe he had Mr. Nelson shoot her dead and dump her body. Whatever the case, he had come to her rooms to make sure any trace of him was removed. So that the case really would be closed.

Valentin looked at that cold and self-righteous visage and realized that he had lost. Harris had anticipated his move and had beaten him.

The detective knew he could beat the details of the murders out of him, but it didn't matter. There wouldn't be anything he could use. Of course, he could shoot the man. Except everyone in the room understood that it wasn't his way.