Rampart Street (Valentin St. Cyr Mysteries) (44 page)

Harris drew himself up impatiently. "If you would all leave, I want to lock the doors." He looked from face to face, as if he had no doubt they would comply.

Frank, who had remained silent since they walked in, spoke up. "Tino?" he said. "Get them two downstairs to help the Frenchman out of here." Valentin stared at him, not quite understanding. "Go on," Frank said, his voice flat and calm.

The detective looked at Angelo, saw an ancient emptiness in his eyes, and knew in that moment what was happening. "Frank..."

"Do what I say," Frank said.

"What's this now?" Henry Harris inquired fussily.

In that sudden moment, Valentin paused to give Harris a pitying look, and it seemed to dawn on the white man that he might actually be in peril. His eyes flicked and he licked his lips.

The detective went to the landing to call down to Beansoup and Vernel. They came up the stairwell and went about assisting Papá Bellocq, who was now only too glad to get out of that place. The four men in the room waited in silence for the other three to make their way down the stairs and out the door. Harris tried glaring with bluster from one man to the next, but his face paled by degrees from the stony looks he encountered.

"Now, see here," he said, with a hint of a whimper rising in his voice. "See here..." The flat gazes of the three men were unnerving him.

Valentin stepped to the front window and pushed the curtains apart in time to see Beansoup, Bellocq, and Vernel disappear around the corner at Bourbon Street. He turned around and looked at Frank.

"Now you go somewhere," Frank said. "Somewhere people know you."

Valentin studied the two Sicilians for a few seconds more, then walked out without a word. He did not look at Harris again.

He stopped when he got to the corner of Royal Street. The windows of Sylvia's rooms had gone dark. He headed west, on his way to circle around to Basin Street, and after a half block, he heard what sounded like the muffled report of a pistol. Though it might have been an engine backfiring. New Orleans was full of automobiles these days.

A quarter hour later, he was on Basin Street, passing the white walls of St. Louis Cemetery. He could just make out the roofs of the tallest vaults, geometric shapes cast in the silver light of the moon.

He walked along the street, away from the dark and somber block and into the light. He passed Willie Barrera's, then the fire-house, which was closed up and dark, save for a light in one upstairs window. The mansion run by that infamous witch of a madam French Emma Johnson was closed up as well. He walked by Antonia Gonzales's, Gipsy Shafer's, Mahogany Hall, and the rest of the line, finding every other door open for business.

When he got to Anderson's Café, he went around the corner and into the alley, slipping in through the private door on the north side, the one that important men used to veil their entrances and departures. He went inside and joined the crowd. Sunday was always a quiet night for gambling, more so when the weather was bad, and the tables were less than half full. Valentin found a place at the bar to lean an elbow and raised a hand for a drink.

At one point Tom Anderson made an appearance. He stopped to shake the detective's hand, then moved on to his other guests, those well-heeled gentlemen with their wallets full of ready cash. Valentin knew without asking that Anderson would swear that he'd been there all night.

The Creole detective cast his eye over the crowd, checking for any rascals who might be showing too quick an eye in perusing the back pockets of the other customers. He saw a couple rounders he knew, half of them flush, half down on their luck, always something to watch for. He didn't realize that he was doing it until one of the bartenders stopped to refill his drink and asked when he had come back to work.

Night bleeds into morning in a quiet way, even in back-of-town New Orleans. There's little moving in the hour before dawn, and it's as quiet as it ever gets.

An early rising workman, walking down Rampart Street to catch the first streetcar of the day, saw what appeared to be a bundle of old clothes that had been left in the doorway of one of the saloons that had gone out of business. The workman, a citizen who labored for little pay, stepped closer to check for something he might use. That's when he saw the dead-white hand sticking out from the sleeve of a nicely tailored suit coat. He yelled in fright, a sound that echoed down the street. Then he hurried to the call box on the next corner.

Within an hour the body of Henry Harris, business magnate and former state senator, had been swept from the street. It was fortunate that Lieutenant J. Picot, a cooperative soul, supervised the investigation of the crime scene. The lieutenant recognized the victim instantly, noticed the neat bullet wound, and knew what to do. Shoving aside the frantic thoughts that raced through his brain, he put a cordon around the corpse and sent a message to the chief of police himself. Henry Harris's body was collected within the hour and diverted from its proper destination at the city morgue to be delivered instead at a funeral home far out on St. Charles Avenue. There a certificate of death was issued, signed, and sealed, with the cause of death listed as a heart seizure, not unexpected in a man of the deceased's age. The fine Essex automobile that was found parked in a nearby alley was towed away to the Harris estate at Nine Mile Point.

That same afternoon, a freighter bearing the three-colored flag of Italy steamed south toward the mouth of the Mississippi. A lone passenger stood at the stern and watched the city fade into haze.

An hour later, the passenger, a thick-bodied Sicilian, received a note from the captain, informing him that the ship had passed the twelve-mile limit and was now sailing in safe waters.

News of Henry Harris's sudden passing was noted in the newspaper, along with an article penned by Robert Dodge that traced the deceased's career from humble beginnings to fantastic wealth, and included mention of his lifelong service to the city. It was acknowledged that a promising political career would never be realized. Various local dignitaries expressed condolences, though the quotes seemed rather tepid. A separate announcement stated that, in accordance with the family's wishes, the memorial service and funeral would be private affairs.

In an article on the business pages it was reported that William Little would assume the reins of Henry Harris, Ltd., for the time being.

The coverage was muted for such a prominent man, as directed by the publisher of the paper. Within another day, it was off the front pages entirely. No one spoke for the record about the coincidence of three former business associates dying in such a short period of time, with two of them ending up on Rampart Street.

***

Tom Anderson surprised everyone by walking into Mangetta's Grocery unannounced late on Tuesday morning. He left his driver outside with his yellow Marmon roadster.

Frank Mangetta greeted him with pleasure, and escorted him into the saloon, where he set a table, produced a cup of strong coffee, and, to the King of Storyville's delight, broke out a dusty old bottle of brandy. Then he went to fetch Valentin from his room.

The detective ambled in, looking sleepy. While Frank got busy making a light breakfast for his guest and his boarder, Valentin drew a cup of coffee and joined Anderson at the table. The two men regarded each other in pensive silence for a few moments. It was an old game, and somehow comforting.

"Well, then," Anderson said. "It's finished."

"I'd say so," Valentin said.

Frank came out of the kitchen carrying a large frying pan in which a frittata was still steaming. He served Anderson and Valentin right from the pan, and then put the remainder on the third plate for himself.

"Smells wonderful," Anderson said.

Frank shrugged modestly as he took a seat. "A little Asiago, some black pepper ... it's nothing."

The King of Storyville put a fork to his eggs. He looked at Valentin expectantly.

"I can't say what happened to Mr. Harris," he said.

"Because you don't know or because you don't want to tell me?"

"You really don't need to hear."

Frank uttered something about how good the bread tasted this morning. Valentin stopped to take a sip of his coffee.

Anderson sighed over his eggs. "I never saw any of it."

"No reason you would," Valentin said. "No reason you would want to."

The King of Storyville mused for a few seconds more. Then he smiled at Frank. "This is a fine meal," he commented. "You could teach my cooks a thing or two."

Frank bent his head and said, "
Grazie, signore.
"

Valentin was not summoned to the Benedict home in the wake of the investigation. An envelope came his way, passed from Betsy's hand to Beansoup's, and then to his. The note inside thanked him for his service. It was signed
Anne Marie Benedict
in a florid hand. He found five ten-dollar gold pieces in the envelope and wondered with an absent smile which service had earned him the additional payment.

By the end of the week, Tom Anderson had invited him to work a few nights a week, and he had received messages from Miss Lulu White and Countess Willie Piazza, asking if he might be available to resume some security duties at their mansions. He sent messages back, asking for appointments on the following Monday to discuss their situations. Except for this, his life returned to its routine.

Then one afternoon Frank greeted him with the word that Justine had been by earlier in the day, looking for him. She asked the saloon keeper to tell him that she'd come back, maybe tomorrow.

A
FEW WORDS OF THANKS
.

To my editor Jen Charat, a good shepherd, and copy editor Erin DeWitt, who is diligence in spades.

To Sara Branch and Marissa Riccio in San Diego, Jodie Hockensmith and Jenna Johnson in New York, and all the others at Harcourt who perform so well to my benefit.

To my corner: Kim Goldstein, Laura Langlie, and Allison Davis.

And closer to home, to my favorite muses: Anna Copello, Jennifer French Echols, Barbara Saunders, and Rebecca Wallace.