Rampart Street (Valentin St. Cyr Mysteries) (5 page)

Mrs. Benedict's gaze skipped to the attorney and then back to him, her lip beginning to quiver. "But he wasn't ... he had no reason to be in that ... that
place.
"

"And yet he was," Valentin said briskly. "He could have been killed elsewhere and his body moved there, but I doubt it."

Both women winced and the attorney let out an angry hiss of breath. A pronounced silence followed. Mrs. Benedict held his eyes, then looked away. The daughter continued to gaze at him fixedly, and now seemed to be biting her lip.

Valentin gave their stares right back to them. "It would help to know what he was after on Rampart Street in the dead of night."

It came out cool and insinuating, the same tone of voice he used when he grilled suspects. The small spots of color on the widow's cheeks faded to a dead white, even as the daughter's eyes flashed hotly. It was if they were noticing him in their midst for the first time. He shifted his blank gaze to some point in space.

Mrs. Benedict held herself together for another moment, then began to sob quietly, dabbing her eyes with a silk handkerchief. Anne Marie put a protective arm around her mother's shoulders and glared at Valentin, her face taut and lips tight with anger. He refused to engage her, so she turned to Delouche, sending a message.

The attorney, who had been trying to get his attention all along, leaned over to deliver a sharp whisper. Valentin stood up, gave a cursory bow to his hosts, and followed the attorney out of the room. They stepped into the pantry, a narrow space that adjoined a large, sunny kitchen. The door swung closed behind them. Valentin settled against one of the sideboards and studied the arrangement of fine china in the cupboards as Delouche drew his thin body up, clenching his hands at his sides.

"What do you think you're doing?" the attorney hissed. "You don't speak to ladies like that!"

Valentin eyed him. "Like what?"

"John Benedict was buried yesterday. They're grieving. You aren't on Basin Street, sir. You can't—"

"This is a waste of time."

Delouche cocked his head, stunned at the detective's insolence. He said, "I beg your pardon?"

"This is a waste of time," Valentin repeated. The attorney opened his mouth to protest. Valentin barged on. "They can tell any story they want, but you know he went out there for a woman. Or maybe it was a man. Or something else. And he was murdered." He shrugged. "That's all there is to this."

By now Delouche's cheeks were crimson and his lips fairly trembled with anger. "Are you finished?"

"I am." Then, as if reading the attorney's thoughts, Valentin said, "You can hire yourself another detective, if you like. You'll likely get someone who will drag it along and milk the widow out there for as long as she'll put up with it. And then he'll come to the same conclusion I did. So I just saved her a good bit of time and money."

The lawyer grimaced with distaste. "Thank you for that advice," he said acidly. "You may show yourself out."

After Miss Antonia dismissed her, Justine went upstairs, eager to draw her bath and wash away the previous night's amours.

Since it was still early, there was plenty of hot water and a thick cloud of steam filled the bathroom. She slipped out of her nightdress and hung it on the back of the door. As she drew the long pins to let her hair down, she studied herself in the mirror on the wall. Her African and Cherokee blood had given her features an exotic cast that sometimes drew stares on the street. Her skin was au-lait brown, her eyes oval and slanted over high cheekbones. Her nose had a gentle Indian curve and when she smiled her mouth was a full bow.

She had kept a good body, too. Her hips and bust were full curves on a short and slender frame that carried little fat. It was such a fine figure that she could have rested on it alone and earned herself a good living. But unlike most of the Storyville doves, she wasn't a shallow woman. She had gone to school; she knew how to read and she could write with some skill. She had finished every book Valentin had kept in their rooms, and she regularly bought penny novels from the sellers on the street. Valentin had even discussed his cases with her, and had asked for her opinions. He was the only man who had ever treated her that way.

The bathtub was full. She tested it before slipping into steaming water that was all fragrant with the scent of camellias. She sank down and put her head back until all but her face was submerged, and house and the world outside fell into a watery silence. She closed her eyes, felt her muscles flow away from her bones. It was always at times like this that her musings drifted to Valentin. After her little chat with Miss Antonia, those thoughts made a beeline.

She had gone away from him after the Black Rose murders, and then they were thrown together in a terrible dance during the jass killings. A few days after that case ended, he got on a train and left New Orleans. Justine's sadness at his departure was tinged with relief that all her anguish over him was finished. She went back to the sporting life. It was her profession, for good or ill; and for the first time in a long time, she felt a little peace.

Over the months that followed, she would sometimes sit at her window on quiet nights, looking out into the darkness and wondering where he was. She pictured him walking down the back street of some dirty city or along a narrow, dusty country road, and always alone. As time went by and he didn't return, he seemed to dim in her mind, grow smaller, more distant.

Then, five weeks ago, he reappeared. He made no effort to find her, and part of her didn't want to see him, either, so she stayed away. It appeared they were settling into an unspoken agreement to avoid each other, even as they walked the same banquettes every day.

For a few seconds she dropped into the deeper silence beneath the water, then pushed her face out again. She knew it couldn't go on like that forever. Sooner or later they would meet, by choice or accident. She tried to imagine the look on his face and what words might come out of his mouth when it finally did happen and came up with nothing, as if he really was a stranger.

When Valentin got back to Marais Street, the kid who went by the moniker Beansoup came rushing out the front door of Mangetta's Grocery to intercept him.

"Mr. Valentin!" Beansoup yelled, louder than was necessary. "Hey, Mr. Valentin!"

The detective saw that the kid, now a professional street Arab of some skills, had replaced his usual ragged shirt and trousers with a suit he'd found somewhere, a bad-fitting ensemble of light brown checks. It was too long and too wide, and his white limbs poked out like stalks. A derby of darker brown was perched atop his ball of a head. Beansoup's face was pale in the winter and splotchy pink in summer. His eyes were lazy blue, and there was a first hint of fuzz on his upper lip. Now fifteen, he worked hard to assume the posture of a rounder without much success; he didn't have the required poised, sullen reserve. He looked like a cartoon drawing or like a child dressed up in his father's old clothes, except that Beansoup wouldn't know his father if he tripped over him. He was a ward of the city, and his home, when he chose to claim one, was St. Mary's Orphanage.

When he caught up with the detective around the side of the building, he had an Italian roll stuffed with sausage in one dirty hand and a Chero-Cola in the other, both no doubt provided by that kind soul Frank Mangetta. He swallowed the contents of his mouth, took a swig of his cola, and spoke up in his cracking voice.

"I got a message from Mr. Tom," he piped.

Valentin grunted with frustration. Almost everyone of means in New Orleans now owned a telephone set these days, and the lawyer Delouche had wasted no time in using his. "What's he want?"

"He wants you at the Café. Right away." Beansoup went to stuffing his mouth. "What the hell'd you do?" he said, spraying crumbs. "He's hot as a goddamn pistol."

Valentin found the King of Storyville at his usual table near the end of the bar, talking to Billy Struve, a District gadabout and Anderson's most able spy. He treated the detective to a short glance, said, "Wait in my office," then returned to the whispered discussion.

Valentin went through the kitchen and into the hallway, then climbed the stairs. Once in the second-floor office, he leaned against the wall and looked over Anderson's desk. Only a single brass lamp, a green felt blotter that was replaced weekly, and an ornate telephone in a walnut box adorned the polished surface. Stacks of papers were laid out on a long library table that was pushed against the opposite wall, so Anderson would take only what he needed to his desk or, more commonly, to his preferred table at the end of the bar downstairs. He loved to work in the midst of the bustle of getting the Café repaired from the previous night and ready for the next. He did all his workaday tasks and entertained those who came to him on more mundane matters downstairs.

He used his office when the Café was open and when there was serious business to conduct. He greeted the most important visitors and handled his most private communications there. Rumor had it that the desk was also pressed into service during visits from certain young ladies. If it was so, Valentin mused, it would have been when Anderson was a younger man. And a lighter one; sturdy as it was, the desk might not take the weight of two persons if one of them was Tom Anderson.

As if to underscore that thought, leaden steps at that moment came thumping up the stairwell. Valentin turned around and composed his face into a stolid mask. He knew what was coming.

Anderson stepped through the door and crossed directly to the desk. He kept Valentin standing as he dropped into his leather chair and folded his hands before him in a stiff bridge. The Creole detective had seen his employer strike that pose a few times, and it was always a bad sign. Anderson now regarded the younger man with his coolest stare.

"That damned Badel called me," he said. "He was in a state. Because he got a call from this Delouche, the lawyer. Who said you insulted the widow and daughter and then told him you weren't going to continue the investigation."

"I didn't say I—"

"Be quiet!" The white man jabbed a thick finger. "You stood right there and heard me promise results. Or at least the courtesy of an effort. That's why I sent you."

"All I did was tell them it's better left alone."

Anderson glowered for a moment, then shook his head and folded his hands on his blotter once more. "You listen to me, Valentin. I wanted to give you a chance to get on your feet again. But I can make a call and have someone else on the job in ten minutes. If that's what you want, just say so." He actually made as if he was about to reach for the telephone.

Valentin felt the room closing in and his gaze went to the window. To the east, over the slate rooftops, he could see the crescent of the Mississippi and partway to the Gulf. He wondered what he'd been expecting. The King of Storyville had lost patience with him, and if he gave the wrong answer, he'd be going back to his room to start packing.

Anderson shifted in his chair. Another few ticks of the clock went by. Valentin sighed quietly and said, "I'll do it."

"Without wearing a face? Or telling those people what you think of them?"

"I'll be fine," Valentin said.

"Then you'll have to go see Delouche and make amends. And hope he accepts your apology."

"And what if he doesn't?"

"Then you'll want to think about a situation somewhere else," Tom Anderson said.

The detective understood that he was on shaky ground. Still, he allowed himself a dim smile. Anderson caught it and said, "What?"

"Lieutenant Picot's not going to like this at all."

"When has that ever mattered to you?" Tom Anderson waved the detective out the door with one hand and reached for his ornate telephone with the other.

The offices of Dremont, Castell and Delouche, Attorneys-at-Law, occupied both floors of a staid brick building on St. Charles, a few blocks past Poydras. Valentin stepped up to double doors that were mounted in a brass-plated frame and set with leaded glass in which the name of the firm was etched.

He crossed the lobby to stand before a desk that was large enough to serve dinner for six. Once he announced himself to the gray-haired woman seated there, he was asked to wait in an armchair that he found so plush he could have napped in it. Long minutes passed before a young fellow in a shirt and tie appeared to escort him along the hallway that extended off the lobby. Delouche's office was at the far end, as befitted a senior partner.

The room was lined with books, wall to wall, ceiling to floor. In one of the corners was a low table and two armchairs, upholstered in brocade. Tall windows looked out on St. Charles. The thick carpet of deep, sober blue muffled any and all sound.

The desk at the center of the room was a ponderous affair of old cherrywood that was polished to a dark glow. From behind it, Maurice Delouche coughed and said, "Mr. St. Cyr," in a creaking voice that held a feigned note of surprise. He waved a hand and Valentin took one of the chairs opposite.

The attorney, for all his frailty, still managed to summon from some corner of his being a certain firmness of stature and tone, and he regarded his visitor with a cool and brittle gaze. "How can I help you?" The delivery was completely deadpan. Valentin guessed that in the time it had taken him to get there, Anderson had spoken to Badel, who had in turn called Delouche. The attorney knew exactly why he was there.