Rampart Street (Valentin St. Cyr Mysteries) (6 page)

"It's about the Benedict case," Valentin said.

Delouche raised an eyebrow. "What about it?"

Valentin understood that he was going to have to pay for his earlier insolence. "I'd like permission to continue the investigation."

The attorney now took an elegant pause, settling back to study him with a certain sly light in his eyes. Valentin bit down on his bile and waited.

Delouche swiveled in his chair a quarter turn so he could gaze out one of his tall windows. "The Benedicts are a good American family, and they've been in that Esplanade Ridge neighborhood for more than thirty years," he intoned. "John was a very successful businessman and a stalwart of the community. The ladies have attended the finest finishing schools and have taken part in society. They are active in the church. They have been very supportive of a number of charities. In other words"—the chair came back around and the flat gaze settled on Valentin once more—"not the type of people to go wandering around on Rampart Street in the dead of night."

"Then what was he doing there?"

The attorney said, dryly, "I'm quite sure he just got lost. But to my mind, it doesn't matter how that happened, or why. My concern is the survivors, Mrs. Benedict and Anne Marie. I don't want the family name dragged in the dirt. Except for the report of the crime, I've managed to keep the whole mess out of the newspapers, but until it's settled, there's a risk of scandal. So we don't really need an investigation, sir. We need a conclusion."

Delouche tugged at his vest, a small gesture of impatience. "What happened was a tragic mistake and that's all it was. Now it needs to be laid to rest. Do I make myself clear?" Valentin hesitated and the attorney cocked his head. "Mr. St. Cyr?"

"I understand."

"Very well," Delouche said. "Then let's get the whole sad matter handled as soon as possible." He picked up a pen. "Now, if you'll please excuse me..." He returned his attention to the document on his desk. He did not look up as Valentin made his exit.

Outside, the afternoon had turned windy and high clouds were coming in from the Gulf. Valentin walked down St. Charles to Lafayette Square and made a circuit of the statue of the great Frenchman, absently running his hand over the wrought-iron spikes as he passed along.

Now he understood. No one wanted an investigation, merely the appearance of one, and he was going to be a willing player in this fiction.
The poor fellow got lost and...
He was expected to deliver a report that would insulate the family. Whatever had actually happened to Benedict would remain forever unknown.

He began another circuit of the square. His task would be easy enough. If he performed this simple service, he'd be taking a step in the direction of reviving some semblance of his career. Whether he wanted to or not.

And yet he knew old habits died hard and he couldn't shake the thorns that kept pricking at him from the edges. Beginning with the most obvious: What
was
John Benedict doing alone on Rampart Street at that hour? Was he so foolish that he got lost, or was he there for some purpose? Either way, why wasn't anyone watching out for him? The man was wealthy. Where was the protection that people of means employed?

Valentin arrived back to the St. Charles Avenue banquette and stopped short. What was he thinking? It was none of his affair what happened to John Benedict. He had agreed, mostly by his silence, to go through the farce of an investigation, in order to placate a troubled widow and daughter. That was all there was to it and he needed to leave it alone.

Anyway, it was well after the lunch hour and he hadn't eaten since breakfast. He turned northeast, heading for home.

The telephone bell jangled and Anne Marie Benedict lifted her skirts and hurried to the foyer to answer it before it woke her mother. She pushed back her hair, held the polished brass hand piece to her ear, and studied the design in the glass that framed the front door as she listened to Mr. Delouche explain the situation.

Valentin St. Cyr, the private detective who had shown up at their door with a surly face and sharp tongue, had apparently seen the error of his ways and now wished to continue the investigation, if the family would allow it. The attorney reported that the man had been chastened roundly. There would be no more disrespect. He said that while Tom Anderson still insisted that St. Cyr was the man for the job, there were many other competent investigators about.

She counted to five, feigning deliberation, then made her voice sound grudging as she stated her preference to keep Mr. St. Cyr on. His experience with the rough streets of the city couldn't be discounted. After thanking the attorney, she replaced the telephone in its cradle.

She turned around and went up the stairs to the second floor. As she reached the master bedroom, she peeked through the crack in the door. Her mother was still asleep, thankfully, exhausted by grief and her medications. Their maid Betsy was busy in the kitchen. The house was silent. The visitors had been asked to leave by two o'clock out of respect for the family.

She continued down the hall to her room, closed the door behind her, and immediately went to the chest of drawers and the tray with a bottle of brandy and three glasses that sat on top. She poured one of the glasses half full, took a sip, then another, feeling the heat in her stomach and the tight pressure in her forehead wash away. As she sat down on the edge of her bed, a sudden memory of the Creole detective gliding into the armchair caught and held her.

The moment the lawyer Delouche began talking about St. Cyr, her heart had thumped like a drum and then a peculiar quiver ran down her spine when he told her that the detective wished to investigate her father's murder after all. She had felt a giddy delight and a jagged spike of dread, both amid the melancholy weight of her poor father's death.

A rush of guilt and sorrow assailed her, and she put a hand to her face and sobbed, thinking of her father's horrible death, shot down and dying alone like that and in that place.

After a few moments, she got hold of herself, sat up, and dabbed her eyes. She carried her glass to the window to watch the quiet street.

The first terrible days after the murder had passed and the funeral was over. As her mind cleared, she tried to understand what had happened. She had only the vaguest notion of Rampart Street, had heard only whispers about what went on out there, with the loose women, the vicious men, and the wild music. It was no place for a gentleman like her father. And yet he had gone there. Not knowing what was waiting...

She drank off more of the brandy and noticed there was only a half inch left in her glass. She went for the bottle, telling herself that she had to stop doing this so early in the day. She filled the glass one more time and went back to the window to gaze out at the clouding sky.

The police officers who had come to the house were courteous but blankly dismissive, assuming that she and her mother were hiding what they knew in order to protect the family name. She saw the glances they exchanged. They thanked her for her time, promised to look into it, and went away, no doubt snickering up their sleeves.

When Alderman Badel appeared at the wake, his round face composed in bereavement, she took him and the attorney Delouche aside to express her dismay over the police work. Surely, there was something more to the tragedy than some stupid mistake. She told them she wanted to hire someone to look into it. The attorney disapproved. Better to lay it to rest, he had whispered in that craggy voice of his, along with the body. Much to his displeasure, however, the alderman jumped to volunteer his help. The next day he reported that he'd found a man who had worked those same vile back-of-town streets. A regular Pinkerton would barely know where to begin. Anne Marie guessed right away that Badel was somehow serving his own interests as he minded hers. She didn't care; she understood that sometimes things worked that way. One thing led to the next, and Valentin St. Cyr appeared at their door.

Even through her grief, she couldn't mistake the insolence in his face and posture, as if he had the tragedy and the family that endured it all figured out in advance. Bored, he was there by no choice of his own. He was barely interested, which intrigued her all the more. Indeed, malice came off him like he had a sign on his forehead. He didn't like them, didn't want to be in their home or their employ. Still, she sensed that he was the man for the job, and so she wanted him on it.

Though she had heard the words "rounder" and "sport" bandied about, she never actually met one. Once, when she was fourteen or so, their carriage had been diverted down Basin Street and her father made her put her hands over her eyes so as not to witness the scarlet parade on that famous avenue. She had peeked anyway and caught glimpses of sporting girls and madams and some dangerous-looking men like St. Cyr.

She finished her brandy and put her glass up, then went downstairs to the kitchen, where she found Betsy snapping beans into a pot.

The maid took her instructions with a sly grin spreading across her face. She put up her work and hurried out the door and off to Storyville, a place she seemed to know quite well for someone who claimed to have been a domestic servant since the age of twelve.

Valentin stopped by the Café to tell the King of Storyville that he had gone to see Delouche and would finish the investigation.

"You're doing the right thing," Anderson counseled him. "It will be over in no time, and we can all get back to business."

The detective nodded politely and excused himself, murmuring about coming to work that evening. Though he worked to keep his voice even and his face blank, Anderson could tell he wasn't pleased. Well, he mused, that was just too bad for him.

By the end of the afternoon, Betsy hadn't come back and Anne Marie was beginning to wonder if the maid had decided to spend the time in Storyville earning some extra money. Anne Marie went ahead and made her mother a dinner of light broth, a small salad, and a French roll and put it all on a tray. When she carried it into the bedroom, Mrs. Benedict took one look at the food and made a face.

"I'll have it later," she said.

Anne Marie's gaze roamed to the small wooden box, saw that it was open and that the syringe was in plain view. She closed it with a deft hand. With another urging for her mother to eat, she went down the hall to change clothes, knowing that when she came back, the tray would be untouched and her mother would be asleep again.

It was after six o'clock when Anne Marie heard the key jiggle in the front-door lock. She forced herself to walk slowly to the head of the stairs. Betsy was looking up at her and smiling, wide and white and devious, and she felt a rush of excitement.

She came down the steps in a glide, took the maid's elbow, and steered her through the downstairs rooms and into the kitchen. They sat down at the table. Impatiently, Anne Marie said, "Well?"

Even though there was no one else about, Betsy dropped her voice to a whisper. "Mr. Valentin St. Cyr ain't what you think," she said. She took a dramatic pause, then said, "First thing you need to know..."

She let it hang there until Anne Marie said, "What? What is it?"

The maid grinned like an imp. "The man is
colored.
"

It took a good half hour for Betsy to finish. Afterward, she got up from the table and went about preparing an evening meal for the two of them, leaving Miss Anne Marie at the table, her chin resting in her hands, gazing blankly at the vase of flowers.

The detective had quite a tale, and that he was a person of color was only the beginning. She wondered where the maid had gotten so much information in such a short time.

That his true name wasn't St. Cyr, for example. According to Betsy, he was born Valentino Saracena and was a Creole-of-color on his mother's side and Sicilian on his father's. No matter what the color of his face, blood was blood, and the man she had agreed to engage was part Negro and part dago.

He had grown up in the polyglot neighborhood around First and Liberty streets, to the west of the city and above South Rampart Street. His life was unremarkable until the troubles of the 1890s, when mobs of white Americans turned on the Sicilian community with raw violence. His father was one of the victims, murdered by a gang.

Anne Marie interrupted to ask Betsy to repeat that part for her. Then she told her to continue.

Valentino was sent away to a nun's school in Chicago. He came back to New Orleans to learn that his mother had one day left their home and simply wandered off like some madwoman, or so the neighbors claimed, and was not seen again.

He had remained in the city, using the moniker St. Cyr. He was a policeman for a while, working the streets of Storyville. When he left the force under a cloud, Mr. Tom Anderson offered him a position. That had been almost ten years ago.

There was more in the shadows of his biography. Murder, madness, and a whole palette of mayhem had swirled around him. A café-au-lait sporting girl out of a Basin Street mansion was woven into the tale. So was Tom Anderson, of course; and a horn player named Bolden, who had made crazy jass music in the saloons and dance halls along the same Rampart Street where her father had died. There were whispers about a black-skinned island girl and about a Georgia guitar player lying dead on the sawdust floor of a beer hall across the river in Algiers.

It was some story, and Betsy had gathered it all up in the course of a single afternoon.