Chasing the Devil's Tail (24 page)

"Do you think he's responsible?"

The policeman shrugged. "He's good a suspect as any."

"Then why hasn't he been arrested?"

"They don't have a case," Picot muttered. "Not yet."

"I understand he's quite the character."

Picot nodded with emphatic disgust. "He is that."

The man made a steeple of his hands and said, "And Valentin St. Cyr."

The policeman's face took a cold set. "What about him now?"

"You tell me."

"Ain't much to tell," Picot said. "He works for Mr. Anderson. Thinks he's somethin' round the District. Likes to poke his nose into places it don't belong."

"He's investigating these murders?"

Picot made an angry gesture. "He ain't got nothin' to do with that."

"I believe he does, Lieutenant."

Picot said, "Shit."

"Tom Anderson doesn't hire fools."

The policeman grunted something under his breath.

The man at the desk touched his mustache, ignoring the outburst. "St. Cyr's a colored man, isn't he?" he inquired absently.

Picot's lazy, dirt-tinted eyes blinked warily. He feigned surprise. "Colored man? Well, now ... I wouldn't ... I don't know about that."

The man at the desk smiled. "Let's not waste time. I know about his family. I know he is." He paused. "And I know it's something you and he have in common."

Picot sat frozen in his chair. He swallowed and his face paled.

"I don't wish to make difficulties for anyone," the man continued placidly. "We can keep that in confidence."

The policeman finally managed to say, "How'd you come to know?"

"I'm privy to certain information," the man said.

He allowed Picot a few minutes to mull it over and the copper's mind finally wound about and came up with a glimmer of realization. He said, "Oh."

"I believe he bears watching," the man said.

"What's that?"

"St. Cyr. I believe someone needs to keep a close eye on him. It would not do to have him beat our own Police Department at cracking the case."

"No..."

"And if this Bolden is the man, do we really want St. Cyr to be the first one on it? Aren't the two of them friends?" Picot grimaced. "They are."

"Well, then," the white man said. "Seems it would be in everyone's interest to keep a close eye on Mr. St. Cyr."

Picot nodded slowly. "Yessir, it would be."

The slow nod continued and the man behind the desk let out a silent sigh; the copper was either a dunce or still so unnerved at having his secret revealed that he couldn't think straight.

"I've had a man working on it, watching his movements, but he's been recognized." He waited, but there was no reaction from the policeman. "I would do it myself, you see," he went on, "but St. Cyr could recognize me and ... well, you can
see how that would be a problem." Picot nodded again blankly, still not getting it. "I'd be grateful for some assistance in this matter. Very grateful."

The color slowly returned to Picot's face and he met the white man's gaze. "I could help out with that," he said.

The man sat back in his chair and folded his hands complacently. In the black distance, thunder rumbled.

Sixty miles inland, thunder rolled through the dark, flashing clouds that were mounting the horizon as the orderly, a large, kindly Negro named Henry, bent over Father Dupre's bed, tucking the sheets, settling the pillow. The old man was struggling, trying to whisper something, but the voice was hoarse and broken.

Henry murmured softly as he patted the sheet that covered the bony chest. "There now, go on to sleep," he said. The priest clutched onto the Negro's forearm, dark yellow fingernails digging deep into brown flesh. He tried to speak again, but it came out a rough gasp. The hand dropped. "There now, go on to sleep," Henry repeated, low and soothing now, and the old man lay back and closed his eyes. The orderly looked up at the black crucifix on the wall over the bed. He crossed himself before he slipped away.

It was late and Florence Mantley was tired. You'd think these fellows had no homes to go to, she mused as she climbed the stairs, her joints creaking. They'd likely sit around all night and into the next day if she didn't chase them outdoors.

She had shooed the last one; or at least she hoped so. But there was no telling with some of her girls these days. They'd try to fool her, letting a favorite fancy man stay on after closing, strictly against her rules. If the fellow was in such a swoon, she told them, let him pay for a room at a hotel. It just
didn't do to have leeches lolling about her mansion like they belonged there.

She was keeping a special eye fixed on Ella Duchamp. The young lady was about some sort of business lately, acting a fool, disappearing for days and then all whispers and shifted eyes when she was in the house. The madam knew this was usually a sign that some sweet-talking fancy man or handsome pimp had got the hooks in. She wouldn't stand for that behavior and the girls knew it. Miss Mantley boasted the prettiest, most accomplished octoroons in New Orleans and she meant to keep her good reputation. So if Miss Ella Duchamp was up to anything, she could find herself another address.

But all seemed in order this night. The madam went door-to-door only to find one exhausted girl asleep in each room and no unwanted guests. She took an extra long look inside Miss Ella's room, in case her fellow was hiding until it was safe. But she found the girl curled under her baire, quite alone. Miss Mantley closed the door, moved along the corridor to her room at the end of the hallway. She could now attend to a bit of rest for herself.

She stopped to look out the hallway window at the still, blue New Orleans night. As she turned to lay a hand on the doorknob, she caught a flicker of motion. She jerked around, already angry at the trespass, and glared when she saw who stood at the head of the stairs.

"You!" she muttered. "What in God's name are you doing here?"

To her surprise, the intruder didn't say a word, didn't flinch, but came stalking a fast clip along the corridor. Miss Florence, now rightly incensed, put her hands on her hips and glared. The intruder still didn't stop, but instead came faster and before Miss Florence could move or speak, hard arms slammed her heavy bosom, she jerked backwards, there was a
crashing sound of glass all around her, and she was suddenly-falling into a nightmare. Wind roared in her ears and then a huge hand pounded her into the ground.

Lying there on the hard dirt, she could hear the cries of the girls coming out of their rooms. She tried to raise her head, but she couldn't move at all. A wrenching pain wracked her body in three great waves and then suddenly went away. She saw faces in the broken window frame above, but the features weren't clear and their shrieking voices grew faint. Her eyes rolled up and she saw dim stars, but then they were gone, too.

Too white to be black
Too black to be white
—D
R.
J
OHN,
T
HE
V
OODOO
K
ING

The storm from the Gulf circled around in the middle of the night and Valentin was roused from a troubled sleep by fat, greasy raindrops pelting the bedroom window. Justine didn't stir at all; but he'd learned that she could sleep through a hurricane. Valentin closed his eyes, then opened them again to stare at the spider web of cracks in the plaster in the ceiling, sensing a shadow lurking just beyond the edge of his vision.

He couldn't say what it was; maybe it had to do with the tall man tailing him, or it was something he had carried away from the voodoo woman's house, or maybe it was Bolden's constant, creeping presence on the fringe of the terrible string of murders. Maybe it was the key, the one critical piece that he was missing. Or maybe it was all of it put together. All he knew for sure was that whatever it was would be gone when he turned his head.

He was awake. He slipped out of the bed and out of the room, closing the door behind him. He crossed his living room and opened the French doors. In the gray dawn, the wind was
blowing west to east, so he could lean in the doorway and watch the clouds rolling in without getting all soaked.

The lead-colored sky, the sheets of warm rain and the predawn silence suited his mood. He remembered that it was at this same hour some six weeks before that he had gone off to view the body of Annie Robie. It was about the same time of day, on the morning after the murder of Martha Devereaux, that he had watched Bolden stalk away from the rotting pier as the sky went from deep purple to pale pink. It was in this same dull light that he had wandered home from the alley where Jennie Hix had died.

Four dead women, no notion as to who was causing the mayhem, and no notion why. And the only suspect in sight was Buddy, stumbling into the middle of the chaos like he was being shoved by an unseen hand. Even Valentin had to admit that he was the perfect suspect. Too perfect, in fact: it was if the scene had been arranged with him in mind...

He heard his name called and it surprised him. Time had slipped away while he had been standing there. The sky was a lighter gray and the hard rain had settled down to a steady, all-day drizzle. She called him again and he went to the bedroom door.

The baire was folded back and she lay swaddled in the cotton sheet, her milk-coffee arms and legs stretched out languidly. Her eyes were open, but she looked very sleepy. She sat up, stretched her arms wide, pulling her breasts tight. "I'm hungry," she said.

He trotted a half-block in the rain and ducked under the colonnade at Bechamin's. He bought a can of hot latte, some rolls, salami and provolone. As a boy, he had loved his father's bread-and-cheese Italian breakfasts as much as he loved his mother's eggs and biscuits.

Mr. Bechamin was behind the counter and the old Creole gave the detective a curious look, as if he was surprised to see him out and about. Valentin didn't notice. He stepped back onto the banquette with the sack under his arm.

When they finished breakfast, he cleared the table. She washed the dishes while he watched the rivulets running down the window. After a few minutes, he became aware of her voice. He looked up to see her standing by the table.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"I said if you want, I can buy a percolator," she said. "To make the coffee here. So you won't have to go out for it."

He nodded vaguely, but he wasn't really listening. She went back to the sideboard, dried the cups, put them up and then turned around, one hand on the edge of the sink. Valentin was leaning with his elbows on the table, his face cupped in his hands looking at the rain with a faraway expression.

"Valentin?" she said. He looked up at her. "I don't know what to do now."

He leaned back in his chair, returning his attention to the present. "Well..." he said, "what do you usually do?"

"I usually ain't up at this hour," she said with a nervous laugh.

He regarded her thoughtfully for a moment, then got up and went to the cold locker. He opened the wooden door, reached inside and produced a small can, made for spices. He twisted off the top and picked out five Liberty dollars.

"You can go to the five-and-dime if you like," he said, handing her the coins. "I'm sure you need more than a coffee pot."

She nodded. "I'll go get dressed," she said. He smiled. She smiled. They were behaving like students rehearsing for a school play. She left the kitchen, then came back to stand in
the doorway. Valentin looked up from his seat at the table. "I ain't ever been much of the homebody," she said.

"That's all right," he told her. "Neither have I."

She put on a white shirtwaist and silk skirt. Umbrella in hand, she went out the door, but not before kissing his cheek quite soberly. After she left, he sat at the table, staring at nothing. He couldn't shake a vague sense that something was wrong, but on this gray morning, his foggy brain couldn't fix on it.

He got to his feet and wandered about until he found a worn copy of poems and stories by Stephen Crane on the window ledge behind the couch. He carried it back to the kitchen, settled again at the table, and started reading.

She was back not twenty minutes later. He looked up and saw the stricken expression on her face and there was a sinking feeling in his gut. He knew exactly what she was going to say, but asked anyway. "What is it?"

"Another woman got killed last night." Her voice was hushed.

He closed the book. "Where?"

"Basin Street."

"Where on Basin Street?"

"Florence Mantley's." Now her voice shook a little.

Valentin suddenly remembered knocking on Miss Mantley's door the night when he'd gone chasing after Bolden. "Who was the girl?"

"It wasn't a girl. It was Miss Florence." She looked at him, wide-eyed. "He went and killed a madam. If it was the same one, I mean."

"It was the same one," he said.

***

He rode the streetcar to Basin Street and stepped down on the corner opposite Florence Mantley's sporting house. The police were long gone, except for two patrolmen huddled by the front door, sharing a smoke. He figured that one of them had been guarding the back gallery, got bored and left his post to join his partner. He cut across the street in the drizzle and made his way around the side of the house without being noticed. As he had guessed, the back door was unguarded. He slipped onto the gallery and into the kitchen.

He found two of Miss Mantley's octoroons—one of whom he knew slightly—huddled over a bottle of port wine at the kitchen table. She told him that the other girls had been sent away, but that they had been ordered by the police to wait there in case there were more questions.

He sat down at the table and listened to the scarlet sisters relate the events of the prior night.

It was around three-thirty when they heard Miss Mantley's loud voice in the hall, followed by a shriek and a sudden crash of glass. The girls ran out of their rooms just in time to see a shadow flee down the stairs. (One thought it was a tall man, the other insisted it was a short little fellow.) They saw the shattered glass and ran to the smashed window. Miss Florence's broken body lay two stories below. Someone ran for the telephone.