Jass (Valentin St. Cyr Mysteries) (35 page)

He replaced the files and used his picks to lock the doors again. He went out the way he had come in, carefully retracing and covering his exit at each step. He crept up the stairs without making a sound and hurried back down the first-floor corridor, heading for the door.

"You there!"

He stopped and turned around slowly, ready to fight or bolt. A woman in a nightgown stood ten paces behind him. She looked to be in her fifties, gray haired, thin as a rail, with wild eyes that glared into his face. Her hands were on her hips and she looked him up and down like he was a misbehaving schoolboy.

"You're not William!" her incensed voice brayed down the hall.

Valentin said, "No, ma'am."

"Where's William?" she demanded.

"He's
...upstairs,
" Valentin whispered, lifting his thumb.

She tilted her head back and took one hand from her hip to wag a finger in the air. "Ah, of course, he is!" With a nod of dismissal, she turned around and marched off toward the lobby.

Valentin stopped when he reached the door. He heard voices far-off, one raised in surprise, the other the woman's, demanding to know "William's" whereabouts. He pushed the door open and lingered until he sensed a dead space in the night. Then he slipped out, trotted to the fence, and clambered back over. His bones creaked as he walked south on Henry Clay. He thought for a moment that he was getting too old for this kind of business.

As he made his way along Magazine Street, the detective went back to pondering, fixing on the scribbled signature on the bottom of the sheet. It shocked him. Why had Picot, of all people, signed for Emma Lee Smith's release? It could be simple coincidence, though Valentin's gut told him otherwise. The copper had been just a bit too close to this case all along. He had thrown up obstacles. It was probably Picot who had sent the thugs to Robertson Street to try and divert his attention. He didn't have any idea why, but Picot was in the thick of it.

It was almost 3
A.M.
when he reached his door, exhausted by the trek. He suddenly recalled the morning when he had come up the street to find Dominique on his doorstep, her pretty, nervous face watching him, filled with hope that he could save her. He pushed the image away.

He unlocked the door, climbed the stairs. He went into the bedroom, and as he undressed, he glanced at the bed, then dug out the old blanket and carried it to the couch for another night.

Lieutenant Picot came out the door of his office at eleven o'clock and saw St. Cyr standing at the sergeant's desk. The Creole detective didn't see him and he quickly stepped back.

Picot was galled. He couldn't believe St. Cyr was already on the streets and, no doubt, with his nose back into the killings of the musicians and the black girl. Any other man who was blighted with the terrible murder of a paramour, five other murders right under his nose, and his regular woman leaving him would have given up. Not Valentin St. Cyr, though; here he was with that same dogged look about him, his brow knit, eyes piercing, and shoulders set forward, like a fox on the scent of something.

The lieutenant realized that he had made another mistake by not keeping a tail on him. Though who would have thought St. Cyr could go right back to the case like that? But then what else would he do?

It didn't matter. Picot decided that he wasn't going to hide or run from the Creole detective. He came out the door, strolled over to the sergeant's desk, and produced his best lip-curled, lazy-eyed glare. "Now what?" he inquired.

"I want to check an arrest record," St. Cyr said. "A woman named Emma Lee Smith."

Picot's face tightened. "It's Saturday morning," he said.

"I thought you might do me the courtesy."

There was something lurking behind St. Cyr's impassive facade. He knew more than he was saying. Picot was sure of it.

The lieutenant glanced at his sergeant, who was regarding St. Cyr with a testy copper stare. He crooked a finger. "Let's go," he said, and led the detective back to his office. He went around and sat down at his desk, making a point of leaving his visitor standing. "All right, let's have it," he said.

"A woman was released from the Louisiana Retreat into your custody in December of 1906," Valentin said. "I want to find out what happened to her."

As soon as he started, Picot's brow knotted, though whether it was anger or something else, Valentin couldn't tell. The copper said, "What woman?"

"She went by Emma Lee Smith."

"And how do you know about her?"

"I saw the release form."

"You what? Who the hell—" Picot caught himself. "All right, so what about it?"

"It had your signature on it."

Picot picked up a pencil and began driving its point into his desk blotter, his jaw clenching.

"December of oh-six?" he said. "That was going on two years ago. You know how many people we put in and pull out of those places? I can't remember one damn woman."

"Then I'd like permission to go downstairs and see her card."

"I said it's Saturday and they're closed."

"Someone's got a key."

"And what if I say no?" Picot griped. "What are you going to do? Find a way to break in?" He snapped out an accusing finger. "That's what you did, didn't you? Went out there and broke in. I oughta goddamn arrest you right now!" Valentin didn't change his expression, and Picot gave him a furious look, then shrugged his thick shoulders. "I could go pull the damn card. But there ain't no point. I can tell you what it says."

"You remember her now?"

"Yeah, I remember her," Picot said, blustering. "And the reason is because she died in custody." He went back to tapping his pencil in a rapid staccato. "We picked her up and brought her in, me and one of the officers. We put her in a holding cell and she wasn't in there but a couple hours, and one of the matrons found her. She had torn up her petticoats and made a rope. She hung herself off the bars."

"Why did you take her out of there?"

"To testify in a court case."

"What kind of case?"

"She claimed she was molested by one of the attendants."

Valentin mulled the information. There had been no mention of anything like that in her records. "Do you know why she was in there in the first place?"

"I guess because she had a nervous condition."

"Did her family put her in there?"

"I don't know," Picot said sharply. "You're the one who saw her record."

"Is there a death certificate?"

"Of course there's a goddamn death certificate!" the copper groused. "You want to see that, too?"

Valentin did want to see it. He just didn't want to push the lieutenant any further. He was already on shaky ground. Picot was mixed up in this case in some way, and he was afraid of scaring him into doing something rash, like destroying evidence.

"You can go on up to St. Louis No. 2 and see her bier, if you don't believe me," Picot added. He dropped the pencil. "Now it's your turn. You ain't told me why you're interested in her."

"I heard a story," Valentin said.

"A story. Is that right? What story would that be?"

"You remember Prince John?"

Picot's stare went past the detective to the wall behind him.

"The story is that a couple years back, this woman went chasing after him," Valentin said. "And he and the other fellows in that band took advantage of her. They spent a day and a night using her like a whore and then put her—"

"So you spoke to Prince John," the copper broke in. "And here I thought that nigger bastard was dead."

Valentin stopped, now catching something raw in Picot's tone. "He's not," he said. "I talked to him. And he remembered this Emma Lee."

"I'll bet he did. So what?"

"I believe she's connected to the murders."

Picot smiled dimly. "And how exactly would that be? Seeing she's been dead, what, two years?"

"I don't know. That's why I wanted to see her records."

"I don't think so," the copper said, suddenly brusque. "I'm not showing you anything. You're not going to be meddling in any more police business. That's over. And if you think you can run to Tom Anderson and get him to lean on me, you'll want to think twice. He won't do it. I know that for a fact." He stood up. "Emma Lee Smith was a madwoman who committed suicide. She's dead and gone. She's got nothing to do with any killing except her own." He jerked his head toward the door. "Now, why don't you leave, so we can get back to wasting the taxpayers' money?"

There was much that Tom Anderson loved about Storyville. Even the District's grimier corners were in a strange way dear to him. He lorded over its streets, grand and mean, and each of its denizens, from the highest-toned madam down to the dime-a-trick Robinson Street crib whore, with a benign eye. He truly did have everything a man could desire: wealth, power, respect, pleasure, and all in abundance. He had used his wits and worked hard, yet he knew that he had also been very lucky.

Except he also had to pay a grim price and had traded parts of his soul, his honor and dignity, to keep what he had. The image of the King of Storyville, like some monarch in a fairy tale, was made of whole cloth. He, like the neighborhood he governed, was something other than what appearance proclaimed. Behind the public facade was a much darker, bloodier, more tawdry face. It was the way of the world that he ruled.

He had started out modestly, selling penny newspapers. He parlayed talk he picked up on the streets by informing to the police, a common stool pigeon. When he went into business with a small café, he found his police contacts held him in good stead. He played both sides of the street. His hands, if not bloody, were certainly stained with corruption. It was the price he paid.

He indulged his mood for approximately one minute. Then he shoved it aside and went back to the message that the chief had delivered. Tom Anderson's ear was so attuned that as soon as O'Connor started talking, he knew that St. Cyr's name was going to come up. He marveled for a moment at his own antennae when Storyville was involved and wished at times that they weren't so sharp.

That was the easy part. What followed astounded him. The information that the chief passed on was startling enough. When he told Anderson what he wanted him to do with it, the King of Storyville had a rare moment of dislocation. For that one instant, his universe was turned on its head.

Automatically, the chief went on, all business. He laid out the facts and waited for a response. Anderson told him not to worry. He'd take care of it, as he always did. He would handle St. Cyr and the rest of the matter. They spent a moment in small talk, then he put down the phone. He sat for a long time wondering if once this blew over, things would ever be right again.

Valentin asked for Mr. Anderson and leaned against the end of the bar to wait. The Café was a different place in the daylight, the dusty streaks of sun through the window playing over the liquor bottles with their oak brown and amber gold contents. One of the janitors was down on his hands and knees, working his way along the bar with a can of paste and a rag, rubbing the rail to a high gloss. It was an odd, quiet time, a preamble to all the noise and motion of the night to come.

Tom Anderson sent a fellow Valentin didn't know with instructions for him to step upstairs. The detective found the King of Storyville standing by the window, looking down the line. He did not turn around when the detective stepped through the door, just kept gazing into the distance. Out over the Gulf, tall, dark clouds were rising. There had been much rain this autumn, even for New Orleans, and now more was on the way.

Valentin was alert. When Anderson did not immediately attack the business at hand, it meant that he was not to be pressed.

"I want you to know how sorry I am about the death of that young lady," he said without turning around. "It was a terrible tragedy."

Valentin said, "I understand that you took care of sending her body home."

"It was the least I could do for the poor girl. I made some contacts with government officials down there. They reached her family. They'll lay her to rest."

Anderson paused and gestured for Valentin to join him at the window. When the detective reached his side, he returned his idle gaze to the panorama beyond. "Sometimes I feel like I could stand here all day and just watch the street," he murmured. "It really is like seeing a play unfold. And sometimes I feel like I wrote the whole thing, that those people out there are just dancing at the end of the strings that I hold in my hands."

Valentin rolled his eyes. Anderson was getting dramatic, something he did on rare occasions. The detective wondered if he had been at the brandy bottle already. There was another half minute's silence and then the King of Storyville turned around and went to his desk. He settled himself, getting down to business. Valentin leaned against the window frame.

"Are you ever going to come back to work?" Anderson said.

"I don't know."

"Then what do we have to discuss?"

"Six deaths."

"What about them?"

"I'm not giving up the case."