Jass (Valentin St. Cyr Mysteries) (42 page)

He said, "Don't," as she snatched up the Derringer and brought it around with the barrel pointing dead at his heart. Without a thought, his finger twitched and his pistol went off. The bullet caught her just below the chin and went all the way through, breaking the window behind her. Her head snapped back to reveal a bloody black hole. She gagged and then pitched forward, her face slamming onto the ornate carpet. Her out-flung right hand landed on her dead husband's forearm, as if he could now escort her down the path to hell. She gasped a few more times as blood ran over the rug and onto the oak floor. Then she was still.

Valentin caught the wail of a siren and then the clatter of a wagon rattling over the cobblestones and coming to a stop in front of the house. A few seconds passed and he heard a familiar voice shout. Footsteps came pounding down the corridor. Picot rolled into the doorway, took one look, and came to a sudden stop.

As Valentin watched in astonishment, the copper's taut mask of anger melted into something awful in its shock and what appeared to be grief.

Picot took staggering steps forward and dropped onto his knees. Two uniformed coppers stepped into the doorway, and Valentin gestured for them to back away. Their eyes switched from him to the lieutenant, who was crouched on the floor, his shoulders now shaking, then back to him. They retreated into the hall.

Valentin moved up behind Picot. He did not want to behold that face at the moment, and he guessed that the lieutenant would not want him to witness his anguish.

"You done shot her," Picot said, and for the first time since he had known the man, his clipped tone gave way to something rougher; country, in fact.

"She drew down on me," Valentin said. "She was about to snap that pistol in my face."

Picot didn't argue. His thick shoulders heaved.

"She wanted me to do it," the detective said. "She knew she was finished. She wanted it over."

"No." Picot let out an eerie-sounding moan.

"Who is she, Lieutenant?" Valentin said.

Picot came up with an agonizing groan. The detective began to see the strings connect to other strings, and he wanted to hear the man crouched on the floor finish the construction.

"Who is she?" he repeated.

Picot let out a strangled sound, between a gasp and a sob, and hung his head farther. His shoulders began to heave. "She's my ... She's my sister."

The detective said, "Jesus Christ!" It was one of the few times that he had been stunned beyond his craziest notion.

The copper kept his head down. A long minute of dead silence passed. Then he said, "She's been passing since we left home."

"You and her both."

"Yeah. Her and me both."

Picot reclaimed himself somewhat, but it was agonizing business. He finally managed to get to his feet, though unsteadily. Valentin went to the cabinet in the corner and pulled down a bottle of brandy. He poured a glassful and handed it over. The copper swallowed it down.

His round ball of a head dipped in a slow nod, and Valentin felt a wave of pity for this man who had made his life difficult since the day he had first stepped on Basin Street as a private detective.

In a disembodied whisper, Picot said, "We were out of Baton Rouge. My mama was colored. Whoever my father was, he was white. We never knew him." He glanced over at Emilie for a moment. Then he sighed and continued.

"There was always something wrong with her. She was wild from the moment she came of age. Wasn't no one who could handle her. She was in and out of hospitals. She was so much trouble that I had to get her out of Baton Rouge. I put her in Jackson for a little while. They said she was cured. By that time, I had come to New Orleans and she came after."

"How'd she get with Gerard?"

"I thought I could keep her away from the rounders and the jass players and all them. That's what I thought." He took a shuddering breath. "I knew Gerard from court. He was by himself. I went to see him and told him there was a young lady, new to New Orleans, who might like to make his acquaintance."

"And what did you tell her?"

His voice tightened. "That this was her chance. If she behaved. It looked like it might go all right. I was hoping he would just keep her somewhere, like your ... you know. I didn't have no idea he was going to want to marry her. I thought that would fix her for sure."

"But it didn't."

Picot shook his round head. "She wouldn't settle down. Or she couldn't. It didn't take her no time at all, and she was back on the street."

"And that's where she saw Prince John."

"That no-good goddamn voodoo nigger! He used her and then turned her out for the others in that damn band. They all of 'em had her. After that happened, we put her in the Retreat."

"You didn't speak up as kin?"

"I couldn't." He swallowed. "She wanted out. So I said we needed her to testify in court. I signed her out of there. We made up a story that that night she hung herself. That fellow at the morgue did the papers."

"So who's in her bier?"

"I ain't got no idea. We got lots of bodies around here. Too damn many."

Valentin poured more brandy and the copper drank it off.

"It should have been left alone," he went on. "But Gerard wouldn't have it. He told her she had to get rid of those fellows before someone recognized her. Them jass men was showing up in Storyville. Next thing you know, they'd be in the Vieux Carré. He couldn't have that."

"So he found Dawes and Williams in court?"

"That's right. They done the ... work. Tracked them down and murdered them, one at a time. They goddamn deserved it, after what they did to her."

"Dominique didn't deserve it," Valentin said.

"They shouldn't have done that ... That was the end." He stood up. He did not look at the detective but kept his eyes on his sister's body. When he spoke again, his voice had come down from its jagged heights and had flattened and cooled. "She would have been better off if we would have just let it be. But colored wasn't good enough." He looked at Valentin. "It ain't good enough, is it, St. Cyr?"

"It's good enough, Picot," Valentin murmured. "What about these damn white people? You see what they do every day."

The copper shook his head resolutely. Now he did look at Valentin, and the familiar mask of cold contempt began creeping back across his face.

"No, sir, it's not. It ain't ever gonna be. I gave her the chance to live a good life. All she had to do was behave herself. She would have been rich, happy ... She would have done better than any of us." He glanced at the body again. "She couldn't do it, though. And so she's dead." He drew himself up. "Now you and I have something to discuss." Valentin waited. "You're gonna keep all of this under your hat. And in exchange, I'll never say nothin' about your quadroon and Ville Platte. You understand that?"

Valentin gave him a dim smile and said, "She walked out on me, Picot. Do what you want. I don't care."

He said it just to see the look in the copper's eyes, the spike of fear at the thought that Valentin would sacrifice Justine just to see him taken down. Some seconds passed and Picot got the trick. He produced a glower that Valentin knew too well.

The detective said, "I understand, Lieutenant. I agree to the terms."

He went into the hallway where the two officers were huddled with the servants. He told one of the coppers that it would be best if he called the precinct and asked for another wagon. Then he went out into the night and the rain.

He didn't want to go home. He didn't know if he would ever go home again. He rode a streetcar away from the Garden District. It was all but empty on this rainy Sunday night. A good thing. He had just shot a woman to death. He knew that he might have blood on his clothes. He didn't want to look, though. He didn't want to think, either. He just wanted to hide somewhere.

A Canal Line car carried him to Villere Street. He ducked along the storefronts until he reached the Frenchman's.

Most of the crowd that had been there that night two weeks ago were about. They were winding through a gentle ragtime number when he walked in, and in a few jagged notes, the music stopped.

There was a long silence as Valentin went to lean on the bar. Someone produced a clean glass and filled it. It was passed along from one man to the next. Valentin's hand shook when he lifted it to his lips.

He took a sip. "It's all over," he announced in a quiet voice.

Nobody said anything for a long time. Then someone started up the first notes of the tune and the others joined in once more.

He listened to the music for an hour or so, until he had his fill. They stopped playing again when he got up to leave. There were murmured good-nights, small waves of respect.

By the time he had crossed the street, the music began again, a racy number full of crazy notes that broke open the quiet Sunday night.

Monday dawned bright, with the first bit of chill in the air as summer finally began to surrender.

Valentin had woken up so many times during the night that he'd lost count. The last time, he sat up, yelled, "Enough!" and heard his voice cascade through his empty rooms. It was something about that echo that told him it was finally over. After that, he slept and didn't wake up until after noon.

It was quiet on Magazine Street, with the usual midday traffic. He made coffee and found something to eat from what Justine and Dominique had left behind. He thought about going out for a newspaper, just to see what the
Picayune
had reported about the killings, then decided that he didn't care.

He sat for a while, trying to think about what was ahead rather than what lay behind him. Then he went in search of one of his books and spent the afternoon hours reading. He hadn't done that in a long time. Later, he got cleaned up and dressed and went out, walking around the corner at Poydras and north to Girod Street. He stopped along the way for a drink.

When he climbed the stairs to knock on Justine's door, it was Paul Baudel, the wealthy Frenchman, who opened it. Valentin looked past him, saw another gentleman on the love seat.

"What do you want?" Baudel said snappishly.

Valentin said, "Is Justine in?"

"No, she's not. You might try Antonia Gonzales's. Isn't that where you told her to go? Well, she went. But she never came back. And she's not coming back, is she?"

He closed the door in Valentin's face.

Tom Anderson called for his automobile and rode down Canal to Magazine Street, the Winton bumping over the cobbles and streetcar tracks. The broad boulevard was buzzing with internal combustion engines. Only a few years ago, there had been no more than a handful of automobiles on the street at any given time. Now it was becoming crowded with them. He wondered what it would be like if these noisy contraptions eventually took over from the hacks and carriages. What a raucous, smoky mess that would be.

His driver pulled to the curb across from the Banks' Arcade. Anderson stepped down and tipped his hat to the gentlemen who were standing in front of the building, waiting for their own automobiles or carriages to roll up. Even at that distance, he caught the sudden buzz of chatter. Tom Anderson, the King of Storyville himself, had appeared right there on the corner of Magazine and Gravier.

Anderson strolled up the block and opened the door next to the tobacconist's shop. His footsteps made a slow shuffling clop on the stairs. When he got to the landing, he found the door standing open.

Inside, placed precisely in the middle of the floor, was a brown leather satchel that looked worn from years of use. There were sheets covering the furniture. He heard the sounds of movement in the back of the apartment but waited, his derby hat in his hand, until the Creole detective appeared.

Valentin came into the room holding a small leather kit in his hand. He didn't appear surprised to see the King of Storyville in his front room and crossed to the satchel, dropped the kit inside, closed and clasped it. He straightened to regard Anderson with an expression so blank he looked like a blind man.

"So, Mr. Valentin," Anderson murmured. "Where are you going?"

"I don't know," he said. "Away from here."

"I'd like you to tell me what happened." When Valentin didn't speak up, he said, "I need that information."

"I know you do."

Anderson said, "Well, then?"

Valentin sat down on the couch. He didn't bother to remove the sheet. He gestured to the morris chair, and Anderson sat down and placed his hat in his lap.

He told the King of Storyville about Emma Lee Picot, as the lieutenant had related it to him. Then there was the incident in Prince John's back-of-town rooms. And the collusion between husband and wife that demanded that they be punished and silenced.

"And so she got those two fellows to hunt down the musicians?"

"That's right. I don't know what she offered. Maybe just money. Maybe a regular fuck. Anyway, they did it. It would have been easy enough if they spent a little time in the saloons." He paused for a moment. "They thought they were being smart about it by changing the method for each of the victims. I guess it didn't occur to them that I'd find out about the band and connect the killings that way."