Lost River (36 page)

"I don't work for Mr. Anderson anymore," Valentin said quietly. "Haven't in some time."

"Well, I'm glad to hear that." She produced a smile that hinted at hidden meaning.

After a moment's pause, she reached out with a languid hand to pluck the cork from the brandy bottle and pour the two glasses full. She handed one to him and then sat back.

The detective took a grateful sip and felt the smoky liquor swirl into his stomach and head. He hadn't the faintest idea what Evelyne Dallencort wanted with him. He did know that he couldn't afford to dally with some silly rich woman who had decided to stick her nose into his troubles. His gratitude for the help escaping from Brown Bottom was giving way to impatience with any foolishness.

Abruptly, he said, "What can I do for you, ma'am?"

Evelyne wasn't about to be rushed. She took a long few seconds to sip her brandy before saying, "Let's talk about what I can do for you, Mr. St. Cyr."

Valentin all but huffed and rolled his eyes at this melodrama. "What would that be?"

"I can keep you alive, for a start." She treated him to a wise look. "You're in a bad way. The police have a warrant out for your arrest. For killing that fellow. What was his name—Brown?"

The detective paused, nodded. Evelyne Dallencort continued.

"For your information, Mr. Brown did commit those murders. So you shot the right man."

Valentin pleased her with a startled look. "How do you know?" he said.

"I know. We can leave it at that for now."

"Then who did this last killing?"

She gazed at him for an absent moment, as if she hadn't heard the question, then began tipping her brandy glass from side to side to watch the slow tilt of the amber liquid.

"It's quite a puzzle, isn't it?" she said. "Why were those men murdered in the red-light district? If it wasn't just some madman on a rampage, that is."

Valentin studied her more closely. She was acting coy, enjoying this sport, and it occurred to him that he was dealing with a type he had encountered in the past: women of means, bored with their upper-class lives, married to men who desired them only as showpieces who would tend to their homes, children, and social responsibilities in exchange for the wealth and privilege.

Eventually dabbling in opium and casual love affairs grew tedious, and they sought wilder escapades. More than a few were drawn downtown to the scarlet swamp of Storyville, with all its sex, intrigue, and violence. Some had ended up in the kind of trouble that would have landed any other citizen in Parish Prison. But they had the money, good names, attorneys like Sam Ross, and detectives like Valentin St. Cyr to avoid paying for their sins. They would scurry back into their castles, leaving misery in their wakes.

Valentin had seen it dozens of times, and he needed to find out in a hurry if Evelyne Dallencort was one of their number. Now his ears were perked. The first errant slip of her tongue, and he and Each would be out the door.

"Mr. St. Cyr?"

He returned to the moment. "Ma'am?"

"I asked why you think those men were murdered."

Her expression was intent, and Valentin decided to indulge her and get it over with.

He said, "If it's not some lunatic, then it could be that someone has it in mind to make a problem that Storyville can't shake."

"But why?"

He mulled some more. "So it would look like such a dangerous place that no one would want to go there anymore."

Evelyne's green eyes fixed on him and she smiled absently.

"If that happened and business dried up, the authorities would have reason to shut it down for good," he said. "People have been trying to do that for fifteen years."

Evelyne produced a quick laugh that held a slightly frenetic note. "Oh, I doubt anyone would do anything quite
that
dramatic," she said. "Not with all that money over there." Now her eyes glistened and color rose to her cheeks. "Tens of thousands of dollars a week, isn't that correct? It's a river of gold. Not to mention all the political power that comes with it."

Valentin reflected on this curious speech, wondering how she knew the details of the scarlet economy.

The smile faded and her lips tightened in displeasure. "And all of it in the hands of Tom Anderson."

"Mr. Anderson has done very well with it," Valentin said.

"But he's not doing so well anymore, is he?" Evelyne said, her voice turning sharp. "He's old and tired, and the place has been falling apart in his hands. Don't tell me you haven't seen that. It's a terrible situation."

She posed with an imperious finger in the air. The hand came down to her lap. "Well, I plan to change that before he destroys it completely."

"Beg your pardon?" the detective said.

She paused to study him for a serious moment, then said, "Here's my proposition: I can give you the party responsible for sending Mr. Brown to commit those murders. The police will have nothing on you and you'll go free." She tipped her head in the direction of the foyer. "Your young friend will be out of trouble, too."

He stared at her, not sure whether to laugh or just get up and walk out. "I don't—"

"I'm not finished," she said. "If you wish, you can go back to work in the red-light district. I hope you will."

He had to make an effort to hold back the smile that was tugging at his mouth. "I'm sorry, I don't understand," he said. "Work for who?"

She tapped her breast as if it was obvious. "For
me,
Mr. Valentin."

Valentin was faintly amused, more puzzled. "Ma'am?"

"Anderson is finished," she said crisply. "He was failing already. These killings have broken his back. He should go, one way or another. I want him out. It's that simple. And I want your help moving him along."

The detective felt like snickering at this flight of fancy. She really was wasting his time. "Tom Anderson's not going anywhere," he told her.

Evelyne flipped a dismissive hand. "Not without being convinced, he's not. That's where you come in. You make him understand that his day is done. Thank him for his service and let him go on his way. How old is he, anyway? In his sixties? How much longer does he have? Does he really want to drop dead on Basin Street?"

Valentin spent a moment musing that it sounded like exactly what Tom Anderson would want: to spend his final moments in his beloved Storyville. He certainly wasn't going to just turn it over to some rich woman with a delusion about taking over. It was so preposterous that he felt a wild urge to laugh.

Evelyne Dallencort, by contrast, was dead serious.

"I'll let him keep his Café," she went on busily. "He built it, after all. But it will be one of many such establishments. Once things change on Basin Street, I mean. For the better, of course." She saw the look on the detective's face and began talking faster. "You must know that there's no room for a lady to make her way in politics, no room in any business, either. Tell me, where can a woman get anywhere, other than by spending her life on her back or her knees? Where in this man's world?"

"Ma'am, I'm—"

"In a place like Storyville, that's where. I can make a mark there. Better than any man. Even Tom Anderson. 'The King of Storyville.' Indeed!"

She drank off her brandy, poured a second glass, and sat back. "So?" she said after a moment.

Valentin said, "I'm sorry. Is this why you brought me here?"

Evelyne's tone turned cool. "It is."

"Then I'm not interested."

"Why not?"

"Because what you're proposing isn't possible."

Evelyne's eyes blazed with such quick anger that he wondered if it was possible that she had directed the murders of six innocent men as part of a plot to take Storyville away from Tom Anderson. Or if she might be part of a scheme devised by someone who did have such power. There had to be men who would be eager to take Anderson's place. Either way, he wanted no part of it.

"I'm sorry," he said, and started to get up from his chair.

Evelyne waited until he started to turn away to say, "What about your woman? Justine, is it? The sporting girl from Basin Street. Her."

Valentin heard Each's chair creak, then silence.

Evelyne said, "Do you happen to know where she is at the moment?"

The detective sat down again and, forcing himself calm, folded his hands and waited for her to continue.

"She's with an associate of mine," Evelyne explained. "At your address on ... Spain Street, correct? Yes. The gentleman has instructions that if he doesn't hear from me by midnight, he'll kill her."

She either didn't notice or didn't care that Valentin's gray eyes had gone stony.

"You might have noticed him," she went on. "He drives a red Buick. He's been with her."

The detective's mind wound down and stopped cold. He heard a rustle of movement as Each started to come out of his chair. He dropped a hand to the side, signaling for the kid to stay where he was.

"If that's true, you're making a mistake," he said.

Evelyne stared right back at him, her mouth tightening severely. "Oh, it's true. And you're the one making the mistake. Don't treat me like I'm some fool, sir. I'm serious about this, and I'm not going to debate it. It's already gone too far. Seven people are dead."

She paused as if to let that fact sink in.

"Tom Anderson is old and in the way. Storyville needs new blood. So you and I are going to come to an agreement right now. Or your young lady will pay." She squared her shoulders. "And you'll end up in prison, and so will your friend in the foyer. Let's not forget about that. So think about what you're doing. And the choice before you."

Valentin couldn't tell how much of what she said was a bluff, except for the part about Justine and the dandy in the red Buick. That part he believed. It still didn't mean he could allow Evelyne Dallencort the upper hand. Placing his glass on the table, he pushed his eyes at hers, a maneuver that was forward for a man of color. She looked startled; then her expression went blank, almost dreamy. It was a trick he had used before, a bit of hypnotism that rarely failed.

It worked on Evelyne Dallencort, who now held her brandy glass aloft in one hand while the other made an absent glide to the hollow beneath her throat, as if she was on the verge of a swoon.

"You really think you can do this?" he said in a low voice, holding her gaze. "You think you can just move in and push a man like Tom Anderson out?" He didn't give her time to answer. "He spent years building that place. He's not called the King of Storyville for nothing."

"Yes, yes," she said. "But now it's time for him to step down. It's been—"

"He's not going to do anything of the kind, ma'am!" His voice got louder, and Evelyne blinked in surprise. "They'll carry him out of there in his coffin."

A second went by and she broke the gaze. "Is that so?" She drew back and tossed off the rest of her brandy, the lines of her face hardening. "Is that what it will take?"

Valentin understood. Though she had quailed for a moment, she wasn't about to be seduced into a surrender. She had already gone too far when she directed the deaths of those men in the District. She had to know there was a chance she'd spend the rest of
her
life locked up somewhere if she backed away now.

It was strange. They had both fallen victim to the temptations of Storyville. The District had always been a seductress, drawing old lovers back and new ones in.

He didn't have the luxury to meditate on such notions. And Evelyne was getting impatient. "You know you really don't have a choice," she said. "Because it's going to come out the same way, no matter what you do. You understand that, don't you?"

She was watching him and waiting for an answer. He slouched back, feeling a sudden wave of weariness assail him. He was tired, so goddamned, god-awful tired of people who couldn't leave things be, the sort who had to have more and more to fill up the holes in their ragged souls.

Let them have it,
he was thinking.
Let them battle over it. Let them raise hell right up out of the ground for it.
He had paid his fare a long time ago. But it wasn't so simple, as long as Justine remained in the clutches of the dandy in the red Buick 10.

"All right, then," he said, straightening. "What do you want me to do?"

From behind him, he heard Each let out a little gasp. Evelyne looked surprised, too, as if she hadn't expected him to give in so quickly. Her eyes narrowed in suspicion, and she said, "Do we understand each other? That one way or another, Tom Anderson will be out of the way tonight?"

He stared at her, then nodded.

"Because my partner is holding your young lady," Evelyne reminded him. "If I don't get what I want, he knows what to do. I'm giving you until midnight."

Valentin considered for a brief few seconds, then with a deliberate motion went into his jacket pocket, drew out the old Colt, and leveled it at her forehead. He hadn't used it in years, and though it felt odd and heavy in his hand, he held it steady.

"I'll do what you say," he told her. "But if she's harmed in any way, I'll kill you and your partner both. What's his name?" She stared. "What's his name, ma'am?"