Rampart Street (Valentin St. Cyr Mysteries) (13 page)

Even worse, she had for months taken to reading Betsy's copies of the
Mascot.
At first, she had filched them from the trash bin in back and carried them to her room, feeling shamed and wicked. Then she just started studying them openly. Her mother was too dazed and her father too absent to notice. From those pulp pages and the questions she asked the mulatto maid, she got an education in the sordid commerce of the north side of Basin Street and beyond.

So far, reading was as far as it went. She had not been "ruined" in the parlance of the day. She had only been touched in private places on a few occasions, and the boys were such oafs that she called a halt to it out of sheer annoyance. At the same time, she knew she couldn't wait much longer. She wasn't about to become an old maid. She was already often the only unmarried young woman at parties.

She reached the corner of St. Ann Street and stopped to consider that she could get on the next streetcar on Orleans Avenue and be on that same infamous Basin Street in twenty-odd minutes. She'd told herself she'd do it someday. With a private smile at the thought, she walked on.

Though she was considered something of an odd duck, proper, finely bred, and handsome young gentlemen had come around, potential suitors. And yet for some reason, her carnal musings, frequent of late, always brought men like St. Cyr and women like Betsy to mind. They were like another species to her, alien and bewitching. She knew St. Cyr was what they called a rounder, and she had no doubt that Betsy, though only eighteen,
had
been ruined, and not recently, either. Anne Marie imagined the trading winks, gestures, and words behind her back in the language of their scarlet world.

Though they might well think her a pampered child, she was still in charge. Betsy worked for her, not the other way around. As for St. Cyr, she wanted him to investigate her father's death on her behalf, and that was all.

She now found herself on the edge of City Park and decided to sit awhile and watch the birds before going home and taking up her troubles again.

The telephone lines that led to the ornate set on Tom Anderson's desk were sizzling. First it was Alderman Badel, followed by Delouche the attorney, then Chief of Police John O'Connor.

Badel said, "He's not playing along..."

"... with the understanding that we had." Delouche sniffed. "That he would..."

"... leave this to my officers to handle," the chief finished.

Anderson was at pains to hide that he was just as surprised as they were. Not three days ago, St. Cyr had to be dragged into the investigation like a stubborn mule. Now he had jumped into it with both feet. He was on Rampart Street, he was in the colored jail at Parish Prison, he was at the Benedict home, he was wandering around alleys north of Rampart Street, and who knew where and what else?

After Anderson hung up from the last call, he seethed for a moment, then sent for Beansoup, who seemed to possess a special nose for locating the Creole detective. The kid appeared at the Café and within an hour was back with St. Cyr in tow, having intercepted him on his way to his room on Marais Street.

Anderson thought to embarrass the detective by letting Beansoup stand by while he got dressed down. Instead, he flipped the kid a whole Liberty dollar with a wink and a muttered thank-you. Beansoup, stunned with pleasure by this blessing from on high, tottered back out onto the banquette, clutching the silver coin tight in his fist.

The King of Storyville glared at the detective. "What the hell is going on?" he demanded. "You've got half the city raising a ruckus. Did your signals get crossed? I thought you were going to finish this and put it away."

"Miss Benedict wants to know what happened to her father."

"So tell her. The man got lost and was murdered. They have a suspect under arrest."

"She won't buy that."

Anderson lifted his chin as if catching a scent. "Why not?"

Valentin leaned his arm on the bar. "She asked me if I thought Ten Penny was guilty. I told her no."

"You did
what?
" The King of Storyville's bark echoed in the empty room and janitors froze in place.

"I told her Ten Penny isn't guilty," the detective said.

Anderson looked around, as if seeking someone who made sense. "What do you think you're doing?"

"This could be as simple as everyone says it is," Valentin said. "Or there might be something more to it."

Anderson rolled his eyes, his face turning a darker shade of pink. "Do you know how many times I've heard you say that? And every time it means trouble."

"And there would have been more if I hadn't done anything," Valentin said curtly.

Anderson thought about it, then waved a hand in the air. "Yes, I know. I know."

"I'll quit it, if that's what you want," Valentin said.

"Oh, will you?" The King of Storyville produced a mirthless grin. "Somehow, I don't think you will. Let me tell you something. That girl is in for a shock when she finds out her father was out there fucking some nigger crib girl. Or doing who knows what else. There won't be any way to keep it quiet. It will be all over town. She has to know that."

"She does."

Anderson muttered something that Valentin did not catch. "Sir?" he said.

"I said, I never should have let you out of Storyville." He leaned back, drumming his fingers, considering. Valentin could almost read his thoughts, another sign that he was slipping back into old habits. Anderson was figuring a way to play his hand. As if on cue, he straightened and said, "Is Miss Benedict paying you a decent amount?"

Valentin nodded, sensing what was coming.

"Then I don't need you here right now," Anderson said bluntly. "We both know you're not doing the job, anyway. I have criminals stealing from our customers right under your nose. Every card cheat in the city is coming around, because the word's out that you're not putting the arm on anyone. I can't have that." He mulled for another quick moment. "So you work tonight and then you'll be finished."

"Are you firing me?" Valentin tried to remember if this was the third or fourth time.

Anderson's blue eyes flicked. "I'll keep you on half pay. You just won't come to work for a while."

Valentin understood the King of Storyville's game instantly. There was nothing the chief of police or Delouche or Badel could say if St. Cyr was no longer in his employ. They couldn't ask him to run him out of town—at least not yet. Of course, Anderson would expect something for the money he would be paying under the table: any information he might use to his own benefit. Valentin had to admire the footwork. It was a sleek move for such a lumbering man, but he'd had a lifetime of practice. And what he said was true: he didn't care and had been doing a terrible job. He considered for another moment, then shrugged his agreement.

"I'll fix it for Beansoup or someone else to deliver the money to you," Anderson said, and then waved him out with a word of warning. "One more thing. To my mind, there's something not right about this young lady. Why does she want to have a scab like this pulled back? I'd watch her, if I was you. And I mean carefully."

The caution wasn't really necessary. Valentin already knew that there was more to Anne Marie Benedict and the sad little drama of her father's death.

She went by Betsy James, though it was nowhere close to what was on her birth certificate. Sometimes she had to think to recall the name her mama had given her eighteen years before in Chula, Mississippi. She barely remembered the woman who had died when she was a child, leaving her and her sisters to raise themselves.

How she had landed in the home of the family on Esplanade Ridge was some story, one she preferred to keep to herself. Why she stayed there was not such a mystery. It was a good place to hide from her past. Mrs. Benedict and Anne Marie had come to count on her so much that she was as close to a member of the family as she could manage without bleaching herself white. She was more capable of running the house than either woman and certainly knew more about the world than the two of them put together.

She took advantage of the wealth around her, helping herself to little things that would not be missed. She found out where the money was hidden and filched a dollar or two now and then, though she was clever enough to make sure that no one noticed. Or maybe they knew and didn't care. In the wake of Mr. Benedict's death, they seemed to be barely holding themselves together. The mother could only do it with the help of her prescription, and Anne Marie had a growing hankering for her brandy. She seemed sad and defeated, and didn't seem to care much about anything else.

Until Mr. Valentin St. Cyr came along, and Betsy quite suddenly found herself traveling familiar ground around Storyville to gather information.

She was stunned to learn that St. Cyr was a Creole, all right, but on the dark side of that line. He was by any definition a colored man and yet managed to pass, at least enough to move around in proper society. It was a trick that he seemed to have perfected. He had spent most of his years in the District working for Tom Anderson, handling security for some of the houses down the line, and those were not jobs for niggers, dagos, or anyone in between.

Still, she was not completely surprised that Anne Marie did not send the detective away after learning this. Indeed, she seemed all the more entranced by him and his story. Betsy wondered frankly if the white woman understood that she was playing with a very dangerous fire. Not that she could blame her; St. Cyr had a way about him. She had noticed it, too, the first time she'd laid eyes on him.

Betsy had scrounged the information quickly and cleverly, which was how she made her way through life. She thought of herself as a cunning bayou critter, a mink or a martin, small, sleek, very sly, and not to be crossed. She had asked around and found a sharp who worked the scarlet streets and seemed to know everything there was to know about the Creole detective. She flirted, letting him think he might get what was tucked in her satin drawers. After a day or two, she had the poor fellow panting like a dog and was thinking she should give him his reward for doing such a good job.

Not yet, though. She needed more from him. She knew too well that once men got what they wanted from a woman, it made them lazy. She needed this one hungry.

On this evening she rode the loop line car and got off on the corner of Villere and St. Louis. She was wearing a simple day dress of soft blue cotton, a typical maid's garment. She would go unnoticed, another colored servant out on errands. As she went about her secret mission, she recalled tales she'd heard about the infamous Marie Laveau, who had begun her long career spying on French and American families and ended up a wealthy woman and the greatest voodoo queen in Louisiana history. She, like Miss Betsy James, had started out humbly.

Betsy kept her head bent to the banquette, as if modest in her servitude. It was really to hide her face. She made her way one block west to Conti, then turned south another block to Marais and went around the corner and into Eclipse Alley.

He was waiting for her, as they had arranged, slouching against a storefront. When he saw her, he smiled and winked. She smiled back prettily and took his arm. He led her to a saloon where they served colored customers. She would have a brandy and he would nurse a glass of beer. She reminded herself to call him "Emile," instead of the moniker that he despised, for it wasn't a rounder's name: Beansoup.

Anyone passing on the Algiers side of the Mississippi River Bridge might have heard a splash in the water, as if a heavy carp had broken the surface, but the sound was lost in the wash of a freighter heading out for the Gulf, bound for Port of Spain.

A little past three o'clock, just as the night was winding down, the girl came into the dining room to announce that Justine's gentleman Mr. George was out in the foyer.

George Reynolds was a well-to-do man, and any dove would be satisfied to be in his favor. Though it was true that, for all his money, he showed little refinement, wearing flowery colognes that assaulted her nose every time she got close to him. He didn't take care of his appearance. His wardrobe was fine and yet his clothes often had an unwashed smell—which meant his wife wasn't doing her duty at home.

On the other hand, he wasn't all that demanding of her. He seemed mostly another lonely fellow who desired the affections of a pretty young woman. His business success seemed to have brought him little joy. It was something she had seen in other men of means and never understood. He liked to complain about his lazy, empty-headed spouse and spoiled children. His other favorite subject involved the conniving businessmen who crossed his path. He was a success, but when he got to her room, he was a weak and flaccid man altogether. For his pleasure, she bent over the bed and lifted her skirts or kneeled before him as he sat in a chair. Either way, it was over in no time. There was rarely any spooning or other such silliness. When he stayed through the night, sleeping in a torrent of snores, he made it worth her while. She didn't know what Mr. George was telling his wife and didn't care. He paid her a princely twenty-seven dollars a week for the personal service. She gave a third of it to Miss Antonia for her room and meals. It was a good living, two or three times what any other young working woman in New Orleans might earn.

With all that, she and Mr. George still had an unspoken arrangement; if he didn't appear by ten, she was free to do whatever she wanted. After all, this was a Basin Street mansion, not some back-alley whorehouse, and she wasn't some common trollop, either. She was surprised and a little annoyed that he had come so late, but there he was.