Rampart Street (Valentin St. Cyr Mysteries) (14 page)

She was about to have the girl tell him that she wasn't feeling well. Then she saw Miss Antonia giving her a look from across the room. She was expected to set an example for the other girls. You did not turn away a well-heeled gentleman like George Reynolds because your sorry bones were too lazy, even this late. So she got up from her chair and followed the girl to the front of the house.

As soon as she laid eyes on him, she could see that there was something wrong. He was even paler than usual and clearly agitated, his eyes blinking rapidly as he fidgeted with his hat. She took his arm and steered him up the stairs.

As befitted the prettiest dove, Justine kept the largest and best-appointed room, after the madam's. On the front corner, it had a high ceiling and arched windows with a broad view of the lights of Basin Street. There was enough space for a large bed, a wardrobe, an armchair, a love seat, and a dressing table. There were knickknacks, decorated pillows, and throws. She could afford it. She was earning it.

She led Mr. George in, got him settled on the love seat, and fetched him a short glass of whiskey. He quaffed it in a single gulp and held out the glass for more. With a second drink in hand, he settled back, let out a loud breath, and drew out his handkerchief to mop his brow.

"What's upsetting you so?"

He took another sip of his drink and his hand still trembled.

"The strangest thing," he said, and then, in a hushed voice, proceeded to tell her the story.

Dauphine Street was fairly quiet for a Saturday night, the breeze coming up from the south like a warm breath. It was late, well past two, and the banquettes were already all but deserted as George Reynolds and Charles Kane, both of them woozy from the cocktails they'd enjoyed in the Napoleon House, negotiated the narrow avenue, weaving this way and that.

Kane muttered that his motorcar, a new Oldsmobile, was waiting one block over on St. Peter Street. He offered his friend a ride home in the fine cabriolet, which he drove himself, rather than leave the chore to some "goddamn nigger monkey," as he loudly put it. George declined, explaining that he had plans to visit a young lady in a house on Basin Street. This was true. He was also weary of Kane, who couldn't take a sip of liquor without launching into a crimson-faced diatribe about how the coons, dagos, kikes, chinks, and all the rest of them were ruining decent American society. It was positively appalling when he went on one of these rants, mindless (or perhaps mind
ful
) of the colored, Italian, and Chinese serving folk who watched and listened with who-knew-what murderous thoughts festering behind their blank gazes. He was white, though, and moneyed, a man of some importance, so not a word was spoken, even by those like George, who secretly despised his notions.

The only time Charles quieted down was when he spoke about John Benedict. George caught the name coming back around like an echo, and it stopped him cold. Kane went to muttering under his breath, a string of curses, and George could have sworn that somewhere in there he heard what sounded like "got what he goddamn well had coming," though he couldn't be sure. Charles seemed mostly to be talking to himself.

They paid their bill and went out onto the street and through the Quarter with him still uttering the occasional drunken snarl that was coupled with Benedict's name.

When George said, "What about him?" something raw flashed in Kane's eyes and he fell silent, turning inward for a few moments.

"That's what he gets!" he said. A second later he looked like he was going to be sick. "There was a rat on my gallery," he half moaned.

"What?" George said. "What are you talking about?"

"I found a sack with a dead rat in it on my doorstep! You know what that means?"

He stalked off and a few seconds later he was back to railing at the world around him with his usual hateful volume. George didn't even want to think about what was simmering behind this strange behavior.

And yet George had never challenged him, never told him that he was an imbecile and should shut his vicious mouth. It wasn't his way, and it would only make things worse. If Kane had any idea that he was on his way to visit a woman of color, he'd be shocked, disgusted, enraged. God knows what he'd say—or do. So he was only too glad when Charles veered off down St. Peter to reunite with his fine automobile.

As he watched him walk away, he went digging into his pockets for a plug of tobacco, wondering why he still bothered with him. He didn't like him much at all. They weren't friends, not really. Charles Kane didn't have friends. Reynolds had worked for the man at one time and that was all. That was
all.

He bit off half a plug. Charles was a short block down, crossing over Burgundy, when George was startled to see a sudden shadow fall and, a second later, a shape that looked like a huge bird swoop from one of the doorways. There was a rough shout, and in one instant Kane and the dark shape were gone as if they had both been erased from the night. It was such a jolting sight that George couldn't quite believe his eyes and peered hard, trying to define shadow from solid form. He waited, expecting at any second to see Kane lurch into sight once more. The street remained still. A woman's laugh trebled from around a distant corner. Something was wrong.

George edged along in Kane's footsteps and began calling his name as he came up on the corner of Burgundy. He noticed a walkway between two of the storefronts on the other side of the intersection, a three-foot space that led into an alleyway behind. George stepped closer and peered along the dim gap, shading his eyes. The darkness along this narrow cavern was a brownish tint that made it impossible to see anything. It was as if a shroud had been dropped over his eyes. He called again: "Charles! Charles Kane!" and heard his voice carry down the narrow cavern.

He backed away, feeling a throb of fear, as if the wet darkness might reach out and suck him in, too. His thoughts were skittering to and fro. It had to be that Charles had simply stepped into the walkway to relieve his bladder. Then where had he gone? Helplessly, he looked up and down the street. There was not another person in sight.

When another tense minute went by and Kane still didn't appear, George hurried around the corner and down a block to North Rampart Street, where he found a police corporal and a patrolman, strolling the banquette in their round-topped helmets, their nightsticks atwirl. He rushed up and began to explain what had happened, but the whole thing sounded so bizarre on his tongue that he could only stumble along in starts and stops. The two policemen studied him with incredulous frowns. There he was, a white man of means, and the two blue-suited minions were regarding him as they would some common drunkard or a babbling idiot.

What? How did this happen? It looked like a bird?
The more George described what he'd seen, the more he sounded like a lunatic. He kept trying to explain and finally, grudgingly, the two coppers accompanied him back to the scene.

The junior officer lit his portable gas lamp and, holding it high, stepped into the walkway. His footsteps clicked off into silence. Nothing happened for a few moments and then they heard him again. He came out with a shrug, reporting that there was nothing to see but an empty courtyard where trash was collected. And the usual squadron of rats, of course.

The policemen now took turns staring at George, trying to determine if he was drunk or insane. Then the corporal yawned and mumbled something about making a report. They left him there and went back to their rounds. A moment later, feeling the shadows creeping about, he hurried out of the Quarter and crossed over Basin Street to Miss Antonia's door.

Justine listened to the story. It fascinated her, not that she cared at all about Mr. George's friend, but because she was enthralled by the macabre way it progressed, and the ending was like an Edgar Allan Poe tale. She wondered if he was making it up. He looked truly upset, though, and she told him not to worry, that it was probably one of those things, shadows of the night, and that his friend was likely sleeping at home that very moment. George nodded, though his eyes continued to make nervous tics.

She remembered her duties then and reached to unbutton his vest. "Can I calm you now?"

He sighed, a huffing sound. "Yes, dear, that would be pleasant."

In a half minute, she had him all undone and had settled to her knees between his spread thighs. He sighed and leaned his head back. When he closed his eyes, though, he envisioned the corner, the dark-winged swooping shape, the empty place where his acquaintance had been standing just a second before. It required Justine's most expert ministrations to chase the visions away.

The body that had been swept through the wake of the Trinidad-bound freighter finally washed to shore a mile down the river, beyond Algiers.

The police were called and arrived promptly at the scene. They found the sodden corpse dressed well, in a tailored three-piece suit. He bore no identification; however, someone at the parish morgue thought he recognized the face, even though it was blotched, bruised, and scarred by tiny claws and teeth. There had been a photograph in the newspaper, the witness recalled. So the man might well be someone of note. A telephone call went over to New Orleans, where a police clerk wrote down the particulars and promised to pass it on. It was Sunday, though, and there was no one to pass it to, so the clerk put it on the nail for attention first thing Monday morning.

No more than a half hour later, a patrolman walking a beat on St. Peter Street saw that the fine Oldsmobile cabriolet that had been parked unattended since the night before had not been moved. He thought nothing of it and went on about his rounds.

It was late afternoon when Valentin stepped onto a quiet Marais Street, having slept a good part of the day away. The street was almost empty of traffic, the usual for a Sunday. He stood on the corner of the alley, trying to decide where to go for an early dinner.

Right away, he noticed a Buick touring car painted a red so deep it was almost burgundy, with white-spoked wheels, parked down the block and across the intersection of Bienville Street. Two men were sitting in the front seat, both wearing jackets and derbies that were pulled down low over their faces. Even from that distance, Valentin sensed them watching him. He turned and began strolling down the banquette in the direction of Iberville Street, wishing for a moment that he hadn't left his pistol in his dresser drawer.

He wasn't surprised to hear the engine of the Buick cough to life. The putter of the four cylinders rose and fell, and the car pulled up to the curbing ten paces ahead of him. The man who was riding shotgun swung down onto the banquette, not quite blocking his path, though close enough so that there was no mistaking his intent.

He was tall, broad across the shoulders, and sported a pronounced mustache on a face that bore prominent scars. The nose had been broken at least once, and the eyes above it were flat, cold, and unfriendly.

He held up a gloved hand and said, "St. Cyr," pronouncing it
Saint,
the American way. Valentin made as if he was going around, then stopped at the last second. The detective caught a flash of white teeth and glanced at the driver, who had noticed and enjoyed the ploy. His face was relaxed and curious, as if he was an idle observer to this comedy. His eyes were clear green and his hair was long, pushed behind his ears and reaching his collar in back.

Valentin returned his attention to the man before him and waited.

"My name's Nelson," the tall man said. "I've got a message for you, friend." He rolled his shoulders a bit, like a prizefighter getting ready for action. "The message is that you're spending too much time on Esplanade Ridge."

Valentin looked between the two men. "Who says so?" he asked politely.

"You don't fucking worry about who says so," the tall man muttered. "Let's say I work for a man who works for a man who doesn't want to be bothered."

"What does that mean?"

Nelson's face went pink. He wasn't in the mood for back talk. "Listen, goddamnit, you—"

"Our employer thinks you might be taking advantage of a young lady who's grieving," the driver cut in, sounding like the height of reason. "He'd like it to stop."

"That's right," Nelson said. "Stop. And that means now."

"Or what?" Valentin inquired.

Nelson gaped at him, then looked at his companion. "He wants to know
or what.
"

The driver gave Valentin a cool smile. "He knows," he said. Then, "Let's go."

"You've been warned," Nelson said as he grabbed the hand bar. "You stay where you fucking belong!" He pulled himself up into the seat. The driver engaged the clutch and they drove off. Once they turned the corner at Iberville, the puttering of the engine faded and the Sunday-afternoon peace returned.

Frank Mangetta came out of the kitchen, pulled up a chair, broke off the heel of the Italian loaf that was on the side plate, and cut a chunk of provolone to go with it. He picked up a section of the
Daily Picayune,
and he and Valentin ate and read in silence.

Presently, the detective put down his paper as a way of breaking the silence and without preamble recounted what had happened Saturday and Sunday, starting from the moment Frank showed him the article about the arrest of Ten Penny and ending with the visit from the two fellows in the Buick.

After he finished, the saloon keeper frowned and said, "See what I told you? So who sent them?"