Rampart Street (Valentin St. Cyr Mysteries) (39 page)

She turned her regal head to gaze out the window, watching the shorebirds swoop and glide over the gray water. "I know you don't believe in it at all, but I believe in this here voodoo with all my heart," she said presently. "I'm telling you, though, there ain't a thing I can do with something like this, one way or another. Henry Harris, Valentin? Lord, you must have lost your mind!"

"My friend was murdered," he said. "He's responsible. And that's only the beginning."

Miss Echo heard the hard edge on his voice and sighed. "I hope you don't end up in a pine box, that's all." She watched him, smiling like the godmother she was. "You do take some hard roads, Valentin."

The detective didn't know what to say to that. He drank off the last of his coffee and said, "I better get back to the city."

The voodoo woman rose with him, and they went out onto the gallery. The sun was casting a glow the color of seashell over the lake's pale green waters. She was watching him closely, treating him to a look that was piercing, as if she could see his thoughts. She took his hand in hers and held it tight. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"I'd appreciate your good thoughts," Valentin told her.

She laughed. "I bet you would!" She regarded him with a bemused smile. "My good thoughts are that you find yourself a woman who'll look out for you. If it ain't gonna be Justine, then another one. That's what I wish for you."

When he got to the bottom of the steps, she called to him.

"One more thing," she said. "I don't know what you've got to do, but whatever it is, don't do it alone." She gave him a stern look. "You hear what I said? Don't do it alone. 'Cause if you do, I believe you'll fail, for sure. And maybe end up dead, too."

He stood still there for a moment, then waved a farewell and headed off down the gravel road. Miss Echo stood watching him until he was out of sight.

Justine was surprised when the maid came to tell her that the detective St. Cyr was waiting on the gallery outside the kitchen door. She threw on a shift and hurried down the stairs and through the rooms, grabbing a shawl off the stand in the foyer on her way. With her bare feet, her hair in two braids, and not a splotch of rouge or mascara, she looked much like the bayou girl she had been for the first sixteen years of her life.

She found him standing at the railing, looking out over Miss Antonia's freshly turned garden and the rows of young tomato, okra, leek, and onion plants.

"Valentin?"

She came up beside him and saw that his gray eyes were dreamy. A memory came and went. She peered closer, saw a certain animal serenity. She knew him well enough to recognize the signs. He'd been with a woman.

She was letting that thought settle when he said, "Miss Echo sends her regards."

"When did you see her?"

"A little while ago. I paid her a visit at the lake." He studied the garden for a few moments. "I'm sorry if I disturbed you," he said.

She gave him a wry look. "It's all right. I don't have company." She pulled the shawl tighter around her. "Mr. George has come to the door at least once a day for the past week," she said. "And now he just stopped. On the weekend, too. Did you have anything to do with that?"

"I believe he's decided to leave town," he told her. "He's afraid of what Henry Harris might do to him."

She gave him a long look. "What about what he'll do to you," she said. "He already tried once."

"I'm not waiting to find out," he said.

She was startled and a little dismayed. "Are you leaving?"

"No, I'm not leaving," he said, with a short smile. "I'm going to go see him."

She frowned. "This doesn't make sense. What are you going to do? It's Henry Harris."

Gazing out over the garden, he came up with a smile that brought another shock of memory. It was like she was seeing a person she had known a long time ago.

He repeated what he had told Eulalie Echo. "He murdered my friend."

She gave him a dubious look. "Well, I hope he doesn't do the same to you," she said.

They were waiting for him in front of Mangetta's. Nelson was lounging in the passenger seat of the Buick, and Louis Stoneman was leaning against the facade of the saloon, next to the front door.

The driver saw him and said something. Nelson unfolded his tall frame and got down from the seat.

"Gentlemen," Valentin said. "You waiting to buy me a drink?"

"Get in the automobile," Nelson said, his eyes as cold as ever.

Valentin thought about it for a moment. He took a look around to see if there were any witnesses to him stepping up into the seat, but the few souls who were on the banquettes were occupied. Storyville couldn't keep its nose out of his business until he needed someone watching and then everyone's attention was elsewhere.

He shrugged and climbed up to settle on the tufted leather seat. Stoneman got behind the wheel while Nelson stepped around front to crank the flywheel. The Buick started on the first try, settling into a placid idle. Nelson pulled himself into the passenger seat, and he and Stoneman donned driving goggles. Stoneman pushed the accelerator handle, and the automobile jerked away from the curb. Had Valentin glanced back, he would have seen Frank Mangetta just coming out the door of the saloon to stare after them.

They turned onto Canal Street and then cut west on St.Charles. It was Saturday, traffic was light, and they made good time, cruising at twenty miles per hour by Valentin's reckoning. Neither Nelson nor Stoneman paid any attention to him as they sped along, and soon they were crossing Monticello Avenue onto River Road. Another ten minutes and they turned down an unmarked dirt and gravel road toward the river. A dusty half mile on, they came to the gate of a property surrounded by a whitewashed board fence that disappeared into the distance in both directions.

A black Ford roadster was parked next to the gate. Two men hunkered in the front seats, both dressed in black suits and derbies, both with long mustaches like cowboys wore. When they got close enough, Valentin noticed that both also sported the kind of flat stares that came from careers spent doing certain kinds of violence. He knew their type. The driver was thin, with a weasel's small eyes and pointed nose. The passenger was squat, with a head like a block and his mouth hanging open in a dumbfounded expression that looked permanent. He could see either one of them killing Cole, Smiley, ...or Joe Kimball.

He thought about that as the heavier fellow propped the shotgun he was holding in his lap and got down to open the gate. When they passed inside and he closed it behind them, his expression didn't change at all and Nelson didn't even look at him.

They were now on a shell drive that cut through the flat landscape. The property appeared to span many dozens of acres and was dotted with old oaks, black walnuts, and weeping willows. They were miles from anywhere, and Valentin realized what Justine had said was not just an idle warning; Harris might have already given an order to have him shot. They could bury his body and it would never be found.

Who? A Creole detective? No, no one like that's been out this way.

It was too late to do anything about it now; he was already trapped there. He felt the weight of his Iver Johnson nestling in his pocket. He could still put up a fight. Though if it came to that and he then escaped, he'd never get anywhere near Harris again. And yet, he felt no particular danger as they drove on. Stoneman was intent on his driving and Nelson looked bored with the errand.

When the house appeared from behind a stand of willows, Valentin was so astounded by its size and beauty that he forgot about whatever threat might linger about. It was as large as a museum, in Greek Revival design, whitewashed brick with four solid columns in front. The detective guessed that it probably contained twelve rooms. The windows were tall and opened outward to allow breezes to pass through, with black-painted shutters that could be closed when storms came along. The upper and lower galleries with their wrought-iron railings spread across the front and around both sides of the house. The driveway circled around a fountain at the door, and it was there that the Buick crunched to a stop.

The three men got down and stretched. Nelson glanced at Valentin, said, "Wait here," and climbed the steps to the broad gallery, where a Negro butler opened the door to allow him inside.

Stoneman went into his pocket for a packet of Straight Cuts and wordlessly offered the pack to the detective. When he produced a box of lucifers and struck one, Valentin regarded him over the flame, and Stoneman studied the detective blankly in return. Valentin decided that at least this man was not his executioner.

The wide front door opened, and Nelson beckoned to him with a jerk of his head. The detective dropped the cigarette onto the shells and ground it under his heel. He exchanged another glance with Stoneman, then stepped onto the gallery.

Just inside the door, Nelson held out his hand, palm up, and Valentin produced his revolver. The stiletto and sap stayed where they were.

"You know what happens if you make the wrong move in here?" Nelson said. Valentin nodded. Nelson looked him up and down one more time, then waved for him to follow.

He'd only heard about such places, and the house was grander than any he'd ever visited, more like a palace. The foyer alone was the size of the largest Basin Street parlor, with a floor of polished marble, solid oak trim, and cut glass in doorways that opened in three directions. A cold silence pervaded the space, and in that way it reminded him of a hushed church sanctuary. That, or a mausoleum.

Nelson guided him through the door that was straight ahead, and they passed through an elegantly appointed dining room that included a table with seating for twelve and a massive chandelier overhead.

From there, they stepped through an archway and into a great room that took up a good part of the middle of the house, so large and open that the upper floor was supported by pillars rather than walls. A setting of French furniture was arranged about a Persian carpet that would have overflowed Valentin's entire Marais Street room. There were café chairs along the walls, lamp tables in the corners, plants in clay pots, art hanging on every surface. The walls were painted a pale blush of pink and trimmed in off-white. Valentin looked up to see that the ceiling was domed and someone had painted florid cherubs and cottony clouds there. In each corner was a table that held an electric lamp. On the far side of the room was the kitchen door, and Valentin saw a Negro cook standing over a massive iron stove, stirring pots.

William Little was seated on the couch in suit and tie, a journal open on his lap and a pen in his hand. He stared at the detective with a completely frigid expression, the same empty look he had given him in the back of the Grenouille dining room.

It took Valentin a moment to notice the man who stood motionless at the wide window that looked out over the west expanse of the property. He was almost faded into the background, like a model in a mural of a gentleman of means taking his leisure. That, or a statue.

The detective had seen only photographs of Henry Harris and so had expected a larger man, tall and thick like Tom Anderson, carrying the weight of power as a physical attribute. He was surprised and quietly pleased to see that Henry Harris was a diminutive gentleman, silver-haired, once delicate, now somewhat portly. His pale face featured petulant eyes, knitted white brows, a mouth crooked into a permanent frown. Shoulders that were stooped and a thin nose that hooked out of his narrow face gave him the look of a brooding vulture. He was wearing suit trousers, a pearl-white shirt with black suspenders, and a black tie. Ruby cuff links gleamed at his wrists. Valentin guessed him to be wearing at least a month's pay in haberdashery, but it hung on him. He didn't look much like that man who had created a small empire of wealth on the banks of the Mississippi. He had encountered rich and powerful men before and it never failed to surprise him how ordinary they could be.

Harris held a drink in his hand. He didn't turn around when Valentin and his escort stepped into the room. As they drew closer, Valentin could see out the window to the lawn beyond, where a Negro stableboy was helping two children ride Shetland ponies in the shade of the willow trees. Framed in the window, it looked like an old painting.

Harris let the detective stand there for most of a minute, not uttering a word as he watched the children. Then he did turn, and the flaccid statue came to life by degrees. An energy seemed to creep into his face, his light green eyes went hard, and his body straightened from its stoop into a posture that radiated a harsh vitality, summoned from some mysterious reservoir. Harris looked his visitor up and down, from his dusty shoes to his loose hair, and Valentin felt like he could have cut the contempt that the man sent his way with a knife.

"As a rule, I don't allow people of your type in my home unless they're waiting on me," Harris said, the words carrying a clipped and brittle edge. "You're not. So you have a very limited amount of time. What do you want here?"

Valentin found his voice. "I've been conducting an investigation into the murder of John Benedict," he said. He was aware of how oddly thin his own voice sounded. Harris stared at him without expression. "This is where it led me."

Harris's gaze shifted and fixed on somewhere over Valentin's shoulder. "And what does Mr. Tom Anderson have to do with your..." He smiled slightly. "...
investigation?
"