Rampart Street (Valentin St. Cyr Mysteries) (8 page)

"I thought this office was handling all the homicides within the city limits," Valentin said quietly.

Picot grimaced; the detective had been reading the newspapers.

"The family wants someone besides the police to look into it, that's all," Valentin said, keeping his voice just shy of sheepish.

It worked. The lieutenant's muddy green eyes narrowed and his short spike of a nose twitched as if he was sniffing blood. This was not the St. Cyr he had known before. The Creole's former cold pride was nowhere in sight. He looked almost embarrassed to be there at the bidding of rich Americans. Picot glanced over his shoulder. The desk sergeant and two patrolmen were lounging nearby, too close for comfort. He came around the counter and headed out the door, crooking a finger for St. Cyr to follow him. Once out in the cavernous hallway, he produced a cigarillo. He hesitated for a moment, then took out another one and offered it to the Creole detective.

St. Cyr studied it, then put it into his pocket. "For later," he said.

The lieutenant dug for a pack of lucifers, snapped a flame, and puffed a small cloud. "All right, then," he said. "We figure this fellow likely went over there looking for something in one of those houses." His mouth dipped in disdain. "These rich ones could have the finest octoroon in New Orleans, and they go off after some filthy back-of-town street whore. Anyway, this Benedict gets what he came for, probably in one of them cribs, finishes his business, and walks out on the street. He gets turned around and heads off the wrong way. One of them crazy niggers over there comes along and figures he's got himself an easy mark. Benedict tries to fight"—he shrugged—"and that's the end of him."

"That makes sense," Valentin said. "Though from what I hear, he was a straight-arrow sort."

"Yeah, that's what they always say." Picot snickered. "Well, this straight arrow ended up dead on Rampart Street. Shot in the throat with a .45 pistol."

"What about the investigation?"

"Good as it could be for those parts," the lieutenant said, shifting on his feet and frowning. "We sent a couple detectives. They took a picture of Benedict and showed it around. They had to slap a few faces, as usual. Even so, no one remembered seeing him about." He tapped the ash from his cigarillo. "You ever hear what kind of sound a .45 makes? Like a goddamn artillery round. But nobody heard a thing. These three fellows come out of a saloon and see some street rat bending over the body. It could have been him did the killing, or he could have come along after and decided to help himself to the victim's goods." He turned around, stiffened slightly, and eased his mouth into a cloying smile as two gentlemen in suits approached and then passed down the marbled corridor. The smile disappeared. "Are we finished here?" he said brusquely.

"I'll need to visit the scene," Valentin said.

"It's Rampart Street," Picot said with a shrug. "Who's stopping you?"

"And I want to talk to the patrolman who caught the call."

Now the copper gave him a sharp look. "What the hell for? He didn't see nothing."

"I've been hired to do a job, Lieutenant."

Picot considered. He didn't like it. Grudgingly, he said, "Be out there at three o'clock. I'll send the officer. His name's McKinney."

"I want to talk to those fellows who came up on the body, too."

Picot shook his head and muttered something under his breath. "They got their names at the desk," he said.

"What about the autopsy report?"

"What about it?"

"I need to have a look at it."

"It's the family's decision to release it," the lieutenant said curtly. "What else?"

"I don't know," Valentin said. "Is there anything you're not telling me?"

Picot smiled now, a cool twist of his lips. "Why, there's always something I'm not telling you, St. Cyr."

He tossed the butt of the cigarillo into the spittoon that was against the opposite wall, turned around, and strolled back to his office.

Tom Anderson collected his papers and was on his way out of his office to go downstairs and start his workday when his telephone rang. He picked up and was greeted by the greasy voice of Alderman Badel, taking a moment to thank him for getting St. Cyr on the Benedict case. The alderman's effusion switched to a tone of mourning about the poor man's passing, then turned brisk over his hopes for a quick ending to the investigation.

Anderson agreed with everything and got off as quickly as he could, dropping the hand piece in the cradle. There was something about Badel that made him feel like he had just stepped in something on the street.

The alderman might think that all was well; Anderson wasn't so sure. He couldn't see St. Cyr dancing like a trained monkey to the whims of some rich Americans from Esplanade Ridge, not now, or ever. As he started down the narrow staircase, he wondered frankly when he was going to learn his lesson.

The onetime Pinkerton named Nelson answered the telephone in the foyer of the plantation house on the river at Nine Mile Point. He listened for a moment, then put a hand over the mouthpiece of the handset and stuck his head around the doorway into the sitting room, where William Little, executive assistant to Mr. Henry Harris, was at the antique desk, poring over a ledger.

"It's that Badel fellow," Nelson said. Little glanced up and responded with a curt wave of his hand.

"He's not here now," Nelson said. He listened for a moment, then said, "I'll tell him," and dropped the hand piece in the cradle. "He says he spoke to Anderson, and everything's been taken care of."

Little barely nodded as he continued working.

Jackson Square was a small carnival that ran every day in the midst of the busy city. Along the winding walks, a dozen food carts offered a variety of fare, from fruits to sweets. Valentin stepped up to one, and ordered two boudin sandwiches. While he waited for the food, he looked over the square. The color, noise, and motion were a relief from the close air inside the Parish Prison building.

Booksellers set up tables, the kind he used to browse all the time. Now he couldn't recall when he'd last bought a nickel volume. He used to stash novels all over his rooms on Magazine Street, as if hiding a shameful vice, then pore over the printed pages like a hungry man devouring a rich soup. Not anymore. Not in a long time.

A one-man band was performing on the street side, the old Negro plucking a banjo, thumping drums with his feet, blowing a variety of horns and whistles, and singing "Mammy's Little Coon," a popular minstrel show tune. In another corner an Italian, dressed in a dusty and worn tuxedo, was playing opera arias on a violin, his eyes closed over a grand black mustache that was waxed to curlicues on the ends. As always, there was the usual small squad of rascals, pickpockets, and other miscreants, darting like rodents. The two uniformed coppers strolling the perimeter of the square ignored them.

He paid for the sandwiches and was turning to leave when he saw Beansoup come in through the Decatur Street gate on the heels of a rough-looking Negro carrying an odd instrument, a banjo with six strings instead of four or five. Valentin stopped to watch with interest as the pair took up a place along the walk. He had all but forgotten about Beansoup taking up the harmonica after his street pal Louis had gone off to ride Bernstein's junk wagon and play the drum in the Colored Waif's Band. Now, it seemed, the kid had found himself a partner, and Valentin recognized him.

The Negro, Charley Johnson, strummed the strings of his curious instrument one time for attention, then began to play, plucking with the fingers of his right hand and sliding the back of a straight razor up the neck to make a raw and sweeping whine. After a few bars, Beansoup started blowing notes on a harmonica, his face pale with panic and his eyes flicking between Charley and the guitar as he struggled to keep pace.

Johnson began singing in a voice that was sand rough, the banjo vamping in the background and Beansoup's harmonica filling in some of the holes.

Well, it's twinkle, twinkle, twinkle, little star
Well, along come Brady in his 'lectric car
Got a mean look all in his eye
Gonna shoot somebody just to see him die
He been on the job too long

The song was "Duncan and Brady," a retelling of a bloody altercation between a saloon keeper named Jim Duncan and High Sheriff Louis Brady in 1890 East St. Louis. Valentin had heard the song on the road, more than once, and was now delighted to hear it again.

Duncan, Duncan, Duncan was tending the bar
When along come Brady with his shiny star
Brady said, "Duncan, you're under arrest
"
And Duncan shot a hole right in Brady's chest
He been on the job too long

Charley did not smile at all. He stared at the people who stopped to listen as if accusing them of the crime described in the song. Beansoup hung back, working his cheeks like a huffing steam engine. Charley sang:

Well, old King Brady was a big fat man
Well, the doctor reached out, grabbed hold of his hand
Felt for his pulse, then the doctor, he said:
"
I believe to my soul King Brady's dead
"
He been on that job too long

Beansoup added some notes and full chords, growing a little more assured with every measure. Valentin shook his head in wonder that it didn't insult his ears.

When the womens all heard King Brady was dead,
Well, they go back home, get all re-ragged in red
Come a-slippin' and a-shufflin' and a-slidin' down the street
In their old Mother Hubbards and their stockin' feet
He been on that job too long

Beansoup finally saw the detective and his face flushed as Charley sang on.

Well, a hard-tailed carriage was standin' around
For to take King Brady to his burying ground
Hard-tailed carriage, double-seated hack
Took him to the graveyard but they didn't bring him back
He been on that job too long

It was an odd contrast. Valentin could have taken a few steps back and he'd hear an old man playing a coon song about grinning, foolish, watermelon-eating darkies, then turn around and find a mean-looking fellow singing a dark tale of bloody murder committed by a Negro with nothing to lose.

Valentin shook his head, bemused. Just as soon as one low-down brand of Negro music had been tamed, along came another. While jass was crossing over from Rampart Street, the gutbucket blues got dressed up and came into town from the farm fields and country crossroads and especially from the plantations of the Mississippi Delta, landing in the heart of New Orleans, right before Valentin's eyes.

Charley now slapped his razor up the strings in a metallic wail as Beansoup blew hard to stay with him, and for one instant he didn't look so much like a boy. He looked like a man with some age on him as he shared an ancient ritual of song.

Well, it's twinkle, twinkle, twinkle, little star
Well, along come Brady in his 'lectric car
Got a mean look all in his eye
Gonna shoot somebody just to see him die
He been on the job too long
Been on the job too long...

They ended in a cascade of crying notes. With a round of applause, coins clinked into the cup at Charley's feet. Beansoup's face got all pink with pride. He looked like a kid again.

When they started the next song, Valentin walked over to drop a Liberty quarter in their cup and give Beansoup a quick wink. Charley Johnson fixed his eyes on him in a prison stare. The man was an absolute ray of sunshine. The detective hoped Beansoup would be on his toes with this character.

All the way back to Marais Street, the sound of the music and the sight of his young friend playing it stayed with him. He had known Beansoup as little more than a child, and now he was closing in on grown-up and working the streets as a gutbucket blues man, no less.

Valentin got to the
Daily Picayune
office, a three-story brick building on the corner of Camp and Poydras, at one in the afternoon. He went around to the alley in back of the building and pushed the button next to the door that was down a short flight of brick steps. Inside, a buzzer croaked. He waited. He waited some more.

Presently, he heard the sounds of movement and growls from beyond the wall. The door creaked open and the face of Joe Kimball appeared, red and glaring. Then it broke into a bleary grin.

"God
damn
!" he cried happily. "Son of a bitch! I heard you were back!" He grabbed Valentin's shoulder in a meaty paw and dragged him inside. "Where the fucking hell have you been?"

Even in the bizarre menagerie of New Orleans characters, Kimball was a standout. Some people thought he was crazy. Others dismissed him as a common sot. He was loud and abrasive and hated his bosses as much as they despised him. They couldn't do without him, though, and so there he stayed, dwelling like a mole in a maze of shelves and stacks and file cabinets that made up the
Daily Picayune
's morgue. The day his liver gave out, as it surely would, the morgue would fall into hopeless chaos. As long as he remained upright, however, he was more than useful. He was a walking library of information about the city and its residents.