by Nan Ryan
He gave her bare backside a slap as she got out of bed. Slipping into a not-quite-clean robe, she returned with two glasses and a full bottle of bourbon. She poured for them both, then sipped hers as Barton drained his glass and asked for another.
“Tell me about yourself, Heaven,” he slurred and then listened with wide-eyed interest as she made up an interesting background for herself. Her tales of endless adventure and close calls and constant excitement made him surmise that she liked living dangerously and liked dangerous men.
When she concluded, she said, “What about you? You like doing daring things?”
He grinned in his whiskey haze and bragged, “How about murdering a man? Would you consider that daring enough?”
Heaven’s eyes widened minutely. “You’re teasing me. You never killed anyone. Did you?”
Barton puffed out his hairy chest, downed another glass of whiskey and said, “You ever read the newspapers, Heaven?”
“Why certainly, I pride myself on staying well informed.”
“Did you read about an important businessman by the name of Colfax Sumner dying a couple of months back?”
“Yes, yes I did. Mr. Sumner was a very prominent New Orleans citizen. The Picayune article announcing his death said that he died of natural causes.”
Barton guffawed loudly. “The natural cause he died of was a pillow held over his face until he suffocated. I know because I’m the one who held it there.” Laughing heartily, Barton scratched his shaking belly, and said, “God almighty, I thought the old bastard would never stop struggling.”
“You murdered Colfax Sumner?” Her eyes grew wider.
“Sure did.”
“But why? The paper said nothing was stolen, so why would you want to kill him?”
“Ah, I didn’t want to kill him for myself. Me and my brother did it for Lord Enfield.”
“Lord Enfield?” She stared at him, aghast. “The Lord Enfield? That rich, blond nobleman from England who is engaged to Colfax Sumner’s only niece? Is that who you mean? Are you talking about Desmond Chilton, the wealthy aristocrat?”
“That’s who.”
Growing drunker and drunker, and talking louder and louder, Barton Smallwood told an entranced Miss Heaven Sublime everything about the murder, leaving out nothing.
Finally concluding, he grinned at her, confident he had greatly impressed her. “Now, darlin’,” he said, “you won’t go tellin’ nobody about this, will you?”
Heaven didn’t answer.
Thirty-Seven
The deadline for finding Colfax Sumner’s will was drawing steadily closer. And Madeleine and Armand were drawing steadily closer. When they were not searching for the will, they were often in each other’s arms, their mutual passion making it difficult to keep their hands off each other.
The Countess and the Creole were falling in love.
And yet Madeleine had never told Armand that she loved him. A part of her was still doubtful, still afraid to give of herself completely, afraid of being hurt.
Armand was just the opposite. He was totally open and honest and loving. He told Madeleine over and over that he was in love with her. That he had never loved anyone else, would never love anyone else. She was the one for whom he had waited all these years. She was the one to whom he would be faithful for the rest of his life. She was the one who held his heart in her hands, now and forever. She never tired of hearing such sweet love talk.
And she found Armand utterly irresistible when he would say to her, “Chérie, all I ask is that you love me even half as much as I love you.”
Madeleine was happy. She did love Armand. She loved him more than he would ever know. And, when she could be absolutely certain that she was not just a passing fling for him, that he honestly, truly did love her and wanted to marry her, then, and only then, would admit she loved him, too. That day, she felt sure, was getting closer.
The only thing marring Madeleine’s newfound happiness was the knowledge that she was very likely going to lose her inheritance to an unprincipled man who had callously manipulated her and who had quite possibly killed her beloved uncle.
As for Armand, he cared about the missing will only because he knew it meant so much to her. He, himself, had plenty of property and money, enough to last ten lifetimes. But he couldn’t stand seeing her hurt. His greatest wish was that he could protect her from all worldly cares. There was nothing that would have brought him as much joy as finding the will and handing it to her.
But there was little hope of that happening.
Armand was due for a late dinner that evening, the eighth day of May. Last night he had explained to Madeleine that he wouldn’t be able to spend the day with her. He had an obligation to work on the new children’s hospital—he had been neglecting his duties there and was needed badly. Further, he had said apologetically, once he was finished at the hospital, he had to go by the club. Sign some papers. Check the payroll. Let everyone know the boss was still alive and kicking.
But Armand was running late.
It was well past seven when he finally got home from the construction sight. Sweaty and dirty, he stripped as he walked through the apartment. Allowing himself only a brief time to soak in a hot tub, he was out in a wink and lathering his darkly whiskered face.
Rushing to get dressed, he shoved his long arms into a freshly laundered shirt. He brushed his hair, then took a beige linen suit from the tall armoire. He was dressed and ready in a matter of minutes. Armand took one last glance in the mirror, ran a thumb and forefinger around his shirt collar, straightened his silk cravat and declared himself ready. He turned and hurried from the room.
But Armand forgot something.
Left hanging on a gold-leaf flower framing the bathroom mirror was Madeleine’s garter, his good luck charm.
As twilight descended on the Royal Street town house, Madeleine sat at her upstairs dressing table dusting her face with rice powder. Her hair had already been elegantly dressed atop her head by the multitalented Avalina. Madeleine smiled thinking that Avalina’s hard work on the elaborate coiffeur had been a waste of time. Armand liked her hair down. Before the night was over he would insist on taking out all the pins and watching it spill down around her bare shoulders.
The prospect made her shiver with anticipation.
Avalina was making Armand’s favorite dish for dinner. Spicy shrimp gumbo. She hummed happily as she stirred the thick concoction. In the oven, a huge fresh peach cobbler was bubbling and baking, its pleasant aroma filling the downstairs.
At the kitchen table, Montro sat, keeping Avalina company as he skimmed the evening newspaper.
“Sure smells good,” he commented, sniffing the air.
“You’re not to even consider taking a taste until Mr. Armand gets here,” Avalina warned.
“I won’t, but I hope he gets here soon. I’m starving. What time did she say he was coming?”
“Around nine.”
Armand stepped out of The Beaufort Club as nine o’clock rang out from the cathedral. He stood for minute beneath the red canopy and exhaled deeply of the humid May air.
“Shall I have your carriage brought around, boss?” the young doorman asked.
“No. Don’t bother. It’s such a beautiful night, I think I’ll walk.”
“Very good, sir.”
Armand said good night and set out down the banquette as a pale quarter moon began to slowly climb over the rooftops. The heavy scent of jasmine, coming from a nearby courtyard, was powerfully seductive. Somewhere out on the Mississippi, a sidewheeler’s whistle sounded faintly and the croaking of frogs came from the marshes along the riverfront. Closer, a pianoforte was being played in an upstairs parlor.
And just ahead on the corner, its fronds gently waving in the night breeze, rose a lone date palm against the night sky.
Armand smiled, recalling the palm’s legend. It was said to have sprung from the heart of a maiden who died dreaming of her lover and the happiness they’d found on a p
alm-fringed shore of a tropical isle. The seed from which it grew had been blown to New Orleans by the wind and it had been planted by an angel. The tree would not bear fruit until New Orleans had been cleansed of its wickedness.
Armand’s smile broadened.
The lonely palm would never bear fruit because New Orleans would never be cleansed of its wickedness. But he loved his city just the way it was. He loved everything about it. He loved New Orleans almost as much as he loved the russet-haired woman awaiting him on Royal Street. The thought of Madeleine made his heartbeat quicken and he picked up his steps.
His heels clicking on the cobblestones, Armand hurried down the empty street, sweet anticipation his only companion.
“Hey Creole!” came a gruff voice from out of the darkness.
Armand stopped in the shadows of the street lamp. He looked around, saw no one. He looked up, quickly surveying the tracery of ironworks on the balconies above. Nobody was there.
Then all at once he groaned in shock and pain as a heavy blow fell on his back just above the waist and he felt himself being dragged backward into a dark alley. With arms pinned painfully behind him, Armand desperately tried to shake off his attacker. But an accomplice stepped up and forcefully struck him in the mouth. Armand sagged to his knees, blood pouring from his lips.
He was yanked to his feet with a sudden ferocity and the bigger of the two assailants pounded both his fists into Armand’s unprotected stomach in a series of rapid, lethal blows. The moan of pain from Armand brought only laughter from the evil pair pounding him. Another volley of blows followed, to his face, to his chest, to his stomach. Armand sagged, spitting blood and gasping for breath.
Summoning up every ounce of the strength left in him, Armand kicked and struggled and was able to get his arms free for one fleeting second. He managed to land one punishing blow to the big bully mercilessly beating him.
But he paid for it.
His arms were again pinned behind him and he was forced to stand there totally defenseless. More painful blows rained down on him and just as he was about to lose consciousness, the monster battering him lifted a heavy booted foot and shot it straight up into Armand’s groin. A shriek of misery passed Armand’s bleeding mouth and he clenched his teeth tightly to keep from biting through lips.
While torrents of pain throbbed through him and he fought wave after wave of nausea, Armand’s pockets were searched and torn, his money and gold-cased watch taken. Blood streamed down his face onto his chest, saturating his torn white shirt. One eye was already swollen shut and blood from a cut on his forehead blinded him in the other. His weak legs buckled and he could feel darkness closing in.
He heard the stockier of the two say, “I got everything he had, let’s finish him off.”
And the ruffian raised his big fist and slammed it into Armand’s belly just as a laughing couple stepped out of a café and onto the street. Hearing the commotion, the pair came to investigate.
“We got company,” said Barton.
“Shut up!” said his brother.
They released the badly beaten Armand. He slumped to the ground as the Smallwood brothers turned and ran down the alley, disappearing into the night.
“I don’t know what could be keeping him,” Madeleine said irritably, pacing again. “It’s after ten. He should have been here by now. You left the iron gates unlocked for him, didn’t you, Montro?”
“I did,” said Montro. “He’ll be able to come right up.”
“Where is he?” she mused aloud.
“Why don’t I go down to The Beaufort Club and…” Montro began.
“No,” she protested. “He knows the way here.”
She sighed and sank down onto the sofa. Doubts nagged. Where was he? Why hadn’t he come? Had he already tired of her? Had she, once again, been a gullible fool?
It was nearing eleven when the loud knock on the door finally came. Madeleine was up off the sofa and across the room before Avalina could reach the front door.
“Where have you—?” She stopped in midsentence when she opened the door to see a stranger standing before her.
The messenger asked, “Are you Lady Madeleine?”
“Yes, yes I am.”
He nodded and handed her an envelope. She stared at him, stared at the envelope.
“Good night,” said the young messenger and hurried back down the outside stairs.
Her hands beginning to shake, Madeleine tore the envelope open, took out the note, unfolded it and hurriedly read:
Lady Madeleine,
Your friend, Armand de Chevalier, was brought into New Orleans General Hospital a half hour ago after being beaten by street thugs. Armand was unconscious, but he was saying your name.
Dr. Jean Paul Ledette
Madeleine’s heart stopped. Then raced out of her chest. She felt as if she might faint. The room started to spin.
“Montro,” she managed to whisper.
“Yes, my lady? What is it?” Montro asked, having already come into the foyer.
Both he and Avalina quickly stepped forward to steady the trembling Madeleine. Montro took the message from her hand, read it quickly, and heard Madeleine say, “Will you take me to him?”
“We’ll leave at once.”
“Yes,” she replied, half-dazed, “I must go to Armand.”
Thirty-Eight
At the hospital, Madeleine felt icy cold despite the warmth of the mid-May night. She stood stiffly beside Big Montro and watched Dr. Ledette coming toward them. The grim expression on the physician’s face was telling. She sagged against the wall, weak and terrified. Dr. Ledette reached them, smiled kindly at her and nodded to Montro.
“Dr. Ledette, is he badly hurt?” she asked, hardly able to breathe. “Will he be okay? Is he awake?”
The middle-aged physician replied, “Armand had been badly beaten, Lady Madeleine. He sustained some vicious blows to the head as well as to his chest and stomach. There’s a great deal of swelling and it is, unfortunately, too soon to know how lasting the damage.” Seeing the despair that came into her eyes, he laid a comforting hand on her slender shoulder, and added, “I’m so sorry the news is not better, my dear. Perhaps your presence will do what I cannot. When he was brought in, Armand was calling your name.”
Madeleine nodded, swallowed hard and, determined she would not cry, asked, “Where is he? I want to see him.”
“And you may,” said Dr. Ledette, “but I must warn you about his appearance. Armand’s face has been brutally pummeled…he doesn’t look like himself. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I do, but I don’t care. Please, just take me to him now.”
“Certainly,” replied the doctor.
Madeleine glanced up at Big Montro. “Come with me.” He nodded.
Her own footsteps and those of Montro and the doctor echoed loudly in her ears as they walked down the silent, shadowy corridor. Madeleine had to carefully concentrate on placing one foot in front of the other. She had to fight down the panic that was threatening to overwhelm her. She had to be strong and responsible for Armand’s sake. She couldn’t allow him to see her behaving like a hysterical female.
“This is it.” Dr. Ledette paused before a closed door at the far end of the corridor. “Are you sure you’ll be okay?”
“I’ll be fine,” she answered, giving him a brave smile. She read the concern on his weathered face and said, “Don’t worry, Dr. Ledette. I have no intention of fainting.”
“Then I’ll give you a few minutes and be back to check on him shortly.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
As the physician turned and started back down the hall, Madeleine touched Montro’s muscular forearm and said, “You’ll stay here? You won’t leave?”
“I’ll be right here outside the door.”
Madeleine drew a long, spine-stiffening breath, braced herself, opened the door, stepped inside and closed it behind her.
The room was very small and very white. White walls, white bed, wh
ite sheets, white curtains. The only light was from a small bedside lamp resting on a metal table.
Her heart in her throat, Madeleine tiptoed toward the bed that was directly across the room. As she neared it and saw Armand, she couldn’t hold back the strangled moan of horror that rose to her lips. Her hand flew up to her mouth and she thought she was going to be ill.
For a long moment she couldn’t move. She stood several feet from the bed with her hands over her mouth, shaking her head as if to clear it, fighting back the tears that were quickly filling her eyes. When she could function, she moved closer.
She walked around to the right side of the bed, looked down at him and began to sob. The poor battered soul lying so deathly still on the snowy-white bed was not recognizable. He looked nothing like her darkly handsome Armand. He had been literally beaten to a bloody pulp. There was not one square inch of his face that wasn’t cut, swollen or bruised.
“My poor, hurt darling,” she wept and sank down onto the edge of the mattress, facing him. “I’m here, Armand,” she said, knowing he couldn’t hear her. “I’m right here, my love. I’ll never leave you, never.”
No response.
But she hadn’t expected any. She leaned closer and gazed at him, blinking to clear her tear-blurred vision. She longed to kiss him, but there was no place on his once beautiful face that wasn’t injured.
She wondered if his magnificent body had been battered as badly as his face. The sheet was drawn up around his shoulders. She carefully lowered the sheet to his waist and bit her lip when she saw what they’d done to his chest and ribs and belly. Partially covered with tight bandages, the flesh on his rib cage that was left exposed was black and purple from severe bruising. Raw abrasions decorated his flat abdomen and bare shoulders and long arms.
“Oh, God, oh my God,” she cried and gently lifted one of his bandaged hands in both of her own.
She searched for a spot on that long-fingered hand that was not bruised or scratched. There were none. Finally she kissed the inside of his wrist, allowing her lips to linger for a while in an effort to assure herself that he was still very much alive. The faint beat of his pulse against her lips was comforting.