by Hunter, Neil
‘Lacroix runs a pretty lax gambling house,’ Noonan said. ‘Patrons can enjoy a drink, smoke expensive cigars and delight in the more dubious pleasures Lacroix has to offer. From what I’ve heard the girls Lacroix employs are of a high quality. They are led by Lacroix’s sister – Seraphina.’
Wallace grunted in disapproval.
‘The rumors are that she is a practitioner of the black arts.’
‘Black arts?’
‘Voodoo. A Creole cult,’ Noonan said. ‘The stories are well told in the area. Voodoo is a strong tradition around New Orleans.’
‘Tradition? Real or imagined?’
‘Jason, the beliefs are strongly held.’
Brand held back from comment. He knew enough about mystical tradition from his contact with Indian culture. Medicine men. Shamans. Strong cultures that were not to be passed over lightly.
‘It is known that Seraphina Lacroix has a strong influence over her brother,’ Noonan said. ‘It may simply be talk but I have heard the pair of them are a whole lot closer than brother and sister ought to be.’
‘The more I hear the more I’m convinced I should start with a look at this Creole Queen.’
‘Before you do,’ Noonan said, ‘I’d like you to come with me and hear what Eleanor Buckman has to say. She is Buckman’s sister.’
~*~
In the parlor of Doc Marcellus’ home, behind his office Brand was introduced to the sister of Cyrus Buckman. A middle-aged, plump woman who seemed on the edge of panic.
‘Mr. Brand, I do not know what has my brother so terrified. I just know it is haunting him. He moans in his sleep as if something terrible is in his dreams. But he refuses to talk about it. If I press him he becomes irritable to the point of … and now he appears to have vanished.’
Brand saw the ashen color in her cheeks, the glint of tears in her eyes. Her voice faltered, fading away to barely a whisper. She turned aside, burying her face in her hands. He was glad that Doctor Marcellus’s wife was there. She placed her arms around the weeping woman, comforting her with the words Brand could not have spoken. She glanced at him, shaking her head gently.
‘Come and sit down, Eleanor. No more talk of these things until you feel ready.’
She guided the trembling woman across the room to a sofa and sat beside her.
‘Why do you not take Mr. Brand and the Inspector into the other room,’ Katherine said. ‘A drink would not be amiss I am sure.’
The other room turned out to be a study, complete with book lined shelves and comfortable leather armchairs. Marcellus quietly closed the sliding door.
‘Whiskey?’ he said. Brand nodded. ‘Sit down, Jason.’
Noonan shook his head at the offer and favoring his shoulder, took another chair.
Brand took the heavy tumbler and stared at the rich amber liquid. He waited until Marcellus occupied the chair facing his.
‘That woman is close to a breakdown,’ the doctor said. ‘Whatever is ailing her brother is tearing her apart. And now this disappearance.’
Brand tasted the mellow whiskey, his thoughts absorbing him for a moment.
‘It’s more than simply an affair with a woman,’ Noonan said. ‘Or gambling debts. It has to be something far worse, and I’m convinced now it has something to do with Lacroix.’
‘I’m inclined to agree,’ Marcellus said. ‘Up until a few months ago Buckman was as steady as any man I’ve ever known. A solid, respected figure.’
‘Doc, I’ve come across respected fellers I wouldn’t trust with a loaded gun.’
‘I guess you could be right about that,’ Noonan murmured.
Brand said, ‘When did those girls begin to vanish?’
Marcellus paused with his glass barely touching his lips. The expression on his face gave Brand the answer before he spoke and even then there was doubt.
‘Around three months ago … my God, man, are you trying to suggest Cyrus Buckman has something to do with them missing?’
‘Doc, I’m just trying to get a handle on this mess. Maybe I’m reaching in the dark. Just trying to untangle things. I was hoping Buckman’s sister might tell if I’m looking in the right place …’
‘Have to admit there are questions I’d like answers to myself …’ Noonan said.
‘I believe Eleanor Buckman might be able to provide some of those,’ a voice said. None of them had heard the door slide open to admit Marcellus’s wife. ‘She wants to see you now.’
Marcellus and Noonan followed Brand back into the parlor where Eleanor Buckman was waiting. Her face was still pale, eyes moist, but she had composed herself enough to face them.
‘I must apologize for my behavior,’ she said.
‘Ma’am, there’s no need,’ Brand said.
He took a seat facing her.
‘I cannot in all truth deny my concerns over my brother. His sleep has been disturbed most every night. I’ve heard him moaning in his room. Walking about. Back and forth. Even awake he seems distracted, as if matters on his mind are disturbing him. His manner is abrupt. Reaching extremes at times. He has never exhibited such extreme behavior before. Now he has gone.’
‘Do you have any thoughts why? I understand he has business interests in the city. Could his problems be associated with them?’
‘As far as I am aware his business affairs are sound. The bank is successful. Whatever his problems I do not see the bank as being behind them. I believe they…’ Eleanor Buckman hesitated, struggling to find the words she needed to express herself. ‘…are associated with The Quorum.’
Brand glanced at Marcellus. He shook his head.
‘Ma’am?’
‘It is the name for a group of his business associates. A small gathering who can step away from the daily pressures of work. A social gathering away from boardrooms where they can relax and enjoy the company of likeminded men. A way of relieving the day to day pressures of business.’
‘Yet you say your brother has been far from relaxed?’
‘When he first began his association with these men everything seemed fine. He came home from his meetings refreshed and in good humor. Then about three months ago he began to change. The distractions started. The depression and the interrupted sleep.’
Brand caught Marcellus staring at him.
Three months.
The number had come up again.
Three months since the disappearances began.
The same time Buckman had started to exhibit changes.
‘Do you have names for these men your husband associates with?’
Eleanor Buckman nodded.
‘Two of them yes. Jerome Coleman and Henry Dalton. They have been his close friends for many years. Very good friends.’
‘Where do they meet? The same place each time?’
The women nodded. ‘At The Creole Queen. Victor Lacroix owns the place. My husband and his friends enjoy playing cards there,’ Leonora said, obviously not entirely comfortable. ‘And I am sure there are other attractions. I believe you can imagine what I am referring to.’
Brand was sure she was hinting at women.
Marcellus explained. ‘Gambling. Entertainment. The Creole Queen has a reputation as the place where anything can be had – for a price.’
And Victor Lacroix owned it.
Brand didn’t express any surprise at the name. Because he was not surprised. Although he had not said anything about his suspicions, Eleanor Buckman’s revelation had confirmed what he had been thinking, albeit subconsciously. That Lacroix had a hand in what was happening.
It was starting to add up. Things coming together. There were still loose ends, but a picture was forming through the shadows.
And Victor Lacroix was in there.
So was his sister – Seraphina.
Brand was more than convinced they were both at the back of the affair. As much as he didn’t like the thought he was beginning to believe they were responsible for the disappearances and the death of Netta Delacort. He decided he wo
uld keep that to himself for the moment. Until he had solid proof. He might be certain in his own mind. Convincing others might not be as easy.
‘Will you find Cyrus?’ Eleanor Buckman asked.
‘I’m going to try,’ Brand said.
Noonan said, ‘Keep your wits about you, Jason. The Mardi Gras celebrations started today, so New Orleans is going to be crowded more than usual … and noisier.’
~*~
Noonan had not been wrong. The streets teemed with a mass of people. Many in colorful and garish costumes. Floats trundled and swayed as they negotiated the streets. Music struggled to be heard above the constant racket of voices. Brand found himself seemingly moving against the flow as he made his way to The Creole Queen.
The outside was gaudy and bright, windows gilded and adorned with the name of the casino. Observing it from the opposite side of Bourbon Street, Brand had to admit it stood out. He could hear the constant ripple of voices coming from inside, almost drowning out the music playing. If he hadn’t been on assignment he could have enjoyed the atmosphere himself, but he had to push that to the back of his mind and concentrate on his duty.
He wore his black suit, his string tie neat against the white shirt. The Colt special rested in the shoulder holster, beneath his coat. Brand entered the casino merging with the crowd who pushed in through the open doors. A drift of tobacco smoke hung overhead, mingling with sweat and liquor. His eyes scanned the brightly lit expanse, taking in the long bar with gleaming mirrors fixed to the walls behind it. Lines of bottles and glasses filled the shelves below the mirrors. Against one wall were long tables showcasing an open buffet where the patrons were able to partake of the free food. A number of aproned waiters slid in and out of the gathering, expertly balancing small drinks trays on their hands. As one moved by him Brand caught a champagne glass and tasted the pale liquid. It was quality and chilled. Lacroix maintained a high standard for his customers. He picked out a number of young, attractive women, circulating the room. They stopped and spoke to customers, smiling and laughing at jokes. All part of the business.
Looking beyond the crowd and the gaming tables saw a door on the far wall that was being watched over by a pair of hard-faced men. Silent and unmovable they could not have advertised their presence more if they showed the revolvers sitting under their coats. As Brand observed he watched as two men approached, spoke quietly to the guards. Both were middle-aged, impeccably dressed and exuded wealth. One of the guards opened the door and let the pair through, then returned to his silent vigil.
Brand was instantly intrigued. Something told him he would be more than interested to see what lay behind that guarded door. He drained his champagne and placed the empty glass on a table as he passed, moving casually in the direction of the door. As he closed in on the door he saw the guards physically tense. His earlier appraisal had told him they were well muscled and placed at the door to deter any unwanted visitors. He stopped within a few feet, a casual smile on his face.
‘Going to let me in?’
‘Not for you, sir,’ one of them said.
‘Hey, I’m here to enjoy myself and I have the money to prove it.’
A large hand was raised and held in Brand’s face.
The guard’s impassive stare was intended make people back away. It failed to impress Brand. He might have done something rash if he hadn’t picked up on someone close behind him.
Turning he came face to face with a slim, groomed figure regarding him with a disarming smile on his face. Stylish clothes, including a ruffled shirt. When the man spoke it was with a cultured French accent.
‘I am Julienne Dubois, the house manager. I must inform you that the games are private beyond this door, Monsieur. Without an introduction, there’s no way of getting in. A member must vouch for you. Strict rules of the house you must understand. ‘
‘Well we wouldn’t want to break the rules, Monsieur Dubois.’
‘That would never do.’ Dubois offered a slight bow. ‘Your visit to The Creole Queen is known and I doubt it has to do with gambling. I will tell you only once Monsieur Brand. Do not continue with this. Persist…qui sait.’
All extremely polite, Brand thought. But he hadn’t failed to notice the shoulder-holstered handgun concealed beneath the well-cut coat. Or the cold expression in the Frenchman’s eyes. Beneath the elegant façade Dubois was as much a killer as any back-alley thug. Not the sort a man he would be advised to offer his back to.
New Orleans it seemed had teeth, sharp and hungry, behind every welcoming smile. It was time Brand started playing hard himself, because if he failed to stay on his toes the local bayou’s gators might still get to meet him.
‘Another time perhaps,’ Brand said and walked away.
He crossed to the bar and ordered a drink. He paid, picked up the glass and turned with his back to the bar so he was able to scan the room. Scattered among the paying customers he picked out more of the establishment’s watchers. He counted up three of them. Well-dressed and sharp. All armed under their coats. Not one of them held a drink. Or engaged in any conversation with the customers. Lacroix had his people well trained. The men stood close to the walls. Spaced apart so they could cover the whole room. They were watching. Waiting. The moment anything started they would move in quickly and deal with the situation. Brand had to give Lacroix credit for his organizational skills, yet the more he thought about it the stronger his conviction that Lacroix had more going on than a simple gambling and drinking setup.
Brand had seen enough to know he was getting close to the real reason why Lacroix was so needful of such a strong security force.
He wasn’t fully certain what just yet, but he was going to find out.
Gambling and liquor and women were a front to the man’s real business.
Whatever that was.
He was convinced there was something he needed to see on the other side of that well-guarded door. Brand emptied his glass, moved casually towards the door and stepped outside. He made his way along to the corner, took a right turn and followed the span of the casino until he reached the alley that ran along what would be the building’s side and rear wall. Checking it out he saw a six-foot solid fence with double-gates. That would lead to the delivery yard and storage area.
And even a back exit from the casino.
The gates yielded at his touch and Brand eased through, stepping into the rear yard of the casino. It was only later he realized he should have been suspicious of being able to get inside the yard. By then it was too late.
As he slipped through the gate he reached under his coat and drew the Colt from his belt. The feel of the heavy pistol in his hand gave him a degree of comfort.
Across the hard-packed dirt of the yard he saw the casino’s rear wall. A wooden delivery platform and a wide door. To his left he saw a couple of expensive buggies and a small livery stable where he could see the restless shape of horses. Brand moved to cross the yard, heading for the rear door.
He never reached it.
The door opened and an armed figure appeared.
It was Julienne Dubois. The gun Brand had spotted concealed by the man’s coat was it Dubois’ hand now, the muzzle casually aimed in Brand’s direction. It was a Colt Derringer.
As the Frenchman stepped onto the loading platform, two more men showed themselves. They were the pair Brand had confronted in the casino. Still large and threatening – with the addition of their hands resting on the butts of pistols in holsters on their belts.
Brand accepted his mistake and also that he had walked into the trap Julienne Dubois had plainly set for him.
‘I did warn you,’ Dubois said. ‘Offered you the chance to walk away, Monsieur Brand.’
‘Always had problems with being told to do things. In English … or French.’
‘Your persistence may be your downfall,’ Dubois said.
He turned his head slightly to speak to the pair behind him.
Brand had only taken a couple of steps inside the ga
te while he had assessed the area. Three, four feet at most, the gate still open behind him. As Dubois turned Brand made his move. He had no idea how good a shot the Frenchman was. He was about to find about as he triggered a wild shot at the grouped figures, at the same time turning on his heels and ducking low as he went through the gap in the gates.
He picked up a shout. Followed by a shot. The slug hammered into the edge of one of the gates and Brand felt wood splinters tug at his sleeve. Then he was through, turning down the alley away from the street side.
He had no idea where the alley would lead him, but as long as it took him away from Dubois that was fine. For the moment he had no choice. Staying alive was his paramount objective.
The alley began to curve around to the right. He had no choice but to follow it.
Shots came from behind him, slugs chipping at the alley side. Brand felt one slice his coat sleeve. He kept moving, resisting the urge to turn and fire back. He picked up on raised voices as Dubois urged his people in pursuit.
Brand skidded around the alley bend, one shoulder catching the stone of a wall. The impact made him twist and over his shoulder he saw fast moving figures coming in his direction. Four of them, moving swiftly ahead of Dubois and his slower moving gunmen.
They were dressed in carnival costumes, wearing masks, and wielding machetes. One of them, lean and fast, had drawn ahead of his companions and was coming straight at Brand.
As he pushed away from the wall, almost going to his knees, Brand caught a fleeting glimpse of a grinning face rushing at him. Only it wasn’t a natural expression. It was a painted face. Stark white with a black-lipped mouth and wide, black circled eyes, teeth gleaming. The face had the appearance of a living skull. The figure was dressed all in black, even the hands covered by thin black gloves. The machete clutched in one hand, raised as the man closed in. He made a wild swing that Brand barely ducked away from. As the club skimmed his head he ducked, driving his left shoulder into his attacker’s chest. The man let out a choked gasp of breath as Brand kept pushing, driving him back until the side of the closest building brought them up short. Despite his awkward position the man swung the machete down and slammed it flat across Brand’s back. There was little power in the strike but it still hurt. Brand pushed his upturned palm in under the exposed jaw, pushing hard and slamming the man’s head back. It rapped against the stone wall, the man’s teeth snapping shut and biting into his protruding tongue. Blood washed from his mouth in a crimson flood. Brand ignored the warm slickness as it dribbled over his hand. He was concentrating on slamming the man’s head against the wall again, putting in as much force as he could. A free hand reached up and gripped Brand’s hair, pulling his own head back. Brand felt the tendons in his neck being stretched. With a quick move, he jabbed a stiff finger into one of his opponent’s eyes, pushing it in deep and felt the spurt of fluid as he inflicted damage. The man screamed and his resistance slackened, giving Brand the chance to step back and lift the Colt. He didn’t hesitate, snapping the hammer back and pushing the muzzle into the soft flesh under the man’s jaw and pulled the trigger. The .45 slug emerged from the white painted skull, misting the air with red.