by J. T. Edson
St. Andre knew none of this. All he saw was a merry-faced, competent and capable girl, unconventional perhaps and well outside his considerable knowledge of the opposite sex. She reminded him of the fresh-faced, buxom country girls one saw around the poorer section of the city; wholesome, naive, innocent—only he doubted if Calamity would prove all that innocent if things came to a head.
“How about your ribs?” she asked.
“I think they’ll be all right,” he replied, feeling suddenly shy and not doubting she would want to examine his torso should he claim different. So he changed the subject. “What brought you to New Orleans?”
“Somebody in the Army bought up a big bunch of horses cheap down here and wanted ‘em shipping up the Big Muddy to St. Jo. So they sent for Dobe Killem, he’s my boss, to handle the collection and delivery. We come down by steamboat and here we are. I went out to see the sights just afore dark and got lost coming back. Reckon the boys’ve gone off to that Madam Darcel’s place and want me to meet ‘em there.”
“Madam Darcel’s—,” gasped St. Andre. “You mean the Cheval D’Or?”
“Yep. Though what the hell a ‘Shovel Door’ is, I ain’t figured out.”
“Cheval D’Or,” corrected the detective. “It means Golden Horse. But it’s no place for a young lady.”
“Happen I see any going in,” grinned Calamity, “I’ll warn ‘em.”
Knowing something of Madam Darcel’s saloon, St. Andre felt he ought to give a further warning.
“I owe you my gratitude for saving me, Miss—,”
“Happen you want to show that gratitude,” she interrupted, “stop calling me ‘Miss’ and start saying ‘Calam’, or Jane, or even that there ‘Sherry’. And don’t go to fretting. The boys protect me—and I protect them.”
“Is any of the boys your—,” began St. Andre, then tapered off, not knowing how to finish his question.
“Nope. None of’em’s my ‘your—’. They’re like a bunch of big brothers to me. Reckon I’ll go on out and find em.”
‘Unless you have other ideas,’ her manner hinted.
St. Andre, as has been said, was a Frenchman, a lusty healthy young man with an eye for the ladies and a heart that took kindly to romance. Unfortunately he was also a policeman responsible for keeping the peace and investigating crimes. The peace had been broken and a crime committed, which meant he must put duty before what he felt sure would be a pleasure.
“I must also go out and try to find somebody, cherie,” he said regretfully, and waited for an explosion. No girl liked having that kind of offer tossed aside.
“Them four?” she asked. calmly; perhaps the calm before a breaking storm.
“Those four,” he agreed. “There are questions I must ask them.”
“I figured there might be,” Calamity stated showing neither disappointment nor annoyance, only complete understanding. “A good lawman can’t let anybody get away with working him over. It gives other folks wrong ideas and puts bad medicine in ‘em.”
“Who told you that?” asked the detective in surprise.
“The best danged man who ever wore a law-badge—west of the Mississippi that is.”
“And who would that be, Wyatt Earp?”
“That fighting pimp?” scoffed Calamity. “I’m talking about a real man. You maybe heard of him. Dusty Fog.”
“You know Captain Fog?” asked the impressed St. Andre, for the man named had been one of the most talked-about soldiers in the Confederate States cavalry and much in the news since the meeting at the Appomattox Court-House brought an end to military hostilities.1
“Met him a couple of times,” Calamity admitted. “Know his pard, Mark Counter a whole heap better.”2
“I also met Captain Fog, during the War when I rode with the Greyson Daredevils. He was a fine soldier and correct about a lawman’s duty.”
“Old Dusty gets right about more things than any two fellas I know,” answered Calamity. “Say, did you ever see the fancy way he fist-fights? That’s sure something to see.”
“You are right,” agreed St. Andre. “He uses a unique method. I wish I knew half as much. Of course I know savate—.”
“What the hell’s that?” asked the girl, packing away her medicines in the buckskin bag.
“Savate? French foot-fighting. It was brought to perfection by a man called Michel in Paris, France. I learned at Duval’s academy and he studied in Paris under Charles Lecour, Michel’s star pupil.”
“Must be real fancy, taking all that learning,” Calamity said dryly. “I can kick real good and never took a lesson in my sinful young life.”
“Ah, cherie, there is kicking and—la savate. Perhaps during your stay in our fair city I might be permitted to take you to Duval’s and show you how savate is learned.”
“Allus willing to learn something,” the girl replied and took the bag to her small trunk.
Although she did not know it, Calamity was due for a lesson in the noble art of savate a whole heap sooner than she expected. Her main thought-line at the moment of stowing away the medicine bag was that she would be seeing that fancy-talking, handsome young feller again. Now that might be real interesting.
Reaching up his hand, St. Andre touched the cut over his left eye. The blood, assisted by the gum, had congealed and the groove felt much smaller than when he previously examined it. One thing brought relief to the detective. Although the vision was blurred, he could still see and the damage to the eye appeared to be only to the lids and surrounding area. He wondered if a doctor could have handled his injuries any more efficiently than had the girl.
“How’d you like me to see if I can raise a cup of coffee?” Calamity asked as she returned from the box.
It was a tempting prospect for St. Andre, as he had not yet thrown off all the effects of the beating. However he wished to make a start on the hunt for his attackers before his injuries began to stiffen up. He knew that the longer it took him to start, the harder commencing would be. So, although his body craved to stay relaxed on the comfortable bed, he declined the offer.
“Perhaps another time, cherie,” he replied, rising from the bed and reaching for his coat. “Now I must go down town and start work.”
“Reckon I’d rather have a snort of red-eye myself;” Calamity admitted. “How do I find the ‘Shovel Door’?”
“It is on Latour Street. As a matter of fact, I intend to start my inquiries from the Latour Street station house. If you wish, I’ll ride over there with you. We can hire a carriage.”
“You know the range and I don’t. Hey, aren’t you forgetting something?”
Having put on his jacket, St. Andre started to walk towards the door of the room, but the girl’s last words brought him to a halt. He turned and looked at her, but her eyes were not on him. Following Calamity’s gaze, he saw his gun lying where the girl laid it aside.
“Oh that,” he said. “I suppose I’d better take it with me.” A frown creased Calamity’s face as she watched St. Andre drop the Smith & Wesson into his jacket pocket. No Western lawman would have left his weapon behind. One might forget his hat, or possibly his pants, but never his gun. Come to that, no Western peace officer would straddle himself with such a puny, feeble revolver as a .22 calibre Smith & Wesson. While that handsome young cuss might be real smart in some ways, it was Calamity’s considered opinion that he had a lot to learn about being a lawman.
Not wishing to create dissension, Calamity did not mention her thoughts. She drew on her buckskin jacket, decided that she would not need her bull whip again that night and went to blow out the lamp. Then she left the room on St. Andre’s arm, acting for all the world like a for-real New Orleans’ lady. Or as near one as wearing man’s clothing and with a Navy Colt hung at her right hip would allow.
oooOooo
1. Dusty Fog’s adventures are told in J. T. Edson’s Floating Outfit novels.
2. Calamity’s meetings with Mark Counter are recorded in THE WILDCATS and TROUBLED RANGE.
/>
CHAPTER THREE
Miss Canary Walks In The Park
WHILE Calamity never felt really comfortable riding in a vehicle with somebody else at the ribbons, she found the one-horse carriage they hired to take them to Latour Street had its advantages. Sitting inside, without the worry of keeping the horse going, Calamity relaxed and St. Andre pointed out various places of interest as they rode. At last they came alongside the large, open space known as the City Park, and the detective waved his hand towards it.
“Latour Street is on the other side of the Park. But we will have to go around it to reach the Cheval D’Or.”
A saloon girl who Calamity once fought with, beat, then befriended, had come from New Orleans and in the course of a conversation mentioned taking walks in City Park. From what the girl said, walking there had a special appeal and Calamity decided she might as well give it a whirl while so close.
“Reckon I’ll save the horses some sweat,” she remarked, “Tell the feller up there to stop and I’ll walk across.”
“You mean you wish to walk through the Park alone, and at night?” asked St. Andre, staring at the girl.
“Won’t be going to the ‘Shovel Door’ in the morning, so it’ll have to be tonight. Only I don’t reckon you’re feeling like walking, so I’ll be alone.”
“Mon Dieu! Haven’t you heard of the Strangler?”
“Nope. Who’s he?”
“I wish we knew. All we know is that he has killed seven girls in the Park.”
If St. Andre hoped to frighten or shock Calamity, he appeared to fail badly. Not by a flicker of her face did she show any fear or concern. However, her right hand dropped under the side of her jacket and touched the butt of the Navy Colt.
“I’m dressed,” she said quietly. “Stop the carriage, Sherry, and I’ll take me a walk.”
St. Andre did not understand the connotation behind a Westerner’s statement about being dressed. It had nothing to do with the fact that the speaker wore all his, or her, clothing, but implied that the one who made the statement carried the most important article of West-country property, a gun.
One thing St. Andre did not know, even after a short acquaintance; once Calamity made up her mind, very little under the sun would cause her to change it. However he could not allow a girl, even one so competent as Calamity, to chance walking alone in the park after dark, even on a bright moon-light night.
“If you are determined,” he said, “I’ll walk with you. And a lady does not call a gentleman ‘cherie’.”
“So who’s a lady?” grinned Calamity. “Reckon you can stand up to the walk?”
“I’ll try my best,” St. Andre answered and tapped on the roof of the cab.
Dismounting and helping Calamity down, St. Andre paid off the driver. Then he took Calamity’s arm and they walked through the big, wrought iron gates into City Park. Even in the early 1870’s New Orleans possessed a really fine park, although under the present conditions various senior police officials wished that the area had been built over instead of used as a recreation spot.
The Park might have been designed with the needs of the Strangler in mind, St. Andre decided, not for the first time, as he and Calamity strolled along. Winding paths ran through clumps of bushes which effectively hid one from the next. Scattered little wooden shelters offered places where courting couples could rest and do the kind of things they had done since men threw away clubs in favour of more gentle and pleasant methods of snaring a pretty young maiden. In that tangle, a man-made jungle-like maze, the Strangler could stalk his prey, slip his killing cord around a slim, delicate female throat and silently add another victim to his growing list, then be gone before the body was found.
So thought Philippe St. Andre, detective lieutenant, as he walked along keeping to the grass verge alongside the path. He hated to make a noise as he walked and so always tried to stay somewhere that muffled his footsteps. At his side, Calamity’s moccasins fell silently on the path. Neither spoke as they walked, each busy on his or her line of thought.
In Calamity’s case, the thoughts ran to the fun she would soon be having with the boys and wondering what a big city saloon offered in comparison with a similar place out West. She also wondered if the city detective meant his invitation to visit the savate academy. If so, how much further would their friendship develop? Calamity had no objections to the friendship blossoming, for, from what she heard, those French-Creole fellers were sure something at handing out the things a girl dreamed about on the long, dark, cold and lonely winter nights.
While passing across a joining with another path, Calamity saw something from the corner of her eye. Even at such a moment, the girl’s instincts were to keep alert, so she turned her head to look more carefully at what attracted her. What she saw brought her to a halt and made her tighten her grip on the detective’s sleeve.
“Don’t make a sound!” she hissed. “Down there!”
The very intensity with which Calamity spoke forced St. Andre to obey in silence. Turning to look in the direction Calamity pointed, St. Andre felt as if his eyes would pop out of his head at the sight before him. If the sight meant what he believed it did, St. Andre figured himself to be having more luck than even the youngest and most handsome lieutenant of the New Orleans Police Department rated.
In pre-Strangler days the sight of a man standing behind a girl in the City Park would have attracted no attention. Yet seeing such a sight now aroused any right-thinking policeman’s suspicions. The man stood with his back to Calamity and St. Andre, was medium sized, portly, wearing a top hat, stylishly-cut broadcloth coat, white trousers, the new-fangled spats that had become all the rage, and shiny shoes. Ahead of him, also with her back to the watching couple, stood a buxom, blonde, flashily-dressed girl who most probably was not his lady wife, and likely could not even claim to be a lady. Such a sight had never been so rare in the Park as to attract more than a glance, a cynical grin and some conjecture about how much the girl would make—until the Strangler started operations. Since the killings began however, the sight of a man standing behind a girl and dropping something over her head demanded not only a second glance, but instant action.
Despite his injuries, St. Andre found that he could still think fast. Even as the portly man’s hands came level with the girl’s throat, the detective let out a yell.
“Police here! Let go and stand still!”
Jerking his head around, the portly man gave a startled squawk. Thrusting the girl aside, he started to run away as fast as his legs would carry him. Ahead lay a corner and once round it he could disappear in any of a dozen directions, or hide in the bushes.
St Andre knew that as did the fleeing man, so sprang forward in pursuit, ignoring the screeching blonde who had landed on hands and knees at the side of the path.
Even as St. Andre leapt forward, Calamity also acted and showed a classic example of the difference between Eastern and Western thought on how to deal with such a problem. St. Andre hoped to run the man down in a foot-race, or at least keep him in sight until reinforcements arrived and cut off his escape. Although the detective carried a fully loaded revolver—even if only a tiny .22 Smith & Wesson—he did not give the weapon a thought, regarding it only as a means of extreme self-defence.
Not so Calamity. Raised on the Western plains, friend of numerous fast and handy gun-fighting gentlemen, she knew the value of a revolver in the present situation. Once around that corner, the man might escape and, if he should be the Strangler, stay free to kill again.
Twisting the palm of her right hand outwards, Calamity curled her fingers around the butt of the Navy Colt and brought it out fairly fast. By Western standards ‘fast’ meant to be able to draw a gun and shoot in at most three-quarters of a second and Calamity took a quarter of a second longer than that to bring her Colt into action. However, to draw and shoot in a second still licked the ‘be-jeesus’ out of running when it came to halting a fleeing criminal. Taking careful aim, for she had heard that these
civilised areas did not take kindly to having dead owlhoots scattered about the scenery, Calamity fired. On the crack of the shot, the man’s tophat somersaulted from his head and bounced on the path ahead of him, although it must be stated that Calamity did not intend to come that close.
Never one to look a gift horse—or a real lucky shot—in the mouth, Calamity acted just like she always hit her mark in so spectacular fashion.
“Hold it!” she yelled. “Stop, or the next one goes clear through you.”
Which, with a touch of dramatics—Calamity could never resist a chance to play the grandstand a mite, even though she had never heard of the term—brought about the desired result. However, for a moment Calamity thought a second shot, this time for effect, might be needed. Then the man skidded to a halt, turned and jerked his hands into the air.
“D—Don’t shoot!” he quavered. “I—I—only have a few dollars and my watch on me.’
“Well dog—my—cats!” Calamity growled, thumb-cocking her Colt. “He’s trying to make out like he thinks we’re fixing to rob him.”
“Or he really thinks so,” St. Andre answered, for he could not see the Strangler, with only the gallows waiting, surrendering so easily. “Holster your gun, Calam, we won’t need it any more.”
Figuring that a man who forgot to put his weapon into a pocket before leaving a room could hardly set himself up as an authority on when a gun would be needed, Calamity retained hold of the Colt and kept it from leather.
“I’ll believe that when I’m sure of it,” she answered.
“Hey!” yelped the gaudily-dressed girl, struggling to her feet and clapping a hand to her throat. “You fellers wouldn’t ta—My pearls!” The last two words came in a wild screech. “They must have bust when he pushed me. You lousy bastards made me lose my pearls!”