Murder, on the other hand, was quite infrequent.
Dugas looked around the room. It was lavishly decorated with two thick sofas, a delicate-looking armoire, and a huge mirror with a gilt frame above the mantel. French lace hung from the mosquito bar above the bed. New-fashioned window screens adorned each window. An elegant gold clock on the marble mantle ticked nine A.M. Dugas noted nothing was overturned in the room. The violence had been confined to the bed.
Light footsteps turned Dugas around. Marie was back, a look of consternation on her face. She moved to Dugas like a furtive mouse. “Monsieur, I must tell you our man Fancy is in the kitchen with blood on his hands and arms. They are attending him."
Dugas looked back at the doctor. “I'm closing the door, sir. No one is to enter except the police. Do you mind waiting while I attend to an urgent matter?"
"Not at all.” The doctor yawned.
Marie led the way down the staircase. Dugas had to squeeze through the ladies whose different perfumes were so strong they caused him to sneeze. One brazen hussy pinched Dugas on the backside as he passed.
"His name is Fancy?” Dugas asked as they rushed through a front parlor filled with stuffed sofas in brocade, thick Persian rugs, and dark velvet drapes.
Marie nodded without looking back. As they passed through a dining room, Dugas nearly paused. They circled a mahogany table that could sit twenty. Two huge crystal chandeliers above; atop the table, flowers floated in bowls of water.
Stopping before the next doorway, Marie pointed through it. “He's in the kitchen."
Dugas went straight in and found the mulatto woman with the red tignon around her head. She was sitting at a kitchen table, dressing the wounds of a smallish, light-skinned mulatto man. His eyes saucered when he saw Dugas and trembled as the woman wiped blood from gashes on both arms. Tears welled in the man's eyes.
The mulatto woman scolded him to keep still, then noticed Dugas in the doorway, leaned back in her chair, and said, in French, “Don't hurt him. He's slow in the brain. He didn't mean no harm."
Dugas's hand moved back to his revolver, but he didn't pull it as he stepped into the kitchen, which smelled of grease and cooked eggs. He asked the smallish man his name.
"Francois,” said the man. “Francois Laval. They calls me Fancy because I tickle the ivories.” Laval spoke in excited French, stood all of five two, couldn't have weighed more than one-thirty. His chocolate brown eyes were large, even when they weren't ovaled, his black hair close cropped. He was shirtless and wore tight-fitting tan slacks that were blood splattered.
"What happened to your arms?” Dugas asked.
The tears were back and Laval began crying.
Dugas didn't realize Marie had left him until she stepped back into the doorway with Concannon and two detectives. Dugas recognized the lead bull, Detective Lieutenant James Gray, who also stood six feet tall, weighing in at two hundred twenty pounds at least, with light brown hair and a full beard.
"What's all this?” Gray demanded.
Dugas explained, still watching Laval as the man's face stiffened, expecting the inevitable. Gray asked Laval his version of what happened.
"I got cut,” Laval said in wavering French. Dugas translated.
"What happened to the weapon?"
"Weapon?” Laval asked in French. So frightened, the man nearly collapsed.
An angry Gray asked, “You speak English?"
Laval managed to nod. “A leetle."
"Was it a knife? Razor?” Gray towered over the small man, who looked to his feet.
Laval whispered the word, “Knife."
The second bull edged Dugas back into the dining room with Concannon. Marie took Dugas's sleeve and asked, “Did he do it?"
Dugas shrugged just as the second bull leaned out and said, “You two go outside and handle the crowd. Put what you saw and heard in a report for us before your day ends."
Concannon led Dugas outside. While the veteran sat on the stoop with his report book, writing down their observations, Dugas guarded the front steps of Crimson Kate's mansion, No. 40 Basin Street. He was surprised by the size of the crowd, which filled the street and the banquettes on either side. Most were women, most with painted faces, some wearing little, if anything. Dugas spotted a gentleman in a top hat ease out of an establishment across the street and pretend to be a passerby.
The sun beat down on Dugas and the breathless, humid air was thick as steam from a boiling pot. Awfully hot for November, which happened often in New Orleans. Dugas climbed up the stoop a few steps to try to catch some air. Concannon came down with Marie, who now wore a light blue dress and carried two glasses of iced tea.
"You're a bonnie lass,” said Concannon as he took one glass, letting Marie pass the other to Dugas.
Concannon sat, notebook in hand, and told Dugas to repeat what the man in the kitchen had said to him. Dugas recited it verbatim and added his observations in the room, how it was not messed in any way.
"Which proves?” asked the veteran cop.
"There was no struggle."
Concannon shrugged and added it to the notes, as angry voices turned Dugas around to see three reporters shoving their way to the front of the crowd. Each one wore a derby with a press card stuck in the headband, each carried a reporter's notepad and pointed his pencil and shouted questions at Dugas and Concannon.
"Is it really Crimson Kate?"
"Was she butchered?"
"How many are dead in there?"
Dugas spotted a large man shoving through the crowd right behind the reporters. When he got close he yelled, “I must get through!"
The reporters turned in time for him to shove past them. The sandy-haired man stood about six four, weighing at least three hundred pounds. He wore an expensive gray suit, a yellow rose in his lapel.
Marie leaned next to Dugas's ear as the man extracted himself from the crowd and started up the stoop. “It's Monsieur Pierre. He's Crimson Kate's man."
Dugas stepped in front of the man, who had to stop short and almost tumbled into him.
"No one goes inside,” Dugas said.
The big man looked at Dugas and wheezed, “I am ... Pierre Troisville ... and I—” He raised a bloody hand to wipe the sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his suit. Dugas took a step back as the man raised his other hand, equally bloody.
"I—I—” Troisville wavered, reached for the railing, missed it, and fell straight back on the three reporters, flattening them. Marie ran inside for the doctor. It took the reporters a good minute to extricate themselves from beneath Troisville. One snapping up at Dugas, “Ya coulda helped!"
Marie came out with Dr. Veasey, now clad in a suit, who checked on Troisville, reviving him with smelling salts and getting the man up and into the mansion with help from two more bulls who'd just arrived. Dugas and Concannon were left to finish their iced teas.
At noon, the coroner arrived with two assistants carrying a gurney.
Marie brought refills some time later, but the policemen went without lunch that day, that infamous day when the biggest murder of the year visited Basin Street, filling it with a crowd that went for blocks. Dugas spotted vendors selling vittles at the far end of the crowd.
At two o'clock one of the bulls came out with a paper bag and showed its contents to the reporters, whose number had grown to thirteen. He showed them a bloody bowie knife found in the murder room. The knife had a nine-inch blade. Shrieks from the women in the crowd echoed along the street when he lifted the knife from the bag.
Marie pulled Dugas aside and told him it was Crimson Kate's knife. “She got it after the other murder."
"What other murder?"
"Happened before I came here,” Marie explained. “Maybe ten year ago. Two men got in a fight inside and one was killed. The police gave Madam Kate the knife as a souvenir. She kept it under her pillow."
Long after the coroner's men took Crimson Kate's body out the back of the mansion, away from the crowd, three bulls escort
ed Francois “Fancy” Laval into a police paddy wagon that had worked its way through the crowd to the front of the place. The noise level rose as the wagon pulled away. People shouted obscenities, some threw rocks, tomatoes, and onions at the wagon.
When Lieutenant Gray emerged with Pierre Troisville, whose hands were heavily bandaged, Gray dismissed Concannon but surprised Dugas by saying, “You come along with me. And bring your report."
Concannon passed the report to Dugas and patted his shoulder. “Go along now. You'll probably learn somethin'. I'm too old to learn anything."
Marie gave Dugas a lingering stare as he departed.
Across Canal Street, near the corner of South Basin and Common Streets, hovered the hulking brick Central Police Station. Dugas followed the detectives to the Detective Bureau on the second floor and waited in the squad room while Lieutenant Gray and his men put Laval and Troisville in separate interrogation rooms.
"Take a seat,” Gray said as he came back out. “Coffee?"
"Sure."
He led Dugas to a small table at the rear of the room where a coffeepot sat on a black iron stove. “We'll let them sweat a while in the rooms,” Gray added, as he poured thick coffee into mugs, then led Dugas to his desk near the center of the squad room. The lieutenant kicked his feet up on his dark wooden desk and yawned.
"Well, Officer Dugas,” Gray said. “We've good news and bad news on this caper. The good news—we got the killer. The bad news—we got two men accusing each other so we don't know exactly who killed the infamous Crimson Kate."
Dugas sat forward in his chair.
"I need you to talk with this Fancy Laval fella,” Gray went on. “He speaks better French than English and since you're the lone Frenchie around here."
Dugas nodded and dug his notepad from his pocket, along with a pencil. “What did Laval say?"
Gray smirked. “Says he saw Troisville rush from Kate's room and tried to stop him from leaving. Troisville cut him and got away. Troisville says he found Laval standing over the body with the bowie knife in hand. He tried to stop the mulatto, claiming Laval was all bug-eyed and crazy. They fought furiously, as he put it, and Laval cut him and got away. Troisville said he tried to follow Laval out the back of the mansion but went dizzy, stumbled out the back door, and passed out. He then stumbled around to the front where he found you and your partner."
Dugas jotted furious notes, didn't look up as he asked, “Where was the knife found?"
He looked up and a glint came to Gray's eyes. “Back porch."
Dugas nodded as he wrote. “Troisville says they fought. Where?"
"Bedroom."
The young patrolman looked up from his notes. “But there was no sign of a struggle in the bedroom. No blood dripped in the hall. Did you find any blood leading to the back porch?"
"Nope. We found blood on the porch and in the back yard."
Dugas furrowed his brows. “Then Laval's story sounds more credible, does it not?"
"Ha!” Gray slapped his knee. “My thoughts exactly. I heard you were a smart fella.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Smarter than many of me boys up here, but don't mention it to them. We Irish don't like to be reminded that sometimes we're not the brightest bush in the forest.” Gray chuckled at his own joke, leaned back and added, “There was a dog in the room. We took it downstairs and it licked Laval's hand and wanted to bite off Troisville's fingers. Not scientific, but maybe the dog was telling us something."
* * * *
Fancy Laval's eyes were red and he looked ashen, his skin a gray pallor. Dugas handed him a mug of coffee and sat across from him at the small table in the tiny room, little more than a closet with a lone, high window on the wall away from the door.
Dugas asked in French if the man was in pain. Laval shrugged. Dugas placed several NOPD official statement forms on the table and said he needed to take a formal statement.
"You read English?"
Laval nodded and the statement began, all spoken in French, all written down by Dugas in English. Laval's story was simple and precise. He was passing at the bottom of the stairs and a “blood-curling” scream drew him up to Madame's room. He found Monsieur Pierre Troisville rushing from the room. They collided, at which time Troisville produced a large knife and struck at Laval, cutting his left arm but not badly. Laval fell back into Madame's room, saw her on the bed. He pursued Troisville, who was not as nimble afoot and caught him on the back porch, where Troisville slashed his other arm. Laval still managed to grab Troisville, and he struggled for the knife with the big man, cutting Troisville, who dropped the knife. Troisville kicked Laval and got away. Laval fell back into the mansion and tried to go up to check on Madame Kate, but did not make it past the kitchen, where he stopped to stem the flow of blood from his arms. And that was where Dugas had found him.
"Do you know why Monsieur Troisville would hurt Madame Kate?"
"They argued,” explained Laval, “and often fought."
"Is there anything you wish to add or take away from your statement?"
Laval said no.
Dugas passed the statement to Laval to review, then sign. The man's hand shook as he signed the statement. Looking up at Dugas, he asked, “Do you believe what I say?"
"Yes. And more importantly, I think the lieutenant believes you."
Dugas led Laval out into the squad room and they both sat in chairs in front of the lieutenant's desk. Laval's leg quivered as he sat, and his fingers moved slowly back and forth as if he were playing a piano.
"Why did the woman with the tignon say you were slow in the brain?"
Laval looked at his feet. “The gentlemens talk down to me all the time, so I plays the part.” Laval gave Dugas a sharp look with a hint of a smirk. “The dimwitted darkie. What they expect.” Then the eyes ovaled and began to glisten. “Madame Kate never treated me that way. She knew I'm smart.” He looked at his feet again.
Several bulls came into the squad room, ignoring Dugas and Laval as they moved to their desks, their voices bouncing off the walls. One smoked a stogie that reeked. Laval crinkled his nose as the man passed.
"You said you ‘tickle the ivories,'” Dugas said.
"Yessir. Ragtime. I get the joint a jumpin'.” A slight smile came to the mulatto's face. “They can't keep still.” He lifted his injured arms and let his finger fly. “It's like I'm pulling their strings like a puppet master. And they all smile.” The man's English was suddenly clearer, not uncommon for Mediterraneans to hide behind their language when dealing with cops.
Dugas was about to ask about Marie Adams when Lieutenant Gray and one of his bulls came out of the other interrogation room and headed straight for them. Gray's serious face changed as he approached and winked at Dugas and announced, “Bastard copped out. He just admitted everything."
Laval began crying, hands rising to cover his face.
"Why'd he do it?” Dugas asked.
Gray plopped into his chair. “Says she attacked him with the knife. It was her knife. Says Crimson Kate had an hellacious temper. Not surprisingly, she was Irish."
"We gave Kate that knife,” said Dugas.
"We did what?”
"Apparently there was a murder at No. 40 Basin Street ten years ago. Two men fighting. We gave Kate the knife after."
Gray looked at the ceiling. “I think I remember the case. My captain handled it.” Gray smirked. “He kept it quiet. The killer was related to the mayor or some alderman."
He nodded to Laval, who was wiping his face with a handkerchief now. “He give you a good statement?"
Dugas passed the statement to Gray, who glanced at it and told Laval, “We'll get you back home. Don't leave town. We're going to need you to testify in court. Understand?"
"Oui.”
Gray looked at Dugas. “Want to come to the postmortem in the morning? I'll clear it with your captain."
"Yessir."
"Good. You might learn something."
* * * *
That night, as Dug
as tried to fall asleep, he kept seeing Marie Adams's face. Those blue eyes stared back at him as he traced the sleek lines of her face, the long straight hair, the full lips. He imagined running his hand along the side of her face, gently kissing those lips, pulling her close. There was something alluring about Marie, a hint of innocence in a place where innocence was a rarity. He envisioned her as vulnerable, and imagined rescuing her. From what, he had no idea. Yet he knew this woman was not vulnerable. She was strong, with a will to survive.
He wanted to know Marie Adams but felt he never would. What could he offer her? Living with him in the small Creole cottage he shared with his elderly aunt? Could any woman who'd seen what she'd seen, the dancing, the nightlife, could a woman like that be content to live in a tiny house in the small neighborhood of Faubourg Marigny?
It took a while for sleep to come, and when it did, it was a fitful sleep, interrupted by dreams of a bloody knife, of women screaming. Then just before waking, he dreamt of sitting together with Marie beneath an oak at the city's first modern park, Tivoli Gardens. Gentlemen in top hats and women in the finest dresses walked the Tivoli promenade, while others meandered in small boats along Bayou St. John. Marie had her eyes closed, her head tilted back with the sunlight on her face, giving it a soft, warm glow. Dugas moved his face close to her and they softly kissed.
Dugas woke to a stammering heart and sat upright in bed. The gray dawn light filtered through the small window over his bed. He lay back, hands behind his head, closed his eyes, and reached for that vision again.
AHMM, November 2008 Page 11