by Andre Norton
“Can’t we go slower?” complained Ricky. “I’d like to see some of the city without getting a crick in my neck from looking over my shoulder. Watch out for St. Anne Street. That’s one corner of Beauregarde Square, the old Congo Square—”
“Where the slaves used to dance on Sundays before the war. I know; I’ve read just as many guide-books as you have. But there is such a thing as obstructing traffic. Also we have about a million and one things to do this afternoon. We can explore later. Here we are; Bienville Avenue. No, I will not stop so that you can see that antique store. Six blocks to the right,” Val reminded himself.
“Val, that was the Absinthe House we just passed!”
“Yes? Well, it would have been better for a certain ancestor of ours if he had passed it, too. That was Jean Lafitte’s headquarters at one time. Exchange Street—the next is ours.”
They turned into Chartres Street and pulled up in the next block at the corner of Iberville. A four-story house coated with grayish plaster, its windows framed with faded green shutters and its door painted the same misty color, confronted them. There was a tiny shop on the first floor.
A weathered sign over the door announced that Bonfils et Cie. did business within, behind the streaked and bluish glass of the small curved window-panes. But what business Bonfils and Company conducted was left entirely to the imagination of the passer-by. Val locked the roadster and took from Ricky the long legal-looking envelope which Rupert had given them to deliver to Mr. LeFleur.
Ricky was staring in a puzzled manner at the shop when her brother took her by the arm. “Are you sure that you have the right place? This doesn’t look like an office to me.”
“We have to go around to the courtyard entrance. LeFleur occupies the second floor.”
A small wooden door, reinforced with hinges of hand-wrought iron, opened before them, making them free of a courtyard paved with flagstones. In the center a tall tree shaded the flower bed at its foot and threw shadows upon the first of the steps leading to the upper floors. The Ralestones frankly stared about them. This was the first house of the French Quarter they had seen, although their name might have admitted them to several closely guarded Creole strongholds. LeFleur’s house followed a pattern common to the old city. The lower floor fronting on the street was in use only as a shop or store-room. In the early days each shopkeeper lived above his place of business and rented the third and fourth floors to aristocrats in from their plantations for the fashionable season.
A long, narrow ell ran back from the main part of the house to form one side of the courtyard. The ground floor of this contained the old slave quarters and kitchens, while the second was cut into bedrooms which had housed the young men of the family so that they could come and go at will without disturbing the more sedate members of the household. These small rooms were now in use as the offices of Mr. LeFleur. From the balcony, running along the ell, onto which each room opened, one could look down into the courtyard. It was on this balcony that the lawyer met them with outstretched hands after they had given their names to his dark, languid young clerk.
“But this is good of you!” René LeFleur beamed on them impartially. He was a small, plumpish, round-faced man in his early forties, who spoke in perpetual italics. His eyebrows, arched over-generously by Nature, gave him a look of never-ending astonishment at the world and all its works. But his genial smile was kindness itself. Unaccustomed as Val was to sudden enthusiasms, he found himself liking René LeFleur almost before his hand gripped Val’s.
“Miss Ralestone, it is a pleasure, a very great pleasure, to see you here! And this,” he turned to Val, “this must be that brother Valerius both you and Mr. Ralestone spoke so much of during our meeting in New York. You have safely recovered from that most unfortunate accident, Mr. Ralestone? But of course, your presence here is my answer. And how do you like Louisiana, Miss Ralestone?” His eyes behind his gold-rimmed eyeglasses sparkled as he tilted his head a fraction toward Ricky as if to hear the clearer.
“Well enough. Though we’ve seen very little of it yet, Mr. LeFleur.”
“When you have seen Pirate’s Haven,” he replied, “you have seen much of Louisiana.”
“But we’re forgetting our manners!” exclaimed the girl. “We want to thank you for everything you’ve done for us. Rupert said to tell you that while he doesn’t care for beans as a rule, the beans we found in our cupboard were very superior beans.”
Mr. LeFleur hooted with laughter like a small boy. “He is droll, is that brother of yours. And has Sam been to see you?”
“Sam and—Lucy,” answered Ricky with emphasis. “Lucy has decided to take us in hand. She has installed Letty-Lou over our protests.”
The little lawyer nodded complacently. “Yes, Lucy will take care of you. She is a master housekeeper and cook—ah!” His eyes rolled upward. “And Mr. Ralestone, how is he?”
“All right. He’s going over the farm with Sam this afternoon. We were sent in his place to give you the papers he spoke to you about.”
At Ricky’s answer, Val held out the envelope he had carried. To their joint surprise, LeFleur pounced upon it and withdrew to the window of the room into which he had conducted them. There he spread out the four sheets of yellowed paper which the envelope had contained.
“What were we carrying?” whispered Ricky. “Part of Rupert’s deep, dark secret?”
“No,” her brother hissed back, “those are the plans of the Patagonian fort which were stolen from the Russian Embassy last Thursday by the beautiful woman spy disguised with a long green beard. You know, the proper first chapter of an international espionage thriller. You are the dumb but beautiful newspaper reporter on the scent, and I—”
“The even dumber G-man who spends most of his time running three steps ahead of Fu Chew Chow and his gang of oriental demons. In the second chapter—”
But a glance at Mr. LeFleur’s face as he turned away from the window put an end to their nonsense. Gone was his smile, his beaming good-will toward the world. He seemed a little tired, a trifle stooped. “Not here then,” he said slowly to himself as he slipped the papers back into the envelope.
“Mr. Valerius,” he looked up at the boy very seriously, “the LeFleurs have served the Ralestones, acting as their men of business, for over a hundred years. We owe your family a great debt. When young Denys LeFleur was shipped over here to New Orleans under false accusation of his enemies, the first Richard Ralestone became his patron. He helped the boy salvage something from the wreck of the LeFleur fortunes in France to start anew in a decent profession under tolerable surroundings, when others of his kind died miserably as beggars on the mud flats. Twice before have we been forced to be the bearers of ill news, but—” he shrugged, “that was in the past. This lies in the future.”
“What does?” asked Ricky.
“It is such a tangle,” he said, running his hand through his short, gray-streaked hair. “A tangle such as lawyers are supposed to delight in. But they don’t, I assure you that they don’t, Miss Ralestone. Not if they have their client’s interest at heart. You know, of course, of the missing Ralestone—Roderick?”
Ricky and Val both nodded. Mr. LeFleur spread out his plump hands in a queer little gesture as if he were pushing something away. “This whole unfortunate business begins with him. As far as we know today, he and his brother were co-owners of Pirate’s Haven. When young Roderick disappeared, he was still part owner. Although he was presumed dead, he was never lawfully declared so. Pirate’s Haven was simply assumed to be the property of your branch of the family.”
“Our branch of the family?” Val echoed him. “Do you mean that some descendant of Roderick has appeared to put in a claim?”
“That is the problem. Three days ago a man came to my office. He said that he is the direct descendant of Roderick Ralestone and that he can produce proof of that fact.”
“And he wants his share of the estate?” asked Ricky shrewdly.
“Yes.”
“There’s Pirate’s Haven,” pointed out Mr. LeFleur.
“But he can’t—” Ricky’s hand closed about her brother’s wrist.
“Naturally he can’t take it,” Val assured her hotly. “Pirate’s Haven is ours. This looks to me like blackmail. He’ll threaten to stir up a lot of trouble unless we buy him off.”
Mr. LeFleur nodded. “That is perhaps the motive behind it all.”
“Well,” Val forced a laugh, “then he loses. We haven’t the money to buy him off.”
“Neither have you the money to fight a case through the courts, Mr. Valerius,” answered the lawyer soberly.
“But there is some chance, there must be!” urged Ricky.
“I submitted the full case to Mr. John Stanton yesterday—Mr. Stanton is our local authority on cases of this type. He has informed me that there is a single ray of hope. Frankly, I find this claimant a dubious person, but a shrewd one. He knows that he has the advantage now, but should we gain the upper hand, we could, I believe, rid ourselves of him. Our chance lies in the past. This was first a French and then a Spanish colony. Under both rules the law of primogeniture sometimes held force. That is, an estate passed to the eldest son of a family. Your estate was such a one. In fact, we possess in this very office old charters and papers which state that the property was entailed after the European custom. If that were so, the courts might declare that the elder of the twins born in 1788 was the sole owner of Pirate’s Haven.
“But which of the twin brothers was the elder? You will say at once, Richard. But your rival will say Roderick. And there is no proof. For in the spring, two months after the birth of the boys, most of the family papers were destroyed in the great fire which almost wiped out the city and burned the Ralestone town house. There is no birth record in existence. I appealed to your brother to return to me these papers which Miles Ralestone took north with him after the war. You returned them today but there was nothing in them of any value to this case.
“However, if you can find such proof, that Richard Ralestone was the elder and thus the legal heir under the laws of Spain, then we shall have a solid fact upon which to base our fight.”
“There is such a proof,” began Ricky slowly.
“What? Where?” demanded Mr. LeFleur.
“Don’t you remember, Val,” she turned to him, “what Rupert said about the Luck last night—that the names of the heirs were engraved upon its blade? We’ll have to find the Luck! We’ll just have to!”
“But Roderick took the Luck with him. And if it’s still in existence, this rival will have it now,” her brother reminded her.
“Yes, of course, I was forgetting—” her voice trailed off into silence and Val stared at her with a dropped jaw. Such a quick change of manner was totally unlike Ricky. “Yes,” she repeated slowly and distinctly, “I guess we’re the losers—”
“For Pete’s sake—” he began hotly and then he saw her hand making furious motions in his direction from behind the screen of her large purse. “Well, I suppose we are in a hole.” He managed to mend his tone a fraction. “Rupert will probably be in to see you tomorrow, Mr. LeFleur.”
“It would be well for him to become acquainted with the whole matter as quickly as possible,” agreed the unhappy Creole. “You may tell Mr. Ralestone that I am, of course, having this claimant thoroughly investigated. We shall have to wait and see. Time is a big factor,” he murmured as if to himself.
Ricky smiled brightly. There was a sort of eagerness about her, as if she were wild to be off. “Then we’ll say good-bye for the present, Mr. LeFleur. And may I mention again how much we have appreciated your thoughtfulness?”
René LeFleur aroused himself. “But it was a pleasure, a very great pleasure, Miss Ralestone. You are returning to Pirate’s Haven now?”
“Well—” she hesitated. Mystified at what lay behind her unexplainable actions, Val could only stand and listen. “We did have some errands. Of course, this news—”
LeFleur gestured widely. “But it will come all right. It must. There are papers somewhere.”
Firmly Ricky broke away from more protracted farewells. As the Ralestones turned out of the courtyard into which their host had conducted them, Val matched his step with hers.
“Well? What’s the matter?” he demanded.
“We had an eavesdropper.”
Val stopped short. “What do you mean?”
“I was facing the door to the balcony. There was the shadow of a head on the floor. When you spoke about Rick having the sword, it went away—the shadow, I mean. But someone had been listening and now he knows about the Luck and what it means to us.”
Aiming a kick at the nearest tire of the roadster, Val regarded the mud-stained rubber moodily. “Fine mess!”
“Yes, isn’t it? And there seems to be no loose end to the thing,” Ricky protested. “It’s like holding a big tangle of wool and being told to have it all straightened out before night—the plot of a fairy-tale. We have so many odd sections but no ends. There’s that boy in the garden this morning who said that he has as much right at Pirate’s Haven as we have, and then there’s that handkerchief, and now this man who claims half the estate—”
“And our mysterious listener,” finished her brother. “What shall we do now? Go home?”
“No. We might as well do the errands.” She seated herself in the car. “Val—”
“Yes?”
“I know one thing.” She leaned toward him and her eyes shone green as they did when she was excited or greatly troubled. “We aren’t going to let go of our tangle until we do find an end. We are the Ralestones of Pirate’s Haven and we are going to continue to be the Ralestones of Pirate’s Haven.”
“In spite of the enemy? I agree.” Val stepped on the starter. “You know, a hundred years ago there would have been a very simple remedy for this rival-claimant business.”
“What?”
“Pistols for two—coffee for one. Rupert or I would have met him out at the dueling oaks and that would have been the end of him.”
“Or you. But dueling—here!”
“Very common. The finest fencing masters on the North American continent plied their trade here. Why, one, Pepe Llula, the most famous duelist of his time, became the guardian of a cemetery just so, as gossip rumored, he could have some place to bury his opponents.
“Then on the other hand, if dueling were too risky, we might have had him voodooed, had we lived back in the good old days. Paid that voodoo queen—what was her name? Marie something or other—to put a curse on him so he’d just wither away.”
“And serve him right, too.” Ricky stared straight before her. “I don’t know how you feel about it, but I’m not going to give up Pirate’s Haven without a fight. It’s—it’s the first real home we’ve ever had. Rupert’s older; he’s spent his time traveling and seeing the world; it may not mean so much to him. But you and I, Val—You know what it’s been like! Schools, and spending the holidays with aunts or in those frightful camps, never getting a chance to be together. We can’t—we just can’t have this only to lose it again. We can’t!” her voice broke.
“So we won’t.”
“Val, when you say things like that, I can almost believe them. If—if we do lose, let’s stick together this time. Promise?” her voice lifted in an effort toward lightness.
“I promise. After this it will be the two of us together. Do you know, I’ve never really had a chance to get acquainted with my very good-looking sister.”
She laughed. “I can’t very well curtsy while sitting down in here, but ‘thank yuh for them purty words, stranger.’ And now for the express station. Then you are to stop at the Southeastern News Association headquarters for something of Rupert’s and—”
The afternoon went quickly enough. They despatched the rest of their possessions from the express station to Pirate’s Haven, went on a round of miscell
aneous shopping, picked up a weighty box at the News Association, and ended up at five o’clock by visiting that institution of New Orleans, a coffee-house. Ricky was earnestly peeking into one of her ten or so small bags. They had parked the car and Val complained that he had become a sort of packhorse, and anything but patient one.
“What if your feet do hurt,” his sister said wearily as she closed the bag and reached for another. “So do mine. These sidewalks feel like red-hot iron. I’ll bet I could do one of those fakir tricks where you’re supposed to walk over red-hot plowshares.”
“Not only my feet but also my backbone is protesting. Whether you have reached the end of that Anthony Adverse of a shopping list or not, we’re going home! And what are you looking for? You’ve opened all those bags at least twice and dropped no less than three on the floor each time,” he snapped irritably.
“My pralines. I’m sure I gave them to you to carry. I’ve heard of New Orleans pralines all my life, so I got some today and now they’ve disappeared.”
“They were probably included in that last arm-load of parcels I stowed in the car. Are you through?”
Ricky looked into her coffee-cup. “It’s empty, so I guess I am. Where is the car? I’m so lost I don’t know where we are now.”
“We left it about three blocks away on the sunny side of the street,” Val informed her with the relish of one who is thoroughly tired of his present existence. “If this is your usual behavior on a shopping trip, Rupert may bring you in the next time. Half an hour to choose a toothbrush-mug in the ten-cent store!”
“For a person who spends a good fifteen minutes matching a tie and a handkerchief,” sniffed Ricky as she rose, “you’re in a hurry to criticize others.”
“Come on!” her brother almost howled as he scooped up the packages.
“Anyway, we won’t have to get supper or wash the dishes or anything.” She pulled off her hat as she settled herself in the car. “It’s so beastly hot, but it’ll be cooler at home. Do you suppose we could go swimming in the bayou?”