by David Fulmer
Valentin was about to explain why he didn't want a telephone, but Anderson waved the subject closed with a sharp hand.
"Never mind, never mind," he said. "My telephone rang this afternoon. It was Chief O'Connor. He called to inform me that a madam of a house on Robertson Street was assaulted by two men who came to the door, said they were coppers, and asked for money. They knocked the woman down and made off with twenty dollars." He glowered. "I thought you took care of that."
Valentin was surprised. "I thought so, too."
Anderson's glare and tone grew sharper. "The chief also wanted to ask why I didn't extend him the courtesy of telling him I had a man investigating the death of this fellow Mumford and some other ... What was his name?"
Valentin said, "Noiret."
"Noiret. Yes. I'm sure you can understand my confusion. I didn't know I had a man investigating anything." He delivered the last line with wide eyes and upturned palms, as if innocently baffled, belying the flush of anger that was reddening his cheeks.
"I never said that," Valentin told him.
"You never said what?"
"That you sent me. Picot assumed."
"And you didn't bother to explain."
"I didn't, no."
"I told you to leave this alone."
"You told me it wasn't worth the trouble." Anderson glared again and the detective spoke up quickly, "It's not just those two anymore. There's another fellow who died of an overdose of dope. And all three of them played in the same band."
The King of Storyville's face twisted into a frown. Valentin plunged on. "And a woman has turned up dead in a house on Philip Street. The same house where Noiret was mur—"
"All right, that's enough!" Anderson slapped his hand down on the desk. "What are you talking about? Some jass players turned up dead? And an old whore in a house on Philip Street? Good god, what a surprise! You think there's something to it?" He came up with a crude mask of concentration. "Let's see if I have this correct. One of these musicians drank poison. Another took an overdose of dope. The only one who you know was murdered was a no-good piece of shit, and it happened so far back-of-town it's halfway to east Texas. Is that correct?"
"I'm—"
"Is that correct?" Anderson barked.
"It is," Valentin admitted.
"Of course, it is." The white man pointed an accusing finger. "You went poking into something without my permission and this is what happens. Now you've got the police in a fit and I've got O'Connor calling to complain."
Valentin wanted to ask why the chief was calling to complain, but he knew better than to say a word. He waited for the storm to pass. The King of Storyville stared at him for another moment, his mouth a grim line below the gray mustache. He dropped the scolding hand and settled back with a sigh of frustration, as if baffled at his failure to communicate. He swiveled in his chair to gaze out the window, following the progress of a train leaving the station and letting the tension in the room ebb away.
"Does this have anything to do with King Bolden?" Anderson asked. Valentin, startled, said no, then the King of Storyville went to musing. "You were some kind of a hero after those Black Rose murders. You were right and everyone else was wrong. And now it's a year and a half later, and you've got nothing. Less than nothing."
The last wisps of smoke from the departing train drifted back over the roof of the station and disappeared into the blue evening sky. Anderson turned slightly in his chair.
"What about your girl?" Anderson said. "I heard that she's no longer staying with you."
Apparently, there was nothing wrong with Anderson's network of spies. Valentin said, "She isn't, no."
The King of Storyville shifted his weight and the old chair squeaked. "I understand she's taken up with a gentleman. His name is Paul Baudel. He married into the Sartain family. Very prominent. They own rice plantations." He looked at the Creole, saw only a morose stare. "So she's being well cared for," he went on quietly. "He'll see to her ne—"
"It's getting busy downstairs," Valentin interrupted.
Anderson came the rest of the way around in his chair, frowning at the insolence. "All right, then, we're through," he said. "You can go."
Valentin went down the stairwell, walked along the back hall, and pushed through the doors into the big room to begin his evening rounds. It wasn't very busy at all; he had just wanted to get away from Anderson.
He made his first slow circuit, reflecting on the conversation in the room upstairs. First came the news about Robertson Street. He thought it was fixed. Now he'd have to go back. Anderson berated him about investigating the deaths, announcing that the police were "in a fit" over it. And why was that? Was it just Picot's sensitive feelings or something more? Anderson himself was acting strange, angry with him over the case, abruptly gentle and solicitous when it came to the subject of Justine. Now Valentin knew that she had found a situation. She was going to become the downtown mistress to a man of means. She must have been plotting it all along. The betrayal was complete.
Through the night and into the small hours of morning, he went over the pieces of the case again. He needed something to occupy his thoughts. Along the way, it dawned on him that even with the scolding, the King of Storyville had never ordered him to drop the case. Which he could have done at any time.
He managed to keep his mind off Justine, except for when a quadroon passed by on the arm of some well-dressed fellow, on her way to being parked in the ladies' salon. Once he thought it was her and felt a dizzying blow in the pit of his stomach that didn't let up even when he got a closer look and saw it was only a woman of her same size and shape. He stepped to the end of the bar and asked for a short glass of brandy. The head bartender hiked an eyebrow in surprise, then went for the bottle. Valentin downed the drink in a quick swallow and went back to his rounds.
The customers had all shuffled out the door and the only sound was the scraping of the chairs as they were dragged off to make way for the cleaning crew. Valentin leaned at the end of the bar, watching them work, his mind miles away. Some minutes passed and he could sense someone inching closer and looked up. A woman was standing there, a mulatto with broad features and a heavy bosom. She wore a tawdry evening dress and a hat missing half its artificial flowers. Except for the lateness of the hour, she would have never been allowed through the front door.
"Mr. St. Cyr?" she said. "I was at the Frenchman's this week, that night y'all come over and stayed till the morning. Mr. Jelly Roll and Frankie Dusen and all them. You remember?"
"I remember," Valentin said. "Can I help you?"
"I heard you was lookin' into what happened to them fellows what died. Jeff Mumford and Noiret."
Valentin grimaced with annoyance that his business was on the street. "What about it?" he said.
"Well, I wanted to tell you what happened after y'all left that night." She looked around for a second, then said, "I was asleep in there. And I felt somebody pokin' at me to wake up. It was light out. I thought it was the nigger that cleans up, but it wasn't. A fellow was standin' there, said he wanted to know what y'all had been talking about. Specially wanted to know about you."
"Is that right?"
"Yessir."
"Who was it?"
"I ain't sure I should say. I don't want no trouble."
"It's all right."
"It was a copper. Not no patrolman neither. He wore a suit and all. I seen him around."
"Was it Lieutenant Picot?"
She nodded. "Yes, sir, it was."
Valentin found himself not the least bit surprised. He said, "Who told you to come here?"
"Mr. Jelly Roll. I told him about it, and he said to go tell Mr. St. Cyr at the Café."
Valentin thanked the woman, handed her a Liberty dollar, and sent her on her way.
He waited for the last solitary soul to depart, for all the bartenders and waiters to finish and leave, and for the cleaning crew to arrive before starting his long walk home. He wanted to make sure it was to
o late for Beansoup, too late for Morton, too late for anyone he knew to be out and about. So late that by the time he got to Magazine Street, dawn would be breaking. Then he wouldn't have to face dark and empty rooms, and could sleep.
TEN
In the first gray light of day, he was startled by the sight of Dominique standing on the banquette between Gaspare's storefront and the street door to his rooms. His surprise gave way to a rush of nervous pleasure, which gave way to a spike of suspicion, the curse of his trade. For her part, she produced a timid smile, her chin tucked shyly downward.
This morning she was wearing a simple walking dress, pale green and soft with wear, along with a straw boater with a ribbon around it that draped down her back. She presented such a picture in the misty morning light that he felt his pulse rising. He stopped to catch his breath.
"Good morning, suh," she said, nervous in kind.
"Dominique ... what are you doing here?"
"I couldn't stay at that hotel," she said. "There was men bothering me all evening."
He didn't understand. They were usually good about watching out for single women there. Perhaps she was simply too much of an exotic to be left alone. He could imagine fellows tripping over each other to assist her, banging on her door all hours of the day and night to offer courtesies.
Down the banquette, a door opened. Mr. Bechamin stepped out with his broom and began sweeping his threshold. The old man saw the Creole detective and the black-skinned young lady and stopped to regard them with frank interest.
"Would you like some coffee?" Valentin said quickly, and went into his pocket for the key.
If Valentin had taken a last look around before he swept Dominique inside, he would have caught sight of Beansoup strolling along the banquette on the other side of the street.
The kid came to a startled stop when he saw the detective and the Ethiopian girl disappear through the doorway. He could see even at that distance that she was pretty for a Negro, full in the hips and chest, one of those who made a fellow look and then look again. Dark as she was, she was high-toned, too, at least from the way she dressed, like a lady instead of a whore. She was a sight, all right, and after the door closed behind them, Beansoup moved a few paces along the banquette to see if he could catch a glimpse of anything through the second-floor windows.
He had come by Magazine Street to say hello to the detective and take the opportunity to drop a bit of news about Miss Justine. He felt like it was his fault she left, no matter what Mr. Valentin said, so he got busy trying to find out where she had gone. One of the maids out of Miss Antonia Gonzales's told him that the madam had made an arrangement for Miss Justine with a rich Frenchman and she was now staying in rooms he kept on Girod Street.
Beansoup talked to some street characters he knew. One led him to another and he soon located the building. He stood vigil through the evening, until he saw her figure pass a window. Sometime later the Frenchman, a slight sort, arrived in a dark green Oldsmobile cabriolet chauffeured by a colored man in livery.
That was all Beansoup needed to see. He was proud of his detective work and got up early the next morning to hurry and report to Mr. Valentin, only to find the Creole not brooding his loss and hungry for any word about Miss Justine, but in the very act of squiring a comely black girl into his rooms.
Valentin got Dominique settled on his couch, then carried a pail to Bechamin's and had it filled with chicory latte. The shopkeeper gave him a quizzical look but kept his questions to himself. When Valentin got back upstairs, he went for cups, poured them full, and carried them to the front room. Dominique thanked him, blew over the steaming cup, took a small sip.
He sensed that in his absence she had been up and about, poking around. It was the way the quiet air was stirred up. She'd been wandering through his rooms, looking for something.
They drank their coffee and talked about this and that, edging around each other. He was frankly delighted to have her there. It was lifting his spirits in an odd spiral. At the same time, he couldn't quite quell his misgivings about what she wanted from him. And yet he found her face quite open, without guile, and he could not detect anything devious lurking there. She looked nothing so much as relieved to be under his roof. He let it go at that.
She asked how long he had taken his rooms, and he told her that he had been at his Magazine Street address for eight years, since he had first gone to work for Mr. Anderson. He didn't bother to explain that Anderson owned the building and so he got to stay in a part of the city that he could not have afforded otherwise. When he went on to tell her about his work at the Café and the mansions on Basin Street, he noticed that she looked distracted.
"What am I gonna do now?" she finally broke in, all fretful. "I ain't got the money to go home. I can't stay at that hotel. What am I gonna do?"
He sat back. He knew, and she probably knew as well, that there were other places in New Orleans that could offer safe lodging to a single woman. There was something else going on here. He began to surmise what she had on her mind and waited to see if she'd say it.
She fidgeted some more, then shifted her position on the couch, tilted her head to one side, and said, "Is she comin' back?"
He gave her a questioning look.
"Your woman," she said. "She just left out of here, didn't she?"
"How did you know that?"
She shrugged vaguely. "Is it true?"
"Yes, she just left. On Monday."
"And you t'ink she's comin' back?"
"I don't know," he said. "Not anytime soon, I guess."
"Then I could stay with you, if it's all right," she said.
She was forcing herself to be brave, and it took an effort for him to keep his face composed.
"I'll do whatever she did around here," she went on hurriedly. "I don't mind workin'. I'll take care of cleaning and all. Cook for you." When he still didn't speak up, her eyes widened into a beseeching gaze. "I ain't got nowhere else to go, suh."
Valentin said, "I don't need a maid, Dominique. I can't afford one."
"I wouldn't be no maid," she said, now sounding peeved. "And you wouldn't have to pay me nothing. Your woman's gone and you need someone to take care of t'ings. I ain't got nowhere to stay. That's all."
"I don't have much room," he said.
"I don't need much. I'll make a pallet on the floor."
"You know people will talk."
"I don't care what people do," she said sharply. "Ain't nobody cares about me around here anyway."
He rested his chin in his hand as if soberly considering the proposition, as his true thoughts went vaulting ahead. Surely, she had somewhere else she could stay. She was up to something, though he couldn't imagine what it might be. Or maybe his suspicious nature was getting the best of him and she was what she said, a young lady with no place to go. She was alone in her shock and grief over Jeff's sudden passing, and if what she said was true, she had no one to turn to.
She sat up and straightened her shoulders, making as if to go. "I'm sorry, suh. If you don't want—"
"No," he said decisively. "It's fine. You can stay."
She looked a little discomfited. "I don't want to cause you no trouble."
"It's all right, Dominique."
"Well ... thank you." She let out a relieved breath that made her chest heave provocatively, and Valentin stifled a smile. She sat there all tense for another moment, then cast an eye about. "You have your breakfast this mornin'?"
"I haven't, no," he said.
She stood up and gestured toward the kitchen. "Do you mind?"
She made do with what she found in the cupboards, eggs and boudin and a half loaf of French bread. She told him she would make market later to find some things to "fix you up a proper Trini breakfast."
They both avoided each other's eyes for the most part and made only small talk. After they finished eating, she cleaned the dishes. "You been up all night," she said. "Don't you need to go on and get some sleep?"
"I
do, yes."
"Then I'm gonna go back and get my t'ings at the hotel."
Valentin said, "I'll leave the door open."
She gave him another of her shy smiles and said, "Thank you for helping me this way. You're very kind."
She put her hat on prettily and went out the door and down the stairs.
***
Beansoup was hanging around Bechamin's, talking the poor old shopkeeper's ear off with preposterous stories and meanwhile trying to pry loose information about the girl who was visiting Mr. Valentin's rooms. Mr. Bechamin claimed he knew nothing about it, and it wasn't his business anyway.
Beansoup was gazing out at the street, working up a plan to surveil the detective, when he saw the black girl pass the window. He yelled a good-bye and ran outside. He gave her a lead to Common Street, then sauntered off on her trail.
Brother Martin spent two hours on the corner of First and La Salle, testifying. He had chosen for his scripture the Book of Ezekiel, and the words poured forth with the same rumbling mellow resonance that he had one brought to his bass violin, deep, sweet, and rhythmic all at once.
"For the land is full of bloody crimes!" he began, rolling out the text. "The city is full of violence!" And off he went, calling God's judgment on the wicked.
He stood there, a rock in a stream of humanity, his back straight and his voice steady as the bodies swirled past. A few people stopped, listened, exclaimed, "Praise God, brother!" and moved on. Some kids came by to taunt him like he was a madman. Most of the citizens just ignored him, too busy in their petty lives to pay heed and understand that the city they traversed was so full of sin that the earth beneath their very feet was liable to open up and swallow the whole mess down into damnation.
"Disaster comes upon disaster!" he called in a soaring voice. "And rumor upon rumor!"
Who knew better than the former Treau Martin about the wages of sin? He spoke with an echo of experience in every blessed word. And yet they still wouldn't listen.