by David Fulmer
She started to get up once. He held her there. She murmured something about dinner. He told her it could wait.
They were quiet for more minutes. Then she said, "She ain't at all happy, suh."
"Who?"
"Justine. Who else? And she's goin' to try to come back."
"You think so?"
"I t'ink so, yes. No, I know it."
"Why? That Frenchman's rich. She's got what every woman wants."
Dominique shook her head. "No, suh, not every woman. Not her. Not me."
They were quiet for a while longer. Then she roused herself. "I want to make you a good dinner tonight," she whispered. "I believe you earned it. It's going to take me a bit of time, though."
"How much time?"
"Couple hours, I t'ink."
She kissed him, stretched her arms and legs, and stood up. He reached out and slipped a hand inside her thigh. "Don't you start, or you gonna starve to death," she said, and backed away from him. He laid there thinking as he watched the sun disappear over the rooftops, then sat up and pulled his trousers on. With all that had happened that afternoon, now the cloud was back.
He walked into the kitchen to find Dominique hard at work. "I'm going out for a little while."
She stopped working and looked at him. "Out where?"
"Basin Street."
"Whatchu wanna go there for?"
"I need to close some business."
"Tonight?"
"If I don't go now, by tomorrow morning there's going to be talk all over the street."
"So?"
"So I need to be the one who puts it there first."
She gave him a searching look. "You're comin' back, though."
"Oh, yes. I'm coming back."
"All right, then."
After he finished dressing, he went to the kitchen and kissed her cheek. She smiled and her eyes softened. When he got to the door, he looked back through the doorway and saw her watching him, her face composed in a sweet calm. She knew he'd be coming back.
The truth was he didn't want to have to explain his plan to Dominique. It wouldn't make sense to her. His first stop would be Countess Willie Piazza's mansion, where he would inform the madam that she should expect Mr. Anderson to demand his firing by the Basin Street madams. He was saving her the trouble by quitting. From there he would work his way down the line. They could believe anything they wanted about what was happening. At least, they would hear it from him and not Tom Anderson.
It didn't work out that way. When he came upon Countess Piazza's mansion, he found a gaggle of boys standing outside, listening to piano that was tinkling through a half-opened window. He stopped to lend an ear, then climbed the steps to the gallery and knocked on the door. A maid appeared and ushered him inside.
He found Professor Tony Jackson at the piano. The professor, small, trim, and as homely as could be, was dressed in light tan trousers and a white collarless shirt. His suspenders were dangling and he was in his stocking feet as he worked his way through a stately ragtime number. He glanced around when Valentin walked in and stopped playing.
"Mr. Valentin." His soft voice belied his surprise. "What are you doing here?"
"I was ... I was passing by." Valentin nodded toward the window. "Do you know you have an audience out there?"
Jackson rose a few inches from the bench to peek out. "Oh, them. Yes, they come around all the time. They all gonna be professors one day. Or so they say. They don't know no better."
He sat back down and let his fingers roll over the keys. In an instant, the tangled knot in Valentin's head was washed away in the lush trickle of notes.
Jelly Roll Morton had been known to mutter that Professor Jackson got his skills by way of some private magic. Valentin knew that it wasn't magic at all. It was these hours spent on off days and nights, laboring away, worrying a single passage until it was perfect. While Morton was still sleeping off last night's fete, Tony Jackson would be sweating over the ivories in an empty Basin Street parlor.
Valentin stood by while the professor played the same eight bars a half-dozen times. It sounded flawless to the detective's ear, but Jackson kept shaking his head, sighing and frowning. Finally, he closed his eyes and played the passage twice more. Only then did he stop. He sat back, straightened his spine, flexed his fingers.
"You ever miss a day?" Valentin asked him.
"Not many." He eyed the detective speculatively. "You ain't just passing by, are you, Mr. Valentin?"
The detective sat down heavily in one of the tufted cafe chairs. "I came up here to tell the Countess that I'm not going to be working for her anymore." He could hear the way his own voice sounded, tired and hollow. "I'm not going to be working on Basin Street at all. I quit from Mr. Anderson's employment."
"Yes, I heard."
"You did?"
"People talk," the professor murmured.
"And what do they say?"
"That you aren't doing well at all," the professor replied frankly. "Your woman left you. You're causing mischief about those fellows who died. Then just this afternoon, I heard that you quit Mr. Tom."
Valentin closed his eyes and said, "Billy Struve."
"Yessir, I believe that was who said it."
The detective wondered what he had been thinking. Of course, Struve would waste no time putting such racy news on the street. It would probably turn up in the Mascot, the local penny newspaper, too. Anderson wouldn't mind at all; it meant his side of the story was the one everyone heard. Valentin let out a sigh of frustration and ran a hand over his face. While he was dawdling in the park and then frolicking on the couch with Dominique, the word was going out that a bumbling and ungrateful Valentin St. Cyr had left Tom Anderson's employ.
"I want you to know that I've always thought well of you, Mr. Valentin," Professor Jackson said, keeping his eyes shyly averted. "You've always been fair to me. And I'm sorry for whatever strife you're having."
Valentin bowed his head slightly, grateful for the kind words. The professor went back to playing, a peaceful cascade of round notes. Valentin thought about leaving, since his trip there was a waste of time. Then he decided he would rather just sit in that chair and be carried away by the music. If Tony Jackson's playing couldn't offer a balm for what ailed him, nothing could.
A few minutes later, Jackson came to the end of the melody and began fiddling about with his sheet music. "So what do you think happened to them?" he said casually.
Valentin opened his eyes. "To who? Those musicians?"
"Yessir."
"I think..." He hesitated, wanting to get it right. Before he could begin to explain, though, there was a clamor outside the window, a babble of excited voices. Professor Jackson got up from the bench and went to see what it was all about.
The professor said, "My word, look at that."
"What is it?"
"Mr. Anderson's out there. He's passing around dimes to those kids."
Valentin knew instantly that it was no coincidence. Anderson had obviously sent the word down the line for any sightings of the detective St. Cyr. Though it had taken all day for Valentin to show up, just that quickly someone passed the word that he was in Countess Piazza's parlor. And just that quickly, Tom Anderson was making a rare appearance on the Basin Street banquette on a Sunday night.
Surely enough, the professor had just come back to the piano again when the front door opened with a jingle. There was some muted conversation in the foyer, and a moment later Anderson stepped into the doorway. At that moment, Valentin wished that he had ducked out the second Professor Jackson announced that the King of Storyville was outside. Now he was trapped. He'd look like a coward if he tried to run.
Anderson strolled over to stand next to the piano. He was wearing one of his fine suits, though it appeared in some disarray, as if he hadn't had time to put himself together properly. He chatted with Professor Jackson about music for a few moments. He did not look at or speak to Valentin. Presently, though, he asked the profess
or if he would excuse the two of them. Jackson threw an apologetic glance at Valentin, then got up, gathered his sheet music and his shoes, and made a quick exit to the back of the house.
Anderson waited until he padded away before taking a seat in one of the plush armchairs. He placed his derby on his knee and regarded the Creole detective with an expression of frank curiosity.
"Some people would say it's unwise to quit me," he said. Valentin stayed silent. Anderson made a thoughtful steeple of his fingers. "What exactly did you think you would do, now that you're a free man?"
Valentin said, "Leave, I suppose." He paused deliberately. "That's once I've settled this business with the murders."
"Oh? You think you can do that?"
"I do."
"Do you have any idea at all what happened? Or are you still guessing?"
Valentin hesitated. Let the man go begging, he thought. He did not have to give him a thing. Then he considered how his hot head had already gotten him in trouble. And he could not ignore Anderson's reasonable tone. The man was being solicitous, though as usual there was something else lurking behind the quiet words. At least they weren't crossing swords.
"I'm guessing," Valentin admitted. "But I'm getting closer. I just need more time." He smiled thinly. "And now I have some."
Anderson studied him, his heavy brow stitching. "So you're serious about this quitting business?"
"I am."
"I believe you are," Anderson said after a moment. "Well, then ... it seems we're at an impasse, doesn't it?" Valentin waited. The white man sat forward in his chair. "I want you to consider an offer," he said. "You stop your investigation and you can continue to work in Storyville. Whether or not you work for me is your decision. As to your disrespect for me at Germaine's this morning ... I'll call it the heat of the moment."
Valentin had begun to shake his head. "I'm not finished," Anderson said, with a brittle edge on his voice. "You get Justine's life, as well."
"What's that mean?"
"It means that if you don't cooperate, her fortunes will take a turn for the worse. Along with yours." He saw the look of mistrust and resentment in the Creole's eyes. "You think I'm making an empty threat?" he said snappishly. "Well, that's a chance you'll have to take. Are you willing to do that? Are you willing to risk her just so that you can chase after these murders, which might come to nothing in the end anyway? You can't have both. You go on with the case, or you get to save the girl." He smiled icily. "I guess you'll be a hero, either way."
"Can you tell me what you've got on her?"
Anderson shook his head. "I told you. I'll leave it to her, if she chooses."
"How bad is it? Can you tell me that?"
"Bad enough that you don't want that to happen. If you care for her at all."
Valentin was one of a handful of people who knew when the King of Storyville was not putting on his well-honed act. He now recognized a rare stark moment when the mask was lifted and the true face of the actor revealed. Whatever he had on Justine was dead serious.
"Why is it so important that I drop the investigation?" he inquired.
"I'm not answering any more questions," Anderson said, with gruff impatience. "What will it be?" When Valentin didn't respond right away, Anderson let out a huff of annoyance and said, "Are you really going to gamble with her life?"
"This is wrong," the detective muttered. He raised a hand as if in protest, then dropped it. He was cornered and he knew it. Anderson remained silent, staring grimly and waiting. "All right, then," he said at last.
"You're doing the right thing," the King of Storyville said. "Now everyone can go on with their lives. No one will be bothered. I guarantee it." When Valentin didn't say anything, he stood up. "We're finished here. Tomorrow is Monday, and you'll be back to work." He stopped on his way to the door. "Tell the professor I said he's playing better than ever," he said, and walked out.
Valentin wandered onto Basin Street. He was at first of a mind to go home and take the brandy bottle to the couch to think about his total surrender to Anderson. He didn't even know what he had gotten in the deal. He might never know, if Justine didn't want to tell him. Though perhaps now she'd do him the service of explaining exactly what he had saved her from.
He knew that if he went home now, in his mood, Dominique would read it the wrong way and get all suspicious again. He didn't have an appetite anymore and that would only add to her mistrust. He decided instead that he wanted to be alone just a little while longer. A half hour, no more, and he'd go home to her. They could eat dinner and go to bed and he wouldn't have to think about any of it.
He walked down the block to Fewclothes Cabaret, a wild dance hall throughout the week but a quiet saloon come Sunday night. He stepped inside and found it empty except for a table of sporting girls taking the evening off and a few sots drinking more pieces of their livers away at the long bar. He ordered himself a glass of rye and carried it to the table in the farthest corner, where it was dark and no one could see him.
He drank three whiskeys, enough to ease the pressure in his mind. He left his money on the table and went out onto Basin Street. It was a pleasant enough night for a walk. He knew Dominique would be waiting, probably getting anxious, and he picked up his pace. Fifteen minutes later he was crossing Canal Street and stepping onto Magazine.
Dominique didn't hear any footsteps on the stairwell and was surprised by the hand rapping on the door. First she thought Valentin had forgotten his key. Then she remembered that he had locked up on the way out.
She went to the door to ask who it was. The voice was indistinct. She couldn't even tell if it was a man or a woman. The only words she caught were "Mr. St. Cyr" or at least something that sounded like it.
When she said, "Who is it?" the reply was another string of muffled words.
It had to be Justine, back to have it out over her rights to Valentin and the rooms. Dominique set her chin, twisted the key, and turned the knob.
The door flew open, the edge cracking into her forehead and knocking her backward. Her heel caught on the braided rug and she tumbled to the floor, momentarily stunned. The door slammed, shaking the walls, and a dark shape passed over her. Or maybe it was two. There was noise from the back of the house, the sound of furniture being tossed around. She couldn't move, couldn't find her voice.
The dark shape was back, bending over her, the mouth snarling something. When she couldn't answer, a hard slap knocked her head to one side and made her ears ring louder. Fingers like claws grabbed at the neckline of her shift and ripped it right down the middle. That brought her out of her shock, and she kicked with one furious foot and threw a clumsy punch with her right hand. Both collided with something solid.
She saw the face, saw the dead look in the eyes, the lips stretched over grinding teeth. She couldn't move, couldn't cry out as the hard hands fastened on her throat.
Dominique was not on the balcony, and when he opened the street door and started up the stairs, she did not come to the landing to greet him. There was nothing but an echoing silence from above. At the landing, he discovered the door thrown wide. He called her name again. There was no answer.
Like a fool, he had gone out with neither his pistol nor his stiletto, so he grabbed his whalebone sap from his back pocket.
"Dominique?" Still no answer. He pushed the door open the rest of the way. "Dominique!"
She was lying a few feet inside. The shift was torn jaggedly in two, something white oozed at the corners of her mouth, and her dead eyes stared at the ceiling.
Valentin let out a groan of rage, then raced down the steps, tripping and falling, righting himself and limping to Bechamin's to pound on the door and yell for the storekeeper to call for an ambulance.
They had covered her body with a sheet. A patrolman had appeared, then another, then a police detective. Inevitably, Picot's heavy steps rose to the landing.
He came inside and crossed over to lift the sheet from the dead girl's face. He asked quietly if
there was any worthwhile evidence about. His officers shook their heads. He dropped the sheet back and looked up at the police detective, who nodded in the direction of the kitchen.
Picot stood in the doorway. St. Cyr sat at the table, looking at nothing, his face unreadable. The lieutenant stepped into the room, pulled out a chair, and sat down. "Are you responsible?" he asked. Valentin didn't bother to answer. "You hear me? I asked if you're—"
"Yes, I'm responsible," Valentin said, startling the copper. "But if you're asking if I committed a murder, the answer is no."
"Who did it then?"
"Do your own police work, Picot," Valentin said dully.
The lieutenant settled back. "You know, you ain't nothin' but trouble. I believe I could have a fair to middling career just following you around. Now I need to know if you have any idea who committed this crime. Yes or no?"
"I don't," Valentin said, and raised his eyes. "Do you?"
The copper look surprised. His face went red and he pointed an angry finger. "You better get yourself straight. You're in the middle of this."
"It's this case," Valentin told him. "Somebody got worried. Somebody who came looking for me. She got in the way. And that's what they did to her."
Picot let out a grunt of irritation, as if frustrated at the way things had turned out. Once again, someone was dead and St. Cyr was still alive. It was a bit of grim comedy, and Valentin came up with a smile that folded as quickly as it had appeared.
Picot caught it, though. "What's so goddamn funny?" he demanded, his voice sliding higher. He was about to start up again when one of the coppers stepped to the doorway to tell him that they were finished with the body and ready to quit the scene.
Picot got up from the chair. "You be where I can find you," he told the Creole detective, and stood up to leave.
FOURTEEN
The news of the girl's death raced through uptown New Orleans, and by noon on Monday everyone in Storyville north and west had heard about the tragedy.