Jass (Valentin St. Cyr Mysteries)

by David Fulmer

  He hadn't come there to read the news, and he walked around the side of the building and then into the alley that ran in back. A set of stone stairs led down to the basement. He peered in through the dirty glass, then pressed the button that was mounted on the jamb. He had to ring three more times before a face appeared and then the door opened.

  Valentin had known Joe Kimball for years. They traded information: Kimball picked up useful whispers from the newsroom, and Valentin passed along talk from the street, which Kimball then used for his own purposes. The man would have been a star reporter, except for his appetite for Raleigh Rye, so prolific that it put the rest of the guzzling staff of newspapermen to shame. He simply could not be trusted to put two coherent sentences together when he was into his cups, which was most of his waking hours. So he tended to the paper's morgue, dealt in information, wrote the occasional brilliant story, and drank his poor liver into oblivion.

  There were those who whispered that Kimball was Bas Bleu, the mysterious and infamous scribe who wrote a column that eviscerated everyone of importance in uptown New Orleans, including, at times, Tom Anderson himself. Valentin didn't believe it. No one who drank like Kimball could keep anything secret for that long.

  He was a useful source, though. Especially at times like this, when Valentin needed background in a hurry. Drunk or sober, Joe Kimball was a walking library of information about the citizens of New Orleans. What he didn't know, he could find in his basement cavern. He was a red-faced, red-haired, short, and burly sort who liked to fight almost as much as he liked to drink. Almost.

  When he saw who was at his door, he grinned, crooked a finger, and led his visitor through a file room that was crowded with rows of steel cabinets and into his office. Valentin moved some newspapers off the second chair and sat down. He reached into the pocket of his suit jacket. "Something to brighten your day," he said, and handed over a pint of Raleigh Rye.

  Kimball cocked an eyebrow. "Well, aren't you a kind fuck?" he said. He opened a desk drawer. "Join me?"

  "Not right now," Valentin said.

  "Ah, yes, you probably had your fill last night, eh?"

  Valentin was startled. Kimball laughed as he put a dirty glass on the desk, unscrewed the cap from the bottle, and poured. "I heard about it, and I said, that ain't Mr. Valentin St. Cyr. No, sir." He pronounced the name the American way: Saint Sear. "No, no, I said, he's up to something." He took a drink, smacked his lips. "Is it about those murders?" Valentin nodded. "Something you can let an old friend in on?"

  "Not yet," Valentin said, still amazed that the news had traveled so far so fast. He wondered if he had overdone it.

  "So, what will it be?" Kimball said, spreading his arms to take in his little domain.

  "There's a party on Prytania Street. Twenty-six hundred block. Name of Gerard."

  Kimball's brow furrowed and Valentin could almost hear the pages flipping inside that round head. "That would be... Louis Gerard," he said. "Old French family. Their money was in ... shipping, I believe."

  "Was?"

  "There's not much left of it. There are three sons. Louis is the only one who amounted to anything at all. He's a state court judge, but not a very good one. It was some sort of political appointment. He takes care of the money that's left. He's a stick."

  "What about his wife?"

  "His what?"

  "He's got a pretty young wife."

  Kimball tilted his head to one side and frowned. "He does? I thought ... he was a widower. And I never heard about any second marriage. Are you sure?" His face got all serious. It wasn't often he didn't have the dope at his fingertips. He drained the last inch of liquor and stood up. "I'll be back in a few minutes."

  It was closer to a half hour. Valentin spent the time reading the Sunday paper that he found on the desk.

  When Kimball did come back, he didn't bring much. "Well, I still have a brain after all," he quipped. "It's like I thought. There's nothing about Louis Gerard getting married a second time. No announcement at all. No recording of a license. You sure the woman is his wife?"

  "She was wearing a gold band."

  "They might have been married somewhere else." He thought for a moment. "Or..."

  "Or?"

  "There's one other reason that licenses don't get announced," Joe Kimball said with a sneaky grin, and went about refilling his dirty glass.

  Valentin knew that any stranger on the avenues of the Garden District would be noticed and reported. So he couldn't linger on the Prytania Street banquette for too long. Someone would surely call the coppers, or they might have Pinkertons on the payroll. New Orleans was full of private police forces.

  He didn't have time to wait anyway. By his reckoning, the last of the murders had been committed, and he still had nothing but pieces. With every passing minute, it became more likely that the guilty party would get away clean. Valentin had come to it too late, and all he could think to do was to push on until something gave way. If that didn't work, the killer would go free, Valentin would have failed, and Justine's history would have been exposed for nothing.

  His instinct told him that the woman in the house across the street was his only chance. He guessed that she was the one he knew as "Emma Lee Smith." She might have committed the murders, though he didn't think so; at least not all of them. She wouldn't possess the strength to hold down a hulking man like Noiret or to wrestle someone the size of Treau Martin over the railing of a ferry. Nor did her husband, Mr. Louis Gerard, seem up to such tasks. Of all the players, only Picot would have that ability.

  In the lingering mist from the rain, 2623 Prytania Street looked like something out of a storybook. It was one of those charming bungalows that had been well kept over the years. There was still color from the flowers in the garden and in pots on the gallery.

  At that moment a Negro was raking wet leaves into piles along the fence and a woman, most likely his wife, was sweeping the gallery. It was a common domestic tableau for a Garden District home, though not usual for a Sunday. It could be that they were expecting company later. Valentin wondered if the man had noticed any footprints in the soggy earth.

  He was fidgeting about, expecting the coppers to show up at any moment to chase him away, when the front door opened and Mrs. Gerard leaned out to speak to the Negro woman. He watched for a few seconds, then stepped off the banquette and into the cobbled street. It was time to play his hand.

  The man working in the front garden caught movement, raised his head, and regarded the stranger approaching the gate. The two women on the porch stopped talking and turned their heads. They all stared, though not one of them looked surprised, almost as if they had been expecting him.

  The lady of the house, a mental patient who had supposedly died two years ago, looked down at him with a challenge in her eyes.

  "Sir?" the Negro said, taking a step closer.

  "I'm looking for a woman named Emma Lee Smith," Valentin announced.

  Mrs. Gerard didn't flinch. She said, "Thomas, let the gentleman in."

  Thomas laid his rake against the fence, unlatched the gate, and held it open. Valentin stepped through and walked halfway up the stone walkway. He stopped and said, "Emma Lee Smith."

  "I don't know anyone by that name, sir," the white woman said.

  Valentin was about to draw it out and anger the woman by asking the Negro couple if they knew such a person when there was a rustle of movement at the side of the house.

  Two men came around the corner, one a high-yellow mulatto, the other dirty white. They were large men, thick in the trunk, with flat, sullen faces adorned with mustaches. Both were dressed in poor-fitting suits and each wore a derby. They fixed cold eyes on Valentin. Either a signal had been passed or some feral sense told them there was an intruder on the grounds and they had come sniffing.

  As soon as Valentin laid eyes on them, he experienced a wrenching moment of clarity, as if the blanket of gray mist had been pulled back from that small plot of land.

  He kne
w the men; or at least he knew their type. They came out of one of the city's foulest corners, places like Gallatin Street, where they grew up mean and stupid, with whatever dim conscience they might have possessed beaten out of them at an early age. They would leave school, if they ever went in the first place, roam the streets in packs like animals, and do prison farm time sooner rather than later. They would go to sea to befoul and bloody ports from Helsinki to Havana. When they were not on the water or in stir, they spent their nights in the cheapest sporting houses and saloons, and their days doing dirty work for their betters, including acts of murder.

  Now two of these creatures had appeared on the Gerard property, stalking like alley dogs to stand at the bottom of the gallery steps and lock their stony stares on the Creole detective who had trespassed onto their territory.

  Valentin's mind fell still with the stark realization that these two, singly or in tandem, had murdered the four musicians, the landlady on Philip Street, and Dominique. He felt his pulse quicken as he stared from one to the other, probing their faces for the one who had brutalized her. It was the white one; he had a raw and guilty look about him. Valentin knew that he was the one who had come to Magazine Street looking for a Creole detective, met a black-skinned girl who put up a fight, and proceeded to strangle her to death.

  The detective ran down his chances for taking them both if it came to that. This day, he had thought to pack his full arsenal—sap, stiletto, and pistol. He could only imagine what kind of weapons they were toting and wondered how much damage he could do before they got to him. These thoughts passed in a matter of seconds, and then the tension in the air broke suddenly as the lady of the house stepped to the edge of the gallery, just back from the still-dripping eaves.

  "Did you say Emilie? Why, that's my name." She spelled it out for him, enjoying the game.

  Valentin pulled his gaze off the two toughs and looked up at her. "That's a coincidence," he said easily. "But this is 'Emma Lee.' The last name is Smith. Or at least that's the name she used. I'm sure it's a fake. The woman was a mental patient at the Louisiana Retreat on Henry Clay. I want to locate her."

  He thought he saw the woman's face flush a shade. Her gaze never flinched, though.

  "Thomas," she called out. "Do you know anyone by that name? Or with such a history?" Thomas didn't answer. "Maybelle?" she said over her shoulder.

  The woman whispered, "No, ma'am."

  Mrs. Gerard's voice grew an edge as she addressed the roughnecks stationed at the bottom of the steps: "What about you, Mr. Dawes?" The white man turned his head slightly. "No? Mr. Williams? Is that name familiar to you?" No response was expected and none offered as the pair continued to glower. Throughout the little performance, the woman's brownish eyes never left Valentin's face as they shifted from demure to carnivorous. Now she shrugged and said, "I'm so sorry, sir."

  "Well, I must be mistaken, then," he said, and turned around. Thomas was still holding the gate open. As he passed through, Valentin glanced at the Negro and saw the tiniest sign of warning in the dark visage. He nodded slightly as he stepped onto the banquette and walked away without looking back.

  He got on a St. Charles Line car and found a place in the back where he could sit alone and think.

  There wasn't a lot of time before they would be coming after him. He had smelled it in their sweat, read it in their faces, and he had heard the vicious little shriek that was hidden beneath the white woman's quiet patter, as taut and shrill as a plucked wire. He was the last thing standing between her and the rest of her life as the judge's wife in the lovely house on Prytania.

  The raw truth of it was a relief. This was no chess game anymore. He would have to fight it out with the two animals and match wits with a very clever female. If he was going to finish it.

  By the time he stepped off the car at Poydras Street, he had settled down enough to have the inklings of a plan. First came an absolute necessity to stay ahead of them. If he got cornered, he'd be dead.

  He came up on the intersection at Magazine Street and crossed over where a half-dozen carriages waited for passengers who were having Sunday dinner at the Banks' Arcade. He picked out one of the drivers, a Creole who looked like he knew what he was about. He slipped him a Liberty dollar with instructions to watch the street door at No. 330 and give a whistle if anyone went in.

  The driver agreed with a quick grin of gold teeth and then proceeded to demonstrate his whistle, a screech so loud and sharp it gave the horses a start.

  Valentin hurried across the street and up to his rooms. He changed clothes, packing his weapons again: the whalebone sap in his back pocket, the stiletto in a sheath strapped to his ankle, his revolver in his coat pocket. The pistol was loaded, but he took no extra cartridges. If six didn't do the trick, he'd be through anyway.

  He had been going over the details of his plan in his head and now set it in motion. He went out, locked the doors, and with a wave to the Creole driver, walked down to Bechamin's to use the phone.

  He still had one critical weakness: Justine. They might go after her; though that would surely bring Picot's little house of cards down. If they had any sense, they'd leave her alone. The thought gave him no comfort.

  He finished his calls and left out of Bechamin's to walk to Girod Street, checking over his shoulder for a tail. He sensed someone lurking, but he couldn't be sure. Most likely, it was one of Picot's people, which suited him fine. He would have left a trail of bread crumbs if he'd had any.

  When he got to the Girod Street address, he found Paul Baudel's Oldsmobile parked at the curb. At Valentin's approach, the driver straightened from his slouch against the fender and made a move toward him.

  The Creole detective held up a hand and said, "No one's going to be harmed," and waited. The driver studied his face for a few seconds, then shrugged and let him pass.

  Valentin went inside, climbed the stairs, and knocked on the door. When Justine opened it, she gave a start, her eyes going wide. He stepped past her.

  Baudel was standing in the doorway to the bedroom in a silk dressing jacket. He said, "What is this? Who are you?"

  "I'll just require a moment," Valentin said.

  Baudel said, "Justine?" in a demanding voice.

  She said, "Paul, please," with a tone of familiarity that stung Valentin.

  "You need to leave, sir," the Frenchman said.

  "I'm going to talk to her first," Valentin said.

  Baudel threw up his hands. "Then I'm calling the police," he said, and marched to the corner table that held the telephone set.

  Valentin dropped his voice. "Don't stay here tonight. It's dangerous."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "You're in a fix right now. Just don't stay here tonight."

  "Where am I going to go?"

  "Miss Antonia's. She's got men watching the doors. I've already called her. It's just for tonight."

  She watched his face. In the corner, Baudel was griping into his telephone set about an intruder on the premises at 966 Girod Street.

  Valentin said, "You'll do it, then?"

  Justine sighed and nodded. "All right, yes."

  Baudel put down the phone. "The police are on their way."

  "I'm leaving," Valentin said.

  "No, you are not, sir!" the Frenchman snapped, and reached out with a clumsy hand to snatch his cuff.

  Valentin whipped his hand away and let out a blunt laugh that this dandy was playing tough. He wondered what kind of fool Justine had fallen in with. "You'll want to stay out of it. You understand?" His eyes were so hard that Baudel took an involuntary step back, looking like he was about to swallow his Adam's apple whole.

  "When the police show up, you can tell them my name is Valentin St. Cyr," the detective said. He looked at Justine, who appeared not to know whether to cry or laugh over this little drama. Then he walked out and closed the door behind him.

  When he got to the banquette, he nodded to Baudel's driver and sauntered away. It would be at le
ast another ten minutes before a patrolman would show up, and by that time he would be long gone.

  ***

  One of his telephone calls from Bechamin's was to ask Whaley to find Beansoup and then meet him back-of-town, with or without the automobile. He also told him what was going to transpire and gave him the opportunity to refuse. The man had a family, after all.

  "Whaley wouldn't hear of it. Not only did he feel an obligation to Valentin for helping him find a situation; he was still enough of a copper to want to see a couple of murdering miscreants taken down. Valentin didn't miss the edge of excitement in his voice. Doing the bidding of a ward boss had to be boring work.

  TWENTY

  It was seven o'clock when he turned the corner onto Rampart Street and saw the Ford parked there and Whaley and Beansoup pacing up and down. They shook hands solemnly all around, though Whaley and the kid could barely hide their excitement. When Valentin tapped the bulge under his jacket, Whaley pulled back the lapel to reveal a Colt .38 double-action in a shoulder holster.

  Valentin laid out their plan and sent Beansoup on his way. Then the detective jerked his head and he and Whaley left the car and stepped into a saloon two doors from the corner called Johnny's Spot. As they went through the door, Whaley said casually, "You see who's across the way?" He laughed. "Little sot name of Tyler. You know that one?"

  Valentin said, "Oh, yes, I've been expecting him."

  With Beansoup stoking the fires, the whispered word went ahead of them along Rampart Street.

  Valentin St. Cyr, the Creole detective, the one who had not a week ago had a woman murdered in his rooms, was back on Rampart Street with a onetime copper in tow. Those who might not know him from Storyville remembered him from the days when Bolden was roaming the same haunts, blowing jass so hot and loud it could wake the dead.