by David Fulmer
"Well, then," the white man said. "Seems it would be in everyone's interest to keep a close eye on Mr. St. Cyr."
Picot nodded slowly. "Yessir, it would be."
The slow nod continued and the man behind the desk let out a silent sigh; the copper was either a dunce or still so unnerved at having his secret revealed that he couldn't think straight.
"I've had a man working on it, watching his movements, but he's been recognized." He waited, but there was no reaction from the policeman. "I would do it myself, you see," he went on, "but St. Cyr could recognize me and ... well, you can see how that would be a problem." Picot nodded again blankly, still not getting it. "I'd be grateful for some assistance in this matter. Very grateful."
The color slowly returned to Picot's face and he met the white man's gaze. "I could help out with that," he said.
The man sat back in his chair and folded his hands complacently. In the black distance, thunder rumbled.
Sixty miles inland, thunder rolled through the dark, flashing clouds that were mounting the horizon as the orderly, a large, kindly Negro named Henry, bent over Father Dupre's bed, tucking the sheets, settling the pillow. The old man was struggling, trying to whisper something, but the voice was hoarse and broken.
Henry murmured softly as he patted the sheet that covered the bony chest. "There now, go on to sleep," he said. The priest clutched onto the Negro's forearm, dark yellow fingernails digging deep into brown flesh. He tried to speak again, but it came out a rough gasp. The hand dropped. "There now, go on to sleep," Henry repeated, low and soothing now, and the old man lay back and closed his eyes. The orderly looked up at the black crucifix on the wall over the bed. He crossed himself before he slipped away.
It was late and Florence Mantley was tired. You'd think these fellows had no homes to go to, she mused as she climbed the stairs, her joints creaking. They'd likely sit around all night and into the next day if she didn't chase them outdoors.
She had shooed the last one; or at least she hoped so. But there was no telling with some of her girls these days. They'd try to fool her, letting a favorite fancy man stay on after closing, strictly against her rules. If the fellow was in such a swoon, she told them, let him pay for a room at a hotel. It just didn't do to have leeches lolling about her mansion like they belonged there.
She was keeping a special eye fixed on Ella Duchamp. The young lady was about some sort of business lately, acting a fool, disappearing for days and then all whispers and shifted eyes when she was in the house. The madam knew this was usually a sign that some sweet-talking fancy man or handsome pimp had got the hooks in. She wouldn't stand for that behavior and the girls knew it. Miss Mantley boasted the prettiest, most accomplished octoroons in New Orleans and she meant to keep her good reputation. So if Miss Ella Duchamp was up to anything, she could find herself another address.
But all seemed in order this night. The madam went door-to-door only to find one exhausted girl asleep in each room and no unwanted guests. She took an extra long look inside Miss Ella's room, in case her fellow was hiding until it was safe. But she found the girl curled under her baire, quite alone. Miss Mantley closed the door, moved along the corridor to her room at the end of the hallway. She could now attend to a bit of rest for herself.
She stopped to look out the hallway window at the still, blue New Orleans night. As she turned to lay a hand on the doorknob, she caught a flicker of motion. She jerked around, already angry at the trespass, and glared when she saw who stood at the head of the stairs.
"You!" she muttered. "What in God's name are you doing here?"
To her surprise, the intruder didn't say a word, didn't flinch, but came stalking a fast clip along the corridor. Miss Florence, now rightly incensed, put her hands on her hips and glared. The intruder still didn't stop, but instead came faster and before Miss Florence could move or speak, hard arms slammed her heavy bosom, she jerked backwards, there was a crashing sound of glass all around her, and she was suddenly-falling into a nightmare. Wind roared in her ears and then a huge hand pounded her into the ground.
Lying there on the hard dirt, she could hear the cries of the girls coming out of their rooms. She tried to raise her head, but she couldn't move at all. A wrenching pain wracked her body in three great waves and then suddenly went away. She saw faces in the broken window frame above, but the features weren't clear and their shrieking voices grew faint. Her eyes rolled up and she saw dim stars, but then they were gone, too.
ELEVEN
Too white to be black
Too black to be white
—DR. JOHN, THE VOODOO KING
The storm from the Gulf circled around in the middle of the night and Valentin was roused from a troubled sleep by fat, greasy raindrops pelting the bedroom window. Justine didn't stir at all; but he'd learned that she could sleep through a hurricane. Valentin closed his eyes, then opened them again to stare at the spider web of cracks in the plaster in the ceiling, sensing a shadow lurking just beyond the edge of his vision.
He couldn't say what it was; maybe it had to do with the tall man tailing him, or it was something he had carried away from the voodoo woman's house, or maybe it was Bolden's constant, creeping presence on the fringe of the terrible string of murders. Maybe it was the key, the one critical piece that he was missing. Or maybe it was all of it put together. All he knew for sure was that whatever it was would be gone when he turned his head.
He was awake. He slipped out of the bed and out of the room, closing the door behind him. He crossed his living room and opened the French doors. In the gray dawn, the wind was blowing west to east, so he could lean in the doorway and watch the clouds rolling in without getting all soaked.
The lead-colored sky, the sheets of warm rain and the predawn silence suited his mood. He remembered that it was at this same hour some six weeks before that he had gone off to view the body of Annie Robie. It was about the same time of day, on the morning after the murder of Martha Devereaux, that he had watched Bolden stalk away from the rotting pier as the sky went from deep purple to pale pink. It was in this same dull light that he had wandered home from the alley where Jennie Hix had died.
Four dead women, no notion as to who was causing the mayhem, and no notion why. And the only suspect in sight was Buddy, stumbling into the middle of the chaos like he was being shoved by an unseen hand. Even Valentin had to admit that he was the perfect suspect. Too perfect, in fact: it was if the scene had been arranged with him in mind...
He heard his name called and it surprised him. Time had slipped away while he had been standing there. The sky was a lighter gray and the hard rain had settled down to a steady, all-day drizzle. She called him again and he went to the bedroom door.
The baire was folded back and she lay swaddled in the cotton sheet, her milk-coffee arms and legs stretched out languidly. Her eyes were open, but she looked very sleepy. She sat up, stretched her arms wide, pulling her breasts tight. "I'm hungry," she said.
He trotted a half-block in the rain and ducked under the colonnade at Bechamin's. He bought a can of hot latte, some rolls, salami and provolone. As a boy, he had loved his father's bread-and-cheese Italian breakfasts as much as he loved his mother's eggs and biscuits.
Mr. Bechamin was behind the counter and the old Creole gave the detective a curious look, as if he was surprised to see him out and about. Valentin didn't notice. He stepped back onto the banquette with the sack under his arm.
When they finished breakfast, he cleared the table. She washed the dishes while he watched the rivulets running down the window. After a few minutes, he became aware of her voice. He looked up to see her standing by the table.
"I'm sorry, what?"
"I said if you want, I can buy a percolator," she said. "To make the coffee here. So you won't have to go out for it."
He nodded vaguely, but he wasn't really listening. She went back to the sideboard, dried the cups, put them up and then turned around, one hand on the edge of the sink. Valentin was
leaning with his elbows on the table, his face cupped in his hands looking at the rain with a faraway expression.
"Valentin?" she said. He looked up at her. "I don't know what to do now."
He leaned back in his chair, returning his attention to the present. "Well..." he said, "what do you usually do?"
"I usually ain't up at this hour," she said with a nervous laugh.
He regarded her thoughtfully for a moment, then got up and went to the cold locker. He opened the wooden door, reached inside and produced a small can, made for spices. He twisted off the top and picked out five Liberty dollars.
"You can go to the five-and-dime if you like," he said, handing her the coins. "I'm sure you need more than a coffee pot."
She nodded. "I'll go get dressed," she said. He smiled. She smiled. They were behaving like students rehearsing for a school play. She left the kitchen, then came back to stand in the doorway. Valentin looked up from his seat at the table. "I ain't ever been much of the homebody," she said.
"That's all right," he told her. "Neither have I."
She put on a white shirtwaist and silk skirt. Umbrella in hand, she went out the door, but not before kissing his cheek quite soberly. After she left, he sat at the table, staring at nothing. He couldn't shake a vague sense that something was wrong, but on this gray morning, his foggy brain couldn't fix on it.
He got to his feet and wandered about until he found a worn copy of poems and stories by Stephen Crane on the window ledge behind the couch. He carried it back to the kitchen, settled again at the table, and started reading.
She was back not twenty minutes later. He looked up and saw the stricken expression on her face and there was a sinking feeling in his gut. He knew exactly what she was going to say, but asked anyway. "What is it?"
"Another woman got killed last night." Her voice was hushed.
He closed the book. "Where?"
"Basin Street."
"Where on Basin Street?"
"Florence Mantley's." Now her voice shook a little.
Valentin suddenly remembered knocking on Miss Mantley's door the night when he'd gone chasing after Bolden. "Who was the girl?"
"It wasn't a girl. It was Miss Florence." She looked at him, wide-eyed. "He went and killed a madam. If it was the same one, I mean."
"It was the same one," he said.
***
He rode the streetcar to Basin Street and stepped down on the corner opposite Florence Mantley's sporting house. The police were long gone, except for two patrolmen huddled by the front door, sharing a smoke. He figured that one of them had been guarding the back gallery, got bored and left his post to join his partner. He cut across the street in the drizzle and made his way around the side of the house without being noticed. As he had guessed, the back door was unguarded. He slipped onto the gallery and into the kitchen.
He found two of Miss Mantley's octoroons—one of whom he knew slightly—huddled over a bottle of port wine at the kitchen table. She told him that the other girls had been sent away, but that they had been ordered by the police to wait there in case there were more questions.
He sat down at the table and listened to the scarlet sisters relate the events of the prior night.
It was around three-thirty when they heard Miss Mantley's loud voice in the hall, followed by a shriek and a sudden crash of glass. The girls ran out of their rooms just in time to see a shadow flee down the stairs. (One thought it was a tall man, the other insisted it was a short little fellow.) They saw the shattered glass and ran to the smashed window. Miss Florence's broken body lay two stories below. Someone ran for the telephone.
When the police wagon arrived, a fat detective with greasy hair snatched up the black rose that the killer had dropped at the top of the stairs. This same copper then rounded up all the girls and told them to say nothing to nobody, that as far as anyone knew it was an accident. Miss Florence could have been drunk and stumbled and fell out the window, he said. The fact that Miss Florence didn't take a drink didn't seem to matter.
Valentin asked directly which one of the sporting girls in the house was friends with King Bolden. The two exchanged a glance and then the one he knew said, "That would be Ella Duchamp."
He hadn't failed to notice that he hadn't been called to the scene of the crime and that no message had arrived from Anderson demanding his presence at the Café. He went there anyway. The doorman, a white fellow with pale, cold eyes, went off and came back to tell him that Mr. Anderson was busy. He was not invited to stay. Valentin wasn't surprised. He understood that he needn't wait for a summons from Tom Anderson.
When he got back to Magazine, he found Justine had made market and was preparing a midday meal of cold chicken. He ate listlessly and she knew him well enough to leave him to his thoughts. She sat down across the table to eat. When she finished, she picked up his book and began to read, slowly, moving her lips over each word, her eyebrows knitting together as she guessed at meanings. After another half hour of silence, she took his plate away. He got up and went into the bedroom. She heard the springs rattling and squeaking as he tossed about on the bed. He reappeared an hour later and started wandering from room to room, his eyes fixed on the floorboards. Justine kept her distance by busying herself with tidying up. When she finished, she settled at the kitchen table again, poured herself a small glass of wine and picked up the Crane book. When he walked into the kitchen a few minutes later, she raised her eyes from the page.
"Well, I guess he's beaten me," he said, sounding sullen.
She put the book down. "What's that mean?"
"It means I can't stop him. He wins. He can kill every woman in the District if he wants to."
She thought about it. "So you're going to give it up now?"
He glared at her for a second, his eyes flashing, as if she had slapped him. Then his hand shot out and cleared the table in one furious sweep. Glass shattered, sweet wine splattered and the book arched away like a bird shot from the sky, pages all aflutter. She jerked away and lurched out of her chair, hiding behind her arms and backing into the corner. Her face was a paling, rigid mask and her hands came up, palms out with fingers splayed in the stark, frigid posture of an animal trapped and ready to fight.
He saw the sharp, hard angles of her face. The only other time he had ever seen her looking like that was the day he had met her, and that stopped him cold. For ten seconds they stood motionless, as the rain rattled along the gray windowpanes.
It was Valentin who broke the stare, dropping his gaze to the mess on the floor. Another moment passed and he put his hands on the edge of the table to steady himself. Then he reached down to pick up the book, brushing the broken glass from the open pages, dabbing a finger at the stains from the wine. He laid it on the sideboard and picked up a dishcloth, bent down, and began to wipe at the purple splatter on the floor, collecting shards of glass as he went along.
Justine watched him move the table, replace the book, muck about with the rag. Her hands came down and she sagged into the corner. She watched him pick tiny crystal slivers from the floor with his fingertips. The hard lines on her face flowed together and disappeared.
She let him labor away for a minute longer, then kneeled down and took the cloth from his hand. "I'll help you," she said.
They finished cleaning up the mess and sat down at the table. Valentin poured new glasses of wine for both of them. Shamed by his behavior, he avoided her eyes.
She let him get settled. Then she said, "You know what my mama used to tell me back home? That if we was out on the bayou, you know, and we got lost? She said don't try to figure out where you are. Just go back to the place you got off the path. Where you went astray." She paused. He was brooding, but at least he was listening. "So maybe you need to go back to where you got off the path. Where you lost your way."
"That would be at the beginning," he said quietly.
"So that's where you start at. Go on and tell me about it." When it didn't get a rise from him, she said, "What
, you think I'm too slow to understand?"
He shook his head. She watched him. His face had that gone-away look and she thought he was going to disappear back into his sulk. But then he started talking.
He had heard what she said, but said nothing at first. It felt odd, letting her know his business. Letting anyone know, for that matter. He was about to brush it all aside and change the subject. But then, quite abruptly, he began to tell her. "Five women have been murdered in the past six weeks." He stopped and glanced at her. She was leaning with one elbow on the table, her eyes narrowed, nodding. "Four in the District, one over on Perdido Street," he went on. "Four sporting girls, one madam. One Negro, one octoroon, one Jew, two white. Each one was killed in a different manner. But each time, the killer left a black rose at the scene."
"What'd that tell you?" she asked.
"Not a goddamn thing!" he snapped. He felt her cool gaze and sighed, retreating. "That it's the same party each time," he said.
"All right," she said.
"The first one was Annie Robie," he went on. "A Negro girl in the house over on Perdido Street. She was smothered with a pillow." He hesitated for a second, and then said, "As it turns out, Buddy Bolden was there late that night. He may have been her last visitor, in fact." He frowned. "And he's been back since." He told her about the scene that Miss Maples had related.
"That don't look good," Justine said.
"No, it doesn't." A niggling memory suddenly returned, an oddity that had come to him, a few words he had exchanged with Picot. "There was this one thing," he said. "There were no signs of a fight. No thrashing about." He scratched his jaw. "She was a healthy girl. She was being suffocated. Why wouldn't she fight it?"
"Maybe she couldn't," Justine said. "Maybe whoever killed her had some help."