Chasing the Devil's Tail

by David Fulmer

  Valentin stared at her. "If there was ... if somebody held her down..."

  "But that would mean there was two people killed her," she said.

  "Two people," he said, then shook his head. He could follow that path later. "Next one was Gran Tillman," he continued. "White woman up in the District. She was strangled with the sash of her kimono. No witnesses there, either. Nothing at the scene."

  "You mean nothin' but a black rose."

  "That's right."

  "King Bolden knew her, too?"

  Valentin nodded. "He did. And she and Annie Robie were friends. That's what I thought it was all about. At first, I mean. Those two mixed up in some business."

  "What business?"

  "I don't know, but it seems Gran came into money right before she died. Or was expecting to. She bought herself a fancy dress and was going to pay Papa Bellocq to make her photograph. She told Lizzie Taylor she was leaving. Giving up the life."

  "Where was she gettin the money for that?"

  He stared at the wall, his eyes blank. "Well, what if ... what if maybe it was blackmail? What if she knew who killed Annie? And so she decided she'd sell her silence. But the killer figured there was a better way to keep her quiet. A sure way."

  "I guess that makes sense," Justine said.

  He frowned sourly. "Yes, if that had been the end of it. But then we come to Martha Devereaux. And everything changes. As far as I can tell, Martha didn't know Annie or Gran Tillman. She was a good bit different from those other two. She traveled in better company."

  Justine cleared her throat. "She was the one that was stabbed?"

  "That's right. It was a horrible assault."

  "And King Bolden knew her, too."

  Valentin sighed. "He was down there asking after her the night she died." He saw Justine's look and grimaced. "I know. It looks bad. And it gets worse. He knew Jennie Hix, too. The one that was beaten to death down in Chinatown. I think she met him at an apothecary there." He scratched his jaw again. "I can't figure out what was a girl from the Jew Colony doing way down on Common Street."

  Justine thought about it and said, "I know that sometimes if a girl's bad about the hop, the madam'll put the word out round the neighborhood, don't nobody sell nothin, to her. Else she won't be no good to none of the men. So maybe she had to go there."

  Valentin wagged a finger in the air. "And that's where she met up with King Bolden." He took a sip of his wine and placed the glass carefully on the table.

  "Florence Mantley was the last one," he said. "I figure it was just her bad luck. The killer was stalking one of the girls. She had just finished checking the rooms and she was at the end of the corridor. The window was right behind her. The killer came creeping along, looking for that gal, and she surprised him. A push and..." He made a sharp shoving motion with his hands and Justine blinked, startled. "She fell two stories," he went on. "It broke her neck. The killer ran off just as the girls came out of their rooms. That's as close as anyone's been to seeing him."

  "Was that Ella Duchamp?"

  "What?"

  "You said 'looking for that gal.'" When he hesitated, she said, "Ella Duchamp was another one of his women?" He caught her look; she was thinking, That makes five out of five. What more do you need?

  "There's no doubt about it," he admitted. "He's suspicious."

  "I'd say he's more than suspicious."

  He pondered in silence for a few moments. Then he said, "Why?"

  "Pardon?"

  "I don't know why. I still don't see a motive. A why."

  "You ain't got any idea?"

  He took another sip of wine. "Well, you'd think right away a fellow commits these kinds of acts, he hates sporting girls." He smiled dryly. "That's not Bolden at all."

  "Maybe it's not what we—" She caught herself. "Maybe it's not what the girls do. Maybe it's that they're just out there for any man to visit. Easy to get to, you see."

  "Then why weren't any crib girls or the streetwalkers on his list of victims?" he said. "Why only women who work in houses? Somebody down Robertson Street mentioned that and it's a damned good question."

  She looked at him curiously. "You were on Robertson Street?"

  He thought it better to avoid that, so he pretended not to hear. He put on his best thoughtful face and fought a wild urge to smile. There he sat, sifting the gruesome details of five brutal murders, and suddenly he was wriggling like a guilty husband, back from a round of sporting. Before he did smile, he plunged on. "Is it because they work in houses?" he said. "Is he maybe trying to take some kind of revenge?"

  "Revenge for what?"

  "An injury?" he guessed. "A slight?"

  Justine said, "Well, you know there's always men bein' put out at Miss Antonia's. Never allowed back in." She raised one eyebrow. "Remember? That's how I came to meet you."

  Valentin pressed the tips of his fingers together. "Never allowed back in," he said. "Yes, someone could take offense at that." Justine looked at him as something occurred to her. "What?" he said.

  "Well, there's one kind of man ain't never allowed into a house," she said. "Not in the District. Not as a proper customer."

  Valentin's eyes went flat. "A Negro."

  "Unless he's a professor. Or a cook."

  "He sure ain't neither one of them," Valentin sighed, thinking about Bolden playing the part of the perfect suspect like it was a vaudeville routine. "Anybody who took a look at this would say he's the guilty one, no question."

  "Anybody but you," Justine said. He didn't respond and she said, "Is it 'cause of you two bein' friends?"

  He stared at the tabletop. "I don't know, maybe it is," he said. "But it ain't that I just won't look at the truth. After all these years, I figured I knew him better than anybody."

  "But that ain't so," she said.

  He glanced at her, then lowered his eyes. How quick she was; right down to the bone. "I don't know, maybe not."

  Justine sat back, surprised by his confession. She wanted to ask more, but then she saw the wary look in his eyes and let it go. She said, "Tell me this. Could he do it?"

  "I told you, I don't believe he would do some—"

  "I asked you could he do it."

  "Could he?" Valentin said. "Yes. But I could do it, too. Just about anyone could do it." He smiled without humor. "LeMenthe says it's hoodoo at work," he said.

  "And why is that so hard for you to take?" she asked him. "You went to church, when you went, I mean. What's the priest talk about? Prayers and blessings. Spirits. The Holy Ghost. Satan. Evil deeds. I don't see a difference."

  With a gesture of frustration, he said, "Oh, yes, there's a priest involved in this mess, too."

  "What?" She was surprised. "What priest?"

  He told her about Father Dupre, about the trip to Jackson, his strange plea, the rosary, the wreath behind the church. She listened, fidgeting with discomfort. When he finished, she said, "You think he has something to do with it?"

  "Another thing I don't know," Valentin sighed. "I can add to it a drunken doctor named Rall, who treated Bolden and did the autopsies on the bodies of Tillman and Devereaux and Jennie Hix."

  "What else?"

  "There's been a man following me," he said. "The same one was on the train to Milneburg. Tall white man. Wearing a derby hat."

  Justine said, "I didn't get much of a look at him."

  Valentin looked away. "Do you know anybody like that?"

  "A tall white man?" She smiled quizzically. "I'm sure I do. More than one. Why? Who was he?"

  "If I knew, I wouldn't be asking," he snapped and Justine stared at him. He waved a hand, half an apology, and fell to brooding again. Except for the patter of the last of the raindrops on the window ledge, it was quiet for long minutes.

  Justine spoke up first. "Why do you say for sure it's a man?" she asked. "A woman could do it, too."

  "You didn't see what I saw. What he did to those girls."

  "I don't care what he did," she announced firmly. "Yo
u hear what I say. A woman could do it, too." He guessed she was right, it was possible. But then she hadn't looked upon the broken, bloodied bodies of Martha Devereaux and Jennie Hix.

  The storm had passed through and now the afternoon sun cast a soft swath through the windowpanes and across the floor. He had reached the end of it. She settled back and regarded him closely for a moment. "Did it hurt your pride?"

  "What?"

  "What Mr. Anderson said. All them thinkin' you didn't do right."

  He got up from his chair and started pacing slowly. "Yes, I suppose so," he said. "But it's more than that. There's someone out there killing women whenever he wants. It's a true wonder. Just slips in, does it and walks out. Which is another reason I think it can't be Bolden. This is either a clever, clever fellow or one of the luckiest people alive, and he ain't either of those." He stopped and glowered. "But I don't care how clever or how lucky he is. He can't get away with it forever. Sooner or later, he's going to get caught."

  "And you want to be the one catches him, ain't that right?" Justine said.

  He looked at her. "No," he said, "I have to be the one."

  TWELVE

  ***

  MANTLEY

  Died

  On Friday morning, May 31, 1907

  at three o'clock

  Florence Mantley

  aged 41 years, a native of Baton Rouge and

  resident of this city for the past eight years.

  Mr. Tom Anderson invites her friends

  to attend her funeral at

  Gasquet's Funeral Parlor,

  To-morrow (Saturday), June 1,

  At 3 o'clock precisely.

  Gasquet's, 224 Gravier

  ***

  The preparations for Florence Mantley's last day above ground began at dawn, just as a weak, watery sun rose through the mist over the Gulf. The night of mourning was over and it was time to move on to the journey's end. The last of the visitors had left the front room of Gasquet's and stepped out onto Gravier Street some hours ago, and now the lid was closed on the coffin of heavy, dark mahogany where she lay adorned in her finest gown, her favorite gems, and a wig of auburn curls.

  When the noon bells tolled, Justine hurried out of the bed and went for a bath. By the time Valentin roused himself, she had her clothes laid out, had thrown eggs into the frying pan and pushed a tray of biscuits into the oven. He sat down at the table, crossed his arms, and announced that he wasn't going. He wasn't about to show his face, he told her, not after all that had happened. She argued with him, insisted that he had to go, because wasn't it true that the killer might appear to see what his bloody hand had wrought?

  It took the better part of an hour of pacing and fuming for him to give in. Even then, he lolled about, complaining under his breath, making such a nuisance of himself that Justine said he was acting like it was his funeral.

  But at two-thirty, he found himself stepping onto Magazine Street in his black suit to board a streetcar for uptown and Gasquet's Funeral Parlor. As they passed the busy Saturday banquettes, he reflected grumpily on the odd turns his life was taking. There he was, in the midst of a string of murders, humiliated by the killer, being herded outdoors in dark suit and stiff collar, the very picture of a hen-pecked husband.

  Justine turned her face to the streetcar window. He looked so fussy and unhappy that she wanted to laugh in spite of the grave business at hand.

  By the time the car stopped at the intersection of South Franklin and Gravier, there were at least a hundred men and women, Negroes and Creoles and a smattering of whites, all dressed in dark gray or black, milling about the front entrance to Gasquet's. In an empty dirt lot at the side of the building, a marching band was waiting, the brass bells of the horns sparkling in the hot afternoon sun. At dirge-like intervals, the deep tentative thump of a bass drum punctuated the hushed murmuring voices. It was clear from the swelling crowd that Florence Mantley was a woman of some substance in the back-of-town neighborhoods on both sides of Canal Street.

  Valentin and Justine joined the congregation. They saw the girls from Miss Antonia's huddled in a somber group and Justine walked over to talk to them. Valentin went along and waited by her side, his eyes scanning the crowd, noting the selection of local faces. He placed most of them as run-of-the-mill Saturday night sports and fancy men who had the respect to attend this solemn process, and tried to fix the others in his memory. But with his luck, the killer would be some common type who would disappear in this or any other crowd.

  He didn't see Bolden about, but what would he be doing there? Even though he had first played music in parades like every other Uptown musician, his horn was too wild for this sober task, so steeped in New Orleans tradition. In fact, brass bands herald every part of life, but none more extravagantly than the final passage into darkness. Uptown funerals were a sight to behold and a joy to hear; and in violent, disease-riddled New Orleans, the participants all got plenty of practice.

  The first slow tones trebled from the bells of the horns and the bass drum began a steady rumble. Valentin looked up as a hearse with two white horses pulled around from the back of the building and headed up Dauphine at a stately pace, surrounded by a dozen octoroons, Miss Mantley's girls. Next came the madams of the tonier Storyville houses with their coteries, dappling the street in shades of brown, yellow and black. Valentin saw Antonia Gonzales, Lulu White, Lizzie Taylor, Countess Willie Piazza. A stone-faced Tom Anderson, host of the sad ceremony, walked along with Hilma Burt at his side. Then came two or three of the back-of-town madams, all shabbier than their Storyville sisters, including Cassie Maples with two of her Ethiopian girls and the homely maid Sally in an ill-fitting Sunday dress, clutching the madam's arm and looking startled by everything. Valentin nodded a grave greeting to all, spoke directly to no one, and was surprised when Anderson reached out and offered his hand.

  But it was no polite gesture. The King of Storyville fixed the Creole detective with a blank stare, slipped a note into his palm, and then turned away. Valentin quickly recovered and stashed the paper in a vest pocket, feeling like half the crowd had witnessed the exchange. He went looking for Justine.

  In the wake of the main body of the parade came the usual straggling mob of the curious, those with nothing else to do and eager for entertainment. This assembly represented a unique New Orleans brand of hellion, and their numbers would swell as the parade progressed, like a stream drawing flotsam from the banks.

  He and Justine and the stragglers and this crowd—"the second line," as their number was called—fell into step as the funeral march began. The mood would remain somber for the entire twelve-block march to the cemetery as the band moved along in slow cadence, playing mournful hymns. It was a dark Mississippi of bodies, moving up the cobbled street past Charity Hospital and in the direction of the gates of "the City of the Dead," St. Louis Cemetery No. 2.

  The turgid army of second-liners stayed outside the walls, milling about on Robertson Street with their hilarity, while those attending to the grim business at hand moved silently down the narrow pathways that stretched between marble mausoleums with their oven-like biers stacked four-high into walls of brick eight feet deep.

  No one was laid to rest below ground in New Orleans; the below-sea-level earth was so waterlogged that in earlier times caskets had been known to surface, sometimes float, even upend and drop their ghastly cargoes into the light of day. So "the City of the Dead" resembled just that, a grid of tiny mansions and "fours" like tenement buildings, the dwellers all in the happy ranks of the deceased.

  It was a show to the last, even when the dear departed was not a person of means. In which case the coffin would be reinterred later in a more modest bier. But Florence Mantley could afford the best and so her remains would remain, encased for eternity in a fine marble tomb of classic Greek design.

  The service was simple. A Catholic priest said prayers for the dead. The madam's friends and her staff of octoroons wept copiously into silk handkerchiefs. Eulalie Ec
ho stood by, eyes closed in meditation, her presence an added comfort to Miss Mantley's departed soul. Grave-faced men lifted her coffin from the back of the hearse and carried it to a bier. The band played a slow spiritual. Justine watched the ceremony, lowering her gaze respectfully and whispering softly to herself. Valentin pulled at his damp collar and continued to study the faces in the crowd.

  A soft murmur swept through the mourning as the gates to the bier closed with a grating sound that was quite final. The assembled mass snaked slowly back through the gates and onto St. Louis Street. As they drew near the gates, it seemed the pace of the steps on the paths increased, as if rushing to escape the Grim Reaper once more. As soon as the first of the feet stepped onto the cobbles, there was the sudden pounding of the bass drum, as sharp and loud as thunder, and then six brass horns and two clarinets and a saxophone split the day wide open. Now the parade could begin.

  ***

  It was Bolden, crashing down the banquette from the Poydras Street saloon where he had started his afternoon. He was waving his cornet about like a sword and his eyes were bloodshot bright as he reeled drunkenly into the tangle of second-line bodies. The ruffians turned around, ready to fight, but when they saw who it was, a cheer went up. "Let him in! Let King Bolden in!" They were yelling. But when the marchers saw who was causing the commotion, they got their backs up and wouldn't budge.

  He wasn't welcome. Since he started up his own bands, he had shown himself to be too busy, too drunk, too hung-over, or too full of himself to do his duty and join in the holiday and funeral parades. It was a disrespect that the first-line marchers took seriously.

  So King Bolden got nothing as he came weaving up in their midst, his cornet blowing merrily. Their eyes spit messages as they played on, trying to ignore the man and his bullying horn. They changed the key, ragged the tune, raised the volume. But he kept charging ahead.

  From a vantage point on the banquette on the north side of St. Louis, Valentin saw Buddy crash into the parade, saw the angry eddy of motion, sensed a brawl in the making. He grabbed Justine's hand and began edging his way around the crowd as it moved down the street.