January felt his neck and ears grow hot, but made himself say quietly, ‘Certainly, sir.’ No sense spitting in his face and yelling at him. ‘Might I speak to my wife?’ he added after a moment. ‘She’s near her time, and I would be better able to concentrate on our – joint endeavor – if she were where I could get her to help immediately if she needed it.’
Smith considered the matter. The man Cat spoke up, a trifle diffidently, ‘I’d feel better if we wasn’t worryin’ about her up an’ farrowin’ any minute, sir. She’s about ready to pop, sure as gun’s iron.’
‘Don’t think I don’t sympathize with you, January,’ said Smith after a time. January closed his fists under the table so hard his nails dug into his palms.
‘Don’t think I don’t sympathize with you’ meant ‘no’. Only the thought that the situation might be worked around somehow kept him from hurling table, chairs, anything he could find, at this pale-haired man, from pulling Shaw’s purse gun from his boot and killing him, knowing he’d die too and not caring.
‘My experience in these matters has taught me that moderate amounts of pressure tend to improve the concentration rather than disrupt it. Mrs January and your children are perfectly safe, and in no discomfort. They will be returned to you as soon as I have that strongbox, and that list of names, now presumably in the possession of Mr Filoux. Until such time, you will take orders from myself, or from Catastrophe here—’ he nodded toward the ginger-haired, broken-toothed Cat – ‘who can be found any day from two o’clock on at the Flesh and Blood, on Girod Street. You have—’
His dark eyes narrowed, calculating. ‘You have three weeks. After the first of August it will be too late, and I will be forced to conclude our dealings, and dispose of Mrs January and your children in a manner best suited to recovering some of my financial losses in this matter. I hope you understand?’
Everything within him screaming, like a mine exploding in a holocaust of flame and shattered iron and rage, January said quietly, ‘Yes, sir. I understand.’
I will kill you, he thought. He was pretty sure the words were in his eyes, and kept them properly downcast.
But he was also pretty sure that this ‘Mr Smith’ – this Jared Ganch – saw this, and had already made his plans accordingly.
The house on Rue Esplanade, when he returned to it, seemed still as the house of death. In the gray light of the afternoon’s rain he paced from room to room, the smell of the half-repaired plaster, the mild mustiness of the packets of sizing and pigments, mingling heart-rippingly with the clean soap smells of Baby John’s empty crib, the lavender and sweetgrass of Rose’s pillow. He wanted to weep, to curse God, as Job had cried, and die.
A half-hour after his return, Shaw came in through the discreet passway into the backyard and mounted the back gallery stairs. ‘Far’s I can tell ain’t nobody watchin’ the place.’
‘It takes effort to watch a house,’ added Olympe, who followed Shaw a few moments later, by the same route. Her deep, rather rough voice was steady, but there was a look in her eyes that January had never seen there, or had seen only in a diminished or second-hand form: the cold eyes of a killer. He knew his sister understood the lore of poisons, and could make a man sicken or die, but she was generally careful to whom she sold such things. She knew the gossip of the town: knew also when to turn a prospective buyer away. But her eyes were now the eyes of one who can call up the demons of hell, and fix them like leeches to an enemy’s flesh, and not care about the cost to her own soul.
‘Ganch has eight men these days who draw their living from him,’ she went on. ‘Maybe as many as twenty others he can call on. Men who owe him money, and dare not say no, or drunkards whose loyalty can be bought for a drink. I don’t see any of these hereabouts.’
January made himself say, ‘Thank you’ with a mouth that felt like it belonged to somebody else.
Rose. Dear God, Rose …
He said, ‘In the boat coming back Catastrophe Watling told me that Zizi-Marie is all right.’
Olympe’s eyes didn’t change, but he thought her shoulders shifted a little, relaxed one-half a degree. ‘You believe him?’
‘I don’t know,’ said January. ‘What he said was, “Mr Ganch says he’ll break the man’s arm that lays a hand on your girl or your wife”. They seem to think Zizi and Gabriel are my children. How long that protection will last – or whether Ganch will in fact retaliate if one of his men harms Zizi – I don’t know.’
‘Crimine ab uno disce omnis.’ Hannibal came in from the back gallery as well, followed by Olympe’s husband Paul, by ashen-faced young Ti-Gall, and by Ti-Jon, whose net of informants and potential helpers was almost as wide as Olympe’s. ‘I have encountered Mr Watling and his brother in the Swamp on a number of occasions. Even drunk, Watling seems a man without malice, which elevates him to demi-sainthood in that milieu. Brother Rocky will cross a street to kick a dog dying in the gutter – Catastrophe won’t, for what that’s worth. Whether that will forestall him from … ah … other acts of malice—’ he glanced at Olympe’s stony face and visibly evaded the word, ‘rape’ – ‘I know not.’
Olympe said, ‘I will fry his balls with onions, and feed them to him,’ in a conversational tone. She turned to Shaw. ‘This man Ganch is a whoremaster, no? Might he be keeping them in one of his houses?’
‘I doubt he’d hold a pregnant woman an’ her child where they’d be like to disturb the payin’ customers, m’am. Like as not he’s got one of his madams keepin’ a eye on her. Sefton?’
‘I shall make it my quest to inquire. A damerel and a ladies’ boy, that’s me …’
‘Just don’t let ’em know you’s lookin’. He’ll keep a good eye on M’amzelle Zizi too, I reckon,’ he added, not looking at either Olympe or Ti-Gall. ‘Virgin’ll bring more, on the market.’
Ti-Gall flushed darkly under his sprinkling of freckles, but January nodded, and prayed that Ganch’s influence over his men was strong enough to counter their selfish contempt for a woman in their power.
‘Melkie Frias runs the Flesh an’ Blood for Ganch,’ added Ti-Jon. ‘Nobody’d tell him the time of day for free, no wonder Ganch can’t find out nuthin’ ‘bout Juju. You stay away from where he can see you, Ben. Keep clear of the Cock as well. Frias, he a snitch with a mouth on him like a busted pipe.’
‘I can go to the Flesh an’ Blood,’ said Ti-Gall. ‘Melkie’s always lookin’ for boys to work there, he pays so bad.’
‘Ain’t a bad idea,’ said Shaw.
Paul put a big hand on the boy’s shoulder, and said, ‘You watch yourself, son – your mama kill me if you come to harm.’
‘Why the first of August?’ January looked from face to face among them, the only people, he thought, who held open the door through which Rose might one day walk back to him. Rose, and Baby John, and Zizi and Gabriel and Secundus … He felt as if he were wounded and bleeding, as if it would be easier to stay lying down and simply bleed to death. I have to get up and fight. ‘That mean anything to any of you?’
They traded a glance: two white men, three black – slave and libré – and a black voodooienne.
‘It might to Oldmixton,’ opined Hannibal, and January nodded. He’d already written another note to the diplomat, arranging a meeting as soon as the Englishman could come to the house without drawing attention to himself. Ganch might not have enough men to watch the place, but the knifepoint deadliness of the situation made all of them hesitant to run even the smallest risk. ‘You need me here, amicus meus, until that gentleman’s arrival?’
January shook his head. The rage returned in waves, turning him sick. Between them he felt simply tired and very strange. He tried to remember whether this was how he had felt in the wake of Ayasha’s death, but oddly he could not remember how he had felt at all. ‘I’m all right,’ he said, still with that queer sense of speaking through someone else’s mouth, of inhabiting a body strange to him.
‘You is not,’ retorted Olympe, ‘all right. Paul, you go see wh
at’s in the kitchen. I think my brother’ll do better with somethin’ in him. Ti-Jon, Gallie, Michie Shaw, you-all welcome to stay.’
‘They be lookin’ for me down the wharves, m’am,’ returned the slave, ‘once the rain quits. An’ those lazy bastards be gettin’ themselves into God knows what trouble, thank you all the same, m’am.’
Shaw also excused himself with thanks, and took his leave. A little later, as Hannibal was preparing to depart, last of the guests at that silent dinner, the fiddler rested a hand on January’s shoulder. ‘Find Juju, and his execrable list of names which, wherever that strongbox ended up, I’ll go bail is in the hands of whoever made quietus for Brooke. That’s your task. We’ll find Rose.’
He stepped out onto the gallery, opened his umbrella, and departed, leaving silence in the shadowy house, and the thunderous drumming of the rain.
FIFTEEN
Find Juju, that’s your task, Hannibal had said.
January had meant to make his way to the Place des Armes once the rain ended, to find Tyrell Mulvaney and ask where he’d taken Henry Brooke on Friday night. But it was still raining hard when dark fell, and he sat waiting in the plaster-smelling parlor, listening to the drumming of the storm on the gallery roof.
There is nothing further that I can do tonight, save what I am doing.
Hail Mary, full of Grace, the Lord is with thee …
Don’t let them come to harm …
The faces of the men in the boat, surrounding him on the Turnpike Road by the shore of the lake, came back to his mind. Shaggy and coarse, the hard faces of those who traded slaves, who beat those who owed Mr Ganch money, who would cross the street to kick a dying dog.
Hate turned him sick. Hatred of the white race, every single man of them, every woman and child.
Shaw is white, he reminded himself. Hannibal is white …
He still hated them all.
He didn’t hear a carriage in Rue Esplanade, but the footfalls that creaked on the steps up from the banquette weren’t those of a man used to sneaking up on his foes. He crossed to his study, where he’d left a lamp burning and the shutters open, and unlatched the French door even before Sir John Oldmixton reached it.
The rain had ceased, and droplets glittered all along the edge of the gallery roof in the thin reflection of the study lamp. The world smelled of wet vegetation, of mould and decay.
‘M’sieu Janvier.’ Oldmixton held out a kid-gloved hand.
Another white bastard …
‘I hope the secrecy of this meeting implies that you’ve come round to being willing to—’
‘A gambler named Jared Ganch has kidnapped my wife and children,’ said January quietly. He stepped aside to let him in, closed the glass door behind him against the mosquitoes. ‘He says he’ll sell them as slaves in the Territories, unless I get him the strongbox containing the Bank of England stock certificates that Henry Brooke had in his possession, and a list of names – presumably the “purely personal family papers” that you were so desirous of retrieving. So I think all that has earned me the right to ask you: what the hell is going on?’
‘My … dear … Janvier—’ By his voice the Englishman was absolutely aghast.
January picked up the lamp, and guided him through to the dining room, where all but two of the candles on the table had guttered themselves into oblivion. In their feeble light he stood, looking across into the Englishman’s eyes with an anger that would have gotten him whipped – and possibly lynched – had he so regarded any American on the continent.
‘I take it Brooke absconded with the Bank of England stock certificates from the consulate,’ he continued in a level voice. ‘Strongbox and all, apparently. What is the list? Ganch is a gambler, a slave dealer, a saloonkeeper and a whoremaster – that’s only what I know about, he may be other things besides. He has friends on the municipal council. He may – or one of his hired thugs may – have killed Brooke himself, only to find that the things they wanted from Brooke weren’t where they thought they were. You owe me your help.’
‘This is all—’ Oldmixton began with a wave, and January caught his wrist and simply looked at him.
And don’t you dare say this is all very irregular and you can’t do anything …
The Englishman sighed. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, Brooke absconded with twenty-five thousand pounds’ worth of stock certificates. He left the strongbox where it was, by the way, with packets of cut-up newspaper, wrapped in such a way as to look as if the certificates were still there.’
January released his wrist, gestured to one of the chairs. ‘Can I get you coffee?’ The screaming hatred ebbed, leaving him tired and faintly ill.
Oldmixton, his shoulders relaxing, took a seat and nodded.
‘Thank you, that would be much appreciated.’ He swiped at a mosquito as January retreated to the pantry, and returned a moment later with a clean cup and the little pot refilled. ‘I am sorrier than I can say,’ he added, when January took a seat opposite him and slid in his direction the last plate of the pralines with which his barely-tasted dinner had been concluded.
Gabriel had made them the previous day. Dear God, guard him safe … He had to turn his face quickly aside, and Oldmixton went on, ‘I pulled you into this and I would never have done so had I known—’
‘In this country,’ explained January quietly, ‘that’s something you always need to take account of, dealing with those of my race. And it wasn’t you who got me into it,’ he added. ‘Strictly speaking, it was my sister – the mother of the two young people who were taken along with my wife. But I ask you – I beg you—’
Oldmixton raised his hand. ‘Henry Brooke was a courier,’ he said. ‘The consul here had need to … ah … purchase a little goodwill. Brooke was sent from London with the stock certificates, which would be easily negotiable through American banks but traceable should they go astray. Brooke has worked with our department for six years, and was vetted as dependable – obviously a premature judgment on someone’s part.’
‘Well, the traceability of Bank of England stocks is a premature judgment on someone’s part,’ remarked January grimly. ‘There’s half a dozen men in New Orleans with the resources to purchase them and organizations large enough to hold them and then sell them quietly, in Mexico or Cuba, no questions asked. It might have been exactly the opportunity Brooke was waiting for. What do you know about him before he came to work for your “department”?’
‘Personally, very little. Someone in London—’
‘Was Brooke his real name?’
‘Good heavens, no!’ Oldmixton looked shocked at the very idea.
‘Any idea what it was?’ And, when the Englishman shook his head, January asked, ‘Was it O’Dwyer?’
‘I don’t think so. But he had several, you know. And sometimes – when he was drunk, or angry – he did sound very Irish.’
January nodded. Under those circumstances the Irish lilt would return to Hannibal’s voice, too.
‘What about the list of names?’
‘Well, that’s the reason for my concern, you see. I know he gained access to my notes on a number of subjects, and I’m fairly certain he made a list of names – the marks that bled through onto the sheet of paper underneath the one he wrote on tell me that much. For one thing, I have no idea what use he planned to make of those names, or in how much danger those people will be placed. For another, if I knew who they were, it would give me some idea of where the stock certificates went – or were intended to go – and what Brooke was up to. I fear on that head I am as much in the dark as you.’
‘So there’s no chance of mocking up a list.’
‘Not if this Ganch scoundrel knows the sort of names that should be on it, no. But I cannot at the moment call to mind anyone in the … ah … local diplomatic community who would consider such an expeditious solution to any problem Brooke might make for them. It’s the sort of thing one would expect in South America, but I know the consuls for Peru and Argentina, and s
ince they already have lists of each others’ agents I can’t see them killing anyone over them. Things are so confused in New Grenada these days with the revolt in Ecuador that poor Señor Melendez – the current consul – hasn’t been paid in months, and I doubt he could hire anyone to murder anyone … And Brooke could as well have been shot by an outraged husband as by anyone else, you know. He was a good-looking devil and he had a sort of fastidiousness about his love life: he much preferred seducing the wives of the local gentry to paying for a frolic in even a high-class bordello. I had cause to speak to him on the subject.’
‘Did you?’ said January thoughtfully. ‘Any names?’
Oldmixton frowned for a moment. ‘Not off the top of my head, but I can easily find out.’
‘And I assume,’ continued January, ‘that since you didn’t mention a valet in our early conversation, Brooke didn’t travel with one.’
‘Good lord, no. He wasn’t a gentleman.’
The casual way he said that made January smile. It reminded him a little of traveling in Mexico, where the hire of a valet automatically promoted one to respectworthiness. The same, of course, could be said of travel on a steamboat up the Mississippi – if one happened to be white.
‘If there’s any way in which I can help you,’ added the Englishman after an awkward moment.
January drew a deep breath. ‘Some money would help,’ he said. ‘I don’t know for what, yet, but—’
‘Good heavens, my dear Benjamin, in my business one learns never to ask.’ From his pocket – January never figured out how he could carry such a thing while keeping the lines of his clothing so smooth – he extracted a small sack, which clinked as he set it on the table. ‘And who was this Gerry O’Dwyer?’ he asked. ‘It wouldn’t surprise me in the least that Brooke had some secret former life – several, in fact. He was rather that type. Might someone he knew under that name have … I don’t know, pursued him …?’
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