Chasing the Devil's Tail (34 page)

The guard made a self-important show of thinking about it
as he worked over his chaw. Then he dropped a hand to his side and came up with a ring of keys. The bolt slid back with a clank that echoed down the corridor. The guard pulled the cell door open.

Buddy, sitting on the stone floor at the end of the iron bed, watched the visitor step inside with curious eyes.

"Buddy," Valentin said tentatively. Bolden looked at him but said nothing. "It's Tino. Valentin St. Cyr."

Buddy nodded vaguely, as if he was being introduced to someone he had met once or twice, but couldn't quite recall. Valentin lowered his voice even more, and Buddy suddenly leaned forward, his eyes wide, almost childlike. "Valentino Saracena. From St. Francis de Sales School."

Bolden considered the information, then stood up, smiled nervously, bobbed his head one time, and extended a clumsy hand. The two men greeted each other formally. The guard, catching sight of their clasped hands, said, "Hey, now, none of that," and they broke their grip. There was now something impish behind Buddy's eyes, like the two of them were schoolboys once again, caught at some prank.

"How are you feeling?" Valentin asked him.

"It's very dark in here," Buddy muttered vacantly.

"I need you to tell me something," Valentin said. Bolden cocked an eyebrow. "I need you to tell me about Annie Robie."

A flicker of recognition crossed his features. "I knew her, yessir," he said. "She's dead now."

Valentin stole a glance at the guard, who was now staring at the wall at the end of the corridor as if Holy Scripture was carved there. He turned back to Buddy. "She's dead, that's right," he said. "And so is Gran Tillman. And Martha Devereaux."

"And Jennie ... Jennie ... uh..." Bolden said.

"Hix," Valentin said. "Hix."

"And Florence Mantley."

Bolden nodded sagely. "Yes. She flew out the window."

"That's right," Valentin said. His voice was getting thick. "And then there were some people attacked. A woman named Justine Mancarre. The kid they call Beansoup. And your mother-in-law."

Buddy was watching Valentin steadily, nodding, but with no sign of understanding in his dark eyes. Those names didn't mean anything to him.

"You know why you're in here?" Valentin asked him.

There was a long moment's silence, and then, in a normal voice Bolden said, "Oh, yes, because it was me that did that. I did it to all of them."

Valentin felt a sudden, icy chill. "You did what?" he whispered. On the edge of his vision, he saw the guard waking up, moving closer to the cell door.

Bolden turned his face to the patch of light cast by the tiny window. "i killed them women," he repeated loudly, to no one in particular. As Valentin gaped, the guard looked frantically around for help. "All those poor girls ... and that madam." He began talking faster, as his eyes flicked crazily about the cell. "Yes! Yes! All them sports and them pimps and gamblers, too. All them fellows in the band. i killed them all! i killed them all! Everybody's dead!" His voice had gone up a half-octave. Down the cellblock, the other prisoners shouted for him to shut up. Buddy's gaze was piercing as he turned to point a finger at Valentin. "You're dead," he announced. He looked at the guard. "And you're dead." Abruptly, his legs folded and he collapsed onto the bunk. His voice grew somber. "Nora's dead. Her mama's dead. And my little baby
Bernedette." He drew in a deep, trembling breath. "And me. I'm the deadest one of all. Everybody's dead now. Everybody. Dead ... dead ... dead."

Valentin put a hand on the bars to steady himself. The guard snorted loudly, folded his arms and leaned against the wall once more, his jaw moving in slow circles. Buddy folded into himself like a flower in the dark of night. A slow minute passed.

"I'm going to go now," Valentin said.

The man on the bunk glanced up and for a brief instant, his eyes cleared and his face softened. The tiniest inkling of a smile lit up his features as he raised a hand in farewell. "Good-bye, fellow," he murmured.

Valentin gestured to the guard. The door was opened and he stepped into the corridor and walked away. The guard spit a languid stream of dirty red-brown on the floor as he swung his keys up to lock the cell. The bolt sliding back into place sounded like a blow from a hammer.

At the City Attorney's office, he learned that Charles Bolden's criminal hearing was scheduled for Thursday, June the 4th. At that time, he was informed, it would be determined if there was evidence to bind the accused over for the assault on his mother-in-law. It would also be determined if there was sufficient evidence to hold the accused for the murder of one or more lewd and abandoned women in the District of New Orleans commonly known as Storyville.

As he stepped onto the banquette, he heard the rattling cough of an automobile engine coming along Royal Street. The motorcar pulled up, wheels sloshing in the filthy gutter. The two toughs sat like twin blocks of stone in the front seat of Anderson's
yellow Winton, eyeing him coldly. The one in the shotgun seat reached around and opened the rear door. Valentin got in.

Anderson was sitting at his usual table, dressed in a light-gray three-piece suit, a long, gold watch chain across his paunch. As the Creole detective approached, he motioned for him to take the opposite chair. Ceiling fans whispered overhead.

"You spoke to Mr. Bolden?" the white man asked directly.

"I visited him," Valentin said, marveling at how fast the news had traveled.

The King of Storyville said, "And now do you believe he committed those murders?"

Valentin shook his head.

"What about the attack on your young lady and the boy?"

Valentin said nothing.

"And his mother-in-law?"

"That one, yes," he conceded.

"But you think he's innocent of the rest of it." Anderson's tone was curious, as if he was edifying himself on some arcane subject of interest.

Valentin knew he wasn't going to sway the man, but he went ahead and spoke up anyway. "I think he made himself a convenient suspect, is all. Someone to pin those crimes on."

Anderson pondered for a moment. "So the killer is still on the loose."

"Yes."

"What are you going to do about it?"

"Try to run him to ground."

"And if that's against my wishes?"

"I'm not in your employ, sir. I believe that allows me—"

"Allows you?" Anderson barked, and rapped his fist on the table. "You are
allowed
to do what I say! Are you forgetting who's in charge here? Have
you
lost your mind now? You go against me, and I'll make your life a misery, friend!"

He stared balefully at Valentin for another moment, then sat back and began absently fingering his watch chain. "But I hope it won't come to that," he said, his voice now matter-of-fact. "Let me present the situation. You go chasing after this supposed guilty party. In the meantime, King Bolden will go on trial for those murders. Justice will be swift. He will be convicted and sentenced to death and that sentence will be carried out. He will be hanged by his neck in the yard at Parish Prison." The blue eyes shifted. Anderson released the watch chain, leaned over the table, and made a conciliatory steeple with his fingers. "However, if you let the matter rest, I can promise you he will only be adjudged insane and remanded to Jackson. His life will be spared."

Valentin stared at Tom Anderson, stunned at the open threat. "That means guilty or not, he's marked down as murderer."

"Guilty or not, he's marked down as an insane person," Anderson said. "A sick man. Exactly what he is."

"There's still no proof that he killed any of those women," Valentin said thickly.

Anderson now laid his hands flat on the table. "We're not going to discuss it any more," he said. "You have a choice to make. Make it."

Valentin sat stiffly for a long minute, then rose from his chair and walked away.

Description of the Insane Person Named in the Within Warrant

Name: Chas. Bolden

Sex: Male

Age: 29

Color: Negro

Color Hair: Brown

Color Eyes: Brown

Occupation: Laborer

Single: Yes

Residence: Parish Prison and 2719 First Street

Nativity: La

Character of Disease: Insanity

Cause of Insanity: Alcohol

Is this his First Attack? Yes

How Long Been Insane? 1 mos.

Is Patient Dangerous to Himself or Others? To Others

Has Suicide Ever Been Attempted? No

Is There a Disposition to Destroy Clothing, Furniture, etc? Yes

Are the Patient's Habits Clean or Dirty: Filthy

What was the Patient's Natural Disposition? Quiet

Have Any Members of the Family Ever Been Insane? No

Has the Patient Ever Been Addicted to the Intemperate Use of Alcohol, Opium or Tobacco? Alcohol.

Has the Patient Ever had any Injury of Head, Epilepsy or Hereditary Disease? No

What is the Cause of this Attack? Alcohol

Has Any Medical Treatment Been Instituted? Yes

Any Restraint or Confinement been resorted to? Yes

If So, What Kind? Parish Prison, seven days

General Remarks: Received Thursday, June 4th, 1907 and on Friday, June 5th, 1907.

I delivered to Dr. Clarence Pearson, superintendent of the Insane Asylum at Jackson, La. the within named Interdicted Insane Person Charles Bolden. Returned same day.

G.A. Putfark
Deputy Sheriff

The double-seated hack creaked along the dirt road that meandered from the depot to the hospital on the outskirts of town.

The papers stated that the fellow in the rear seat of the wagon with his hands and legs manacled to an iron ring on the floor was Charles Bolden. Two uniformed guards, young white men with sunburned faces, slouched in the fore seat, enjoying the trip away from the hospital grounds.

It was mid-afternoon and the sun was high in a near-white sky. The two wagons far ahead, filled up with white inmates, kicked up a cloud of gray dust that drifted back down the road and the guard driving the hack cursed lightly and then slowed the team of mules to a languid, flopped-ear pace. When the first two hacks, led by Sheriff Putfark, rounded a turn in the road and fell out of sight, the guards exchanged a look.

"Well, whaddya think?" the driver said, starting to laugh a little.

"I think it's a mighty hot day," the other said.

The driver pulled up on one of the reins and steered the team off the road and into the shade of a pale oak. To the right, not fifty feet down a slope and through a stand of pine trees, a creek ran, green water flowing in slow eddies. "What about him?" the driver said, jerking his head at the back seat.

The other guard looked at the patient's eyes, placid pools full of dark, quiet shadows. "He won't be no trouble."

The driver began pulling off his high-topped shoes while the other guard grabbed the chain and gave it a hard tug. The links jangled. "He's good," the guard said.

The driver was already hopping down from the seat. The second guard kicked off his shoes and started after him.

The patient watched as the two men trotted through the low brush, pulling at the buttons of their uniform coats, then their trousers. The clothes fell to the wayside and the naked bodies, as pale as the bellies of fish, came out of the brush, arched through the air and collided with the still green surface of the water in one wide splash.

He stared in wonder as the two heads reappeared, throwing water in long silver sheets, making coarse music with their laughter. Above him, on a branch of the oak tree, a mockingbird began to warble. He looked up, listening with every bone, every muscle. The dark bird's song trilled up and down, up higher and down lower, and then began again.

The moment was still: the sun glowing hot, the smell of the dark earth, the sway of the deep-green leaves, the rippling of the silver-blue water, and a bird song that went on and on. Time did not move at all, until the two men came out of the water, laughing and clapping their hands. The bird flew from the branch with one last shrill call and Buddy watched it go until it became invisible against the bleached afternoon sky. He sighed and tried to move his hands, but the weight, the hard iron weight of the chain, held them fast.

The men climbed the bank, laughing, shaking brilliant cords of water from their red arms and legs. They hurried into their
uniforms and trotted to the side of the road, with their shirts and trousers all soaked damp. The guard looked up at the patient. He knew the expression, becalmed, composed, beholding something far away that no one else could see. "What'd I tell ya?" he said to the driver as they clambered back into the wagon. "This one ain't gonna be no trouble at all."

The driver snapped the reins and the hack lurched forward. Behind them, the road disappeared in Louisiana dust.

The week came and went without fanfare around the District, almost as if nothing so remarkable had transpired over the past two months, with the usual amount of drunkenness, debauchery and petty violence from the army of men who marched through the gilded doors of the mansions and slipped like furtive rodents into the creaking cribs.

But those who paid close attention noticed a lingering tension on the streets. Doors were locked and checked twice, the sporting girls and madams and floor men were more than watchful. But the days passed by without incident, and the extra caution was soon forgotten. After all, word had it that the killer had been King Bolden, of all people, and he was gone for good.

Any citizen who came down Rampart Street looking for the King Bolden Band was told that it was no more, but those same fellows jassed regularly at Longshoreman's Hall with Freddie Keppard on the horn. They went by the Crescent City Band.

The rumors on the street made their rounds, of course. The sporting girls clucked in dismay that such a fine man would come to such a terrible end; and the rounders, nodding over short glasses of Raleigh Rye, allowed how they knew it would end up like this, what with the way he acted and all. Those who had despised him all along, who were disgusted with his
music and his antics, or had nursed bitter jealousies over his fame, pursed their lips, narrowed their eyes, drew up all prim and righteous and said:
Now, didn't I tell you so?