Jass (Valentin St. Cyr Mysteries) (43 page)

"So she didn't actually commit any of the murders."

"I don't believe so. She set up Noiret and Mumford. She lured them to their deaths."

"Just those two?"

Valentin shrugged. "Lacombe was a dope fiend and Martin caught religion, so she couldn't get at them. I'm just guessing, though. Maybe if Dawes or Williams talks..."

"And what about the landlady on Philip Street?"

"We'll never know for sure, but she probably saw Emma Lee with Noiret. She might have tried blackmail. Or maybe she just tried to tell someone about it before she got out of town. It didn't matter; she had to go. After that, they went after the others. Mumford, Lacombe, Martin. They had to work fast, because if word got out, whoever was left would run for cover. When they found out that I was poking around, they came after me." He stopped again, drew a breath. "If I had gone home that night, instead of going to Fewclothes, Dominique would be alive."

"Or you'd both be dead," Anderson commented.

Valentin turned his head to stare out the window at the darkening sky. "So, the only one who escaped was Prince John, and he's the one who started it all."

"I understand he's lost his mind, though."

Valentin nodded. "That's a fair claim."

"Seems like a fitting end. Just like Bolden. I'll be glad when this damn jass business is over with. And the sooner the better."

Valentin knew he was wrong. He could see and hear what the King of Storyville, for all his wits, could not. That jass wasn't going to retreat back to Rampart Street and then fade away. No, it would soon sweep out of the District and flood New Orleans and drag all its joys and all its troubles with it. The way it had taken bits and pieces from everywhere and made something that was never there before had already made it too potent, too bold, too hardy, too
American.
It was too late to stop it now, no matter what Tom Anderson believed. There was no point in telling him so. He'd find out soon enough.

They were quiet for a few moments. Then the King of Storyville said, "They won't be prosecuting Picot, Valentin."

"I know."

"Because he's still got—"

"I said I know, Mr. Anderson."

The white man sat back. "All right, then." He came up with a smile of his own as he rolled his derby through his hands. "What are you going to do? New Orleans is your home."

"Not so much now," the detective said. "I've been here a long time. I just think it's time to go."

He sat for another few moments, then stood and went to pick up his satchel. At the door he said, "Will you watch out for Justine? She's at Miss Antonia's."

"I know where she is," Anderson said.

Valentin laughed quietly. Of course he did; the King of Storyville didn't miss anything that went on in his little empire. The Creole detective murmured a thank-you, then walked out the door and down the stairs.

He carried his satchel to the station and paid to have it put in storage. Then he went to stand before the big board that held the slats of wood, each emblazoned with the name of a city or town. He stood there for a long time, then stepped to the ticket window and purchased a one-way fare to St. Louis. He had no reason to go there; it was just a place to stop. From there he could head north, west, or east. He knew only that he wouldn't be going south for a while.

The train didn't leave for a few hours, so he walked across Basin Street and stood on the corner of Iberville, looking down the line, watching as the carnival began once again. There was light and motion, and swirling around it all was sound, laughter and applause and music everywhere.

He walked into Hilma Burt's parlor to find Jelly Roll at the white grand. There were no customers downstairs, so he played for himself and for the doves who wandered through while they waited for callers.

When he saw the Creole detective walk in, he stopped. Valentin pulled up a chair.

He explained it as briefly as he could. When he finished, the piano man said, "Jesus ... who would have thought?"

Valentin said, "Now that I've told you, you can't ever speak about it, Ferd."

Morton's brow furrowed. "Can't what?"

"You can't ever repeat what I just told you. No one can know about Picot's sister. If it gets out, he'll turn on Justine and she'll be arrested."

"Arrested for what?"

"It's old business. But Picot has the goods on her. Do you understand? I need your promise."

Morton looked unhappy, but he nodded. "All right, then. I guess it don't matter. I'm leaving out in a few weeks. Going to Chicago." He glanced at Valentin. "What about you?"

"I'm getting on a train in an hour." He settled back. "So, if you don't mind..."

"I don't mind at all," Morton said, and went to playing, a march of notes to a hot rhythm, so bright that it drew the doves from upstairs and from the other rooms to listen.

When Valentin stepped out onto Basin Street, he found Beansoup waiting for him. Without a word, they crossed over and went into the station. They walked through the terminal to the platform where his train was waiting. Valentin went into his pocket and handed over a ten-dollar gold piece. The kid studied it for a long moment, cupping it in his dirty palm.

"I'll keep an eye on Miss Justine for you," he said.

"I'd appreciate it."

"What if she asks where you went?"

"Tell her I'm traveling. She'll understand."

"And what if she asks when you're comin' back?" There was an odd catch in his voice.

"I don't know. I can send a letter now and then. In care of Miss Antonia." He smiled. "For you, too."

Beansoup grinned. He stuck out his hand, all manly. Then he turned and sauntered away.

A few minutes later, they called for boarding. The cars weren't very full at that hour. He found a seat that was away from other passengers and watched out the window as they chugged away from the lights of Storyville and then turned north into the Louisiana darkness.

Prince John sat up half the night, smoking hop and tippling a bottle of moonshine whiskey from those he kept under the floor. He lay down on his pallet for his usual raw and fitful sleep, invaded by bad dreams. He kept on thinking that someone was coming to his door. He imagined a body rustling through the bamboo, footsteps creeping closer, a shape looming. When he forced his eyes open, though, there was nothing there.

At least, nothing he could see. He knew that the dark of the night could host all kinds of creatures. Before, voodoo was just something he used, like the music, to play his game and get what he wanted. Then he came to believe in the power and believe that he had it.

He needed it now. Something was creeping closer. That Creole detective had found him. Who knew who else might be appearing? It was time to move. His voodoo skills could not make him invisible. He should have quit New Orleans back when he was having all that trouble.

Now the sound came to him again, the padding of footsteps on the sand outside his door.

"Who's out there?" he called, hearing the dry creak of his own voice. A breeze came up, rattling the strings of gourds that hung from the eaves. For some reason, the sound frightened him. He wished he had another piece of the good Chinatown hop to calm his nerves.

Now he heard a voice, someone murmuring. There was no mistake about it. His fear turned to anger and he stood up, stretching his creaking bones, and slipped to the corner where his makeshift washstand stood. He found his straight razor, opened it, and stepped along the thin wall of the shack toward the doorway.

He stopped there, listening. He heard nothing now, no voices or steps, just the wind through the bamboo. He stood still for a minute, two, three. Nothing. He licked his dry lips and reached for the block of wood that served as a latch. He turned it with the care of a safecracker, then grabbed the leather handle with his free hand. He raised the razor and jerked the door open.

He heard a rustle in the bamboo, the occasional lap of water down on the bank of the lake. He stared into the darkness. Nothing moved. He dropped the razor to his side and let out a long breath. He was just about to close the door again when he got a sudden sensation. Someone was in the shack. He wondered how that could be and then he thought of the back window, covered with nothing but burlap. He heard a sharp breath and the thump of a footstep and turned just in time to see the dark shape close in on him.

Early that morning, in the pearly mist of dawn, a fisherman who had just pushed off from the shore of the lake spotted something in the water that he first took to be a rolling log with branches attached. Then he thought it might be a dead nutria. When he passed closer, he saw that it was the body of a man, in a gentle slump, like he was sleeping on the quiet current. The green eyes were open and piercing, even in death.

The fisherman, a superstitious sort, thought to paddle on as if he hadn't seen it. But he was also a Catholic who believed in proper attendance to a body. He still didn't want it in his boat, so he hooked the shirt with one of his tenders, tied it off, and rowed back to shore. There he dragged the body up onto the bank and went to call for help.

About the time they were collecting the body from the water, Valentin was waking up to a gray north Mississippi morning. The conductor passed by to say that they'd be in St. Louis in just a few hours.

Many thanks to those who have made and make me better than I am: my editor Jen Charat, Kati Hesford, Jenna Johnson, Liz Parker, Marissa Riccio, Sara Branch, Jodie Hockensmith, Erin DeWitt, and others at Harcourt unnamed but dedicated all the same; and to my agents Kim Goldstein and Laura Langlie.

To Bill Ferris, Don Marquis, Bill Meneray at the Tulane Library, and the staffs of the New Orleans Public Library and the Historic New Orleans Collection, for helping me steep it in history. The errors are mine only.

Finally, deep thanks are due the members of
my
jass band, sterling performers all: Joanne Arbogast, Barbara Bent, Nancy Bent, Wendy Bosley, Katie Bourne, Larry Cohn, Anna Copello, Allison Davis, Ilene Dyer, Jack Dyer, Jennifer French Echols, Barbara Eister, Joe Hynes, Lynn Johnson, Karin Koser, Steve Loehrer, Terri Lubaroff, Joanne Mei, Suzanne Mercier, Mary Anne Mitchell, Heidi Nietert, Shelly Paul, Michael Riley, Barbara Saunders, Ebbie Sekulski, Leo Sekulski, James Taylor, Lynn Taylor, Virginia Velleca, Rob Walker, Cindy Wallace, Rebecca Wallace, Richard Wallace, John Weatherford ... and Trudel Leonhardt, lost and found.

Turn the page to read an excerpt from
the next Valentin St. Cyr mystery,

Rampart Street

Available at bookstores everywhere.

The moment he turned the corner onto Rampart Street, he knew he was a dead man.

A shadow was moving directly in his path, a phantom in a dark duster, one arm outstretched and pointing a Navy .45. He started to say,
Not me!
But he only got as far as the first word when the other hand came up, the palm out, shushing him.

From down past Second Street, he heard a trumpet blowing, a slow run of dirty brass.
Jass
they called it. He fixed on that odd word for a moment, seeking escape. Then he was back facing the pistol, feeling its ghostly touch over twelve feet of space.

He had lived for years with the fear that someone would come for him. He had paid in sleepless nights. He had seen a shady figure in his dreams, stepping out of a darkness just like this one. It wasn't fair. He wasn't the villain; he was the one who wanted to set things right.

He was blurting "Damn your—" when the pistol shouted and the .45 slug caught him under the chin, snapping his head back and choking off the words in a bloody cough. The shot echoed down Rampart Street as he staggered and toppled over, clutching at his throat, his life bleeding out to seep around the cobblestones.

The shadow faded back into the inky New Orleans night. Across the narrow street, a curtain opened, hung suspended for a moment, and then closed.

One minute passed in silence. It lingered into a second, then a third. The stream of blood ran to the gutter, a feast for the flies at the first light of day.

There was a patter of footsteps, rat quick, from the far side of the street. A crabbed figure bent over the body, rustling through pockets, pulling the heavy piece from the right-hand ring finger. When the wedding band wouldn't budge from the left hand, a blade flashed on its way to dismembering the digit and the ring that wrapped it above the knuckle.

But before the job could be done, a trio of men appeared, the last dregs flushed out onto the street from Johnny O's Saloon, hooting drunkenly as they staggered up to the corner. In the one-two-three order of a vaudeville routine, they came to a stop. Their mouths dropped and six bleary eyes swam over to the body lying in the street and the other form that was bending over it.

One of the drunks, finding his voice, yelled, "Hey, now!"

The crabbed figure jerked back and scurried away just as fast as he'd come. The three fellows slowed to a series of nervous baby steps as they drew up on the body. The first one saw the ugly hole in the victim's throat and said, "Sweet Jesus! Look at that!"