Lost River (20 page)

Well, they were right about that part, and she would give them more than enough reason for scorn. She would serve it up on a platter and she hoped they'd choke on it.

Lifting the hand piece from the cradle of the telephone box, she gave the operator a number, then waited. When the voice came on the line, she mouthed a quick set of instructions and just as quickly hung up.

Justine had changed from her nightdress into a white cotton shift that was now worn so thin it was near transparent, so much so that it outlined every curve and dimple on her body. No one except Valentin had ever seen her in it, and he loved the sight. She put it on sometimes when she wanted him in bed, and it never failed to rouse his attention. She wished she had thought to put it on before he left, just to torture him.

She opened the French door to the balcony to allow a breeze inside, then ambled back into the kitchen to wash the dishes. As she stood there, with water dappling the front of the shift, she heard the sound of an automobile engine gurgling from the corner of Dauphine Street. She knew instantly that it was him and stood perfectly still as the puttering grew louder before dropping and dying.

She felt an urge to go to the balcony and peek, but she stayed put, staring at nothing. Then she heard the street door open and footsteps start up the stairs, and realized that she was not dressed, not really, and was wearing a garment that would be indecent to anyone except Valentin.

The footsteps drew closer. She told herself that if she stayed still, he wouldn't know she was in. She thought about rushing to the bedroom to throw something on over the shift. She did neither. When the knock came, she laid the sopping dishcloth on the sideboard and padded barefoot to the front door.

She took him by surprise. Framed in the doorway, all but naked beneath a sheath of thin and sheer cloth and regarding him with dark serious eyes, she was the very image of a peasant girl, as exotic as a creature in the wild.

Justine noted with satisfaction that he actually took a step back and stopped breathing for a moment. Then he collected himself, and his eyes settled as they traced her from hips to chest before reaching her face.

"Good morning," he said. She didn't respond, one hand languidly draped on the doorknob. Louis held out a single rose, blushing peach. She accepted it without moving her eyes.

He said, "May I come in?"

She stared back at him, letting the seconds hang, and wondering if he had any idea what would happen if Valentin happened to come back and find him there. Bemused, she shook her head and said, "No."

He didn't appear surprised. With a curious smile, he said, "Well, then," and turned to descend the stairs, taking his time in case she changed her mind. She stood listening until the street door opened and his steps clicked on the banquette. She waited but did not hear the sound of an engine coughing to life.

***

Valentin arrived at the corner of St. Louis Street to find Each pacing up and down the banquette. The morning's long stroll had settled him down a bit. Maybe it really would be a simple matter of picking up a trail that would lead directly to the guilty party. If it turned out he was that lucky, he could lay the matter to rest and rush off to beg first Justine and then Sam Ross to forgive him his trespasses. He'd go down on bended knee and swear he'd never do it again. He would even promise to stay out of Storyville forevermore.

The thought had barely crossed his mind when its construction fell apart. He had burned the bridge to St. Charles Avenue. And fixing matters with Justine would not be simple.

As they made their way along Basin Street, Valentin explained briefly what he planned to do and what Each's part would be.

When he finished, the kid laid a hand on his arm and said, "I got it." His eyes shifted in such a sneaky cut that Valentin almost laughed. "You go ahead."

The detective nodded gravely, keeping in the spirit, and turned and walked away. Each idled, letting Mr. Valentin get a block or so on. He sauntered along in his path, his eye out for a tail, just like he'd been told to do.

The French Quarter was as peaceful as could be. Only a few blocks from the red-light district, and yet a world apart. This was the Vieux Carré, the old city, and they had long ago chased the madams, harlots, pimps, sports, and the clientele upon whom they preyed to the other side of the basin that had been dug for dirt to lift their fine homes out of the muck of swamp that had been downtown New Orleans.

Strolling through the Quarter, Valentin mulled the business with Honore Jacob. It was hard to accept that three men murdered at his properties was a coincidence. Though it could be so. Maybe Jacob's dice had come up snake eyes. From what he'd already heard, it was also possible that it was part of some macabre joke.

Valentin reached the corner and scanned the intersection until he saw the office on the upstairs floor over a ladies' hat shop, the windows painted with "H. Jacob & Son" in decorative letters. He lingered beneath a wrought-iron balcony across the street until he saw Each appear on the corner a block north, then cross over without as much as a glance in his direction. Valentin smiled; the kid had learned some things.

He found the street door unlocked and stepped inside to climb a staircase that had seen some use. On the second floor, he found a suite of three offices, along with a storage room in the rear. A woman of middle years and graying hair sat behind the desk in the first office.

She said, "Can I help you?"

Valentin stepped inside. "I'm here to see Mr. Jacob," he said, and received a questioning look. "It's in regard to the incidents in Storyville."

"Oh, that." The woman's face pinched. She stood up, said, "I'll be with you in a moment," and stepped around him and into the hallway.

Valentin heard a door close and, for the next half minute, the sounds of an argument. The woman's voice went one way, and a man's another, before winding down to a studied silence. The woman reappeared. Barely nodding toward the hallway, she said, "He'll see you now."

From the doorway Honore Jacob watched with terse eyes as Valentin approached. He waved the detective inside, and the two men shook hands. Jacob's grip was damp.

Everything about him was sweating, in fact. It was early on a fall morning, the ceiling fans were turning, and yet spots of perspiration had seeped through the front of the man's shirt and created arcs under his arms. His forehead was beaded, and Valentin spotted at least two rivulets from under his scalp that were heading in the direction of his cheeks. A damp handkerchief lay crumpled on his desk blotter.

Valentin had seen the landlord at a distance a few times, and Jacob of course knew St. Cyr's reputation. And yet for all their time in Storyville, they had never crossed paths. Now the landlord stared across the desk as if regarding some peculiar animal.

"You're back working for Anderson?" he said to open the conversation.

"No, sir. Miss Antonia asked me to see if I could help out."

"Can you?"

Valentin was amused by the directness. "That's why I'm here," he said. "All the victims were found on your properties. Three men dead and—"

"Four," the landlord said.

Valentin blinked. "Four?"

"You didn't know? They found a fellow on Robertson Street."

The detective took a few seconds to digest this. "So you own cribs, too?"

"A few, yes." Jacob appeared only slightly abashed. "Anyway, they dragged a body out of one of them the other day. That makes four. Now what the hell do you think of that?" It was a general expression of exasperation.

"Do you have enemies?"

"I got certain citizens I don't get on with," the landlord said. "Everyone does. That's business. This is something else. I think some maniac is trying to destroy me. By murdering people. God almighty!"

Valentin, watching for signs of phony rage, saw none. Jacob was clearly distressed. At the same time, his frustration did not earn him any sympathy. Valentin had taken a dislike to the man the moment he walked in the door. Jacob exhibited all the features of a sneak: eyes that flicked constantly, jowls that quivered, a loose mouth, and a spike of a nose, ready-made to stick into other people's business. His voice went in and out of a whine that was like a train passing through a tunnel. That didn't make him an automatic fake.

Behind the plaintive tone was a refrain the detective had heard before. Jacob's family had come from money, old French money that had been squandered away. Though he had become rich again, he was one of those who believed the world owed him the repayment of the fortune that his ne'er-do-well brother had lost. From the talk around the District, he tried to make up for some of it by gouging his tenants on one end and shorting them on the other.

Valentin would have avoided this bellyacher, except that now Jacob's trouble was Storyville's. So there he sat, listening to another stanza of mournful blues. On and on it went.

"So you have no idea who might want to harm you this way," he cut in, as much to get the landlord to stop talking as to move the discussion forward.

"I don't," he said. "I run a fair business. I pay my help the same as everyone else."

Valentin dropped his voice a notch. "Anything personal?"

"Personal?" The hooded eyes blinked. "What do you mean?"

"Such as a woman. Gambling. Dope. Anything like that."

Jacob drew back, incensed. "No, nothing."

The detective believed it. Jacob didn't strike him as one who might dally, other than perhaps the once-a-week attentions of a girl in one of the houses. Storyville landlords often received such services as part of the rent. Though it could be a dicey arrangement. Properties had been lost by way of the machinations of a crafty madam and a few skilled harlots.

Not Honore Jacob, though. He seemed not to share the French gene for pleasure and was more the kind of moneygrubber who would be too cagey about his riches to fall for such schemes. The Jacobs had already lost too much.

Valentin realized shortly that the landlord, plainly baffled by the horrible turn of events, didn't know a thing that would help him. He waited for Jacob to take a breath, then excused himself and rose from the chair.

"I'll need a list of all your properties," he said.

Jacob stopped to eye him warily. "What for?"

"I want to make sure they're secure. If I can do that, and we have a murder somewhere else, then maybe it's not your problem after all."

The landlord considered, then flicked a hand toward the front office. "My wife has all that."

His
wife;
that explained the arguing. Without offering his hand, he thanked Jacob for his time.

"So you'll get this fellow?" the landlord said anxiously. "I mean get rid of him?"

Valentin said, "He has to be stopped. For everyone's good." He paused to note that for all his troubles, Jacob had not offered as much as a dime to speed his efforts.

Mrs. Jacob turned over the list of addresses, making her disapproval of the entire matter plain. Valentin thanked her and made his exit. When he got to the banquette, he could feel eyes resting on him from the window above.

Each did his part and stayed out of sight all the way to the corner of North Rampart Street.

"So?" he said.

"So now we go to work."

The kid winked and grinned with delight.

They first visited Mary Jane Parker's house and spent a half hour questioning the madam and her girls about Allan Defoor. Valentin listened closely, and Each ogled the doves in their kimonos as Miss Parker described Defoor as a regular customer who never caused any kind of a stir. He was one in a thousand, and there wasn't one remarkable thing about him.

Valentin turned his attention to the four women now lounging behind the madam's chair in various states of undress. It was still early for them.

"Did Mr. Defoor ever mention having trouble with anyone?"

The girls all shook their heads solemnly.

"Problems with gambling? Or dope? Maybe some woman?"

One of the girls snickered. "He wasn't that sort."

Another one said, "He'd just have a drink, come upstairs, and then be on his way."

"He was always
quick,
" a third said, and the others laughed.

Valentin asked that the girls be sent away so he could speak to the madam in confidence. Miss Parker could not name anyone who had a personal grudge against her. Indeed, she was a God-fearing woman who attended Mass at St. Ignatius every Sunday and paid her bills on time.

She regarded Valentin in turn. "You ain't got any idea why this happened?"

"I do," the detective said, hedging. "I just don't know enough right now." He shifted in his chair. "Speaking of bills, how do you get along with Mr. Jacob?"

Miss Parker shrugged. "He ain't no worse than the others. He won't do much unless I make noise. I ain't seen him in a year. Someone comes by to collect the rent the first of the month, that's all."

Valentin thanked her for her time, and he and Each went out onto the banquette.

"Now what?" the kid said.

"Now we pay a visit to Robertson Street."

Each groaned in disgust.