Lost River (28 page)

"What for?"

"He shot down a man on Iberville Street."

Anderson took a stunned moment's pause. "Was it the one he was after?"

"I think so."

"You
think so?
"

Each started to stutter an explanation when Anderson cut him off. "Never mind. I'll take care of it." He waved a hand. "You go on," he said, and closed the door. Each backed away, then trotted off into the night.

Inside, the King of Storyville found that the noise had awakened his wife, who now stood at the top of the staircase in her dressing gown.

She said, "What is it, Tom?"

"Go back to bed," he told her.

He sat down at the rolltop desk in his office off the foyer. His first call was to Parish Prison to ascertain that St. Cyr had indeed been arrested and was now confined.

"Yes, sir, they brought him in about a half hour ago," the jailer said.

The King of Storyville thanked him and broke the connection. He next asked the operator to connect him to Chief Reynolds's home.

The chief sounded sleepy and grouchy. "What the hell, Tom? It's the middle of the night."

Anderson bristled in turn at the chief's peeved tone. He could rightly argue that Reynolds might not hold the office if it wasn't for strings he had pulled. But this was no time to raise the point. He got directly to it: St. Cyr was locked down in jail, and the King of Storyville wanted him out.

Reynolds was irked by Anderson's gall, asking for a favor after the trouble he'd started over the payments from Storyville. After an irate few seconds, he said, "He's working for you again?"

"Not exactly."

"Explain that."

"Not now. Later. I'll post the bail if need be, but I want him on the street. Tonight."

"What's the charge?" Reynolds sounded testy again.

"He shot a man."

"Dead?"

"From what I understand."

"A
homicide
?" The chief's voice went up a notch. "And you want him out?"

"The victim was the one who committed those murders."

Even with this information, Reynolds hesitated. Time was, a chief of police would have snapped into action without a single word. John O'Connor had worked with him as a partner to keep the District safe and profitable. But O'Connor had died suddenly, and a model of crisp efficiency named William Reynolds had taken his place. Though he didn't sound so crisp or efficient at that moment.

Anderson hoped he wouldn't have to get nasty and drag out any of the dirt he had on the department, going back fifteen years. He had to consider if St. Cyr's freedom was worth that gamble. Thankfully, it wasn't necessary. With another grudging grunt, the chief said he would call down to Parish Prison and take care of it.

"I'll have him released on your personal bond within the hour," the chief said. "Send someone to pick him up at the back door. I don't want him on the street. And if I find out it wasn't self-defense, he'll be right back in there. Do we understand each other?"

Anderson rolled his eyes at the lecturing tone. "Yes, of course. Let's just get on with it."

Captain Picot could barely believe his ears and his luck. One of the men who had been hired to help St. Cyr happened also to be one of his spies and sent word back through the evening. Nothing much was happening, and Picot was hoping fervently that the Creole detective would sputter, fail, and go home.

That would have been satisfactory. When he received the news that St. Cyr had encountered a man in the middle of the intersection at Iberville and Marais streets and shot him dead, he was beside himself with joy. Even if he had cornered this particular killer, he didn't have the right to execute him. Storyville wasn't the Wild West, after all.

The captain had a late drink of whiskey to celebrate, then went to bed and slept like a baby. He was looking forward to waking up and paying a visit to the jail, just for the simple pleasure of seeing the Creole detective behind bars.

But by the time all this news had reached him, St. Cyr was already gone.

Valentin bribed one of the guards to send for Each. It didn't take long to find him; once he got back from delivering the news to Tom Anderson, the kid had kept a dutiful vigil outside the jail. He now hurried down the stairs and along the corridor to the cells.

"What's the word?" the detective whispered.

Each lowered his own voice. "They found a knife on him, too. Coppers are saying he's the one. They ain't very happy it was you shot him, though."

"Has he been identified?"

"Not that I heard." The kid regarded Valentin carefully, curious about how a man would act in the wake of a killing. As usual, though, the Creole detective's face showed little.

"I heard someone say Mr. Tom called Chief Reynolds and the chief is going to send the word to let you go."

"When?"

"Don't know about that."

Valentin considered. Even with Anderson putting on the pressure, if Picot had his way, he'd be there awhile.

"Go see Justine," he said. "Tell her what happened, but don't make it bloody. Tell her it's over, and that I'm coming home."

The detective waved him away, and he hurried back down the corridor.

When Each came knocking, Justine invited him in. He stayed out on the landing, all breathless as he recounted what had transpired in Storyville and where it had landed Mr. Valentin. Her brow furrowed as she listened, as if she was trying to decide if the news was good or bad. When he finished, she thanked him and closed the door, leaving him standing there.

The call came down at 3:00
A.M.
The prisoner was released and escorted to the back exit, where Anderson's driver was waiting for him, along with Each and Whaley. They climbed into the Packard Victoria touring car and drove to Spain Street, where Valentin stepped down with a weary wave of thanks. The Packard rattled off into the night.

Justine heard the automobile pull to the curb outside, the mutter of voices, and the street door opening and closing. Slow steps ascended the stairwell. She unlocked the door and stood back.

He didn't look too bad for someone who had shot a man to death and spent half the night in jail. Before she walked off, leaving a cloud of anger in her wake, she said, "Mr. Tom says for you to call him right away." She closed and locked the bathroom door behind her, and Valentin heard the hiss of running water.

He found Anderson's telephone number and asked the operator to connect him. Anderson's drowsy maid answered and told him the King of Storyville couldn't sleep and had gone to the Café. He got the operator a second time.

Ned's creaky voice came on the line. "Who's there?"

"Ned, this is Valentin St. Cyr."

"Mr. Valentin. Y'all right, sir?"

Valentin was grateful. "I'm all right. Is Mr. Tom there?"

"He is," Ned said. "Stay on the line."

Ned's voice was replaced by Tom Anderson's. He got right to the point. "The best thing you can do is get out of sight."

"For how long?"

"At least the rest of today. Maybe longer."

When Valentin started to protest, Anderson cut him off. "This isn't over," he said. "Not nearly. You know that damned Picot wants you back in jail. He can't put you there if he can't find you." The King of Storyville let out an impatient breath. "Do you have somewhere to go?"

Valentin crawled into bed and promptly fell asleep, his face sagging in exhaustion. Justine dozed as the gray hours of dawn passed into a cloudy day. The bells tolling nine woke her up.

She was troubled by the look in her eyes when she leaned close to the mirror above the dresser, little storms that foretold a drift toward melancholy. She didn't want to go down that path again.

So the drama of violence was finished, and yet she felt no relief that the murderer was dead and only a small amount that Valentin was safe. That he would be Storyville's hero again had nothing to do with her. He had tossed away a career, imperiled his life, and driven her to anger, choosing the risk of becoming a dead lion to carrying on as a live mouse. Though he had betrayed her, she knew she couldn't bring herself to do the same.

Instead of going home, Tom Anderson had Ned pour him a short brandy, and he sat at his usual table as the last of the stragglers ambled out the door. Sipping his drink, he wondered how in God's name things had gotten so out of hand. A murdering son of a bitch was dead—good news. Still, he knew in his gut that it changed little. Look at the way he had to beg Chief Reynolds for a favor, like he was some peasant.

It was another sign of a decline he didn't understand. Storyville was teetering and the next calamity could be the one that toppled it.

The King of Storyville sighed and sipped his brandy, considering that no empire lasted forever.

Valentin was up and lingering about when Justine came out of the bathroom, her latte flesh all fresh and sweet smelling and her hair hanging down in wet ringlets. Instantly, he felt a tug in his gut and farther south, too. She looked so beautiful, and it was not uncommon for him to catch her at such a moment and tease her into their bed. She would protest about getting all sweaty again but never quite refused him.

He knew better than to try that now. As she padded about, her black eyes broadcast a cool warning that was more lethal than having her stomping around yelling at him. Her distrust was a finger poking in his chest.

It was no time to be cagey, so he told her what Anderson had said on the telephone early that morning. It was another straw on a camel's back that was already sagging, and she shook her head balefully.

"I need to go somewhere," he said.

"Well, what are you waiting for?"

"Justine—"

A sharp look quieted him. She picked up a whalebone comb and began pulling it through her curls.

"I thought I'd take a trip to Jackson," he said.

She stopped what she was doing. "What for?"

"That morning Frank called? It was because King Bolden's wife was at the saloon and she wanted to tell me that Buddy had been speaking my name."

Justine said, "So? He lost his mind, ain't that right?"

"Yes, he—"

"Then so what if he's saying your name? Man's crazy."

"But he's never done it before. So I need to go, see what it's about."

She put a hand on her hip. "Why is it you do everyone's bidding but mine?"

He had to admit that she had him there. "I don't know," he said.

She took the frank admission and went back to pulling the comb through her hair. "You don't know much, do you?"

This was true, too. "If I don't stay out of sight, I could end up back in jail," he said. "So I might just as well go out there and see about him."

She gave him an absent frown, not really paying attention, and he wondered if she would be just as happy if once he left, he kept going. He tried to think of something he could say that would appease her and came up empty.

She finished with her hair and when she went to lay her comb aside, it tumbled off the vanity. Bending down to pick it up, her kimono loosened and he caught a glimpse of brown curves, a sight that all but reassured him that he was crazy to risk losing her. She straightened, turned away, and disappeared into the bedroom to get dressed. She didn't ask him when he was leaving or when he planned to come back. He went in search of the train schedule to find the time for the next local traveling to Jackson, home of the Louisiana State Hospital for the Insane.

Malvina called up the staircase that there was someone on the telephone. She was in the kitchen when the lady of the house appeared wearing an expression that gave her cause to narrow her eyes. The flesh on Miss Evelyne's face was infused with a rosy light, as if she had just finished a frolic in her upstairs bedroom.

She was positively breezy as she swept to the table, where Mr. Benoit was nodding over his oatmeal. Without even bothering to greet her husband, she devoured a plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and toasted bread, drinking her coffee with noisy gusto. All the while she chatted away about nothing in particular, this neighbor and that, the wonderful autumn weather, and her plans for the day.

It was a strange, giddy performance, and Malvina wondered if her employer had gone soft in the head. She had heard stories from other women who worked as servants for well-to-do American families. Tales of love affairs, addictions, suicides, murders, and all sorts of other craziness. There was a hospital on Henry Clay called the Louisiana Retreat where dozens of wealthy citizens who could not restrain their urges were consigned, some behind barred windows. They had escaped justice for their deeds by being placed in a sanitarium.

Malvina studied her employer, knowing that beneath the facades of New Orleans' upper classes lay varieties of sin, madness, and corruption that would make John the Revelator sit up and take notice. The maid had long suspected Mrs. Evelyne of some special wickedness and was intent on vigilance, lest it be visited on her own blood.

Later that afternoon a mulatto attendant ushered Valentin into the large dayroom that he remembered from when he had first visited Bolden. Had it really been six years? With tall and narrow windows and a high ceiling, the room was like a cathedral, the afternoon light from the west casting swaths within which floating particles of dust glittered. There was also something sepulchral about the silence. Though the floor was populated by a variety of madmen, he heard no screams, shouts, or moans. Even those given to rants kept their voices down low, speaking in whispers, as if reciting prayers.