Lost River (35 page)

Each had been clever enough not to gulp at the bait and instead told the driver to wait while he made his way to the Café to speak to Tom Anderson. So he was a witness to the tense encounter between Miss Lulu White and the King of Storyville, which he now related to Valentin as well. He said that Anderson had counseled him to take the chance and the help to find the detective.

"That's all," he finished. "The fellow was waiting down the street when I came back outside."

Valentin glanced away from Each's face, feeling a flush of shame at entertaining a notion that it might be a setup. But Each was as loyal as a mutt, and had neither the cold heart nor the dark cunning to commit such treachery. That didn't mean he wasn't being used.

Valentin read the note again, searching for something that might be tucked between the fancy lines. Who knew what lurked in the florid language? There was no time to ponder it. Each was already stealing tense glances at the street. It was time to move.

The Creole detective said, "Let's go see, then." He stuffed the envelope into his pocket, and they trotted through the drizzle to the waiting automobile.

Justine had decided to walk to Spain Street. Though it would take her a good half hour, she needed the time to think through the chaos that Valentin had brought down on her head.

They had been building a decent life until he had gone and wrecked it with his foolishness. Now he was on his own again, running from the coppers, a common criminal. How had the young cop with the kind eyes put it?
He's a fugitive, ma'am.
Which meant that if they caught him on the wrong corner, he might well end up dead. And for what? To pay a debt he thought he owed. Like the one he thought he was repaying when he went up the river to see crazy King Bolden. She could not for the life of her see the sense in any of it. Taken together, his actions added up to a hard slap that put her in her place.

She let her emotions have their way for a few minutes before forcing her thoughts on to practical matters. The rent on their rooms wouldn't pay itself. The money she earned posing naked once a week for eight college boys would not go far. So far, her only other skill had been providing company to men who were either wealthy or simply flush with winnings for a day or week or month. Valentin St. Cyr came along and changed her path. It would be a bitter pill if his troubles ended up driving her back to that life.

The thought gave her pause and brought Louis Jacob to mind. After so many years and so many men, she knew something of the male of the species. Louis's suave gambit was just another page from the catalog. For all his charm, he was just a little boy trying to play a man's game. Valentin would eat his dandy self alive.

She was still musing on Mr. Jacob and his pretenses as she turned the corner onto Spain Street and saw the Buick 10 parked at the curb, the paint shining ruby red in the glow of the streetlamp. She wondered for a moment if she had conjured him. Her next thought was that he didn't belong there at all.

Picot knew as soon as he looked out his office door and saw Detective Weeks shuffle in from the hallway that either St. Cyr hadn't been in Brown Bottom or that he'd been there and they had missed him again. He stared harder, his mouth setting.

Weeks had the drooping face of a dog expecting a beating as he edged up to the doorway. "Captain...," he began.

"What happened?" Picot's voice was so brittle it almost cracked.

"He must have got tipped off," Weeks said.

"Do you really think so?" Picot mocked him. "I asked you what happened."

Weeks related the story of the burgundy Winton appearing out of the rain, and on Alabo Street, of all places.

Picot frowned, puzzled. "And St. Cyr was in it?"

"They couldn't see. The flaps were down. It was raining pretty good. He could have gotten out some other way, I suppose."

"No, that was it," the captain grunted. "It's just too damned perfect. He had someone helping him out. Probably Tom Anderson or one of the madams. Hell, all of them. And that fucking Beansoup."

"Each," Weeks said. "He goes by Each now."

"I don't care if he goes by Teddy goddamn Roosevelt," Picot snarled. "I guarantee he was in the middle of it. I thought I gave an order to pick him up."

"We couldn't find him."

Picot shook his head in frustration. "What about the automobile?"

"Burgundy Winton. Fine-looking touring car. That's what they said."

Picot rapped hard fingers on his desk. "All right, you call up the dealer first thing in the morning. See how many burgundy models they sold in the city. Couldn't be more than a few." He fell silent, brooding.

Weeks waited for a few seconds, then said, "Anything else, sir?"

The captain sat back. "I let St. Cyr's girl go home. But I want someone watching their rooms."

Weeks started to back out the door.

"Wait a second," Picot said. "Where the hell's McKinney?"

Exasperated, Justine said, "You shouldn't be here," and brushed past him. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught something moving at the far end of the street and turned her head in time to catch sight of a uniformed policeman crossing from one banquette to the other.

At the street door, she tried to put the key in the lock but found her hands trembling so much that it rattled. It was as if all the day's tension had somehow come to daunt that simple act. She just wanted to get inside and close the world away, only to find that she couldn't manage it.

Louis stepped to her side, wrapped her hand in his, and guided the key.

"There it is," he said.

She twisted her fingers and felt the bolt slide. "Thank you," she said.

Louis stepped back, waiting. Instead of pushing the door open, she turned to face him and saw his face cleaved by the light from the streetlamp, something strange in his eyes—something fearful.

She said, "What do you want?"

"I'm here to help you," he said. "You should know that."

She let out a curt laugh. "Help me?"

"You're in a lot of trouble."

"How would you know?"

He tilted his head slightly. "That policeman down the block? He's not after me."

"They're looking for someone," she said. "They think he's going to turn up here. But he's not."

"You mean St. Cyr."

She cocked her head warily. "That's right."

"I know the whole story."

She thought about this for a few seconds. "You and I didn't meet by accident."

"No, we didn't."

She wasn't surprised. He had been playing a game all along, but she was too tired to care. "Well, then? I asked you what you want here."

"I need to talk to you," he said. "It's important."

"Go ahead," she said. "Talk."

"Inside." He smiled, a freakish shadow of his former devilish grin. "You're alone," he said. "I can keep you company."

She almost laughed again at his show of disregard for the cloud of trouble hanging over her head, and Valentin's lingering shadow.

She watched his face for another moment. There was definitely an odd light in his eyes. Like he knew something...

Catching her gaze, he drew back uncertainly. "What is it?"

"All right then," she said. "Come in."

The Negro turned off Canal onto Magazine Street and closed on number 420, a building that Tom Anderson had once owned and where Valentin had for several years kept rooms. He had occupied the three-room flat over Gaspare's Tobacco Store, first alone, then with Justine, then without her again. It had for the most part been a good home. Now, with the upstairs windows darkened, it appeared empty and forlorn, and he wondered if anyone was living there.

Valentin glanced over at Each, who shook his head, no less puzzled at passing that location. The kid knew the address well, having spent nights on the overstuffed couch from the time he was a squirt. He recalled that there had been dark moments of mayhem in those rooms, but it had still been as close to a home as he had ever known. And now they had arrived back in its shadow.

As it turned out, the proximity was happenstance. The Winton slowed and drew to a stop a half block farther on at the corner of Poydras Street, across from Banks' Arcade, a hotel known for its fine dining room and elegant salons, but especially its fourth floor, a warren where for decades a fair share of the city's devious political and amorous intrigues had been conducted.

On the ground level, facing Magazine Street, a garden of stone sculptures, winding paths, park benches, and café tables lay mostly hidden from view by a brick and wrought-iron wall. In addition to the doors on the three sides, the building was fitted with a half-dozen private entrances. There had long been talk of a passageway under the street for those requiring the most extreme secrecy in their affairs.

Each nudged the detective, and then pushed back the canvas flap. He opened their door, and they stepped down to the banquette.

The Negro stuck his head out. "Room four-oh-eight," he said, then promptly engaged the gearbox and pulled away, swinging around the corner and into the darkness of the levee at the bottom of Front Street.

The two men stood on the corner for a moment. The detective said, "Four..."

"Oh-eight," Each said.

After a terse glance around the intersection, Valentin said, "What the hell. We're here. Let's see what it's about."

He led Each across the cobblestones to the covered walkway at the end of the garden. The soft drizzle provided extra cover as they wound along the brick path to a side door. They stepped over the threshold and into a corridor that was cast in the glow of electric lamps turned down low.

Directly on their right was a stairwell and they climbed the three flights without speaking. The door on the landing opened onto another corridor. Number 408 was the third door down. Valentin waved for Each to stay where he was. He listened for a moment, then inclined his head like a safecracker and knocked three times.

"Please come in." It was a woman's clear voice.

The detective hiked his eyebrows, a signal for Each to be on his toes, and turned the knob. They stepped inside, and the door closed behind them with a whisper of well-fitted wood.

They were standing in a small foyer that opened onto a large sitting room. A woman in a proper dress sat with a straight-backed posture on a divan that was arranged at a coffee table along with two button-tufted armchairs. Two electric lamps cast meek light, leaving her mostly in amber shadow. A tray with a full brandy decanter and two glasses had been placed on the table, along with a square box of light walnut.

"Please come in, Mr. St. Cyr," the woman said. She spoke his name with a perfect French intonation.

Valentin stepped forward into the archway. Noting that the invitation did not include him, Each hung back. The detective perked his ears for the faintest hint of another body on the premises. Unless someone was hiding in deep silence in either the bedroom or the bathroom, both to the right, they were alone. But then he was so on edge he might be missing something.

"You may have a seat," the woman said.

Valentin took one of the chairs. When the woman leaned into the muted light, he saw that she had striking features: dark haired, green eyed, full figured, and of regal profile. At the same time, the blades of probing light in her eyes and the curious tension in her finely planed face gave him pause. She was studying him in return.

Waiting for her first move, it occurred to him that in his old railroad coat and de Nimes trousers, he looked more like a workman who had come in to fix the toilet. He had forgotten to remove his hat and did so now. He spent a moment recounting the sequence that had in the span of a half hour led him from a filthy room in Brown Bottom to an elegant suite in one of the most storied hotels in the city. He knew it could still be a trap, and the police or a couple roughnecks could come bursting through the hallway door at any second.

The woman interrupted these thoughts. "My name is Evelyne Dallencort."

Valentin nodded politely and kept his mouth closed.

The woman paused, pursed her lips. "Does the name mean anything to you?"

"No, ma'am."

"Old French family. Very wealthy." She held up her left hand to show a ring studded with diamonds. "I'm a Dallencort by marriage."

Valentin didn't know what she expected by way of a response and kept quiet. Evelyne, appearing momentarily irked, dropped her hand. Her eyes shifted briefly to Each, then back to the detective. "You won't want your friend hearing this conversation," she said.

Valentin turned his head slightly. Each got the message and retreated to the small foyer and one of the café chairs that had been placed there. The detective knew the kid would still pick up every word with his big ears.

Now Evelyne Dallencort leaned forward another few inches. Valentin did the same, closing the space between them.

"You have quite a reputation," the woman said. "And quite a history."

"How's that?"

"Starting out as a policeman. Then Tom Anderson's man. The Storyville detective. The cases you've handled. I've heard it all."