Lost River (39 page)

Each hesitated, and Anderson's eyes narrowed. His mustache curved in a smile. "He tell you to keep it under your hat?" He waved a hand. "That's all right, son. As long as he's still alive."

"He is, yes, sir. But there's bound to be someone after him." He swallowed. "He said to say that they're probably coming for you, too."

Anderson, grinning more broadly, said, "Is that right?"

In the next moment, they heard the creak of footsteps on the stairs.

It was slow going. The straightest route would have taken Valentin too close to the river and Brown Bottom and any coppers trolling for him down there. The police also knew he'd have to traverse the Quarter on his way to Storyville and through Jackson Square on his way to Spain Street. They'd be watching every street and corner.

But as he moved across town, he found the downtown streets quiet and didn't see a single patrolman. The pronounced silence was eerie, and he imagined coppers lurking in the shadows, watching him pass by so they could draw a net closed behind him. He was so sure of it that at one point he turned around in a sudden move—exactly what he had scolded Each for.

The bells of St. Louis Cathedral chimed 11:45 just as he crossed Esplanade. With no time to waste, he cut a bolder path directly down the Chartres Street banquette. Once he passed Mandeville and reached the intersection at Spain, he slowed, then stopped.

He had enough of a sense of the street to feel someone lurking, even when he couldn't see anyone. He detected no one lying in wait this night. If any cops had been there, they were gone now.

He could now spy his balcony from the corner and see the room light glowing through the French doors. Was that a shadow passing against the window? He couldn't be sure.

He had gone another twenty paces along the banquette when he saw the Buick 10 parked at the other end of the block, looking out of place with the red paint in full shimmer under the bleak streetlight. The automobile appeared to be unoccupied, and he knew in that instant that the driver was inside with Justine, perhaps ready to shoot her dead on orders from Evelyne Dallencort.

The church bells all over the lower half of the city had finished chiming their faint three-quarters. Within minutes his telephone would ring.

Drawing closer, he figured that the downstairs door would be locked, but he could crack that. He could also climb the balcony supports and get in that way. After that he'd be operating without a plan, except to move Justine out of danger. He pushed away any thought of what would happen if he made a mistake.

It didn't matter, because when he was thirty paces from his front door, he heard a rush of sudden noise: a doorframe slapping back, the breaking of glass, a harsh shout. His heart came into his throat and he started to run.

The fellow who appeared from the hall was a stranger, a wiry, dirty-eyed character, dressed in an old dark suit with a fedora pulled down low. When he reached the doorway, he drew up short, surprised to find not one man in the office but two. In his moment of hesitation, Anderson realized what was happening and started to grin, wide and devilish.

"Can I help you?" he said, and reached down to pull open the desk drawer that held his Aubrey Hammerless. Though he hadn't handled the pistol in years, it seemed now to jump into his hand.

Each meanwhile felt his feet move on their own volition as his hand swung to his back pocket for the whalebone sap he had stuffed there.

"What the hell do you want?" he demanded.

In the next second, the stranger drew his own right hand out of his pocket. It was empty. The King of Storyville raised the revolver, and Each walked him down.

"I said what the hell do you want here?"

"I have a ... a message," the visitor said, blinking and stuttering. "It's for Mr. Anderson."

"Oh? What is it?" Anderson said. He was enjoying this.

The stranger's eyes shifted between the two as he gauged his chances. A dead second went by, and he muttered something that sounded like a curse, then took a quick back step to the doorway and bolted away. The nails on the soles of his boots clattered along the hall and down the stairs.

Each started to follow, but Anderson said, "No, let the bastard go." The kid stopped. "Don't worry, we won't see him again." He hefted the pistol for a second before dropping it back into the drawer.

"Well, god
damn.
" He let out a little laugh. "That felt good." He winked at Each. "You did fine, too." The kid chuckled in giddy relief.

The telephone rang as the King of Storyville was reaching for his bottle to pour them both a drink. He pulled the receiver to his ear, and Each saw the older man's smile fade as he listened. Anderson dropped the hand piece in the cradle.

"What's wrong?" Each said.

"Something happened on Spain Street," the King of Storyville said.

Justine was on edge, but she only grew truly frightened when the bells tolled the three-quarters and Louis lurched to his feet and started to pace. He wouldn't look at her as he went to fussing with the pistol. After five minutes of this fretting, he picked up the telephone and made two calls, muttering so she couldn't hear, but keeping the weapon fixed on her all the while.

Momentarily, his cheeks paled and his eyes went hard. She knew that look; he was bracing himself for something, and she had a good idea what it was.

Without turning her head, she gauged the distance to the door. There was no way she could get to it, throw the lock, and make an escape in time. The bedroom would be just as impossible, since she'd have to open the window, climb out, and then face a twelve-foot drop. All this went through her mind in the space of a few seconds. Time was running out. She couldn't just stand there and be a victim.

Louis moved away from the telephone and crossed to the French door again. Facing her, he took a step back onto the balcony, leaning a slight bit so he could search the street in both directions. He shook his head, his pretty mouth tightening into a grim line. She saw his chest heave in tension over what he was about to do.

In the next second, she was on him, throwing her body against his in a wild rush. His head came around and his eyes went wide, as she grappled with him, wrapping her arms about his in an embrace stronger than love.

Her sudden weight carried him back against the railing and for a second he was off balance, and she felt a spike of dizzying terror that they were going to pitch over together. Then he righted himself, but as he did the pistol tumbled from his hand and over the railing.

He let out a harsh grunt, and his handsome face contorted into an ugly mask as he struggled to get loose. He wriggled his arms in frantic spasms, and one of his elbows shattered a pane of door glass. The shards tumbled to the banquette.

Justine heard in his seething breath his rage over letting her surprise him and his panic over the terrible blunder of failing to finish her. Now she had turned the tables, and he flailed like a child throwing a tantrum. With a last hard jerk, his arms came free.

She felt his hands wrap around her throat and start to squeeze. She fought with all the more fury, while everything before her eyes turned red.

On the street below, Valentin came skidding to a stop, frozen for a second at the tableau of the two of them entwined on the balcony with the man's hands tight on Justine's throat as she flailed furiously.

He didn't feel the Iver Johnson in his hand, didn't realize he had aimed and pulled the trigger until the shot cracked and the pistol kicked in his hand. He saw the man's head snap and wobble. The choking hands came away from Justine's neck, and she lurched back through the doorway into the living room.

Louis teetered and then went over, a clumsy puppet, arms and legs at four different angles and head lolling like a ball on a string. The dull smack of soft flesh slamming into hard stone shot up from the street. Blood spurted from his ears, nose, and mouth and flowed in a black puddle. His eyes were wide open and staring at the rooftops.

Valentin pulled his eyes off the body and looked up to see Justine now standing with her hands gripping the wrought-iron banister, her face a mask of shock. She dropped her gaze to him, and the relief that flooded his eyes brought her out of it. She watched as he lifted a hand as if to reach her and took a weak step back.

"The police," he said after a moment. "Go in and call the police." She nodded and staggered out of sight.

Valentin crouched next to Louis Jacob. The dead eyes had settled on nothing. He was finished. Glancing around, the detective noticed the dark shape of a pistol and walked over to find a nickel-plated Colt .32. He left it lie.

The street door to the building opened, and Justine edged out, pulling her embroidered shawl tight around her. She stood on the banquette and stared at Jacob. Valentin moved to her side and laid an arm around her shoulder. Seeing the red marks that Jacob had left on her throat, he found himself unable to speak. She buried her face against him and began to sob quietly.

A police siren whined from the direction of North Peters, and a minute later the first car swung around the corner and bore down, casting the Creole detective, his woman, and the corpse in the street in a wash of yellow-white light. Figures descended from behind the lamps, and Valentin was grateful that the first body to emerge was that of James McKinney.

The policeman approached carefully. "Mr. St. Cyr?" he said. "What happened?"

"There was an incident," Valentin said.

Justine drew away from him. "He had a pistol," she said in a soft, though steady voice. "He was going to kill me. I knocked it out of his hand. Then he tried to strangle me."

Valentin pointed and said, "The weapon's still in the street."

"How did he die?" the cop asked.

"I shot him from down here," Valentin said.

McKinney considered the marksmanship for a moment, then said, "All right, sir. I'll have to make a report."

"There's more to this," Valentin told him. In a few hushed sentences, he told the cop about Evelyne Dallencort, William Brown, and the late Louis Jacob.

When he finished, McKinney said, "Where is the woman now?"

"She was at the Banks' Arcade," Valentin said. "Though she may have started for her home."

"We can send detectives to both—"

"No," Valentin said. "We should go. Just you and I."

McKinney mulled for a moment. "All right, sir," he said. "But Captain Picot won't like it."

Valentin smiled dimly. "No, he won't."

The cop shrugged. "Of course, he doesn't like much of anything I do these days." He glanced around. "We're going to need a car."

The words had barely cleared his lips when a Model T of no recent vintage clattered over the cobbles from North Peters Street. Whaley was at the wheel. Behind it came Tom Anderson's gleaming white Packard Victoria. The King of Storyville sat on the right. Each was in the driver's seat.

"Take your pick," Valentin told the cop.

Evelyne heard the fracas in the background, the sounds of a struggle, a woman's voice in a cough of shock, some banging, a single gunshot, then silence. It was done. She sighed and waited patiently for Louis to come back on the line. Weak as he was, he would need time to settle himself.

She waited some more and heard the woman's voice, now faint and far away, and realized that something had gone wrong. A few seconds later the phone went dead.

Louis had failed, damn him. He had quailed and run; either that, or the quadroon had gotten the best of him. One way or the other, he was gone and St. Cyr and the girl were still alive.

Of course, the Creole detective would come after her. Forcing herself not to panic, she quickly rang the operator and asked to be connected to Anderson's Café. She perked her ears for the background noise signaling the chaos that would occur in the wake of the King of Storyville's murder.

Instead, a tired-sounding bartender came on the line. Evelyne's voice was trembling when she asked for Mr. Anderson.

With a yawn the bartender said, "Who shall I tell him is calling?"

She shrieked a curse, whirled around, and threw the telephone against the wall, bashing the plaster. Her gut churned sourly, and she ran to the bathroom before she soiled the floor. When she came back out, she had to hold on to the doorjamb to steady herself.

She stared out the dark window, seeing her careful construction shattering. She had worked so hard, planned so well! It should have been easy. Storyville had been there for the taking. Indeed, bringing Tom Anderson and his little kingdom down should have been simple. It was ripe for the picking, she would step in as its queen, send a shock wave from coast to coast, and reign supreme over a gold mine that would never be depleted, because men never tired of their carnal pleasures. How well she knew that.

Louis had found just the right man at the insane hospital. He saw to it that the mad fellow was released and his tracks covered. A hundred dollars of her husband's money well spent. The crazy character went about the killings, one by one, seemingly without rhyme or reason, just as she had planned it. Never knowing that he was on a suicide mission. She arranged for that, too.

She felt her way to the plush chair and sat down. All that brilliant strategy and now it was over. She stopped to remind herself that it had been a noble, fantastic adventure and her own private legend.