Read Online Rampart Street (Valentin St. Cyr Mysteries) by David Fulmer - Free Book Online
Authors: David Fulmer
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detective managed to cover his surprise at her frankness. "He thinks it's better for all concerned if it's settled as soon as possible," he said.
"I'm sure he does," she retorted. "But he's not the one paying you. I am. So I want to know what
you
think."
She was being forthright and he returned the favor. "There are some things that don't fit at all. Some questions that need to be answered."
She nodded, and her shoulders came down from their stiff angles. "Then I want a proper investigation. Nothing less and nothing more. If you find that this was some random crime, so be it. If it was something else"—again she faltered for a moment—"then I want to know that, too. Do we have an understanding?"
It was the second time in two days that the question had been posed. This one canceled the other.
"Yes, ma'am," he said.
He met her gaze, saw an odd light that was there and gone in an instant. "What's the fee for your services?" she inquired.
"Five dollars a day," he told her. It was at least twice his normal rate, but he saw no reason to be cheap. Not in this part of town. And not when he was stirring a hornet's nest.
Anne Marie shrugged absently. "Betsy will see that you're paid." She pondered for a moment, then drew herself up. "Well, then..."
As Valentin got to his feet, she offered her hand again. He turned to find the maid standing in the doorway, wearing her curious smile.
Walking along St. Philip Street, he mused on what had transpired in those few quick minutes in the sitting room of the fine house, and wondered what had happened to the fellow who had sworn off the life of a private detective. If he did what Miss Benedict asked and started digging, there would be hell to pay from several quarters, beginning with the New Orleans Police Department. What bothered him more was the shrewd look in her eyes, as if she already knew things about him. He could thank the maid Betsy for that. A small voice in the back of his mind told him to turn around, go back, and quit before it went any further. He didn't, though, and as he arrived on Esplanade, he managed a smile as he imagined the look on the dry, pink face of the attorney Delouche when he learned of what Miss Anne Marie Benedict had started.
Anne Marie waited until she heard Betsy murmur a saucy goodbye to the Creole detective and close the door to sag back into the chair. She sat for a moment to catch her breath, then got up and went to the window. Pulling the curtain aside a few inches, she watched St. Cyr walk away. With his head up and watchful and his careful stride, he looked like he was stalking something.
She watched his figure grow smaller. She knew that there was still time to send Betsy running after him to explain that she'd had a change of heart and she wouldn't require his services after all. Instead, she let her gaze rest on his back until he turned the far corner.
She sensed the maid stepping to the doorway. Without turning around, she said, "Look in on Mother, please, Betsy. And then fetch the brandy, if you would."
Eleven o'clock found Valentin climbing the stone steps to the doorway of Parish Prison, the cube of grim gray stone that took up the better part of the block between Conti and St. Louis streets. He laid a hand on the brass door handle and hesitated for a moment. The place held some bad memories that took a moment to push aside before he went in.
A cavernous lobby with a marble floor occupied the street level, with six courtrooms. One floor up were offices for a police precinct and for the criminal administration. In the basement was a cold, damp, and lightless jail with white and colored sections splitting the lower level in two. Though he had never had the misfortune to be locked away in one of the dank underground cells, the very sight and smell of the place was quite enough.
Police Lieutenant J. Picot looked up from his paperwork and stared, startled to see St. Cyr walk in the door and speak to the desk sergeant. Picot had
"I'm sure he does," she retorted. "But he's not the one paying you. I am. So I want to know what
you
think."
She was being forthright and he returned the favor. "There are some things that don't fit at all. Some questions that need to be answered."
She nodded, and her shoulders came down from their stiff angles. "Then I want a proper investigation. Nothing less and nothing more. If you find that this was some random crime, so be it. If it was something else"—again she faltered for a moment—"then I want to know that, too. Do we have an understanding?"
It was the second time in two days that the question had been posed. This one canceled the other.
"Yes, ma'am," he said.
He met her gaze, saw an odd light that was there and gone in an instant. "What's the fee for your services?" she inquired.
"Five dollars a day," he told her. It was at least twice his normal rate, but he saw no reason to be cheap. Not in this part of town. And not when he was stirring a hornet's nest.
Anne Marie shrugged absently. "Betsy will see that you're paid." She pondered for a moment, then drew herself up. "Well, then..."
As Valentin got to his feet, she offered her hand again. He turned to find the maid standing in the doorway, wearing her curious smile.
Walking along St. Philip Street, he mused on what had transpired in those few quick minutes in the sitting room of the fine house, and wondered what had happened to the fellow who had sworn off the life of a private detective. If he did what Miss Benedict asked and started digging, there would be hell to pay from several quarters, beginning with the New Orleans Police Department. What bothered him more was the shrewd look in her eyes, as if she already knew things about him. He could thank the maid Betsy for that. A small voice in the back of his mind told him to turn around, go back, and quit before it went any further. He didn't, though, and as he arrived on Esplanade, he managed a smile as he imagined the look on the dry, pink face of the attorney Delouche when he learned of what Miss Anne Marie Benedict had started.
Anne Marie waited until she heard Betsy murmur a saucy goodbye to the Creole detective and close the door to sag back into the chair. She sat for a moment to catch her breath, then got up and went to the window. Pulling the curtain aside a few inches, she watched St. Cyr walk away. With his head up and watchful and his careful stride, he looked like he was stalking something.
She watched his figure grow smaller. She knew that there was still time to send Betsy running after him to explain that she'd had a change of heart and she wouldn't require his services after all. Instead, she let her gaze rest on his back until he turned the far corner.
She sensed the maid stepping to the doorway. Without turning around, she said, "Look in on Mother, please, Betsy. And then fetch the brandy, if you would."
Eleven o'clock found Valentin climbing the stone steps to the doorway of Parish Prison, the cube of grim gray stone that took up the better part of the block between Conti and St. Louis streets. He laid a hand on the brass door handle and hesitated for a moment. The place held some bad memories that took a moment to push aside before he went in.
A cavernous lobby with a marble floor occupied the street level, with six courtrooms. One floor up were offices for a police precinct and for the criminal administration. In the basement was a cold, damp, and lightless jail with white and colored sections splitting the lower level in two. Though he had never had the misfortune to be locked away in one of the dank underground cells, the very sight and smell of the place was quite enough.
Police Lieutenant J. Picot looked up from his paperwork and stared, startled to see St. Cyr walk in the door and speak to the desk sergeant. Picot had
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