Read Online Rampart Street (Valentin St. Cyr Mysteries) by David Fulmer - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: David Fulmer
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those houses." His mouth dipped in disdain. "These rich ones could have the finest octoroon in New Orleans, and they go off after some filthy back-of-town street whore. Anyway, this Benedict gets what he came for, probably in one of them cribs, finishes his business, and walks out on the street. He gets turned around and heads off the wrong way. One of them crazy niggers over there comes along and figures he's got himself an easy mark. Benedict tries to fight"—he shrugged—"and that's the end of him."
"That makes sense," Valentin said. "Though from what I hear, he was a straight-arrow sort."
"Yeah, that's what they always say." Picot snickered. "Well, this straight arrow ended up dead on Rampart Street. Shot in the throat with a .45 pistol."
"What about the investigation?"
"Good as it could be for those parts," the lieutenant said, shifting on his feet and frowning. "We sent a couple detectives. They took a picture of Benedict and showed it around. They had to slap a few faces, as usual. Even so, no one remembered seeing him about." He tapped the ash from his cigarillo. "You ever hear what kind of sound a .45 makes? Like a goddamn artillery round. But nobody heard a thing. These three fellows come out of a saloon and see some street rat bending over the body. It could have been him did the killing, or he could have come along after and decided to help himself to the victim's goods." He turned around, stiffened slightly, and eased his mouth into a cloying smile as two gentlemen in suits approached and then passed down the marbled corridor. The smile disappeared. "Are we finished here?" he said brusquely.
"I'll need to visit the scene," Valentin said.
"It's Rampart Street," Picot said with a shrug. "Who's stopping you?"
"And I want to talk to the patrolman who caught the call."
Now the copper gave him a sharp look. "What the hell for? He didn't see nothing."
"I've been hired to do a job, Lieutenant."
Picot considered. He didn't like it. Grudgingly, he said, "Be out there at three o'clock. I'll send the officer. His name's McKinney."
"I want to talk to those fellows who came up on the body, too."
Picot shook his head and muttered something under his breath. "They got their names at the desk," he said.
"What about the autopsy report?"
"What about it?"
"I need to have a look at it."
"It's the family's decision to release it," the lieutenant said curtly. "What else?"
"I don't know," Valentin said. "Is there anything you're not telling me?"
Picot smiled now, a cool twist of his lips. "Why, there's always something I'm not telling you, St. Cyr."
He tossed the butt of the cigarillo into the spittoon that was against the opposite wall, turned around, and strolled back to his office.
Tom Anderson collected his papers and was on his way out of his office to go downstairs and start his workday when his telephone rang. He picked up and was greeted by the greasy voice of Alderman Badel, taking a moment to thank him for getting St. Cyr on the Benedict case. The alderman's effusion switched to a tone of mourning about the poor man's passing, then turned brisk over his hopes for a quick ending to the investigation.
Anderson agreed with everything and got off as quickly as he could, dropping the hand piece in the cradle. There was something about Badel that made him feel like he had just stepped in something on the street.
The alderman might think that all was well; Anderson wasn't so sure. He couldn't see St. Cyr dancing like a trained monkey to the whims of some rich Americans from Esplanade Ridge, not now, or ever. As he started down the narrow staircase, he wondered frankly when he was going to learn his lesson.
The onetime Pinkerton named Nelson answered the telephone in the foyer of the plantation house on the river at Nine Mile Point. He listened for a moment, then put a hand over the mouthpiece of the handset and stuck his head around the doorway into the sitting room, where William Little, executive
"That makes sense," Valentin said. "Though from what I hear, he was a straight-arrow sort."
"Yeah, that's what they always say." Picot snickered. "Well, this straight arrow ended up dead on Rampart Street. Shot in the throat with a .45 pistol."
"What about the investigation?"
"Good as it could be for those parts," the lieutenant said, shifting on his feet and frowning. "We sent a couple detectives. They took a picture of Benedict and showed it around. They had to slap a few faces, as usual. Even so, no one remembered seeing him about." He tapped the ash from his cigarillo. "You ever hear what kind of sound a .45 makes? Like a goddamn artillery round. But nobody heard a thing. These three fellows come out of a saloon and see some street rat bending over the body. It could have been him did the killing, or he could have come along after and decided to help himself to the victim's goods." He turned around, stiffened slightly, and eased his mouth into a cloying smile as two gentlemen in suits approached and then passed down the marbled corridor. The smile disappeared. "Are we finished here?" he said brusquely.
"I'll need to visit the scene," Valentin said.
"It's Rampart Street," Picot said with a shrug. "Who's stopping you?"
"And I want to talk to the patrolman who caught the call."
Now the copper gave him a sharp look. "What the hell for? He didn't see nothing."
"I've been hired to do a job, Lieutenant."
Picot considered. He didn't like it. Grudgingly, he said, "Be out there at three o'clock. I'll send the officer. His name's McKinney."
"I want to talk to those fellows who came up on the body, too."
Picot shook his head and muttered something under his breath. "They got their names at the desk," he said.
"What about the autopsy report?"
"What about it?"
"I need to have a look at it."
"It's the family's decision to release it," the lieutenant said curtly. "What else?"
"I don't know," Valentin said. "Is there anything you're not telling me?"
Picot smiled now, a cool twist of his lips. "Why, there's always something I'm not telling you, St. Cyr."
He tossed the butt of the cigarillo into the spittoon that was against the opposite wall, turned around, and strolled back to his office.
Tom Anderson collected his papers and was on his way out of his office to go downstairs and start his workday when his telephone rang. He picked up and was greeted by the greasy voice of Alderman Badel, taking a moment to thank him for getting St. Cyr on the Benedict case. The alderman's effusion switched to a tone of mourning about the poor man's passing, then turned brisk over his hopes for a quick ending to the investigation.
Anderson agreed with everything and got off as quickly as he could, dropping the hand piece in the cradle. There was something about Badel that made him feel like he had just stepped in something on the street.
The alderman might think that all was well; Anderson wasn't so sure. He couldn't see St. Cyr dancing like a trained monkey to the whims of some rich Americans from Esplanade Ridge, not now, or ever. As he started down the narrow staircase, he wondered frankly when he was going to learn his lesson.
The onetime Pinkerton named Nelson answered the telephone in the foyer of the plantation house on the river at Nine Mile Point. He listened for a moment, then put a hand over the mouthpiece of the handset and stuck his head around the doorway into the sitting room, where William Little, executive