back. "Well, what do you think about it?"
"Those black roses are the main thing," Valentin said. "Looks like it's the same one who killed the girl on Perdido Street."
"Is that all?"
Valentin hesitated. "Well, there's the business with Father Dupre."
"That again?" Anderson all but rolled his eyes.
"It happened at the same time," Valentin said. "That girl died early Sunday morning. Come noon Monday, the Father was on a train to the bughouse. And he had a black rose in his possession. And now we have another murderâ"
"Yes, yes, and another black rose," Anderson broke in. "So where's the connection?"
"Maybe Dupre knew something," Valentin said. "Maybe he heard something at confession."
The King of Storyville was already shaking his head. "That first girl, she was working way over in darktown, isn't that right?"
"Yes, but all sorts of men visit those houses," Valentin said.
"I know who visits those houses," Anderson retorted sharply, "and I know who doesn't." He picked up his pen, put it down again. "Dupre was retired. He couldn't have heard confession from anyone. This other murder..." He raised his hands, palms up. "Well, how in the world would he know anything about that? He was under lock-and-key at Jackson. You took him there yourself."
Valentin knew better than to push it any further. He nodded briefly and the King of Storyville said, "So someone has murdered two sporting gals. Someone with a crazy notion, these black roses..." He touched his bushy mustache ruminatively and shifted in his chair. "But let's not make something out of nothing here. That first girl wasn't working in the District at all. This other one, well, who knows what kind of business goes on at a house like Lizzie Taylor's?" He tapped a finger on the tabletop. "You keep your eyes and ears open. But most likely there's nothing to it."
"Nobody should say anything about the roses," Valentin said.
"Yes, yes, we'll keep all of it quiet," Anderson said. "God knows, we can't have word getting around there's a killer on the loose. Let's just hope this fellow's adventures are over." With that, he glanced at the papers on the table and said, "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have this awful state business to attend to."
Valentin stood up to leave. He had taken only a few steps when Anderson called out King Bolden's name. He turned around. "What about him?"
"Did you know he was taken to jail last night? Some sort of brawl, as I heard it. At one of those saloons where his band plays, I think maybe it was Mangetta's. I believe they locked
him up." He picked up his pen and returned his attention to his stack of papers.
Valentin walked away from the Café and disappeared around the corner onto Iberville. From the doorway of an abandoned crib across the street, a tall man in a derby hat watched him go. He waited a few moments, then stepped onto the banquette and sauntered up the street, shadowing the Creole detective.
Tom Anderson tried to concentrate on the paragraphs of type on the page before him, a rambling bill of particulars about a proposed water line for St. John's Parish. He stared at the words for a few seconds more, trying to make sense of the sentence, then gave up and laid his pen aside. He sipped his coffee. Cold. He stared at the empty chair across the table and fell into a brooding mood.
As he expected, St. Cyr was on the money. The news about the back-of-town Negro girl had barely passed Billy Struve's busy lips on Sunday afternoon when the message arrived from the parish clerk at St. Ignatius concerning poor old Father Dupre.
Anderson had noted the curious timing, of course, but it gave him little pause. He pushed aside the matter of the girl's deathâshe was a Negro, after allâand moved directly to assist in the other matter. Though he was not himself a religious man, he respected the church as a power not to be dismissed, even though it had never been so potent as to stamp out the District's sinful trade or to remove
"Those black roses are the main thing," Valentin said. "Looks like it's the same one who killed the girl on Perdido Street."
"Is that all?"
Valentin hesitated. "Well, there's the business with Father Dupre."
"That again?" Anderson all but rolled his eyes.
"It happened at the same time," Valentin said. "That girl died early Sunday morning. Come noon Monday, the Father was on a train to the bughouse. And he had a black rose in his possession. And now we have another murderâ"
"Yes, yes, and another black rose," Anderson broke in. "So where's the connection?"
"Maybe Dupre knew something," Valentin said. "Maybe he heard something at confession."
The King of Storyville was already shaking his head. "That first girl, she was working way over in darktown, isn't that right?"
"Yes, but all sorts of men visit those houses," Valentin said.
"I know who visits those houses," Anderson retorted sharply, "and I know who doesn't." He picked up his pen, put it down again. "Dupre was retired. He couldn't have heard confession from anyone. This other murder..." He raised his hands, palms up. "Well, how in the world would he know anything about that? He was under lock-and-key at Jackson. You took him there yourself."
Valentin knew better than to push it any further. He nodded briefly and the King of Storyville said, "So someone has murdered two sporting gals. Someone with a crazy notion, these black roses..." He touched his bushy mustache ruminatively and shifted in his chair. "But let's not make something out of nothing here. That first girl wasn't working in the District at all. This other one, well, who knows what kind of business goes on at a house like Lizzie Taylor's?" He tapped a finger on the tabletop. "You keep your eyes and ears open. But most likely there's nothing to it."
"Nobody should say anything about the roses," Valentin said.
"Yes, yes, we'll keep all of it quiet," Anderson said. "God knows, we can't have word getting around there's a killer on the loose. Let's just hope this fellow's adventures are over." With that, he glanced at the papers on the table and said, "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have this awful state business to attend to."
Valentin stood up to leave. He had taken only a few steps when Anderson called out King Bolden's name. He turned around. "What about him?"
"Did you know he was taken to jail last night? Some sort of brawl, as I heard it. At one of those saloons where his band plays, I think maybe it was Mangetta's. I believe they locked
him up." He picked up his pen and returned his attention to his stack of papers.
Valentin walked away from the Café and disappeared around the corner onto Iberville. From the doorway of an abandoned crib across the street, a tall man in a derby hat watched him go. He waited a few moments, then stepped onto the banquette and sauntered up the street, shadowing the Creole detective.
Tom Anderson tried to concentrate on the paragraphs of type on the page before him, a rambling bill of particulars about a proposed water line for St. John's Parish. He stared at the words for a few seconds more, trying to make sense of the sentence, then gave up and laid his pen aside. He sipped his coffee. Cold. He stared at the empty chair across the table and fell into a brooding mood.
As he expected, St. Cyr was on the money. The news about the back-of-town Negro girl had barely passed Billy Struve's busy lips on Sunday afternoon when the message arrived from the parish clerk at St. Ignatius concerning poor old Father Dupre.
Anderson had noted the curious timing, of course, but it gave him little pause. He pushed aside the matter of the girl's deathâshe was a Negro, after allâand moved directly to assist in the other matter. Though he was not himself a religious man, he respected the church as a power not to be dismissed, even though it had never been so potent as to stamp out the District's sinful trade or to remove
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