that kept hired toughs on the premises to deal with such problems. They'd be lucky to get past the front door.
Valentin thought briefly about the badges and wondered if they might be rogue coppers, then dismissed the notion. It didn't make sense for a policeman to go off on his own. No, these fellows had come into the possession of a fake badge or a real one that had been stolen or lost. They would have been better off throwing it in the river. Instead, they saw a ticket and got greedy. They had gotten away with it the first time around. If they came back for more, Valentin would be waiting.
Lieutenant J. Picot, short and thick, his skin yellowish and his dark hair oiled, slammed the telephone into its cradle and then banged his fist down with such force that it sent his stack of papers flying into the air like startled birds. With a loud grunt of irritation, he called for one of the junior patrolmen to come in and clean up the mess, then stood up and stalked to the window.
The lieutenant had thought that St. Cyr was done poking his nose into police matters. After that Black Rose business, he had all but disappeared from sight. Now he was at it again, snooping around the east end of the District.
No one was more incensed than J. Picot that Tom Anderson, the most powerful man in the city, one of the most powerful in the state of Louisiana, had no faith that those sworn to uphold the peace could do so. At least, that was the way Picot saw it.
St. Cyr in particular exasperated him. For Anderson to keep a few thugs around to crack heads was one thing. Some of those fellows were off-duty coppers. Employing a private detective was something else entirely. St. Cyr wasn't even a Pinkerton. It was not just a professional slight; it was personal, too. He didn't like the Creole and never trusted what was going on behind those flat gray eyes. Just the thought of it made his blood percolate.
He spent a moment calming himself, then gave orders to two of his men to go to St. Louis Street and deal with the problem over there.
He turned away from the window to pace up and down while the patrolman who was trying to collect the papers dodged his steps like a clumsy pup. He knew it was his own fault. He had played the wrong hand during what the papers called the Black Rose murders. St. Cyr could have had him thrown off the force or even brought up on charges over that mess. He didn't, though he just walked away, as if Picot wasn't worth the trouble of an arrest. It left the lieutenant baffled and scared.
After that, they had managed to stay out of each other's affairs. And now a niggling matter of crude extortion on St. Louis Street seemed to have occurred for the sole purpose of putting St. Cyr in the lieutenant's path, and Picot in his place.
He stopped his pacing and sat down at his desk once more, thinking that crossing swords with St. Cyr again might not be such a bad thing after all. There was talk going around that the Creole detective had fallen into some kind of funk and had lost his edge. If it was true, then the lieutenant just might get a chance to even the score and put things back where they belonged.
It was also a busy weekend at the City Morgue, and it was not until the late afternoon that one of the attendants got around to the body of Terrence Lacombe. There was a note pinned to the deceased's shirt, noting that he was twenty-five years old, had died of an apparent overdose of morphine, and that he was a "musician" by occupation. He received his toe tag forthwith, and his body was wrapped in gauze and placed on one of the shelves in the cooler. In three days, if no family or officials claimed him, he would be dropped in a wooden box that would then be loaded into a boxcar, carried off, and buried unceremoniously in an unmarked backwoods grave, erasing Terrence Lacombe from the earth as if by a stroke of God's own thumb.
FIVE
A few minutes after ten o'clock that evening, the front doors of the Café opened to
Valentin thought briefly about the badges and wondered if they might be rogue coppers, then dismissed the notion. It didn't make sense for a policeman to go off on his own. No, these fellows had come into the possession of a fake badge or a real one that had been stolen or lost. They would have been better off throwing it in the river. Instead, they saw a ticket and got greedy. They had gotten away with it the first time around. If they came back for more, Valentin would be waiting.
Lieutenant J. Picot, short and thick, his skin yellowish and his dark hair oiled, slammed the telephone into its cradle and then banged his fist down with such force that it sent his stack of papers flying into the air like startled birds. With a loud grunt of irritation, he called for one of the junior patrolmen to come in and clean up the mess, then stood up and stalked to the window.
The lieutenant had thought that St. Cyr was done poking his nose into police matters. After that Black Rose business, he had all but disappeared from sight. Now he was at it again, snooping around the east end of the District.
No one was more incensed than J. Picot that Tom Anderson, the most powerful man in the city, one of the most powerful in the state of Louisiana, had no faith that those sworn to uphold the peace could do so. At least, that was the way Picot saw it.
St. Cyr in particular exasperated him. For Anderson to keep a few thugs around to crack heads was one thing. Some of those fellows were off-duty coppers. Employing a private detective was something else entirely. St. Cyr wasn't even a Pinkerton. It was not just a professional slight; it was personal, too. He didn't like the Creole and never trusted what was going on behind those flat gray eyes. Just the thought of it made his blood percolate.
He spent a moment calming himself, then gave orders to two of his men to go to St. Louis Street and deal with the problem over there.
He turned away from the window to pace up and down while the patrolman who was trying to collect the papers dodged his steps like a clumsy pup. He knew it was his own fault. He had played the wrong hand during what the papers called the Black Rose murders. St. Cyr could have had him thrown off the force or even brought up on charges over that mess. He didn't, though he just walked away, as if Picot wasn't worth the trouble of an arrest. It left the lieutenant baffled and scared.
After that, they had managed to stay out of each other's affairs. And now a niggling matter of crude extortion on St. Louis Street seemed to have occurred for the sole purpose of putting St. Cyr in the lieutenant's path, and Picot in his place.
He stopped his pacing and sat down at his desk once more, thinking that crossing swords with St. Cyr again might not be such a bad thing after all. There was talk going around that the Creole detective had fallen into some kind of funk and had lost his edge. If it was true, then the lieutenant just might get a chance to even the score and put things back where they belonged.
It was also a busy weekend at the City Morgue, and it was not until the late afternoon that one of the attendants got around to the body of Terrence Lacombe. There was a note pinned to the deceased's shirt, noting that he was twenty-five years old, had died of an apparent overdose of morphine, and that he was a "musician" by occupation. He received his toe tag forthwith, and his body was wrapped in gauze and placed on one of the shelves in the cooler. In three days, if no family or officials claimed him, he would be dropped in a wooden box that would then be loaded into a boxcar, carried off, and buried unceremoniously in an unmarked backwoods grave, erasing Terrence Lacombe from the earth as if by a stroke of God's own thumb.
FIVE
A few minutes after ten o'clock that evening, the front doors of the Café opened to
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