basement into the ornate tan, cream, and gold four-story atrium of the city hall, Stoker said, “Our Justice John is a rum one. But at least Sayers has the means to cover his bail.”
Sebastian said, “It’s not his money, Mister Stoker. It’s mine.”
“Yours?”
“Why do you think I’ve pursued him all the way from Philadelphia?”
“I can’t believe he’d ever steal from you,” Stoker said. “Has he changed so much?”
“He didn’t steal from me. He stole from the Pinkertons, and I had to make good the loss, or suffer in consequence. I don’t doubt that he intended my family no harm, but harm was the outcome. It’s this obsession of his. It blinds him to all else. The deeper Louise Porter sinks, the more she drags him after. Let’s see what a spell in jail will do to his edge.”
“You don’t mean to leave him there?”
“I do.”
A jangling of chains announced the approach of the prison party, shuffling up the stairs on their way to the transport. Each had been dealt with, and none looked any happier than before.
Sebastian looked the men over and then said to the guard alongside their column, “Where’s Tom Sayers?”
“The Englishman?” the guard said. “He signed over his money and the judge signed the order. He’s long gone.”
FORTY-ONE
Calvin Quinn was not hard to find. His law offices in the Chamber of Commerce building were listed in the city directory, and a three-figure telephone number along with them. Sebastian used a coin- operated telephone in the back of a drugstore. Quinn took his call, but when he realized what it was about, he cut off the conversation. So Sebastian waited outside his office until the end of the day, and followed his carriage back to his Church Hill home.
When Sebastian rang the bell by the door and stepped back, he saw movement at one of the windows, but no one came. So then he rang the bell again, and kept on ringing it until one of Quinn’s black servants opened the door.
“Mister Quinn says that if you don’t leave, he’ll call in the police,” the man said.
Sebastian said, “Tell Mister Quinn that if he won’t speak to me, I’ll fetch them myself.”
A couple of minutes later, he was in Quinn’s study. The lawyer left the study door slightly ajar. Sebastian was aware of at least one of the servants hovering outside in the hallway, presumably to eject him if called upon.
Quinn was already aware of Sayers’ arrest. It was the reason for his nervousness. He’d no wish for it to be known that he’d led them to the old vaudeville house, or to make any public explanation of his own familiarity with its use as a venue for
Sebastian told him of the scene in the courtroom, and the events that followed.
“I hurried to his lodgings,” Sebastian said. “But I had missed him by minutes.”
“And what of your thousand dollars?”
“I’ve lost it,” Sebastian said simply. “The man’s jumped bail and the money is forfeit. He’s robbed me twice over. My family’s savings, my son’s hope of a cure, and a young girl’s trousseau. All for his pursuit of that mad flogging whore.”
“Steady on,” Quinn said, and he got up and closed the study door.
Then he turned back to face Sebastian. “Why are you here?” he said. “Are you after replacing your money? I won’t be blackmailed.”
“Don’t insult me,” Sebastian said. “I won’t take a penny. But you will help me.”
He went on to explain his belief that the death of Jules Patenotre was related to at least two others of a similar character that had gone before: one in San Francisco, and another in Philadelphia. The woman now calling herself Mary D’Alroy was linked to each of them.
At the mention of Jules Patenotre’s name, Sebastian had seen something change in Quinn’s expression.
“You knew him,” he said.
“I knew
“His deposit box at Murphy’s Hotel had been emptied,” Sebastian said. “I believe by our so-called Mary D’Alroy after his death. The police don’t know of her yet, and I want to keep it that way.”
“You want to protect her? Why?”
“Not protect her,” Sebastian said. “I need you to act for me. Contact each set of authorities and negotiate a reward. If I can’t take my money back from Sayers, I’ll get equal value from her. I can’t do that if the police reach her first.”
“How will you know where to look?”
“I reckon we can make a start by locating the Patenotre estate,” Sebastian said.
FORTY-TWO
Her appointment was for seven o’clock that evening. At six-thirty, she left the St. Charles Hotel with the Silent Man following a few paces behind.
She was heading away from the French Quarter and into an even older part of town. Many of these houses had been the dwellings of original Creole families, and a few of their descendants continued to hang on. Their golden age was long past, the buildings run-down. The houses lined the streets in rows. Their owners stayed hidden away behind empty balconies and shuttered French windows.
She found the address, an anonymous-looking door in a brick-and-plaster wall. When she raised the iron knocker and brought it down, she heard it echo oddly on the other side.
While waiting for a response, she turned to the Silent Man.
“It’s just a first meeting,” she said. “I don’t know how long I’ll be.”
He inclined his head and crossed to the other side of the street, where evening shadows were beginning to create niches of darkness in nailed-up doorways gray with cobwebs. The air was cool, but not unpleasant. Although this was December, it had the feel of a spring evening back in England.
When the Silent Man reached the far banquette, he turned. He barely appeared to move, but seemed to fade from sight as he eased back into a piece of the gloom.
Louise heard bolts being drawn, and faced the door. She composed herself. The door opened and before her stood a short, dark woman in immaculate linen and a folded headscarf.
“Miss Mary D’Alroy to see Mrs. Blanchard,” Louise said. “I’m expected.”
The servant woman stepped aside, and Louise went in. But instead of entering directly into the residence, she found herself in a wide passageway of about fifty or sixty feet in length. It was paved, like a passage under a castle; halfway along it, from its vaulted ceiling, there hung an iron lantern on a chain. At its far end, an archway led to an inner courtyard with palm trees and a fountain.
After the anonymity of the street outside, the courtyard was a small paradise. A spot of total privacy, with flower beds and hanging baskets and benches for sitting out. There were ferns and oleander, as well as the palms, and a brightly colored parrot in a cage. The area wouldn’t get much sunlight, but in the Louisiana summers that would be an advantage. Shade and a through breeze would be much preferred.
Balconies of filigreed ironwork overhung the courtyard at every level. Across it, another arch led to a stairway that ascended through each floor of the house.
Louise was led up and into a spacious drawing room that ran the full depth of the building. One end was open
