into this just to reward me and then walk away.”
“Tom,” she said. “That’s not my intention. I tried to extinguish my own spirit. You make me think it still lives. Bring me back. If anyone can do it, you can.”
Off came her gloves, and then she reached for the fastening on the rented gown.
“Help me with this,” she said.
He could barely keep his hands from shaking. A few moments later, the gown slithered to the floor of the box.
He said, “I have dreamed of this moment in one form or another.”
“I know,” she said. Stitches tore in his frock coat as he struggled out of it. On the other side of the door, there was a heavy-footed rumbling in the corridor; someone rattled it against the latch and then moved on to try elsewhere, with muffled voices and giggling.
“Please,” he said, “don’t be offended by the tattoo. A moment of folly from my drinking days.”
“I think that’s enough talking for now,” she said.
Sayers began to explain how the Chinese tattooist had come to misspell her name. But he seemed to lose the power of speech as she drew the last of her layers over her head and off. She held out the chemise and let it fall at arm’s length. It was not so dark that she did not glow, pale as white moonlight. With her arm outstretched and her weight resting on one foot, it was as if she knew exactly the effect that her pose would have on him. So profound was Sayers’ appreciation of it, he thought that he would faint.
The floor of the opera house box was of hard, painted boards.
As if that mattered.
FORTY-SIX
Out on Bourbon Street, at the corner where it met Toulouse, Sebastian Becker stepped into a saloon for a schooner of beer and to listen to some piano, and very soon realized that the place he’d chosen was not a respectable one. The restaurant section for unescorted ladies was little more than a showroom for the bordello that seemed to be operating upstairs. He fended off a couple of approaches, declined a street hawker who tried to sell him a booklet, finished his beer quickly, and departed, leaving a nickel on the bar.
The day had been a washout, frankly. A public holiday was not the best time to be rolling into town. He’d found offices closed, and no explanation given. Given the scale of tonight’s celebrations, he rather feared that the next morning would be no better.
Elisabeth had once voiced an interest in visiting New Orleans, but he reckoned he’d be reluctant to bring her here. It had all the color and romance that she imagined, but it was a disconcerting town. The areas she’d probably enjoy most were the very ones a woman needed to be kept away from. The Creole heritage of the Vieux Carre was fading fast, and a strange, new kind of immorality had taken its place. It was like a better world, but turned entirely upside down. Sinful deeds were conducted with the strictest courtesy. The finest mansions and parlor houses advertised themselves, not as brothels, but as “sporting palaces” their madames were “entertainers” and the girls were their “boarders,” and their trade was carried on openly and with the most elaborate decorum.
Outside of the old quarter, the greater Crescent City ran its business like anywhere else. Department stores had opened and skyscraper-style buildings were beginning to rise. But Sebastian found that it was this part of town, this continuous unmasked ball of discarded inhibitions, that commanded the attention. He’d been told that they held a Carnival on these streets, every Mardi Gras. But how would one ever know it? Making his way through the nighttime crowds, hearing different music from every bar and dance hall that he passed, it was as if Carnival ran all through the year.
It might have been tailor-made for Louise Porter: a place where a flogging, strangling, and choking whore could engage in her perverted endeavors alongside the regular trade, and draw no attention to herself at all.
The biggest gathering was outside the French Opera House. A floating collection of people, constantly losing numbers into the taverns and being replenished with new faces from the same source. They were here to watch society go by, to spot the prominent citizens and marvel at the expensive gowns. Those who passed before them were people they’d never know, leading lives they could only imagine. Imagining those lives was their evening’s entertainment. A large number had packed the sidewalk to watch the arrivals, and a lesser number now stayed around to catch the departures.
He’d gone to the telegraph office that afternoon. He’d sent a wire home so that Elisabeth would at least know that he was well. But he’d said nothing of setbacks, or the increasing bleakness of their situation.
The crowd around him showed a sudden interest when a uniformed footman opened one of the entrance doors to the opera house. Some people were coming out. That was all.
But in having his attention drawn, Sebastian saw something that he otherwise would have missed. Or rather, he saw some
Striding along on the raised wooden banquette at the fringe of the watching crowd, fists balled by his side, pacing like an ape and with his anxious gaze fixed on the doors for his mistress, was a man whose appearance he remembered only too well. Last seen in Maskelyne’s, many years before, letting rip with a revolver with which, fortunately, he’d shown no great proficiency. Shaven of head, bony of skull, and not much changed at all. Whitlock’s so-called Silent Man.
He seemed to sense that he was being watched, because he looked and saw Sebastian in that same moment. Sebastian turned away. Was he too late? He doubted that the Silent Man would know him after all this time. But to be stared at always arouses a man’s suspicions.
He risked a glance back. The Silent Man was watching him now. Damn! Sebastian broke the eye contact again quickly, but it was probably too late. That second look would have given him away.
So he abandoned any attempt to conceal his intentions, and started toward the Silent Man.
The Silent Man broke from the crowd and started to cross the street. Sebastian tried to change direction to intercept him, but that wasn’t going to work. The man was too far away and too far ahead of him. Now he was at the doors and going in.
Sebastian didn’t see what happened then, but when he entered the foyer he saw a uniformed man down on the floor and a well-dressed group of people gabbling in shock, as if a banshee had just ripped through them. Of the Silent Man, he saw no sign; up at the top of the carpeted stairs, the doors to the auditorium were still swinging.
Or maybe that was just his imagination, and the way he’d remember it later.
Sebastian grabbed the nearest usher and had him call for the house manager. When the manager appeared, Sebastian showed his Pinkerton credentials and told him that he was in pursuit of the man who’d just entered the building. When one of their private policemen had tried to get in his way, he’d come to violent grief.
“I believe he’s trying to reach and warn his mistress,” Sebastian said, “who herself is a dangerous woman. For the security of your guests and their property, give me two of your best men and let me go inside. I will promise you the minimum of disruption.”
With one man down and bleeding, he was met with no argument. Before they went in, he switched coats with one of the ushers in order to be less conspicuous when he was out on the floor.
Two of the biggest employees were assigned to Sebastian. The rest of the staff dispersed throughout the house to look for signs of trouble.
The tableaux and the speeches were all done with, and the dancing had resumed. As he emerged onto the outskirts of the horseshoe-shaped arena and looked up at the vast interior of the building, Sebastian realized that a search here would be no small task.
It was hot. The dancing men and women were all as flushed as they were eager, and it was as if a red haze hung in the air around all the lights. Sebastian eased his way through the people around the outside of the dance floor, ignoring the dancers but looking closely at the watching faces. The two theater employees followed him, waiting for instructions.
After he’d scanned the watching crowd, he looked up at the Dress Circle. The temporary dance floor had raised the ground level of the theater so that the proscenium boxes were at a walk-in level, and the lower edge of the Dress Circle ran just above them.
One of the ushers was signaling for attention. Others in different parts of the house had seen him and were moving his way. The man pointed across the Dress Circle to where one of the loges was curtained off. No other
