From Denver he had taken a train to St. Louis, and there boarded the riverboat that had brought him down the Mississippi. Now, as he stepped off the boat, a hot, humid wind hit him in the face. He frowned. As accustomed as he was to the high, dry air of Colorado, it always took him a while to adjust every time a case brought him to the Gulf Coast. He recalled a couple of jobs that had taken him to the Corpus Christi area, over in Texas. Pretty country once you got used to it, but the weather sure made a man sweat.
Longarm ignored the sultry heat as much as he could. Instead of his usual snuff-brown Stetson, he wore a cream-colored planter's hat, and a light-weight suit of the same color in place of his customary brown tweeds. He still wore a vest, though, a silk vest with fancy gold embroidery. His watch chain stretched across the vest, the heavy gold turnip in the left-hand pocket, the wicked little.44 derringer that was attached to the other end of the chain in his right-hand pocket, as usual. The string tie he wore around his neck was a little wider, a little more flamboyant than the one he normally sported. His Winchester and saddle had been left behind in his Denver rooming house for this trip, but the cross-draw rig in which he carried his Colt was belted around his lean waist as usual. Longarm thought he looked like a damn riverboat gambler, and he felt a little seedy and shady.
Which was good, because that was precisely what he was supposed to look like. Nobody was going to mistake him for a lawman in this getup, and he wasn't carrying his badge or his other bona fides either. If he got into any trouble that he couldn't handle himself, he was supposed to seek out that special prosecutor who had requested Uncle Sam's help and use the phrase 'Pikes Peak.' That would identify him as a federal man.
Longarm had snorted in disgust when Henry, Billy Vail's clerk, had filled him in on these clandestine arrangements. Plenty of times in the past, Longarm had worked incognito, but this was carrying things to a ridiculous extreme.
Still, the more he'd thought about it on the trip to New Orleans, the more he'd figured the precautions just might save his life. The whole thing was squarely in his hands. He had to depend on his own wits to survive and find out the things he needed to know. He was willing to run that risk.
The only baggage he had was the carpetbag that dangled from his left hand. He raised his right hand to hail one of the hacks that had swarmed to the docks for the arrival of the Dixie Belle. One of the carriages drew up beside him, and Longarm stepped up into it, saying to the driver, 'The St. Charles Hotel.' With a grin, the driver flicked his reins and got the horse moving once more. The St. Charles was the best hotel in the city, and most passengers bound for it could be counted on for a generous tip on top of the fare.
Longarm settled back to enjoy the ride. As always, New Orleans was busy, its cobblestone streets thronged with people and horses and carriages and wagons. The buildings were a blend of the very old and the very new, their architecture a dizzying array of Spanish, French, and American influences. The hack carrying Longarm passed square stone buildings devoid of any personality; they could have been in any city in the country. But next to them were old mansions fronted by white columns dripping with moss, and across the street might be a Spanish palace like an illustration from The Alhambra. Longarm grinned and lit a cheroot. You never knew what you were going to see next in New Orleans.
And that was especially true at this time of year, he thought. Carnival was well under way, with Fat Tuesday--Mardi Gras--fast approaching. Masked, costumed figures pranced among the businessmen and housewives moving along the streets, even at this midday hour. A Harlequin with painted face caught Longarm's eye and waved madly at him as the hack went by. Solemnly, Longarm lifted a hand and touched a finger to the brim of his hat in salute. The Harlequin clasped his hands under his chin and looked devoutly thankful to have been acknowledged.
Longarm shook his head. These folks down here knew how to have a good time, all right, but he thought they sometimes got a mite carried away.
A few minutes later, the hack pulled up in front of the St. Charles. If Longarm remembered right, this was at least the third incarnation of the hotel. After being built in the 1830s, the St. Charles had burned down and been replaced twice. It was a massive, opulent building that took up an entire city block and was surrounded by columns that supported a balcony with an elaborate wrought-iron railing on the second floor. Marble steps led up to the entrance, and a doorman in a uniform that would have been more suited to a naval commodore sprang down those steps to be waiting as Longarm disembarked from the hack.
Taking a five-dollar gold piece from his pocket, Longarm flipped the coin to the hack driver, who plucked it deftly from midair as it spun toward him. 'Thank you, suh,' the driver said with a broad grin. The tip was extravagant, but that was just the sort of man Longarm wanted people to think he was.
The doorman reached for Longarm's carpetbag. 'Take that for you, suh?' he asked.
Longarm shook his head. 'No, thanks, I'll manage it myself.'
The doorman looked crestfallen and said, 'As you wish, suh,' but he brightened up when Longarm pressed a gold piece into his hand.
'May be needing some help later, though,' said Longarm, and the doorman nodded eagerly.
'Anythin' you want, suh, you jus' let me know.'
Longarm went up the steps and into the hotel as more of the Carnival revelers came along the street behind him, tooting horns. The noise faded as soon as he was in the huge, marble-floored lobby of the St. Charles. Instead, a quiet hush prevailed among the potted palms, a silence that sounded somehow like money.
The desk clerk was a thin-faced man with slicked-back hair. He looked at Longarm expectantly, and Longarm said, 'I wired for a reservation. Name's Parker.' He was using his middle name as an alias, as he sometimes did when he was keeping his real identity hidden.
'Yes, Mr. Parker, of course,' said the clerk. 'We've been holding the room.' He turned the register around and slid it across the highly polished counter toward Longarm. 'If you'd just sign in...'
Longarm scrawled C Parker, St. Louis in the space the clerk indicated. The man turned the book back toward him and went on. 'How long will you be staying with us, sir?'
'I'm not sure,' said Longarm. 'Several days anyway.'
'Very well. You'll be in Room 312.'
The clerk was reaching for a room key on the board behind him when a hand fell softly on Longarm's sleeve and a husky voice said, 'You are a very lucky man, m'sieu.'
Longarm looked over at the woman who had spoken to him, and saw that she had a black domino mask surrounded by precious stones held in front of her eyes.
That didn't make much difference. He didn't have to see her face to know that she was one of the most
