Jass (Valentin St. Cyr Mysteries) Read Online Free PDF Page A

illegal everywhere but the streets of the District. So that by the turn of the century, at least two thousand "soiled doves" were dropping their bloomers and spreading their thighs in houses that were confined by design to that single neighborhood.

    Valentin crossed over to the corner of Iberville Street, stepped under the colonnade of Anderson's Café and Annex, and rapped a knuckle on one of the cut-glass diamonds that were set into the polished wood. After a few seconds, the lock slid back with a crack and a Negro holding a mop held the door open for him.
    Tom Anderson was seated at his regular table at the far end of the bar. He liked to do business there, reserving his office upstairs for his more confidential and delicate matters. He had papers spread out before him, a gold fountain pen in his hand, and a fine china cup at his elbow. As usual, he wore a silk dress shirt from Mayerof's, the collar removed and top button undone at his fleshy neck. Suspenders hung down on either side of the chair. His round face was adorned by a well-maintained handlebar mustache that had, along with his eyebrows and oiled hair, turned a stately gray.
    At Valentin's approach, he looked over the tops of the wire-framed glasses that perched on his thick and regal nose. "There's coffee," he said, gesturing with his pen.
    The Creole detective helped himself from the copper urn that sat atop the marble bar. He brought his cup to the table and they got down to business, Anderson inquiring about any hints of trouble, any whispers going around the streets that might bear attention. Valentin knew that he employed a small army of spies to feed him information from the District's narrowest nooks and crannies. He himself had nothing to offer on this particular morning.
    It didn't seem to surprise the King of Storyville, though it did seem to annoy him. He pursed his lips and his bushy eyebrows dipped. "So you haven't heard about this trouble on St. Louis Street?"
    "What about St. Louis Street?"
    "I got word that some coppers have been trying to get extra payments from houses up there."
    "Who are they?"
    Anderson gave him a hard glance. "Well, if I knew that, it would have been handled by now." He went poking through his papers and came up with a slip with some names and addresses scrawled on it and passed it across the table. "Those are the madams who complained. Pay them a visit."
    Valentin glanced at the paper. The addresses were on the fringe of the District, low-class houses that employed low-class women. Anderson read his thoughts, and said, "I know. But if we let them get away with this, they'll be knocking on Lulu White's door. Then we'll never hear the end of it."
    They both paused to picture the scene, then shared a quiet laugh that faded soon enough.
    "Very well," the King of Storyville said, and handed over the white envelope that had been resting near his elbow.
    It contained Valentin's pay for the week in gold Liberty dollars, and the King of Storyville always passed it across the table when their business was finished. In the past, the pair might have sat at the table for an hour, drinking coffee and discussing the latest news and gossip from the District, chuckling about some recent drunken buffoonery, winking over a fine dove, muttering about a bad actor who needed a lesson in manners. Only when they were done would Anderson offer the envelope, sighing with reluctance at having to return to more mundane business.
    That was before. Things had changed and these days they were ill at ease with each other. Now, by unspoken agreement, the moment they finished with the matters of the day, Valentin was paid and sent on his way, to the relief of both men.
    The detective made his exit now, leaving his half-empty cup on the bar. He could feel Anderson's gaze following him as he walked across the tiled and carpeted floor and out into the midday sun.

    The King of Storyville spent a long minute staring fixedly at the empty chair. St. Cyr had been