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

being avoided.
    He got the same treatment next door at Countess Willie Piazza's, but he expected it there. The madam tended toward secrecy and intrigue, and liked to handle her transactions through underlings. It was just as well; he wanted to keep moving. Which was why he made the house on the northwest corner of Bienville Street his last stop. He knew he wouldn't be getting out of there with a simple nod and a thank-you.
    A maid ushered him inside and through a parlor known far and wide as the most extravagant in all of Storyville, with dark and heavy furniture imported from France, Persian carpets on the floors, thick curtains of the most luxurious brocade, and a massive crystal chandelier overhead. Polish wood glowed and glass sparkled. There was a mantelpiece adorned with ceramic figurines and two gold candleholders. A grand piano of brown walnut occupied one corner. The smells of fresh flowers from the French Market wafted sweetly over all of it.
    The moldings and jambs were all of dark, heavy hardwood, and the house had been dubbed "Mahogany Hall" by its proprietor. The other houses in the District carried the madam's name: Hilma Burt's, Martha Clarke's, and so on. That wouldn't do for Miss Lulu. Her palace required an appellation.
    On the far side of the room was an archway that led into a sitting room, and it was there that he found Lulu White waiting for him, posed like a queen on her favorite love seat, an opulent affair of tufted burgundy satin.
    Miss Lulu was quite an odd bird, even for Storyville. Short and thick, with brown flesh and distinctly African features, she swore up and down that she was in fact white, donning wigs in various shades of red in hopes of bolstering her claim. She professed to be a native of Jamaica, the progeny of an English father and a Creole mother, even though it was common knowledge that she had been born and raised on an Alabama tenant farm. Though Valentin judged her to be at least half crazy, he also knew that she was a genius at turning a dime into a dollar and was easily the richest of the city's madams.
    She greeted him with a smile that was genuinely fond and beckoned him to join her on the love seat. Once he was settled, she leaned back and went into the end table for his envelope and the receipt book. He signed the pad and pocketed the packet of coins.
    "Very good," she said, as she put it away. "Can I offer you a cup of tea?" She reached for a little bell.
    Though it was the last thing he wanted to do, Valentin accepted politely. He didn't like tea, and the madam's prying drove him mad, but unless she had something pressing, he was obligated to suffer through these sessions once a week. Of late, it was always the same routine: she would launch into her latest gripe about Anderson and Josie Arlington as a way to pry information out of him. He had nothing to offer and wouldn't share it if he did. It never seemed to occur to her that she was barking up the wrong tree. She had convinced herself that the Creole detective had Anderson's ear and was dutifully passing her pronouncements on. That Anderson was hearing her complaints and ignoring them was all the more proof that her suspicions were well-grounded. And so it went, round and round in her mad mind.
    As soon as the maid appeared with the service on a tray, she asked how things were at the Café.
    "Fine," Valentin told her, also as usual. "Very quiet."
    Small as it was, she took the opening. "Well, that's a good thing, isn't it? Tom Anderson doesn't need any more trouble. He's a busy man these days. What with having to service Josie Arlington, Hilma Burt, and who knows who else. He's no young rooster. You'd think he'd know better. It's simply unfair..." And off she went, running down her list of grievances. It was an old song.
    Valentin nodded mechanically, barely sipping his tea, his mind elsewhere. After about five minutes, she slowed the tempo of her rant, closing with a dramatic huff. Her face fell, and cracks of age