Rampart Street (Valentin St. Cyr Mysteries) Read Online Free PDF

he said. "Eat. You're still skin and bones."

    Miss Antonia's phone tinkled merrily just as Justine reached the door of her office. The madam picked up the handset with one hand and held up a bejeweled finger of the other, a signal for her to wait. Justine leaned in the doorway, lending half an ear as Miss Antonia crooned honey-dripping words of flattery, which meant the person on the other end of the line was a man of means, one of those whom they depended upon to eat, to pay their rent, to buy their fine clothes. It was their business; still, Justine was always stung by these little reminders of her return to the sporting life.
    At the same time, she knew a thousand women would that very morning trade places with her. She kept a room in one of the best houses on the main line of one of the most infamous red-light districts in the world. Her looks and able wits meant she entertained only wealthy downtown gentlemen and the occasional uptown sport flush with winnings. She was not hiking her bloomers for a dozen strangers a night. She did not go through cartons of stockings from spending so much time on her knees, like the women in the French houses. She did not have to take beatings to satisfy some madman's desires. She didn't have to perform lewd acts of every description for the entertainment of crowds of cigar-smoking gentlemen, as they did in French Emma Johnson's Circus. She did not pay visits to the doctor for the treatment of a disease, and she'd never had to summon Dago Annie to clean away the first traces of a trick baby. In short, she did not walk the kind of rough road that would turn her into an old woman by thirty. Indeed, if she kept her good looks and taut body, she might well end up as a mistress or even the wife of some well-to-do gentleman—though her last try had ended poorly. Being kept was not to her taste.

    So her life had settled into an adequate routine that lasted until the morning Miss Antonia put her head in a spin by whispering that Valentin St. Cyr was back in town. The next days brought reports that he'd been sighted here and there, and that he was looking as ragged as a tramp. When he didn't appear on her doorstep, she had to quell an urge to go see him.
    Some days later she learned that he was back in the employ of Tom Anderson and was staying in a room over Mangetta's. He was working within spitting distance of Miss Antonia's and living not too much farther away, and yet he never came to see her. Somehow she wasn't surprised. She couldn't blame him, not after she had ended up back in the same place where—
    "Justine!" Miss Antonia was watching her with a vexed expression.
    She blinked. "I'm sorry, what?"
    "Mr. George."
    "What about him?"
    "I was saying that he's quite pleased with you," the madam commented. "You'll want to keep it that way. He's the head of Gulf Shipping." She acted as if Justine hadn't already heard this information a dozen times. "It's one of the largest companies on the river."
    Justine stared at her blankly, and Miss Antonia let out a little hiss of irritation. She waved a hand to one of the café chairs. "Please, have a seat," she said.
    Justine pulled the chair away from the wall and sat down with some reluctance. It was time for her daily grilling, the one where Miss Antonia went searching for signs that she was about to bolt out the door on the trail of a certain Creole detective.

    At the same moment Justine was settling into the chair, Valentin was crossing to the south side of Basin Street, heading toward Canal. He did not look over as he passed Antonia Gonzales's mansion. A few minutes later, he was hopping on an Esplanade Line car. Another quarter hour and he stepped off at the corner of Rendon and started south.
    The neighborhood Valentin entered, intersected by Esplanade, was one of the city's most pristine American enclaves. The houses were large, mostly classic French in design, many of stucco or whitewashed brick, with mansard roofs and balconies of ornate