Longarm and the Voodoo Queen (2 page)

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 beautiful women he had encountered in a long time.

CHAPTER 3

"I certainly am a lucky man," Longarm murmured as he looked at the woman. "Fortunate because I've just made your acquaintance, have I not, my dear?"

"Qui." She held out a hand with slender, graceful fingers, and he took it and bent over it to brush his lips lightly against the back of it. "I am Annie Clement," she said.

"Custis Parker," he told her. "From St. Louis. And I'm very glad I decided to come down here to New Orleans."

She was tall and slender, though curved in all the right places, as the expensive gown she wore displayed enticingly. Most of the deeply tanned valley between her breasts was visible, and Longarm gazed openly at her charms. She had thick, honey-colored hair that fell in waves to her shoulders, and her eyes behind the mask were an intriguing green with light-colored flecks in them, reminding Longarm of foam on an open sea. Her lips were full and red and curved in a smile as she slowly lowered the mask so that Longarm could appreciate the full impact of her beauty.

From the corner of his eye, Longarm saw the hotel clerk lean forward. "Can I help you, Miss Clement?" the clerk asked. Obviously, this lovely young woman was known to him.

Annie turned her head and smiled at the man. "No, thank you, Jack. This gentleman has already introduced himself to me." She linked her arm with Longarm's. "And now he's going to take me into the salon and buy me a drink."

"I'd like that just fine," Longarm told her, "but there's just one thing I need to get cleared up first. By any chance are you a, ah, working girl, Miss Clement?"

Annie laughed lightly at the question, but the desk clerk's eyebrows shot up as he looked scandalized. "Mr. Parker," he said sternly, "the St. Charles does not allow-"

"It's all right, Jack," said Annie. "M'sieu Parker is a guest in New Orleans and cannot be expected to know everything about our fair city." To Longarm, she said, "No, I'm not a soiled dove, M'sieu Parker, if that's what you thought."

"Not really," said Longarm, "but I like to make sure how deep the water is before I go diving in head-first."

"Around here you'll find that the waters are seldom deep... but they can still be treacherous." She steered him toward the arched entrance of the salon. "Now come along with me. Put yourself in my hands."

"That's a mighty appealing prospect," said Longarm, and the comment drew another laugh from her.

Behind them, the desk clerk called out, "I'll have your bag taken up to your room, Mr. Parker."

A waiter in the salon, who clearly knew who Annie was just as the desk clerk had, showed them to a table that was given at least an illusion of privacy by the potted plants that screened it off from the rest of the room. Longarm felt a little as if he had somehow wound up in a jungle. He leaned across the table toward Annie and asked, "What would you like to drink?"

"Wine would be nice."

Longarm repeated the order to the hovering waiter, then added, "Maryland rye for me, Tom Moore if you've got it."

"Indeed we do, sir," said the waiter. "I'll be right back."

While they waited for the drinks, Annie clasped her hands together in front of her on the table and looked over them at Longarm. "And what brings you to New Orleans, M'sieu Parker? Business... or pleasure?"

"Ten minutes ago, I would have said business," replied Longarm, "but that was before I met you, ma'am. Now I would have to say that I'm hoping for a combination of the two."

"How gallant of you. What line of business are you in?"

"Importing and exporting," said Longarm, trying to convey with his tone of voice that even though she was a beautiful woman, he wasn't quite ready to reveal all of his secrets to her just yet.

"How interesting. My brother and I export sugar to your country."

Longarm frowned slightly. "I figured that you lived here in New Orleans. Folks seem to know you pretty well in these parts."

"Oh, we have a house here," she said. "The Clement mansion, on Chartres Street, not far from here. It has been in the family for over a hundred years. But our real home is on Saint Laurent."

Longarm shook his head and said, "Don't reckon I've heard of it."

"It is a small island in the West Indies, where our sugar plantation is located. Paul and I travel here several times each year." A smile lit up Annie's face. "Like you, M'sieu Parker, we attempt to combine business with pleasure."

"A mighty sensible approach," said Longarm. "Here come our drinks."

The waiter placed a glass of wine in front of Annie, then gave Longarm a shot of Maryland rye along with a tumbler of water to chase it. Then the waiter withdrew diffidently, and once again Longarm and Annie had at least the semblance of being alone. They clinked their glasses together, and Annie said, "To New Orleans... and all the possibilities it holds."

"To New Orleans," agreed Longarm. He tossed back the rye, savoring its rich, smoky taste. So far, his trip to the Crescent City had been quite pleasurable.

But no matter what he had told Annie Clement, he was really here for one reason and one reason alone: to find whoever was responsible for the murder of Douglas Ramsey and bring the killer, or killers, to justice.

Annie sipped her wine and then said, "I shall have to introduce you to my brother. I'm sure you and Paul would have much in common."

Longarm wasn't so certain of that, and while this momentary dalliance with Annie had been enjoyable, he didn't want to waste his time meeting some wastrel son of an old, wealthy French family, which was clearly what the Clements were. Still, he didn't want to insult Annie, so he said noncommittally, "That would be nice, but we'll have to see how things work out."

"I know," she said, brightening even more with the idea that had come to her. "Why don't you come out with us tonight? We are going to dine and then visit a place we know on Gallatin Street where we can gamble. Perhaps you have heard of it--the Brass Pelican?"

Longarm was starting to shake his head when Annie added, "It is owned by a man named Millard, Jasper Millard."

Longarm hoped he was able to conceal his surprise. He had heard of Jasper Millard, all right, but certainly not for the same reason that Annie knew the man. Millard's name had been in those reports Longarm had read in Billy Vail's office back in Denver. He was one of the men suspected by the special prosecutor of being involved in the smuggling that was so widespread in the Mississippi Delta.

Longarm had considered using Millard to pick up the trail of Ramsey's murderer. Now, through happenstance, he had a perfect way into Millard's gambling club, and he would be a fool to pass it up.

Or was it happenstance? he asked himself abruptly, still controlling the expression on his face as thoughts raced through his head with lightning-fast speed. Was he being set up somehow? Were the smugglers already on to him, already aware of his true identity? Maybe Annie Clement was just the lovely bait in a deadly trap.