CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“NONE of the three can tell us anything,” St. Andre told Calamity as he sat on the bed in her apartment and watched her dress for her role as decoy. “Max Gravitch, he was their boss, only told them they had work to do. It was a pity that Tophet had to kill Gravitch.”
“He just wouldn’t have it any other way,” Calamity replied, drawing up her skirt and hooking one bare leg on the other, then reaching for a stocking.
“So Tophet explained. Not that I objected to Gravitch dying, our city will be a cleaner place without him. But I would rather have had him alive and talking. You see,
cherie
, it has long been my theory that there is a big man behind all the organised crime in New Orleans, a man who controls a dozen like Gravitch. One day I hope to get him.”
The day would come, but not for almost two more years, when St. Andre got his man and finally solved the murder which indirectly brought him into contact with Miss Martha Jane Canary.
“No answer from Dusty yet?” Calamity inquired, drawing the stocking on and ignoring St. Andre’s gaze at her legs.
“Not yet. And uncross your legs, we haven’t time to think about that.”
“This danged police work sure spoils a gal’s fun,” grinned Calamity.
“Then why not dr—.”
“No. Sherry. We’ve got to get that Strangler afore he kills again and this’s the only way we might do it. You didn’t have no luck in tracing the last one he killed, did you?”
“None. It’s the same story, the people who know won’t help the police.”
“Then me ‘n’ Jackie’s going out again tonight.”
Seeing from Calamity’s attitude that there would be no changing her mind, St. Andre surrendered. “Very well,” he said. “Go ahead. I’ll tell Redon and the others not to get too far from you, and if you should meet anybody who might be the Strangler, to make sure they don’t give him a chance to put that cord around your neck.”
“Happen the boys are in too close, you might scare him off,” Calamity pointed out.
“It’s a chance we have to take,
cherie
,” answered St. Andre, rising and laying a hand gently on her head. Bending over, he kissed her lightly on the lips. “I’d rather lose the Strangler than you.”
“You’re not getting all serious about me, now are you, Sherry?” smiled the girl, looking up at him.
“Would it be a bad thing if I did?”
“It’d be a plumb waste of both our time, and you know it. Hell, it’d never come to anything but trouble if we got too dose, Sherry.”
“We don’t know that,” St. Andre answered. “You could adapt into any society, if you wished to.”
“I sure couldn’t,” Calamity contradicted. “And I sure as hell couldn’t settle in a big city any more’n you could stop being a lawman and come West with me.”
“We’ve—.”
“We’ve done no more than I’ve done afore with men and expect to do again,” the girl interrupted and gently took his hands in her own. “Mind you, Sherry, you’re a long way from the worst I’ve known at happying up a gal. Now stop looking all solemn and go fetch my hat.”
For a moment St. Andre did not move. If any other woman had spoken in the manner Calamity addressed him, he would have felt disgusted. But one did not judge Martha Jane Canary by other women’s standards. Jerking her forward, he gave her a kiss, then shoved her away from him.
“Miss Canary,” he stated. “You are an immoral young lady. But, Lord, there will never be another one like you.”
“I’d surely be disappointed if there was,” Calamity replied. “Now go get my hat while I plaster all this muck on my face. Darn it, Sherry, why do gals wear all that paint and powder?”
“To beautify themselves and attract men.”
Calamity made a wry face. “Hell, I done all right without it all these years.”
Before St. Andre could make any reply, a knock on the door heralded the arrival of Jackie and Redon. Both were dressed for the decoy assignment and tactfully overlooked the fact that Calamity still wore only one stocking.
“It’s this boss of your’s keeping me talking, Raoul,” lied the unabashed Miss Canary. “You and him wait in the ball and leave a gal some privacy.”
Within ten minutes a blonde Calamity, dressed as the previous night, came from her apartment with the ballet-dancing
savate
expert. Despite knowing, even more so than the previous night, the dangers facing them, the girls looked unworried and cheerful.
“Let’s go,” Calamity said, hooking her hand into St. Andre’s arm. “Maybe we’ll be lucky tonight.”
Calamity proved to be a mighty poor prophetess. Although they made the rounds of the Latour Street district until past midnight, neither girl received an offer from any man resembling the Strangler’s build and height. However, the night was not entirely wasted. Using her ability to make friends, Calamity started to gain the confidence of the street girls they met in the various places. While waiting for customers on one side and hoping to be selected as the Strangler’s next victim in the other case, Calamity bought a few drinks, made jokes, lent a sympathetic ear to problems, and in general won over several girls. She worked for one purpose, to find out the names of possible Strangler victims.
While Calamity had never been trained for such work, she knew instinctively that she must not rush matters. One hint of suspicion would not only prevent the street-walkers taking her into their confidence, but almost might end her usefulness as a decoy. So, for the first evening, she confined herself to getting to know the other girls and persuading them that she followed their trade but did not regard them as business rivals or enemies. Buying a couple of rounds of drinks, and boasting how she had made a good sale that evening to explain where the money came from, started the thaw. From then on, once her bridge-head had been established, Calamity consolidated her position in a manner which any general would have admired. Always good company at such times, she soon had the girls laughing at her raw, unprintable jokes. In addition, she listened to the other girls’ troubles, agreed that all men were lousy beasts and generally made herself agreeable. For the first time, while talking with the street-girls, Calamity learned just how rough company she had been in that afternoon. Already the story of the capture of Gravitch’s gang had gone the rounds, and Calamity found that her alter ego stood high in the street girls’ favour with only one complaint levelled at her head, that she had not treated Jules far rougher than she did. Not that the girls recognised this blonde obvious member of their profession as the famous Calamity Jane, but it made Calamity feel good to hear their comments and receive their unconscious approbation.
However, apart from a boost to her ego, and making a lot of friends, Calamity achieved nothing that evening. No man even vaguely resembling the Strangler’s height and build approached her, and shortly after midnight Redon attracted Calamity’s attention with a jerk of his head.
“Well,” Calamity said, shoving back her chair. “That’s me for the night.”
“And me,” Jacqueline agreed. “If my man doesn’t like it, he can do the other. What do you say, Jane?”
“Don’t let him hear you say it,” Calamity replied, winking at the others, “or the reds of your eyes’ll be turning black. See you tomorrow, girls.”
Calamity and Jacqueline left to the accompaniment of cheerful laughs and waves. Not until they were clear of the Latour Street district did they wait for their escort to catch up with them.
“You pair’ve been having fun,” Redon remarked after sending one of the men to find a cab. “Did you learn anything?”
“Nothing much,” Calamity admitted. “I didn’t reckon rushing around asking if any of them was shy a pard or two’d get me any place. So I played it steady and maybe tomorrow I’ll get me a few names.”
“One of those gals, that big black-haired one, goes around with a couple of fellers we’d like to lay hands on,” Redon said. “Why not—?”
“That’s out!” Calamity snapped. “I’m in this thing to help you boys catch the Strangler, not go bounty hunting.”
“No offence,” grinned the detective, and strangely did not think any the worse of Calamity for her refusal. “Maybe we’ll have a taker for you tomorrow.”
“Maybe,” answered Calamity. “I only hope that he hasn’t got another gal tonight.”
The Strangler had not struck again that evening, which did not surprise any of the decoy party. Next morning Calamity slept in late and on rising had barely finished breakfast when a messenger from St. Andre brought word that her presence was required at Headquarters. Calamity paused only long enough to collect her hat and whip before taking the cab St. Andre sent for her and driving across town. On her arrival, she found Jacqueline waiting and noticed that the slim girl wore black tights and a blouse. St. Andre sat at his desk and waved a buff-coloured telegraph message form as Calamity entered.
“This is from the Rio Hondo,” he said. “It may give us the answer we need.”
“Good for old Dusty,” replied Calamity. “I knew he’d find the way and be only too pleased to help out.”
“I have read the message and Lieutenant St. Andre showed me how the Strangler works, Calam,” Jacqueline remarked. “We waited for you before trying, but I think it will work.”
“Now me,” grinned Calamity. “I’d be more surprised if it didn’t work, knowing Dusty Fog like I do.”
Taking the sheet of paper, Calamity read it, mouthing the words in the manner of one who spent but little time at such a pursuit. Within the limitations of using the telegraph services, Dusty Fog appeared to have done a fine job in explaining how he figured the Strangler’s noose attack could be defeated. After reading the message, Calamity felt that her confidence in the Rio Hondo gun wizard had been more than justified.
“Danged if it don’t look so easy you’d wonder how we missed it,” she said and laid down the telegraph message form. “Let’s give her a whirl, Sherry.”
However, reading how to perform the counter to the attack and actually performing it, proved to be two entirely different things. Calamity’s first two tries proved no more successful than her previous attempts at escaping from the constriction of the strangling cord. Much to Calamity’s annoyance, Jacqueline was first to make a successful counter. With her fast dancer’s reactions, she managed to perform the counter on her fifth attempt.
“It works!” she said delightedly. “I think if you did it slightly faster, Sherry, we would have a better chance.”
On following the dancer’s suggestion when trying the killer’s hold with Calamity, St. Andre found that the counter worked much better. Previously he had been slow moving and braced for the counter. When working faster, he found less opportu~iity to prevent the girl escaping. The Strangler would be working fast and unprepared for resistance after so many easy kills.
“Reckon we’ve got the hang of it now,” Calamity stated as she picked herself up from the floor after a successful counter to St. Andre’s attack.
“Now that’s what I call a poor choice of words,” smiled the detective, also rising. “But I feel a whole lot happier now we know you’ve a chance of escape.”
“Know something, Sherry?” said Calamity. “So do I.”
That evening found Calamity and Jacqueline out on the streets again. At ten o’clock Jacqueline had a likely taker. A well dressed young man of the right height and size, slightly drunk, made the usual advances and she departed with him. Redon followed with one of the men, while Calamity spent a quarter of an hour worrying over her friend’s safety. At last Jacqueline returned, unmarked and unflustered, to take a seat at Calamity’s side.
“No?” asked Calamity.
“No,” agreed Jacqueline. “I thought it might be when he suggested we take a walk down towards the Park. But when we got to the outside, he wanted to go to my room instead of walking. Raoul and Vic came up then, explained matters and saw him on his way.”
“Could have been the Strangler playing cagey,” Calamity remarked.
“They searched him thoroughly and he didn’t have as much as a piece of string in his pockets. He’s a clerk in a riverboat company’s office and wouldn’t want word of his escapade to slip out. Where now?”
“Let’s try the Blue Cat, shall we?” Calamity suggested.
“Suits me,” answered Jacqueline. “I wonder if we’ll learn anything there?”
Half-a-dozen street girls sat around a table in the Blue Cat, a saloon much favoured by their class, when Calamity and Jacqueline entered. Apart from one, Calamity and Jacqueline had seen all the girls around the Latour Street district during their visits and five were among those Calamity befriended the previous evening. Clearly Calamity was now regarded as being all right, for cheerful greetings came her way as she and Jacqueline crossed the room.
“This’s Nora, Jane,” one of the girls introduced, waving a hand to the only girl Calamity and Jacqueline had not seen around the district. “She’s making her debut tonight.”
Looking at Nora, a small, pretty, young-looking girl wearing a blue dress and sporting a large blue ring on her right hand’s third finger, Calamity smiled. “Don’t know what that is, but I hope you enjoy it.”
“I will,” answered Nora, touching her curly blonde hair and returning Calamity’s smile.
From the way she spoke, Nora clearly imagined her new life would be one of leisure and pleasure. Watching Nora, Calamity wondered if she should break her habit of letting folks run their own lives and try to steer the blonde out of a dirty, unpleasant business.
However, before Calamity could make any moves in that direction, or start to make a stab at learning the names of a few possible Strangler victims, she saw a man enter the room from Latour Street. From the way Jacqueline stiffened in her seat, Calamity guessed that the dancer also spotted the man and shared her interest. The man halted just inside the doorway and stood looking around him. Although he wore good quality clothing, the material showed signs of lack of care. His hair was long, not in the manner sported by Wild Bill Hickok and other plainsmen but merely long enough to hint at a needed visit to a barbershop. Some folk might have called him good looking, but Calamity took note of his pallid features with the intense expression and did not like what she saw. What interested Calamity and Jacqueline about the newcomer was the fact that he had a slim build and stood slightly over five foot ten in height.
Glancing at the bar to check that Redon saw the new arrival, Calamity found that after one quick look the detective turned his back on the man as if wishing to avoid recognition. The newcomer left the door and strolled in the direction of the girls’ table.
“Hi, girls,” he greeted.
“Hello Browne,” chorused five of the table’s occupants.
Calamity, a keen student of human nature and facial expressions, noticed a flicker of a scowl crease the young man’s eyes as the girls used his name, however, his mouth never lost the friendly smile. He nodded in Calamity’s direction.
“And who are the new faces?” he asked.
“This’s Jane and Jackie,” one of the girls introduced. “They’ve come down river from Memphis. And this is Nora, she’s just starting.”
“It’s one way of supporting your family, Nora,” the young man remarked. “The kind of money they can earn isn’t enough to keep you in anything but poverty.”
“You’re right,” Nora gasped, eyes shining in delight as she found a good excuse for turning to this kind of life instead of staying in her previous employment as a maid.
“My dear child,” smiled the man, though Calamity thought it nearer a condescending sneer, “I always am.”
With that he walked away, followed by several admiring, and one critical, gazes.
“Who’s he?” asked Calamity.
Shock and surprise showed on most of the other girls’ faces. ‘Why that’s Browne Crossman,” one gasped.
“And who’s Browne Crossman?”
“Just the greatest writer who ever lived,” the other girl explained. “He wrote a book, but the aristocrats won’t let it be published. Works for the
Intelligencer
. Even though he’s got plenty of money, he comes down here a lot. He prefers our company and he’s all for the workers.”
Calamity was a poker player of some skill, so she concealed her feelings. However, she had met a few of the kind of politicians who were ‘all for the workers’ and, being a sensible girl, mistrusted them. From her study of Browne Crossman, she decided he would be like most of his kind, self-opinionated, despising the people he professed to be all for. There had been more than a hint of condescension about him as he spoke to the girls, a touch of annoyance during the familiar use of his Christian name.
It appeared that none of the other occupants of the room had any doubts about Crossman, for he was greeted cheerfully and familiarly as he walked towards the bar. On his arrival, Crossman saw and recognised Redon, guessed the detective must be on some duty which involved keeping his identity secret, so prepared to demonstrate his love of the down-trodden underdogs.
“Well, fancy seeing you in here, Sergeant Redon,” Crossman said in a voice which carried around the room. “I thought the Police Department used you in the Bourbon Street district. Or isn’t that area profitable enough for you?”
Anger glinted in Redon’s eyes as he turned. He knew that the young reporter deliberately identified him. “I just came in for a drink, Mr. Crossman.”