“Did you ever drive a six-hoss Conestoga wagon through hostile Injun country, Sherry?” she countered. “You might say that’s dangerous too—I’ve done it.”
Resuming walking again, St. Andre watched the girl’s face. His thoughts turned over the idea which had played back and forth since the previous night, trying to decide how justified he was in endangering Calamity’s life.
“We could have men following you,” he finally said, then shook his head. “No! It’s too much of a chance!”
“Reckon I’m the best judge of that,” she answered.
“Reckon you just might as well give up and let her do it, Sherry,” warned Tombes. “Ole Calam’s done made her mind to the bait, so she’ll do with or without your help.”
“Which same it’ll be safer with your help,” the girl pointed out. “Look, Sherry, I know how dangerous it’ll be and I’m still game to give it a whirl if you are.”
“It might work,” admitted St. Andre. “But you would have to dress for the part. One sees few street-walkers dressed in men’s clothing.”
“You mean I’d have to put on a dress and all?” gasped Calamity.
“And all,” agreed the detective.
Calamity let out a long, suffering sigh. Here was an aspect of the affair her impetuous nature failed to notice when forming the plan. Such an important decision might have taken some girls a long time to settle, but not Calamity. She stiffened her shoulders and looked at St. Andre.
“All right,” she said in the tone of a martyr agreeing to be tossed to the lions. “I’ll even wear a dress, happen it’ll nail the Strangler.”
“Let’s go somewhere and make our arrangements,” St. Andre suggested.
“How about those four jaspers who worked you over?” Calamity inquired.
“I have feelers out for them, but the Strangler case is of more importance right now.”
Finding a cab, St. Andre took his party across town to Police Headquarters, a large old stone building which did not resemble any lawman’s office Calamity or Tombes had ever seen. The Detective Bureau occupied the second floor and St. Andre’s small room faced the Captain of Detectives’ quarters. After seeing his superior and explaining his idea, then being granted permission to try it out, St. Andre took Calamity and Tombes into his office where they started to plan their campaign.
First St. Andre called in four men to act as escort when Calamity went out as bait. They would work in plain clothes instead of uniform and were not known in the Latour Street area. Supplying Calamity with the correct clothing for the part offered no difficulties. However, there were snags.
“How well does Calamity know the area?” asked Redon, shortest of the escort and its senior member.
“I don’t,” Calamity admitted.
“That may be difficult.” Redon stated. “We can’t be too close to her—.”
“Hey!” interrupted Calamity. “I know somebody who might be able to help.”
“Who?” asked St. Andre.
“That skinny gal I fought last night, Jacqueline. I bet she’d jump at the chance of helping.”
St. Andre shook his head. “I don’t know about that.”
“Then let’s go ask her,” Calamity suggested. “She can only say ‘no’.”
Rising, St. Andre prepared to leave the room. He told his men to collect their clothing and meet him at his office after lunch. Then he started for the door with Calamity and Tombes at his side. Suddenly the detective came to a halt.
“I’ve just thought of something, Calam!”
“Such as?”
“The Strangler saw you last night, and with me. He might recognise you.”
“He might at that,” agreed the girl. “It’s something else we’ll have to think about.”
CHAPTER NINE
DOBE Killem saw the flashily-dressed blonde girl standing before the open door of Maw Packer’s apartment house and felt surprised. While the
Rue de la Paix
could not be classed on the same social level as Bourbon or Toulouse Streets, it was not an area frequented by young ladies of that type.
While walking towards the blonde, Killem studied her, deciding she looked vaguely familiar. She had a nice figure that a cheap, gaudy blue dress revealed rather than concealed, sported the usual parasol and reticule of her kind and wore a large-brimmed hat on her blonde hair. Figuring she might be one of the girls his party entertained at the
Cheval D’Or
the previous evening, Killem nodded as he went by her. Killem decided he would find out which of the outfit invited her over and request that the one involved refrained from bringing calico cats to the house.
“You getting too rich and high-toned to talk with the hired help, Cecil?” asked Calamity’s voice.
Although Killem had a well-deserved reputation for being a real good poker player who rarely showed his emotions, he came to a halt as if running into an invisible wall. His mouth dropped open as he turned to stare at the flashily-dressed blonde. For a moment he thought his ears had played a trick on him, then slowly Calamity’s face formed out of the blonde curls and make up.
“What—!” he croaked. “How—.”
“Shut your mouth afore you get flies in it,” grinned the delighted Calamity and looked towards the door of the building. “I’d say it works, Sherry.”
Seeing a couple of thin, pinched, sanctimonious faces peeking from behind the curtains of a house across the street, Killem gave a low angry grunt. His eyes took in the girl’s appearance again, noting that the heavy make-up she wore all but hid the mouse she carried under her left eye. However, standing in front of a house on the respectable
Rue de la Paix
was hardly the place to start asking questions about his employee’s appearance.
“Let’s get off the street!” he growled.
“Scared I’ll ruin you socially, Cecil?” inquired Calamity with a mischievous and merry grin.
“I’ll ruin you!” the freighter spat out.
Bobbing a curtsy to the watching women, and causing a hurried disappearance behind the curtains, Calamity grabbed hold of Killem’s arm. Giving an annoyed grunt, Killem tried to pull himself free of the girl’s grip, but she hung on all the more as they headed towards the door of the Packer house.
“What’s wrong, Cecil?” she grinned. “Ashamed of being seen with me?”
“Damn your ornery, fool hide, Calam!” Killem snarled back. “I’ll take a switch to your butt!”
“Which same I wouldn’t feel it through this bustle,” answered the girl, hauling him into the hall of the house. “I bet old Nosey and her pard over yonder are getting some right smart ideas of what’s going to happen now.”
“And me!” snapped Killem.
While Killem enjoyed a piece of rough-and-tumble good fun as much as the next man, he felt that Calamity had gone a whole heap too far this time. To his way of thinking, a practical joke should only cause discomfort to the participants and not bring embarrasment on innocent heads. New Orleans, even this poorer section of the old city, had advanced beyond the rough-and-ready Western town Calamity knew. Calamity’s joke might bring down repercussions on Maw Packer’s head when the two watchers across the street spread word that she allowed street-walkers to make use of her premises.
On entering the hall, Kiilem found not only St. Andre but Maw Packer standing facing the door. Instead of being furious at Calamity’s behaviour, the woman grinned broadly.
“How’d it go?” Maw asked.
“He walked right by me,” answered Calamity proudly. “Acted all honourable and up-right like a deacon going down a cat-house street. Never gave me more than a look-but-don’t-touch look.”
“Just what the hell’s all this about?” demanded Killem in a hoarse bellow. “Damned if I don’t—.”
Then he stopped, staring at Calamity, and began to roar with laughter. On entering the house Calamity had stepped clear of her boss and removed the hat and blonde wig which so altered her appearance. For a moment Calamity stared at her employer, then swung towards Maw and St. Andre who both joined in the merriment.
“What’s so funny? she yelled.
“L—Look in the mirror,
cherie
!” St. Andre managed to get out through his laughter.
Calamity followed his advice and looked into the hat-stand mirror. A reflected vision greeted her and she saw the cause of her friend’s laughter. While the heavy make-up and long, glistening pendant earrings had been in keeping with the picture-hat and blonde curls, they looked incongruous framed by her mop of short natural red hair.
“Land-sakes!” she gasped, after joining in the laughter. “I’ll sure have to keep my shop-bought white scalp on all the time. Say, Maw, those two old pills across the way were like to swallow their teeth when they saw me haul Dobe in here.”
“It’ll give ‘em something to talk about,” Maw answered calmly. “I can allus quieten them down by threatening to give the Reverend Postle all their sassafrass tea.”
“Now me,” Calamity remarked. “I’d be more likely to keep quiet happen you told me you’d make me drink sassafrass tea.”
“So would they, only they flavour their tea with maybe seven-eighths gin.”
“How’s about somebody telling me what this’s all about,” suggested Killem.
“Let’s go into the dining-room and I’ll explain,” St. Andre replied.
In the dining-room, seated at the table with cups of coffee before them, St. Andre started to explain the reason for Calamity’s disguise.
On their arrival at the
Cheval D’Or
, Calamity and St. Andre interviewed Jacqueline and the
savate
-fighting ballet dancer agreed to help all she could on hearing they planned to try to trap the Strangler. However, she stated that she felt Calamity would not be able to pass herself off as a street-girl with the little aid possible between then and night-fall, there was too much Calamity needed to know for that. Quite calmly Jacqueline offered to go along with Calamity and act as a second piece of bait. In vain St. Andre tried to point out the dangers involved. Jacqueline claimed she could chance anything Calamity risked and the Western girl added her weight to the argument.
The question of clothing came up next, but found an easy solution. Having to obtain permission from Madam Darcel for Jacqueline’s absence, St. Andre took the saloonkeeper into his confidence. Immediately Madam Darcel offered every assistance and, without telling the real reason for the request, obtained the loan of clothing which fitted Calamity for her part as a streetwalker. Madam also came up with the idea of a blonde wig, without knowing that the Strangler had seen Calamity and St. Andre together, saying the girl would look more in character without that mop of short hair.
Calamity, dressed in her new outfit, returned to Maw Packer’s place and had been explaining her actions to a sceptical and suspicious owner when they saw Killem returning from the riverfront where he spent the day. Deciding to try out her disguise, Calamity slipped out of the house and awaited her employer’s arrival. If Killem’s reaction be anything to go on, Calamity doubted whether the Strangler, who only saw her by moonlight and from a distance, would recognise her.
“So you’re aiming to use Calam and that Jacqueline gal for bait,” said Killem when St. Andre finished his explanation.
“I am,” agreed the detective. “But I’ll give them every protection.”
“You see you do!” warned Killem. “Happen anything goes wrong and that gal is hurt—.”
“Dobe honey!” whooped Calamity, throwing her arms around her boss and gave him a kiss. “I didn’t think you cared.”
“Who says I care?” grunted the freighter, gently standing the girl at arms’ length and ruffling her hair. “Only the Army done give me an advance on your pay; and anyways you’re such an ornery cuss that happen you got killed you’d come back and haunt me. Danged if you aren’t trouble enough alive, without having you around as a haunt.”
“Who’re you trying to convince?” asked Calamity. “Us—or you?”
Ignoring the question, and not wanting his concern for Calamity’s welfare to be too obvious, Killem released the girl and turned to St. Andre. “You want a few of my boys around?”
“I’d rather use my own men,” the detective replied. “They know what to do. After all, you wouldn’t expect policemen to be able to handle your big wagons.”
“Reckon you’re right,” admitted the freighter. “Say, Calam gal, do you have a gun?”
“I thought of it,” replied the girl. “But I don’t want to spook the Strangler happen I meet him.”
“I doubt if he would chance his games with an armed girl,” St. Andre pointed out. “Some of the girls do carry a Derringer in their reticule, but none of the Strangler’s victims have had one with her.”
Killem frowned. While he knew Calamity to be a girl who knew how to take care of herself, mostly she had either her Navy Colt or bull-whip handy. Dressed in such a manner, she could hardly carry either. The big freighter did not care for the idea of his Calamity tangling with the Strangler unless adequately protected. However, he knew that St. Andre would not endanger Calamity’s life if he could find any other way of catching the Strangler, and in making use of the girl as a decoy meant to take every possible precaution to ensure her safety.
“All right, play it your way,” he said. “I know you’ll do right by our lil gal, Sherry.
“That I’ll promise you, Dobe,” answered St. Andre. “But you’ll not let any of your men butt in.”
“I’ll see they don’t,” Killem promised.
That evening, dressed in the cheap finery sported by the type of girl from which the Strangler selected his victims, Calamity and Jacqueline went out into the city as living decoys. Calamity had hoped to see something of New Orleans during her visit and that evening partially got her wish. Not that she saw the stately buildings, coffee-houses, cafes and theatres of the better part of the old French city. If it comes to a point, such places did not interest Calamity. Such an area was not the Strangler’s hunting grounds. He picked his victims from the Latour Street district, selecting girls whose disappearance would arouse little comment. So the two girls went from place to place, visiting the gathering spots of the street-walking sisterhood. While Jacqueline had never worked the streets in such a capacity she had many friends who did and learned enough from them to locate their haunts and carry off the impersonation.
Hovering always in the background came Redon and his three men. They never bunched, together and dressed in different fashions, but all in a style which blended into the background. Redon looked like a cheap gambler, the others could pass as riverboat hands, water-front workers, or general town dwellers of the lower-income bracket. Under St. Andre’s instructions, the four men were not to interfere should a possible suspect attempt to pick up one of the girls. Instead they must trail the man and girl, stay far enough away so as not to scare him off, but close enough to save her should the man be the Strangler looking for another victim. Only by catching the Strangler in the act could they be sure of a conviction; and the girls willingly accepted the danger to their lives to bring this about.
One useful thing had been learned from Tombes’ display of the art of reading signs that morning. Now the hunters knew they could discard all but men of around the five foot ten mark and with slim builds. With that in mind, Calamity and Jacqueline steered clear of such offers as came from men who did not fit into the general area of Tombes’ estimation of the Strangler’s size and heft.
At about eleven o’clock, two foot-sore girls found themselves in a small but busy saloon at the lower end of Latour Street. Jacqueline wore her hair down, so nobody recognised her as the graceful star performer of the
Cheval D’Or
. Flopping down at a table, the girls looked around the room. So far nobody of the right height and build had propositioned either girl and they were beginning to realise the enormity of the task ahead of them.
“Whooee!” groaned Calamity, working her toes in the borrowed shoes. “My feet hurts like hell.”
“And mine,” Jacqueline replied and glanced at a coloured waiter who came up. “Two specials, Sam.”
“Yes’m. Does you-all work around here regular?”
“Our men’ve fixed it for us,” Jacqueline answered.
“That’s all right then. Only there was a big fight along the street last night, and the law has passed the word that they don’t want no mo’ trouble down here for a spell. I’ll git you-all’s drinks.”
“I wonder who was fighting,” grinned Calamity as the waiter departed.
“They do say it was a beautiful, slim girl and a fat red-head,” Jacqueline replied.
“Easy there, Skinny,” warned a smiling Calamity. “You heard what the man said, the law don’t want no trouble down here, so I’d hate to lick you again.”
“It’s lucky the police passed out that order,” Jacqueline remarked. “Some of the real girls might have objected to us coming around otherwise.”
“Old Sherry thought of everything,” commented Calamity.
Knowing that the street-girls were apt to be jealous of intrusion by new girls into their territory, St. Andre caused the official warning to be passed out that the law would not countenance any more brawls down the Latour Street district after the fight in the
Cheval D’Or
. Such a warning carried weight and the regular girls, while watching the newcomers with suspicious eyes, did not try to assert their prior right to trade when Calamity and Jacqueline entered a place of business.
“Let’s hope the plan works,” Jacqueline said.
“And quick,” augmented Calamity. “I hate that coloured water they serve the gals instead of whisky.”
During her tour of the seamier side of the city, Calamity had discovered that the street-girls, while expected to drink something as they sat in a saloon waiting for trade, did not consume real intoxicating liquor. Instead, if they so requested, the girls were served with coloured water masquerading as real drinks, but costing much less than the genuine article. That way a girl could appear to be drinking steadily, had an excuse to be in the place, and still stay sober enough to handle the financial side of the business. In return for the service, they were expected to persuade any customer to buy at least one round of drinks before taking him to their business premises.
The waiter returned, placing the glasses before the girls. Dropping his voice confidentially, he said, “If you ladies wants any introductions—.”
“We’ll keep it in mind,” Calamity answered.
Turning, the waiter walked away and the girls exchanged glances. Then Jacqueline stiffened slightly in her seat, staring at the door.
“Just coming in, Calam!” she whispered, although the new arrival could not possibly have heard her at that distance.
Calamity turned her head in a casual manner to look towards the door and at the man who just entered. For his dress, he appeared to be a seaman of some kind—ocean-going vessels used the New Orleans waterfront to discharge their cargoes—and he stood around five foot ten, a slim, wiry young man with a sallow complexion. For a moment he stood at the door, his eyes roaming around the room and studying the various customers at the tables. Finally his gaze came to rest on Calamity and he started to walk across the room.
Coming to her feet, a buxom brunette caught the man’s arm and she made the usual suggestion. With an almost angry gesture, he jerked his arm free and continued his way towards Calamity’s table. The brunette scowled, but her companion snapped out a reminder about the police’s no-trouble order, so she took her seat again.
On reaching Calamity’s table, for a moment he did not speak, his eyes on her face. Not by as much as a glance did he even show he knew of Jacqueline’s presence. There was something unnerving about his fixed gaze and blank expression.
“Hi,” Calamity greeted, looking up as if suddenly aware of the man’s presence. You look lonely.”
Calamity reckoned to be a better than fair poker player and capable of reading facial emotions. Never had she seen such a look of hatred as passed briefly over the seaman’s face, then was replaced by a smile which stopped long clear of his eyes.
“Reckon I could offer you a drink?” he replied.
“I thought you’d never ask. Pull up a chair and take the weight off your feet.”
Even as the slim man sat down, the coloured waiter came gliding over to the table and grinned knowingly at Calamity.
“Is you-all wanting wine for the ladies, sah?”
For a moment the sailor did not reply. Instead he sat staring at Calamity with a fixed, unwinking gaze. Jerking his eyes from the girl, the sailor looked at the waiter and answered, “Bring me a beer.”
“And the ladies, sah?”
“Go to hell, coon!” the sailor spat out.
“Take it easy, friend,” Calamity put in gently. “He’s only doing his job.”
“Who asked you—!” the sailor began.
“If that’s how you feel!“ Calamity interrupted. “I’m going.”
Shoving back her chair, she started to rise. The angry, hostile eyes followed her, then various emotions warred on the sailor’s face. At last he forced a smile to his lips again.
“I’m sorry, M—. I’m real sorry. Only the mate gave me a bad time afore I left the ship and I’ve been looking to take it out on somebody. Bring wine for the ladies, feller, and buy yourself something.”
Yet after the waiter left, the sailor dropped into a moody silence once more. He answered Calamity’s comments on the saloon and its crowd with grunts of silence.
“I reckon we’d best be going, Jackie,” Calamity remarked.
Once again the threat of departure brought a change to the man. “I’m sorry, Mavis,” he said. “I was thinking.”
“I like a thinking man,” Calamity replied. “Only the name’s not Mavis.”
The sailor jerked his eyes to Calamity’s face, scowling at her. Then a sly grin twisted his lips. “No, it wouldn’t be. Where’s that feller with the drinks?”
On his return, the waiter put the drinks on the table and in doing so bent so his mouth was close to Calamity’s ear. In a low tone, the waiter issued a warning.
“You-all watch that feller, he’s got meanness in him.”
“I’ll mind it,” Calamity replied.
While finishing his drink, the sailor managed to sound more friendly. He laughed at a joke Calamity made and she decided that she might as well get down to business. Finishing her drink, she looked at Jacqueline.
“Reckon we’d better be going,” she said, then glanced at the sailor. “Unless you’ve anything in mind.”
“How’d you like to take a walk?”
“I never walk with fellers I don’t know,” Calamity countered. “‘Course, if you told me your name, I’d know you.”
“Ben Cope.”
From the way the sailor spoke, he thought Calamity should know his name. It meant nothing to her and she smiled.
“Hi, Ben. I’m Jane. Let’s take our walk now I know you.”
“I’ve got something to do myself,” Jacqueline put in. “See you around, Ben.”
Cope did not reply, his cold eyes never left Calamity’s face as he rose and took her offered arm. Together they left the saloon and Jacqueline looked around for her escort, wanting to tell them that Calamity had a possible taker.
Outside the saloon, Calamity and Cope turned down Latour Street. Cope said little as they walked, but at last they reached the edge of City Park.
“Let’s go in here.” he said.
“I’d rather go back for a drink,” she answered.
Gripping Calamity’s arm tighter, Cope growled, “We’re going in there, and if you make a squeak, I’ll bust your arm.”
From the strength in the slim man’s fingers, Calamity decided he could make good his threat. So she allowed herself to be steered into the Park and hoped that St. Andre’s men were on hand to come to her rescue.