already. You know Miss Crozat?”
“By reputation,” said January. “I met her once or twice when she was little, but her mama kept her pretty close. She was only seven when I left for Paris in 1817, and she wasn't a student of mine. I taught piano back then, too,” he explained. “I expect I'd have met her sooner or later, now I'm back. Her mother and mine are friends.”
“But your sister says you say you talked to her tonight.”
January nodded. “I'd been charged by a friend to arrange a meeting with her at my mother's house, tomorrow afternoon . . . this afternoon. I haven't had time to talk to my mother about it yet. I've lived with my mother since I came back from Paris in November. It's on Rue Burgundy.”
Shaw made a note. “Any idea what the meetin' was about? And could I get the name of your friend?”
“I have no idea about the meeting. If it's all the same to you . . . sir,” he remembered to add, “. . . I'd rather keep my friend's name out of this. The message was given in confidence.”
It was his experience that white men frequently expected blacks or colored to do things as a matter of course that would have been a dueling matter for a white, but Shaw only nodded. The rain-colored eyes, lazy and set very deep, rested thoughtfully on him for a time, shadowed in the rusty glare that fell through the fanlight, as Madame Trepagier's had been shadowed. “Fair enough for now. I might have to ask you again later, if'n it looks like it has some bearin' on who took the girl's life. Tell me about your talk with her.”
“It wasn't much of a talk,” said January slowly, sifting, picking through his recollections, trying to excise everything that would indicate that the one who sent the message was white, Creole, a woman, a widow . . . connected to Angelique . . . present in the building ...
With his dirty, dead-leaf hair and lantern-jawed face, Abishag Shaw gave the impression of an upriver hayseed recendy escaped from a plow tail, but in those sleepy gray eyes January could glimpse a woodsman's cold intelligence. This man was an American and held power, for all his ungrammatical filthiness. As Froissart had said, there was a world of matters the Americans did not understand, and chief among them the worlds of difference that separated colored society from the African blacks.
“She refused to meet with my friend. She said she'd received notes before from . . . my friend, that she had nothing to say to ... them.” He changed the last word quickly from her, but had the strong suspicion that Shaw guessed anyway. “She said her father was an important man, and that my friend had best not try any . . . little tricks.”
“What kind o' little tricks?” asked Shaw mildly. “You mean like brick dust on the back step? Or accusin' her of being uppity an' gettin' her thrashed at the jail-house?”
“One or the other,” said January, wondering if he'd let the answer go at that.
Shaw nodded again. “She say anythin' to you? About you?”
Genuinely startled, January said, “No. Not that I remember.”
“Insult you? Make you mad? Phlosine' . . .” He checked a note. “Gal named Phlosine Seurat says she heard the door slam.”
“It was Galen Peralta who slammed the door,” said January. “He came in—”
“Galen Peralta? Xavier Peralta's boy? One she had the tiff with earlier?” Shaw sat up and took his boots off the desk, and spat in the general direction of the office sandbox.
January regarded him with reciprocal surprise. “Didn't anyone else tell you?”
The policeman shook his head. “When was this? Last anybody saw of the boy was when he tore that fairy wing o' hers in the lobby, an' she went flouncin' off into that little parlor in a snit. Last anybody saw o' her, for that matter. This Seurat gal—an' the two or three others who was up in the upstairs lobby—say the boy stormed off down the stairs, and somebody says they seen him in the court, but they don't remember if that
“By reputation,” said January. “I met her once or twice when she was little, but her mama kept her pretty close. She was only seven when I left for Paris in 1817, and she wasn't a student of mine. I taught piano back then, too,” he explained. “I expect I'd have met her sooner or later, now I'm back. Her mother and mine are friends.”
“But your sister says you say you talked to her tonight.”
January nodded. “I'd been charged by a friend to arrange a meeting with her at my mother's house, tomorrow afternoon . . . this afternoon. I haven't had time to talk to my mother about it yet. I've lived with my mother since I came back from Paris in November. It's on Rue Burgundy.”
Shaw made a note. “Any idea what the meetin' was about? And could I get the name of your friend?”
“I have no idea about the meeting. If it's all the same to you . . . sir,” he remembered to add, “. . . I'd rather keep my friend's name out of this. The message was given in confidence.”
It was his experience that white men frequently expected blacks or colored to do things as a matter of course that would have been a dueling matter for a white, but Shaw only nodded. The rain-colored eyes, lazy and set very deep, rested thoughtfully on him for a time, shadowed in the rusty glare that fell through the fanlight, as Madame Trepagier's had been shadowed. “Fair enough for now. I might have to ask you again later, if'n it looks like it has some bearin' on who took the girl's life. Tell me about your talk with her.”
“It wasn't much of a talk,” said January slowly, sifting, picking through his recollections, trying to excise everything that would indicate that the one who sent the message was white, Creole, a woman, a widow . . . connected to Angelique . . . present in the building ...
With his dirty, dead-leaf hair and lantern-jawed face, Abishag Shaw gave the impression of an upriver hayseed recendy escaped from a plow tail, but in those sleepy gray eyes January could glimpse a woodsman's cold intelligence. This man was an American and held power, for all his ungrammatical filthiness. As Froissart had said, there was a world of matters the Americans did not understand, and chief among them the worlds of difference that separated colored society from the African blacks.
“She refused to meet with my friend. She said she'd received notes before from . . . my friend, that she had nothing to say to ... them.” He changed the last word quickly from her, but had the strong suspicion that Shaw guessed anyway. “She said her father was an important man, and that my friend had best not try any . . . little tricks.”
“What kind o' little tricks?” asked Shaw mildly. “You mean like brick dust on the back step? Or accusin' her of being uppity an' gettin' her thrashed at the jail-house?”
“One or the other,” said January, wondering if he'd let the answer go at that.
Shaw nodded again. “She say anythin' to you? About you?”
Genuinely startled, January said, “No. Not that I remember.”
“Insult you? Make you mad? Phlosine' . . .” He checked a note. “Gal named Phlosine Seurat says she heard the door slam.”
“It was Galen Peralta who slammed the door,” said January. “He came in—”
“Galen Peralta? Xavier Peralta's boy? One she had the tiff with earlier?” Shaw sat up and took his boots off the desk, and spat in the general direction of the office sandbox.
January regarded him with reciprocal surprise. “Didn't anyone else tell you?”
The policeman shook his head. “When was this? Last anybody saw of the boy was when he tore that fairy wing o' hers in the lobby, an' she went flouncin' off into that little parlor in a snit. Last anybody saw o' her, for that matter. This Seurat gal—an' the two or three others who was up in the upstairs lobby—say the boy stormed off down the stairs, and somebody says they seen him in the court, but they don't remember if that
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