everything. Ten Penny was their man, and his guilt or innocence was not germane. He might well hang for a crime that he probably didn't commit.
"I'd like to talk to him, anyway," the detective said.
Picot fumed, glared. "I guess I can't say no, can I? You got a note here from O'Connor." He waved the page in the air, making a snapping sound. "How the hell did you manage that?"
"It was Mr. Anderson's doing."
Picot rolled his olive-brown eyes. "Well, he's the boss, isn't he? Even the damned chief of police dances to his tune." He shoved the letter in the direction of the jailer, a splotch-faced old bull. "Make sure you go in there with him," Picot said, then lowered his voice to mutter something else that Valentin couldn't hear. He didn't look at the Creole detective as he stalked off.
Valentin soon discovered what the lieutenant had told the jailer, because he found himself waiting around for no reason for the better part of an hour. From down the corridor, he heard the occasional rude shout or low groan, and he smelled urine, shit, sour sweat, and the general rot of the damp and filthy place. It reminded him of the coarse air around the cages at the zoo. The only difference was that the animals received better care.
At 1:30 the jailer stood up, hefted his ring of keys, jerked his head, and said, "Come along, then."
Valentin followed him down the corridor. From each of the first six cells, eyes glared out at him. The seventh cell was empty. The eighth held six prisoners, and among them was a short, thin, copper-skinned Negro who sat in the corner with his knees folded before him and his bony arms dangling.
The jailer put the key in the lock and threw the door open with a crack that echoed down the corridor. The half-dozen hopeful faces looked up. The jailer barked, "Lee!" and the fellow who was on the floor got to his feet as the faces of his cell mates went dull again.
The jailer pushed Ten Penny with a rough hand, herding him outside and then into the empty cell next door. He glanced at Valentin. "Go on," he said, and when the detective went in, parked himself in the doorframe and crossed his arms.
Valentin waved the prisoner to one end of the lone steel bunk while he took the other end. He spent a moment studying Ten Penny. Close-up the Negro had a small, feral face, with a hooked nose and close-set eyes. His crooked mouth was missing half its teeth, and the ones that were left were brown with rot. Even though he had gone through the prison's shower and delousing, there was a rank smell coming off him, as if the stench of the streets had settled too deeply into his pores for such curatives to reach. His black eyes flicked like skittering marbles from the Creole detective to the jailer. He put on a street rat's cloying smirk, already trying to figure if his visitor could get him out of the mess.
The detective spoke in a low voice. "My name's St. Cyr. I want to talk to you about what happened Sunday night. Or Monday morning. With that fellow on the street. The one they say you murdered."
"I didn't!" Ten Penny's voice was high and grating. "I didn't kill nobody!"
"Then tell me what happened over there."
The Negro glanced at the jailer, who let out a grunt, then looked away.
"Go ahead," Valentin said.
"I had me a little money and I was lookin' to get some, and I was in there with that crib whore," Ten Penny whispered, and then came up with a grotesque grin. "You know what I'm talkin' about? Anyways, we was just done and I heard this damn shot go off. I runned over and look out the window. I saw that fellow a-lying out there."
"Did you see anyone else?"
"Maybe so." Ten Penny's eyes shifted. "They was still smoke off a pistol in the air. And then I mighta saw somebody in one of them long coats. Walkin' away. Backwards kinda."
"Toward Fourth Street?"
"Thas right. To Fourth Street."
"Did you see this person's face?"
"Naw ... it was too dark for that."
"All right, then what?"
"I waited for a minute. Then I
"I'd like to talk to him, anyway," the detective said.
Picot fumed, glared. "I guess I can't say no, can I? You got a note here from O'Connor." He waved the page in the air, making a snapping sound. "How the hell did you manage that?"
"It was Mr. Anderson's doing."
Picot rolled his olive-brown eyes. "Well, he's the boss, isn't he? Even the damned chief of police dances to his tune." He shoved the letter in the direction of the jailer, a splotch-faced old bull. "Make sure you go in there with him," Picot said, then lowered his voice to mutter something else that Valentin couldn't hear. He didn't look at the Creole detective as he stalked off.
Valentin soon discovered what the lieutenant had told the jailer, because he found himself waiting around for no reason for the better part of an hour. From down the corridor, he heard the occasional rude shout or low groan, and he smelled urine, shit, sour sweat, and the general rot of the damp and filthy place. It reminded him of the coarse air around the cages at the zoo. The only difference was that the animals received better care.
At 1:30 the jailer stood up, hefted his ring of keys, jerked his head, and said, "Come along, then."
Valentin followed him down the corridor. From each of the first six cells, eyes glared out at him. The seventh cell was empty. The eighth held six prisoners, and among them was a short, thin, copper-skinned Negro who sat in the corner with his knees folded before him and his bony arms dangling.
The jailer put the key in the lock and threw the door open with a crack that echoed down the corridor. The half-dozen hopeful faces looked up. The jailer barked, "Lee!" and the fellow who was on the floor got to his feet as the faces of his cell mates went dull again.
The jailer pushed Ten Penny with a rough hand, herding him outside and then into the empty cell next door. He glanced at Valentin. "Go on," he said, and when the detective went in, parked himself in the doorframe and crossed his arms.
Valentin waved the prisoner to one end of the lone steel bunk while he took the other end. He spent a moment studying Ten Penny. Close-up the Negro had a small, feral face, with a hooked nose and close-set eyes. His crooked mouth was missing half its teeth, and the ones that were left were brown with rot. Even though he had gone through the prison's shower and delousing, there was a rank smell coming off him, as if the stench of the streets had settled too deeply into his pores for such curatives to reach. His black eyes flicked like skittering marbles from the Creole detective to the jailer. He put on a street rat's cloying smirk, already trying to figure if his visitor could get him out of the mess.
The detective spoke in a low voice. "My name's St. Cyr. I want to talk to you about what happened Sunday night. Or Monday morning. With that fellow on the street. The one they say you murdered."
"I didn't!" Ten Penny's voice was high and grating. "I didn't kill nobody!"
"Then tell me what happened over there."
The Negro glanced at the jailer, who let out a grunt, then looked away.
"Go ahead," Valentin said.
"I had me a little money and I was lookin' to get some, and I was in there with that crib whore," Ten Penny whispered, and then came up with a grotesque grin. "You know what I'm talkin' about? Anyways, we was just done and I heard this damn shot go off. I runned over and look out the window. I saw that fellow a-lying out there."
"Did you see anyone else?"
"Maybe so." Ten Penny's eyes shifted. "They was still smoke off a pistol in the air. And then I mighta saw somebody in one of them long coats. Walkin' away. Backwards kinda."
"Toward Fourth Street?"
"Thas right. To Fourth Street."
"Did you see this person's face?"
"Naw ... it was too dark for that."
"All right, then what?"
"I waited for a minute. Then I
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