A Free Man of Color - Barbara Hambly [26]
“She was strangled with a cloth or a scarf, like a Spanish garrote. A woman could have done it as easily as a man. She was wearing a necklace of pearls and emeralds earlier—see where the pressure drove the fixings into her skin?” His light fingers brushed the ring of tiny cuts. “They took it off her afterward. So it’s a thief.… Which means they might strike here again.”
“Again!” gasped Froissart in horror.
January nodded, remaining on his knees in spite of an overwhelming desire to thrust the nattering fool aside and fetch Romulus Valle. Romulus could organize an unobtrusive cordon around both the ballroom and the Théâtre while he himself could have enough time alone to examine the body and see if Angelique had been raped as well as robbed.
But such a cordon—such an examination—would never be permitted.
“Of course none of the gentlemen in the ballroom would have done this—why would they have needed to steal? But one of them may have seen something. And there’s nothing says they have to take off their masks or give their right names when the police ask them questions.”
And if you believe that, he thought, watching the groping quest for guidance in the manager’s eyes, I have the crown jewels of France right here in my pocket, and I’ll let you have them cheap at two thousand dollars American.…
“But … But how will it look?” stammered Froissart. “I depend on the goodwill of the ladies and gentlemen.… Of course, there must be a discreet investigation of some sort, conducted quietly, but can it not wait until morning?” He dug in his waistcoat pocket, took January’s hand, and slapped four gold ten-dollar pieces into his palm. “Here, my boy. I’ll send for Romulus, and the two of you can get her to one of the attics. Romulus can have the room tidied up in no time, and there’ll be another four of these if you hold your tongue.”
He started to rise, looking around him—possibly for Dominique—and January touched his arm, drawing his attention again. “You know, sir,” he said gravely, “I think you may be right about a private investigation. Myself, I wouldn’t trust the police now that they have so many … Well, maybe I shouldn’t say it about white men, sir, but I think you know, and I know, that some of these Kentuckians and riffraff they have coming down the river nowadays … And putting them on the police force, too!”
“Exactly!” cried Froissart, with a jab of his stubby, bejeweled finger. January saw all recollection of Dominique’s presence in the room evaporate from Froissart’s face and felt a mild astonishment that he’d remembered, out of all his mother’s crazy quilt of gossip, that Froissart had been furious with chagrin over the construction by Americans of the new St. Louis Hotel Ballroom on Baronne Street.
But as if January had rubbed a magic talisman he’d found in the street, Froissart launched into an extended recital of the insults and indignities he had suffered, not only at the hands of the Americans on the police force but of the Kentucky riverboat men, American traders, upstart planters and every newcomer who had flooded into New Orleans since Napoleon’s perfidious betrayal of the city into United States hands.
During the recital January continued to kneel beside Angelique’s body, touching it as little as possible—she was, after all, a white man’s woman—but observing what he could.
Lace crushed and broken at the back of her collar, knotted with the gaudy tangle of real and artificial chevelure. In the dim light of the candles it was hard to tell, but he didn’t think there were threads caught in it, though there might be some in her dark hair. Fluffs of swansdown from her torn sleeve were scattered across the gorgeous Turkey carpet, thickest just to the left of the low chair. A cluster of work candles stood