Mignon, Page 2

  “Well—he’s well known. He’s held.”

  “Yes, but where?”

  “Right here.”

  “In this headquarters?”

  “Detention room down in the Annex.”

  “What’s he charged with?”

  “He’s not charged, as yet—just held for investigation. I can tell you one thing, though: that lad is in trouble. He’s been playing it sharp all winter, and now he’s cut himself.”

  “In what way, sharp?”

  “Working the godpappy sell.”

  “And what is the godpappy sell?”

  “New one they figured out under this law that’s just been passed, Confiscation Act of 1863, as amended. Reb, like we’ll say Landry, buys cotton for peanuts out there in Secessia, loads it on a barge, and starts it down the bayou in the general direction of New Orleans. So lo and behold, we capture it as soon as it enters our lines. So we ship it here for storage, then go to court to condemn it, proceeds to apply to the cost of the war. But then, how did you guess it, who pops up but a Union trader, waving a paper around, a godpappy paper known as a bill of sale, a deed from his friend the Reb, conveying the paper to him? And that paper is good. The court must allow the claim—he’s a loyal Union man, and loyal men make loyal cotton. So he gets the award, which includes free transportation here to market, as of course we can’t book him for moving stock in our custody. So he and his Reb friend split—and that’s the sell Landry’s been working with a highbinder partner he has, a naturalized Irishman named Frank Burke.”

  “But the way you tell it, it’s legal.”

  “Bill, it is, but he overreached himself. He began using the money he made to ship supplies upriver—to Taylor, the Reb commander.”

  “Ouch, that’s not so good.”

  “He’s playing a deep game, that’s all.”

  “How deep, Dan?”

  “He’s squaring things up, we think, with the Rebs for the money he hopes to make on this Red River thing next month.”

  I’d never heard of the Red River thing, and Dan was quite shifty about it. But I managed to open him up, and he began whispering about “a campaign about to start to Western Louisiana—kind of an annual event. We had one last year, so now we do it again. Only this time we’re after the cotton in storage out there—even Washington’s stooping so low as to use the godpappy sell. They don’t send us an order, but the word’s been passed just the same; we’re to take the traders along on our headquarters boat when we go, and nature will see to the rest. They’ll buy off the Rebs, taking their godpappy deed; we’ll transport the stock down here, the court will say hocus-pocus, and everybody’ll be happy—especially the Northern mills, which’ll get stock to run on, and even including the Rebs, who’ll be paid some traders’ tin and be won back to their allegiance, as we’re told.” He got up, peered out in the hall, closed the door, came back, and leaned close. “Bill,” he whispered, very solemn, “you can win a war or lose it—with honor. You know what it’s called when you try to buy it?”

  “I bite,” I said. “No.”

  “Treason. That cotton’s already hooded.”

  But he called it who did. I asked: “Hoodooed?”

  “That’s what I said. It’s hexed.”

  I almost wanted to laugh, but he was dead serious. “That cotton means nothing but trouble, as this whole damned headquarters knows—it’s what makes this place so jumpy. It’s what’s thrown Landry—he’s getting the side-wash already.”

  “He holds Red River cotton, Dan?”

  “Hundreds of bales, at least so we hear.”

  “What supplies did he ship, by the way?”

  “That I’m not free to say.”

  “Dan! I thought we were friends!”

  “I hope so, Bill; at the same time, there’s a limit. Frank Burke, the partner, the Irishman I mentioned just now—he was in, and I couldn’t even tell him. If I had to turn him down, I can’t justify telling you. Until authorized counsel shows up, we can’t open that file to anyone.”

  “I am authorized counsel.”

  “You being funny, Bill, or what?”

  I had heard my mouth say it, and was just as amazed as he was to hear myself stand by my bluff. “I’m not being funny,” I said. “I’m his authorized counsel. What do you think I’m doing here?”

  “You’re not even a lawyer.”

  “He has a lawyer, but in a town under martial law, the family wants military counsel. I’m a discharged officer, I’ve sat on three or four courts, and I’m qualified to serve.”

  “He hasn’t got any family—except for that daughter, the one that’s been running around with Burke.”

  “Mrs. Fournet hired me on.”

  “Bill, quit playing games. You—”

  “Games? Goddam it, you’re the one—”

  But even before I could finish, he cut me off with a wipe of his hand, jumped up, opened the door a crack, listened, and closed it again. “What do you mean,” he whispered, “bellering like that, with those newspapermen in the hall? Do you want this thing advertised to the world?” Later on, when I remembered it, that scared look on his face was important, but right now I was bent on one thing and gave no thought to anything else. “All right,” I said, “we keep it nice and quiet. But I have to see that file.”

  “It’s in the Judge Advocate’s office.”

  He slipped out, and in a minute was back with one of those stiff red envelopes tied up with tape. He undid it and took out papers, pushing them all at me, to give me a fair chance to read, but at the same time trying to help me. “Go through it,” he said, “if you want to, but it doesn’t mean anything—just a pile of rub-a-dub-dub, the covering blabber we write when papers move from one desk to the other. But here’s the works, what he’s up against, the anonymous note that came in by mail, in this envelope that’s pinned on. The facts are being checked with the leads this thing has given us, so we’re keeping our fingers crossed till we know what’s what. Landry’s mistake was he needed too much help—too many people knew. One of them turned informer—as bad a hex as there is.”

  He passed over the note, written on cheap tablet paper with a soft pencil:

  FEBY 5, 1864

  COMMANDING GENL SIR:

  MR ADOLPHE LANDRY ESQU BEN SHIPING SHOES TO TALORS REB ARMY HE SHIP BY BOAT TO MORGANZA YOU DON BLEE ME GENL SIR ASK EMIL BOSWAY CLERK IN MIFFLINS JOBERS GENL RITE YOU MORE SOON AS I KNOW

  LORL PATROT

  That was a blow, and I decided to take myself off as soon as I checked on whether she’d be allowed to see her father. But before I could ask about it, a commotion came in the hall, and Dan had to duck out to attend the General while the General talked to the press and then ride with him to his house on Coliseum Square. I stuck around, but had to wait the better part of an hour. However, when he got back we resumed where we’d left off. He took a package from a shelf, a thing that looked like a Mardi Gras costume tied up in tissue paper, and walked downstairs with me to find out how things stood. He went back through the hall, up a little stairs to the Annex, and on to a door that he touched with his fingertips. You don’t pound on a guardroom door on account of the men sleeping inside, and when the corporal appeared Dan whispered. Then he rejoined me, saying: “There’s no special order against it, so visitors are all right until call to quarters at nine forty-five. So what the hell? Burke saw him, and if he could she can. Incidentally, Bill, if he’s such a friend of Landry’s, why didn’t he tell her where her father is held?”

  “I was wondering about it myself.”

  The orderlies had stabled Dan’s horse, so we stepped out on foot in the rain and walked on down to St. Charles. There a funny thing happened. St. Charles, the heart of the theatrical district, was where the doings were lively and we fought our way along, through a wet mob of revelers, dancing and whooping and singing, to the light of red fire in the street. And pretty soon here came a witch, riding a broomstick she flogged with a whip. “Your Red River hex,” I said, turning t
o him.

  He wasn’t there.

  Later on, he swore he’d told me good night when he came to his rooming house and gone in to put on his costume. But I hadn’t heard anything, and after what had been said, it gave me a peculiar feeling.

  Chapter 3

  LAVADEAU’S HAD TWO WINDOWS in front, one with a wax admiral in it, the other a wax general, both very dignified, but inside it was a madhouse, with pirates, kings, queens, Indians, Turks, jugglers, and harem girls pushing each other around, fighting for space at the mirrors and screaming to be fitted. I got bumped, but managed to hold my feet while I looked around for the girl I’d last seen in a draggled dress with a ruffle. When a vision came skipping at me, a Columbine in black, with gauze skirt, silk tights, and laced velvet bodice, a red rose in her hair, red shoes on her feet, and red mask in one hand, I didn’t even know her. It wasn’t until she grabbed me and asked what I’d found out that I realized who she was, and even then she looked strange, her cheeks rouged and her eyes touched up with some kind of blue. But when I told her I’d found her father and could take her to him, they opened wide and were suddenly the eyes I knew. She darted to Lavadeau, jabbering at him in French, and though he was entirely surrounded, his mouth full of pins, he nodded and she ducked to the rear. Then she was back again, a red domino on, her umbrella in one hand, her cape in the other. Outside, Captain John Smith and Pocahontas were just climbing out of a cab. I grabbed it, loading her in. She snuggled close, saying “I knew you’d find him.” She was so excited I reserved my detailed report, contenting myself with kisses.

  At headquarters, the driver of course wanted his money, and while I was paying him off the sentry called the corporal, who took us inside at once and on back, up the little stairs to the Annex, where he knocked on a door. When it opened, he left us, saying: “Call to quarters is at nine forty-five.” We went into a whitewashed room, a cold little cubicle with cot, chair, table, candle, and one barred window. Holding the door was Mr. Landry, who seemed surprised to see us, but took Mignon in his arms and began whispering to her in French. He was a stocky, heavy-set man of medium height, fifty or so, with pouter-pigeon chest, robin-redbreast throat, and round, thick neck, all signifying tremendous physical strength. He had black eyes like hers, a gray tuft on his chin and curled gray mustaches, with a handsome cut to his jib that showed where her looks came from. He wore gray pants, skirted coat, and plaid vest, all very dignified, as well as an overcoat and a scarf over his head. He shook hands when she introduced me and gave me his only chair, sitting with her in the cot. They resumed whispering in French, he looking drawn, she lovely in the candlelight as she patted his cheek and the domino kept falling open to show her beautiful legs. Once or twice I caught the name Burke, or Boorke as they called it in French.

  Then suddenly he turned to me, saying: “Mr. Cresap, I truly express my thanks for the help you’ve given my daughter, but feel I owe you an explanation. I’m held without charge in this place, as martial law permits, and assume I’m the victim of some kind of mix-up. I’m engaged in the cotton trade, which is legal and therefore open to me, but at the same time is disapproved in certain respects by the occupation authorities, which causes them to encourage with one hand and persecute with the other—a not unfamiliar inconsistency in official conduct. I assumed, therefore, that I’d be shortly released. That’s why I asked my partner, Mr. Frank Burke—of whom you may have heard—not to alarm my daughter or spoil her Mardi Gras by informing her what happened. That’s why she felt she must go to you.”

  “My pleasure in any event,” I told him.

  “And I was wrong, thank God,” she said, staring at me, “suspicioning people for stabbing him in the back.”

  “Must be a relief to know that.”

  He went on some more about cotton, but time was going on, and I felt I had to make sure he had things straight. “Mr. Landry,” I interrupted, “this has nothing to do with cotton. You’re held for shipping shoes to Taylor.”

  “... For what did you say, Mr. Cresap?”

  “Shipping shoes—some informer has sent in a note, an unsigned note by mail, saying you sent them by boat, to Morganza I believe was the place, for the use of Taylor’s Army.”

  “But that’s ridiculous!”

  “I’m telling you what’s in the note.” His face, which had been handsomely solemn, went slack with consternation, and he said: “I did ship shoes upriver—I made a little in cotton, and felt I had to share, with men less fortunate than I was, Confederate boys, the ones paroled from Port Hudson, who reached home with not even rags on their feet. I sent them as Christmas presents, care of a friend, a Morganza storekeeper, and asked him to distribute for me. I’ve had no dealings with Taylor.”

  “He may have captured them, though.”

  “In that case, I couldn’t have stopped it.”

  I felt he was telling the truth, but I also felt there was something about these shoes, not mentioned as yet, that completely took his nerve. And when Mignon started whispering again and I heard “Who else could have known all that?” I had a hunch what it was. He nudged her, and she switched at once to French, but I heard Boorke once more, this time pretty bitter, and deduced there had been a stab in the back, which of course could be pretty serious. Because shipping shoes was the kind of thing which might be (as he said) wholly innocent, but which, painted up by someone on the inside, could be made to look like a crime as black as the worst ever seen. However, he obviously wasn’t discussing it, so I told myself shut up, as it was strictly none of my business. But that reminded me of myself, the peculiar status I had, which I hadn’t even brought up, and I thought best to get it out in the open. I said: “Mr. Landry, there’s something I ought to tell you. I’ve been acting so far as your counsel.” I then told of the argument with Dan, and wound up: “Strictly speaking, I was telling the truth, as Mrs. Fournet had engaged me, which as next of kin she could do. And of course, I’m willing to continue doing whatever I can. But if I’m to act in an official capacity, I must have your direct authorization.”

  “Mr. Cresap, on that give me a moment.”

  “But Captain Dorsey’s my only reference.”

  “Except one,” Mignon chirped, very bright. “Me!” And then, to her father: “You don’t need any moment! He’s wonderful—look what he’s done already! And he’s not any carpetbag spellbinder!”

  “I’ve now taken my moment.”

  He held out his hand and ground my knuckles to ball bearings. “Mr. Cresap,” he said, “I’m a man of a hundred friends, right here in New Orleans—not one of whom could I trust. So it is when cotton is made semi-legal, and it begins coming between. And now you, whom I never saw till a half-hour ago, with my daughter, are my only reliance. I may say I count myself fortunate.”

  It was very moving, so much so that I thought I owed him to say: “There’s just one thing: You’d better know this is partly a matter of principle, of seeing justice done, of clearing a man falsely accused—I hope I’m not indifferent to that. But it’s also a matter of pleasing your daughter.”

  “That I had already guessed.”

  “I don’t mind saying she takes my eye.”

  “Sir, I find her an eyeful myself.”

  “My intentions, Mr. Landry, are serious.”

  “This does not displease me.”

  She said: “Doesn’t his hair look like taffy?”

  “Daughter, to me it looks like hair.”

  He said it rather stiffly, winding that subject up. I said, after a moment: “There’s one other thing, too. Whoever this informer may be, if I’m to pin it on him, prove this thing he’s done, he must not have a suspicion that I’m on his trail. Is that understood?”

  “It better be,” he said. “Daughter?”

  “I’d like to murder him,” she answered.

  “You’d wind up by murdering me.”

  “It’s understood, of course.”

  On the way back we had to walk, I bundling her into her cape and wrapping my o
ilskin around her, she holding her umbrella over me. She took me by way of Carondelet, to avoid the hullabaloo, and pretty soon pulled me into a doorway out of the wet, to talk. She whispered: “You caught on, Willie, of course? He suspicions Frank Burke.”

  “Are you sleeping with him?”

  “Am I——? Willie, how can you ask that?”

  “I can ask it. I did ask it. Are you?”

  “Of course not!”

  “You’ve been running around with him, though?”

  “I’ve gone out with him. Is that so terrible?”

  “If for inveiglement, yes.”

  “Willie, when my father blew in last fall, with a whole lot of warehouse receipts covering cotton in Alexandria that had been signed over to him by people he’d helped in this war, he had a trunkload of worthless paper, as he thought—and as those people up there, who’d been living off him so long, thought but they wanted to give him something in return, to keep their self-respect. But I knew about this invasion next month that would turn his worthless paper to gold, if only we could find someone, a Union man, to act for us in court—to be our godpappy, as it’s called. And Frank Burke had just got in from Mexico, where he’d been trading in Texas cotton. He was the biggest thing in sight, and knew the business too. So I worked things around to meet him. I got myself introduced. In the St. Charles Theatre lobby.”

  “And inveigled him?”

  “I invited him home to meet my father!”

  “But you started going with him?”

  “Willie, Frank Burke goes through the motions—he kisses my hand, he sends me flowers, he passes oily compliments. But what he wants is the money.”

  “Then why would he turn on a partner?”

  “My father figured that out, while you were there—it’s what he was telling me in French. Willie, there’s martial law in New Orleans, and do you know how they do in a case like this?”

  “In Maryland, they’d confiscate.”

  “Yes, and here, to get confiscated, first you must plead.”

  “I don’t follow you, Mignon.”