CHAPTER 22
It took a rare woman to look as good at breakfast as she had the previous evening, but Simone LeCarde certainly fit that description, Preacher thought as Balthazar Crowe ushered him into the sitting room on the second floor of the Catamount’s Den.
Simone wore her hair down this morning, curving in two soft, raven-dark wings around her lovely face. A cloth belt cinched the dressing gown she wore tightly around her waist, but the gown hung open enough at the top to reveal the upper part of the intriguing valley between her breasts.
She spread some marmalade on a beignet, took a delicate bite, then set the pastry down on a saucer and picked up the cup of coffee beside it. After taking a sip, she said, “Please, Preacher, sit down and join me.”
“Don’t mind if I do,” the mountain man said. “I don’t want to seem ungrateful for the invitation, but do you have anything to eat besides them fancy little things? Like maybe a steak?”
Simone laughed softly. “I think that can be arranged.” She looked at Crowe. “You’ll see to it?”
“Of course, mam’selle,” he replied with a slight bow.
“Oh, and maybe some black coffee,” Preacher added as Crowe started past the table to leave the room.
“You don’t care for café au lait?” Simone asked with a smile.
Preacher grinned back across the table at her. “I like my coffee strong enough to get up and walk around on its own hind legs.”
That brought another laugh from Simone. She said to Crowe, “See to that, too, Balthazar.”
Crowe nodded a little curtly and left the room.
“That fella don’t like me much,” Preacher commented when Crowe was gone.
“Balthazar is very protective of me. He and Long Sam promised my father that they would look after me and make certain no harm ever overtook me.”
“How are they succeedin’ so far?”
“Quite well, don’t you think? You can see the results for yourself.”
“That’s true,” Preacher said, nodding slowly. “You appear to be doin’ just fine.”
Simone moved the tray of beignets closer to him. “Are you sure you don’t want to try one?”
“Too sweet for me,” Preacher replied as he shook his head.
“I imagine where you spend most of your time, there are very few sweets.”
“That’s true. In the mountains, most of what a fella eats is pretty simple fare. You might come across some sweet berries now and then, but most of’em are pretty tart.”
“Like life itself,” Simone suggested.
Preacher shrugged.
She ate the rest of the pastry on the saucer in front of her, then said, “I suppose you’re wondering just what it is I want you to do for me.”
“The thought crossed my mind.”
“I have a warehouse where goods are stored,” Simone said.
Stolen goods, more than likely, Preacher thought, but he kept that to himself.
“I believe the man in charge of that warehouse has been cheating me,” she went on. “A shipment of goods will be leaving there today, to be loaded on a riverboat and sent north to St. Louis. I have a list of those goods, prepared for me by Francis Bennington. I’d like for you to go down there and keep track of everything that’s loaded on the wagons at the warehouse and transported to the docks.”
“Seems to me like Crowe or the little fella could handle that job just as well for you.”
Simone shook her head. “Everyone in New Orleans knows that Balthazar and Long Sam work for me. But by being discreet about your visit to me last night, we’ve made it possible for you to represent my interests without anyone knowing about it.”
“You fixed it so’s I can spy for you, is what you mean.”
She inclined her head slightly to acknowledge his statement. “If you want to call it that. I’ll tell you how to find the warehouse, and you can locate a good spot to keep an eye on it. You won’t be able to tell what’s in the crates being carried out, but you can keep track of how many there are. We’ll start with that.”
It sounded like busywork to Preacher, and he suspected she was just testing him, seeing if he could follow orders. He didn’t care for that. Even worse, he didn’t see how this job would put him a bit closer to finding Edmund Cornelius and Lucy Tarleton.
If he refused to go along with what she wanted, though, he might lose the ground he had gained. So he nodded and said, “I reckon I can do that. Anything in particular I need to watch out for?”
“No, just count the crates as they’re being loaded, that’s all.”
Balthazar Crowe’s entry with a platter containing a thick, juicy-looking steak and a pile of fried potatoes allowed Preacher not to say anything else at the moment. Crowe also carried a cup and saucer with tendrils of steam curling upward from the cup. His massive hands cradled the fine china with surprising deftness. As he set the meal in front of the mountain man, he said, “I wasn’t sure how you preferred your steak, but I thought rare was quite likely. If you’d like, I can take it back down and have it cooked more.”
“It don’t look like it’s wigglin’ around on the plate, so I reckon it’ll be fine. I’m obliged to you.”
Crowe just grunted and stepped back from the table.
The food was good, the coffee just the way Preacher liked it. When he was finished, Simone handed him a sheet of foolscap on which someone had used pen and ink to inscribe a long list of goods.
“Can you read?” she asked him.
“Fair to middlin’.” The question didn’t offend him, since many of his fellow trappers—indeed, a significant percentage of the population at large—couldn’t make heads or tails out of letters scrawled on paper. However, many of the men who headed west to the mountains were actually well-educated and highly literate, including Preacher’s friend Audie.
“This is an inventory of the cargo going out today. As you can see”—Simone pointed to a figure at the bottom of the paper—“there should be fifty-eight crates taken from the warehouse, loaded on wagons, and taken to the docks to be loaded on the riverboat Powhatan.”
“Powhatan, eh?”
“Yes. I hope the boat’s captain was able to hire some men this morning, or else he’ll be shorthanded on the trip back up the Mississippi.”
“Is that so?” Preacher said.
“I have . . . sources, shall we say . . . in the local constabulary, and they inform me that Adolph Shugart and three of his friends who were also members of the Powhatan’s crew were killed last night not far from here. Their bodies were found at the blacksmith shop and livery stable where you had planned to spend the night.”
“Good thing I got outta there before all the trouble broke out, then,” Preacher said.
“Yes, very fortunate indeed,” Simone said with a wry smile that told Preacher she had figured out what had occurred at Dufresne’s place.
“What do you reckon happened to them?”
“The authorities thought at first it was likely they’d tried to break in and rob the place, perhaps steal the horses stabled there, and the owner, one Jean Paul Dufresne, stopped them. But Dufresne’s wife insists that he was at home with her and their child all night.” She spread her slender-fingered hands. “So it’s something of a mystery, one that it’s doubtful the constables will ever solve.”
“Well, I can’t say that I’d lose much sleep over whatever happened to that varmint Shugart, and anybody who’d throw in with him was likely the same no-good sort.”
“Undoubtedly,” Simone agreed. “Such things happen frequently in New Orleans. The authorities know it’s best just to move on and forget about them.”
Preacher was certain she knew he was responsible for the deaths of the four men who had attacked him—and she didn’t care, either. As she said, such violence was common in New Orleans.
After she told him where to find the warehouse, he left the cargo inventory with her, since he wasn’t expected to check it, and departed to perform the task for her. If he carried it out successfully, he would gain that much more of her trust, he told himself—but even so, the whole thing still went against the grain for him. He was built for straight-ahead action, not subterfuge.
The warehouse was a huge brick structure that had a moldering, ancient look about it, like every other building in New Orleans more than six months old. Preacher found an alcove in an alley diagonally across the street from it where he could keep an eye on the big double doors. The thick shadows where he stood ought to be enough to keep anybody from noticing him, he thought.
He watched the place for maybe half an hour before several wagons pulled by teams of four mules apiece rolled up. A fat man with his shirtsleeves rolled up over muscular forearms came out of the warehouse and greeted the drivers. Then he turned and waved a hand at someone in the warehouse.
A moment later, black men in tattered shirts and trousers began carrying crates out of the warehouse and placing them in the wagon beds. A couple of lean white men with pistols stuck behind their belts emerged from the warehouse as well and watched, eagle-eyed, as the cargo was brought out and loaded. Preacher figured the black fellas were slaves, the two gun-toters were their overseers, and the fat man was the warehouse manager Simone suspected of cheating her.
The workers moved slowly enough that Preacher had no trouble keeping count of how many crates they loaded. When they were finished, they had placed fifty-eight crates in the wagons, just as Simone had said they were supposed to. When the vehicles had rolled away over the cobblestone streets, Preacher left the alley and headed for the docks himself, just to make sure the cargo made it onto the Powhatan safely. Simone hadn’t asked him to do that, but he supposed he might as well.
A different group of workers, some white, some black, took over when the wagons reached the docks. Preacher watched them carry the crates on board the riverboat and stack them on the deck. He counted them again and got the same total, fifty-eight. Grumbling to himself because it seemed to him like he had just wasted the morning, he walked back to the French Quarter and into the Catamount’s Den. The stool where Long Sam usually sat was empty.
At that time of day, the tavern was open for business but not doing much, which explained why it wasn’t necessary for Long Sam and his shotgun to guard the door. A couple of men leaned on the bar. Only one table was occupied, that by Balthazar Crowe and Long Sam.
“Any trouble?” Crowe asked as Preacher walked up to the table.
“Not a bit. And the count—”
Crowe held up a hand to stop him. “You do not report to me. You report to M’sieu LeCarde.”
Preacher took note of how Crowe referred to Simone. He had a hunch the fiction of “Simon LeCarde” being male was always used except in that second floor sitting room. That was a good idea, if Simone wanted to keep her true identity a secret.
Crowe went on. “Long Sam, will you inform M’sieu LeCarde that Preacher has returned?”
“Sure.” The dwarf got up and headed for the stairs at the back of the room.
Preacher thought Crowe might ask him to sit down with him, but that invitation wasn’t forthcoming. Crowe had a cup of coffee in front of him and sipped from it as Preacher stood there waiting for Long Sam to return.
“I went on down to the docks,” Preacher said. “Watched ’em load the cargo.”
“None of my business,” Crowe replied distractedly.
Preacher narrowed his eyes. “You don’t like me bein’ here, do you?”
“It’s none of my business,” Crowe said again, but Preacher thought he didn’t sound the least bit sincere.
He was glad when Long Sam clattered back down the staircase a few moments later, ending the awkward conversation.
“Come on,” Long Sam said as he motioned for Preacher to follow him up the stairs.
Balthazar Crowe swallowed the rest of the coffee in his cup and stood up to go along behind Preacher. Clearly, Crowe didn’t want Preacher to be alone up there with Simone. It was probably a good thing Crowe and Long Sam were as protective of their mistress as they were, but at the same time, Preacher thought it pretty likely that Simone could take care of herself. She had mentioned that her pirate father had taught her how to use a pistol and a saber, and she’d claimed to be pretty good with them. Preacher had a hunch she was telling the truth about that. Maybe he would have a chance to find out someday, he thought as he started up the narrow staircase after Long Sam.
He hadn’t entered Simone’s living quarters from that direction. They wound up in the same hall he had been in the night before, with the door that led to the alley stairs at its far end. The door to Simone’s sitting room stood open. Long Sam reached it first but stood aside to let Preacher precede him into the room.
Preacher didn’t argue. He stepped into the sitting room, expecting to see Simone on one of the divans or maybe in an armchair over by the fireplace.
Instead she stood beside the table, with her hair still down but pulled back from her face and fastened with a clip behind her head. She wore a dark blue gown with white lace at the sleeves and throat.
She wasn’t alone, either. Two other people stood to the side, and Preacher stopped short at the sight of them, recognizing them instantly. He had come to New Orleans to find Edmund Cornelius and Lucy Tarleton, but he hadn’t expected to run into them in Simone LeCarde’s sitting room above the Catamount’s Den.
Still, somehow, he wasn’t surprised.
Just as the feeling of a pistol’s barrel being pressed into his back didn’t surprise him, either, or the rumbling growl of Balthazar Crowe.
“Go on in, mountain man. Mademoiselle has a few things to say to you.”