Free Murder for the Bride by John D. MacDonald Page A

has its own unique adjustment to the heat of summer, at least in the Quarter, where the buildings stand shoulder to shoulder. The sidewalks are roofed by galleries supported by iron posts near the curbing. These roofed sidewalks are called, locally, banquettes. The galleries provide a place for out-of-doors living for the people on the second floor. They in turn are roofed. The railings are of ornamental iron patterned in the shape of leaves, usually, because leaves have a look of coolness. Vines grow up the second-floor posts, entwining themselves among the iron leaves, providing the illusion of privacy. There is never a water shortage. It is simple enough to wet down the gallery floor and the casual pedestrian had best keep a wary eye cocked upward for the deluge.
    After making the purchases for the girl and putting them in the apartment where she still slept, I walked back into the Quarter, into the long shadows of evening. I saw the galleries and reconstructed in memory the front of the Rampart Street apartment on the edge of the Negro section, and knew that with care those galleries that stretched almost to the corner would give me a chance to shake off my attentive friends.
    Barney Zeck was sitting on the top stair when I went up to the third floor. The perennial toothpick was in thecorner of his mouth. The heat seemed to affect him not at all.
    “Having fun?” he asked mildly as I came slowly up the flight.
    “Oh, dandy!”
    “The town is full of big-time law brass, Bryant.”
    “So I’ve noticed. Come on in and have a drink.”
    He followed me in. I turned on the fans and brought him his drink. He held it up to the light. He looked like a wise and dusty elf.
    “Ramifications,” he said softly. “That’s the word. A thing like this, it has ramifications. But not for us. Not for me. I see it simple. Dead woman. So catch the killer. Standard procedure. This is off the record, Bryant. ’Way off the record. I’m a sucker to trust you, maybe. But I’m browned off enough not to care. The orders came down from on high. Drop it. Forget it. Nice, isn’t it?”
    I looked at his cold nailhead eyes. There was anger there. “Why?” I asked.
    “Apparently this is some kind of an international deal. And we’re just locals. We can fumble the ball. So they whistle us over to the side lines.”
    I took a long pull at my drink. “Are they going after the killer?”
    “In their own way. But I think, Bryant, they’re more anxious to make a deal with him than they are to clobber him. And I know you want to get your hands on him. I turned over everything I’ve learned. But I held out one little thing. I saved it for you. I don’t like people who kill women. You tell me you’ll use your head and stay cool and I’ll give you my little nugget.”
    “I promise, Lieutenant.”
    “My favorite pigeon is the big blond guy. I’ve sifted all our stools. He isn’t local. But I got a faint line. Triangulation, maybe. This can be a rough town. Somewhere within a two-block radius of the Café Lafitte at the corner of St. Philip and Bourbon, in an apartment I would have found sooner or later if they’d let me stay on it, somebody is putting on shows. For a special type of people. People who like whips. You know what I mean. The big blond guy goes for that. Anyway, he’s beento a couple. Now, don’t jump to the conclusion the Lafitte is sour. I’m just using that as a reference point. They have a couple of shows a week. Admission is a hundred bucks. You’ll have to fumble around until you find somebody who can give you a line on it. The next show is tomorrow night, Saturday night.”
    “The people from out of town are tailing me, Lieutenant.”
    “You won’t get in unless you shake them off.”
    “Any suggestions?”
    He stood up and yawned. “You’ll have to figure that out. I’d use city busses, myself. One suggestion, though. If you have a drink at the Café Lafitte, stay away from the specialty of the house.