Le Beau Soleil by Nan Hawthorne

A young beauty in embroidered chemise and lacy drawers stood by the piano and warbled “Come Where My Love Lies Dreaming” as the dark-skinned piano player tickled the keys. Beneath her song, conversation hummed as patrons of the Hôtel La Reine whiled away the sultry July night.

Across the room, François “Frankie” Deramus took a long draw on his cigar and cocked his head in the direction of the singer. “Stephen Foster’s latest, I presume?” He raised one dark eyebrow and waited for Antoinette to look up from her cards.

“Why, yes, dear Frankie. A lovely tune, n’est-ce pas?” Her clouded expression and distracted voice told Frankie what he had already guessed. The madam of the establishment was not going to keep her last item of clothing for long. “Ah! Je m'en fous!” she exclaimed and threw down her cards. “You win again!” She started on the top tie of her petticoat.

Frankie did not lay out his cards. He had won fair and square. Frankie never cheated. He did not have to. He was that good.

Antoinette gave him a speculative look, her fingers pausing in their task. “Such a waste, my dear. To strip me and then not to enjoy the gift you unwrapped. Unless…” The carmine salve on her lips emphasized the perfect Cupid’s bow of her mouth. Her gray eyes rounded with hope.

Frankie sat forward and looked into her eyes. “No, ma belle. Nothing has changed. I will however accept a chaste kiss from you in lieu of your nakedness.”

Antoinette pouted. “You are impossible!” She started to do up her laces again as she considered the man sitting across from her, her old friend and business partner, the well-known riverboat gambler, with his elegant clothing, dark eyes fringed with equally dark lashes, and the thick, glossy hair that fell in loose waves to frame his handsome face. “Perhaps you would like something less chaste?” She glanced across the room of scantily clad young women and inebriated clients to where one handsome young man sat on a divan, his shirt half open in the heat, looking bored. “Louis-Bertrand!” she called.

Frankie glanced over at the young man, whose face brightened as he rose and started towards them. Looking back at the madam, he said, “You know I do not consort with prostitutes.”

Several of the girls positioned in attractive languor nearby frowned or gasped as their employer looked daggers at Frankie. “Monsieur,” she began in a warning tone.

“Oh, Antoinette, you know I mean I do not sleep with prostitutes. You must know how much I adore you, ma chérie.” He cast his heartbreaker of a smile on her, then stood and looked about him. “And you as well, my flowers.”

As giggles and oohs came from the women, Louis-Bertrand came forward and laid his hand lightly on Deramus’s sleeve. He gave the man an appreciative once over, lingering at his groin. “Monsieur?” His sensuous lips pursed in anticipation of what might be asked of them presently.

Frankie shook his head. “I shall have to disappoint you. I simply do not pay for young men’s favors.”

Louis-Bertrand snatched back his hand. “I beg your pardon, Monsieur. I must have been mistaken. I had heard ...”

Frankie leaned to whisper in the young man’s ear, letting his lips brush the lobe tantalizingly. “You heard correctly, my dear. But I do not pay for sex.”

Frankie by Linda Laaksonen

When he straightened up again he saw the disappointment on Louis-Bertrand’s face. “Dommage,” the young man sighed. He bowed and turned back to his lonely divan.

“Frankie, wait, I have something I must tell you.” Antoinette had stood and pressed against him, her hand tucked in his elbow. “Not here. Shall we go into my parlor?”

In the fussily appointed parlor Frankie stopped, causing her to stop and turn to him.

“My friend, I have some upsetting news for you. It seems that someone is spreading rumors. That you cheat. At cards.”

His eyes filled with storm clouds but he pretended calm. “Rumors, they are nothing.”

Antoinette tapped the end of her fan at the corner of her mouth thoughtfully, then snapped it open and fanned herself for a moment. “I am afraid this rumor is more serious. What I heard was rather, how shall I say, detailed? It is clearly intended – no, designed – to convince.”

Bolts of lightning appeared to fly from the storm clouds. “What do you know of the man who is spreading these rumors?” he asked.

“Rien. Rien du tout. I know nothing and I have not been able to discover the source.”

“Then I shall have to discover it for myself.”

~*~*~*~

As he strode onto the wharf where his beautiful sidewheeler, Le Beau Soleil, was moored, Frankie smiled. It was the most resplendent boat on the river, ahead of its time for luxury. On the ornate grillework that joined its two smokestacks the golden rays of a sunburst glowed in the first light of the New Orleans dawn. He had bought the boat just five years back. He had not wanted to share its ownership, but he had gone in with a business partner, Cornelius Smythe, to finance a luxurious refurbishing. Now it had had several seasons of trips up and down the Mississippi as far north as St. Louis. Le Beau Soleil was the base of his operations but also Frankie’s true love.

His manservant was already waiting to greet him at the top of the boarding ramp. “Charles William, good morning! So good of you to be here to see to me. Would you come with me to my stateroom? I have some disturbing news.”

“Of course, sir.”

Charles William preceded Frankie up the grand staircase and along the promenade to his suite, opened the door, and stepped back, letting Frankie walk in. He took his cane and hat and stood waiting for his employer to speak.

Frankie opened his jacket, brushed back his jacket skirt and sat on the settee. “Coffee first, I think, please, and bring your notebook with you.”

When the manservant had returned with the Limoges coffee service on a tray, and had poured Frankie a cup redolent of chicory, he took out a small book and a pencil.

Putting the fingertips of one hand to his forehead Frankie absently flipped a lock of black hair out of his eyes. “It seems, according to Mme. Antoinette, that there have been allegations of cheating ...”

The servant looked up. “Sir, what does that matter? Trivial river talk.”

“Antoinette said there are seemingly plausible details being bruited about, but did not know what exactly they were. Nor did she know the source.”

Charles William scribbled in his notebook. He looked up again. “You will want me to make enquiries, sir?”

Frankie nodded. “We leave for our upriver trip a week from tomorrow. See what you can learn among your redoubtable connections.”

“Shall we need to inform Mr. Smythe?”

Frankie pondered for a moment. “No, I think not. He is enough of a worrier. I would prefer to uncover what is really going on before we get him involved. Why borrow trouble, as they say?”

Frankie spent the next three days preparing for the trip. He met with his captain, Joe Mayer, and pilot, Tom Rice. He met with his chef to ensure the menus were prepared for the two classes of dining rooms and for the crew, and saw the purser to confirm all supplies were ordered and expected in time for departure.

Finally, he ran his finger down the passenger list, first the first class passengers, then the rest. The first he checked for statesmen, men of high finance, and others he might wish to coddle. In the second list he looked for troublemakers. A few names on the second list made him frown. Small-time card sharks. They should know better than to travel on his boat. He had no tolerance for those who cheated at any form of gambling. One name deepened his frown. George H. Devol, an Ohio man, was one of the most notorious gamblers on the Mississippi. He wondered if he needed to arrange extra security. It occurred to him that this might serve another pressing purpose, as he might ask the man to investigate his own sticky situation if Charles William made no progress.

~*~*~*~

Frankie stood in front of the address he had been given. He had had trouble explaining to his contacts just what he was looking for, and now there were only three days left before Le Beau Soleil would head north. Finally an old friend and long ago lover had told him about Michael Murphy, a former soldier who did private investigations of a confidential nature. He had heard the name at some time past, but never met the man. In a city of 115,000 souls, that was hardly surprising. Now he was about to rectify the situation. He put the slip of paper with the address in his breast pocket and approached the building directory near the front door. There it was, engraved on a brass plate: “M. Murphy, Confidential Agent”.

Once inside he peered at each door in the dim corridor until he found Murphy's. He tried the doorknob. Locked. Either Murphy was not in or he was chary of visitors. He knocked.

Muffled curses came from the other side of the door. He waited, heard the lock switched off, then nothing. He reached for the door handle again. This time it turned. The small office inside was poorly lit, but he just made out a desk. “Murphy?” he inquired.

The door swung shut behind him and he whirled, his pocket derringer out and ready even before he could see the man hidden behind the door and holding a pistol pointed straight back at him. The two eyed each other.

“We seem to have a stalemate.” Frankie took his thumb off the hammer and returned the derringer to his pocket. “I am here to ask you to look into a private matter for me.”

Murphy holstered his weapon and stepped forward into better light. Deramus had to stifle an intake of breath. Murphy was a remarkably good-looking man, if a bit disheveled. His eyes had a light of their own and were slightly tilted up on the outer edges, his lips sensual over a dimpled chin, and his fair hair curly and thick. It was just light enough in the room for Frankie to notice the man’s eyes widen as he looked back at his new client.

“My apologies,” Murphy said. “A professional hazard, I am afraid. Please take a seat. I have nothing to offer you.” He paused when Frankie gave him a puzzled look. “Nothing to drink, I mean.”

Frankie looked about and found one chair facing the desk. Murphy went around and took the seat behind it.

“I charge for my services, you know,” Murphy advised.

Frankie stared at him. “Of course. And I pay for services. That sort of services, anyway. What if I tell you my situation and you tell me if you can help me and for how much?”

The chair creaked as Murphy sat back and nodded.

“My name is François Deramus, and I own the better part of the riverboat Le Beau Soleil,” he began.

Murphy sat upright. “Yes, and other establishments here in New Orleans and in towns upriver.”

Frankie sat with his mouth slightly open, having been interrupted in mid-sentence. His lips started to turn up in an amused smile. “You have heard of me, then?”

Murphy stood up from his chair and came around the desk. He sat on the corner and looked down at Frankie. “I most certainly have. You are highly respected in a particular, um, segment of society.”

Frankie did not appreciate having to look up at his face. He was not sure what specifically this man meant by “a particular segment”. “And that segment is…?”

Murphy reached into his vest pocket and drew out a cigar. “Do you mind? I’m afraid it’s my only one.”

Frankie shook his head. “I have my own.” He took out a superior smoke and looked for a box of matches.

Murphy struck a light and reached the flame to his guest. Their eyes met and held, but then Murphy looked away. “Whores, gamblers, crooked politicians, smugglers. That ought to cover it.”

Frankie relaxed. “Those are indeed among my many associates. May I go on with my story?”

To his relief Murphy went back to his desk chair. He gestured with his cigar. “Continue.”

Deramus explained that one of his business partners, a Mme. Antoinette, had advised him that someone was going about spreading detailed rumors about him. At an interested look from Murphy he quickly added, “I am, as you know, a professional gambler. I cannot afford to get the reputation as a cheat.”

“No? I thought you all were cheaters.”

Murphy found himself jerked forward with Deramus's hand clutching the front of his shirt.

“I… do … not… cheat,” he said through clenched teeth.

Murphy calmly put his hand over Frankie’s and, when Frankie loosened his grip, pulled it away from his shirt. “My mistake.”

Deramus stepped back. “It is a matter of honor with me. I am scrupulously clean. That is why I am so… what is the word? Attractive. That is, people know I do not cheat so they think they can beat me. It happens, but not often and not for long. I am very good at what I do.”

“So someone is trying to make you… less attractive. And I assume you have no idea who it is.”

Frankie sat again. “A rival? Someone who lost money? Perhaps someone I caught cheating? No, I do not know. That is what I want you to find out.”

Murphy sat staring at the man, trying not to look at his lips, which he found hard to resist. “Are you staying in New Orleans?”

“No, we leave day after tomorrow with passengers and cargo. That is why I wanted someone else to look into this. I cannot delay this trip. Can you take it on?” He reached inside his jacket and took out a leather case. “How much will you charge?”

Murphy was nonplussed by how readily the man offered money, with no questions, no references, not even a plan of action.

Seeing surprise on the detective’s face, Frankie assured him, "The friend who gave me your name gave you the highest recommendation. I have no reason to doubt him. So, can you take this investigation on? How much will it cost, do you think?"

“I can’t tell you now. I want to talk to a few people, then based on what I learn, I can tell you what my total fee will be, how much I want as retainer. Can you come back here tomorrow?”

Frankie frowned. “What people?”

“Well, your partner Mme. Antoinette, for starters.”

“I told you she doesn’t know any more.”

Murphy shrugged. “Nevertheless. And I have some connections in the gambling profession.”

“Could you make those contacts today and come to the boat with your report tonight?”

Murphy blew a puff of air out from between his lips and looked away for a moment, pondering. “Well, yes, I think I can. Shall we say eight o’clock?”

“Good, then. I will arrange for supper for the two of us. Perhaps my manservant will have some intelligence to share as well. Oh, and no need to dress.”

~*~*~*~

Murphy had little trouble finding the riverboat, its brilliant sunburst unique. He was looking up at it when a bulky man rushing past him in a fine topcoat almost knocked him into the water with a sharp, “Move aside, man!”

Murphy spun around to chide the man, but he pressed on hurriedly. “Was that – wasn't that – Cornelius Smythe?” he wondered.

Murphy stepped onto the huge riverboat and was pleased to have his hat taken by a black man he took to be Deramus’s manservant. ‘This way, Mr. Murphy,” the man said in a cultured voice, and led him to an upper deck. “Monsieur Deramus is waiting for you in his parlor.”

Entering the promenade he noted doors at regular intervals with small frosted windows along the deck. He gawked about so that he almost ran into the servant when the man stopped and tapped on a door. “Your guest has arrived, sir.”

“Ah, excellent. Show him in.”

The open door revealed a surprisingly large room for a riverboat stateroom.

Frankie rose from where he had been sitting and advanced to grasp Murphy's hand and shake it warmly, with a welcoming smile. Murphy smiled back, dismissing a disquieting consciousness of what seemed to be a glint of appraisal in Frankie's eyes.

“Do sit down, sir. Charles William, will you pour the wine?”

“Your charming business partner nearly pushed me into the water. I assume he was coming from here?”

“Oh, Smythe. Yes, we were discussing some financial matters. Nothing important.” The look on Deramus’s face backed up his bland nonchalance.

Murphy looked around him as he took his seat. “Impressive.”

Frankie looked up with a wry smile. “Le Beau Soleil, the table, or…?” He trailed off.

“Yes.”

“I hope you like oysters,” Frankie said. “My chef does wonders with them.”

Murphy’s eyebrows registered the combination of surprise and interest he felt. “Very much so.”

“Then let us enjoy ourselves, and after supper we can talk about my case.” Frankie sat back as Charles William served a dish of oysters that made Murphy’s mouth water. Murphy noted that Frankie seemed to enjoy them even more than he, with a voluptuous sensuality that showed in the way he ran the tip of his tongue along his lips as he finished the last of the sauce. Murphy found that delicious, too, although in a rather different way.

They kept conversation light as they went through the courses. Frankie, for that was what he insisted Murphy call him, told him about his purchase of a riverboat that was “in sad need of some love” and how he had worked to turn it into its current incarnation as Le Beau Soleil. He added, “I am majority owner, of course, with Smythe as minority owner. I would rather not have had to share it, but I needed his money.”

For his part Murphy answered questions about his time in the army, fighting in the Mexican War under General Winfield Scott. He skirted the bloodier experiences.

When the meal was over, Frankie said, “Cordials, please, Charles William, and bring a glass for yourself.”

When the servant was out of the room, he explained. “I want Charles William to share what he has learned with you, then we will both listen to your report. That will be acceptable?”

Murphy shrugged. “Fine with me.”

The manservant took out a small notebook and began to summarize what he had learned. “There have always been rumors of this gambler or that cheating, even my employer here. My contacts tell me however that someone, they do not know his identity, has concocted an elaborate tale, not simply that Monsieur cheats but also how. The stories center on his faro game, claiming that his banker’s box is rigged, and on his poker game as well. They claim that he has a partner who sets up the games and then assists him with signals.”

Murphy looked at Charles William. “Is that partner you?”

“Oh, no, sir. I could not set up games. No self respecting white man would play cards with me.”

“Of course. Forgive me.”

Charles William and his employer exchanged amused glances.

When the manservant had exhausted his information, he and Frankie settled their attention on Murphy. He began by pulling a notebook of his own from a jacket pocket. “I interviewed Madame Antoinette and several of her girls and the servants at the bordello. I have also been in touch with some informers I have cultivated on the waterfront. They have heard these rumors, too. My contacts say that the Pilots Club is buzzing with it. The pilots don’t credit the stories. They have their own theories as to the source. The pilots’ money is on a scoundrel named Devol …” He stopped when he observed Frankie’s reaction, a scowl with a hint of recognition. “You know him?”

“He is booked on this trip north. I have not myself had the pleasure but I know his reputation as a scoundrel, and an arrogant son of a bitch as well.” He looked at Murphy. “Why do they think it is Devol?”

Murphy chuckled. “Frankly, there is no hard evidence. I think they all just detest him. I suppose it’s possible he is behind the rumors, but why would he book passage with Le Beau Soleil then? What can he gain?”

“I will have to consider that,” Frankie replied. “But I can keep an eye and ear on him on our way to St. Louis. I think you can pursue any other leads you get back here.” He looked straight into Murphy’s face but spoke to the manservant. “Charles William, I want to talk further with Mr. Murphy and won’t need you for the rest of the evening. Why don’t you clear up here and then go to bed?”

When the manservant had gone, Murphy stood nervously and watched Frankie pour two glasses, come over to hand him one, and then gesture that they should both sit on a settee against the wall.

“Mr. Deramus, Frankie, I mean, there was one more bit of information that I was hesitant to speak of with your manservant in the room.”

Frankie smiled knowingly. “I thought there might be. You were told of my… preferences, shall we say?”

Murphy blanched at the man’s forthrightness. “W-well, it was mentioned.”

“I assumed as much. And I assume as well that you are not repulsed or worried about working with me?”

Murphy swallowed hard. He finally spoke, “No, of course not. In fact, I rather hoped …”

Frankie set down his wine and stood. He offered an arm to the detective. “Shall we repair to my chamber to discuss this where we cannot be interrupted?”

Murphy’s mouth went dry. He stammered, “Y-yes, I should like that.”

He stood and followed Frankie to the door, and then when the man made an elegant flourish inviting him to enter first, he stepped into the bedroom. A momentary doubt made him look about quickly for the signs of sadistic sexual practices. Seeing no whips or restraints, he relaxed.

Chuckling, Frankie reassured him. “I promise, I don’t bite. Unless you ask me to.”

Murphy turned and faced Frankie when the bedroom door shut behind him. He could feel the sweat starting on his forehead and the pressure building in his groin. The dark eyes bored into his blue ones. The gambler stepped forward and took Murphy’s chin in one hand. “Michael, and I assume I may call you that, you are one of the most beautiful men I have ever seen,” Frankie said in a soft voice. He pulled Murphy’s face towards his own and put his own firm lips on Murphy’s succulent ones.

Murphy’s head swam. He savored the taste of the gambler’s mouth on his. When he let his lips open the man’s tongue pushed in and explored his teeth, his gums, inside his mouth, his own eager tongue. He felt Frankie’s hands on his jacket. Somehow the man had already unbuttoned the garment and pushed it back and off Murphy’s shoulders. He began on his shirt. Murphy’s hands were helpless at his sides. Frankie reached for one and placed it on his cock. It was rigid, just as Murphy’s was now. Murphy moaned. When Frankie pulled his face away he gasped. Murphy opened his eyes to see the hunger on the gambler’s face.

“Take off your clothes,” Frankie said in a rough voice.

As Murphy stripped he watched Frankie do the same. The man’s body was muscular, which surprised Murphy. It suddenly struck him that Frankie would see his scar. He started to say, “Frankie, I have to tell you…”

Frankie interrupted, “I see it.” He stepped closer and ran a finger down the long white, ridged scar on the inner side of Murphy’s thigh. “Saber?” he asked.

“Bayonet. At Atlixco. ’47,” he answered breathlessly.

Frankie nodded, concern etched on his face, then he knelt and pressed his lips to the scar, planting kisses all the way down. “God, Frankie, stop. I’ll spend.”

He looked down into Frankie’s face to see a mischievous grin and sparkling eyes. “Then spend. We have the whole night ahead of us.”

~*~*~*~

On Thursday, Le Beau Soleil's whistle cut through the moist, heavy air of the waterfront, and she began to reverse into the channel. Once out into the river the boilers let loose and she turned north, sidewheels churning.

Frankie strolled through the numerous public rooms greeting passengers and ensuring all, especially the big spenders, had what they needed to enjoy their trip. He found himself at last outside the barbershop, which rang with male laughter. He smiled and entered, ready to share the joke, then sobered as he saw that all the men were clustered around a heavily bearded man in the barber’s chair. He appraised the man for a moment and commented, “Why, sir, I think my barber will have to charge you more for taking off all that beard.”

“Why if it’s not the very man. Deramus, am I right? George H. Devol, very much your servant.” Devol stood and offered Frankie his hand. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.” The accent betrayed Ohio and the man was big and oily.

“It is an honor, Devol,” Frankie offered his own hand to shake. “At last, we meet. I have heard much about you.” He smiled, trying to make it look sincere.

Devol let out a sharp laugh. “Nothing to my credit, I hope. And I have long heard of you. In fact, we were just discussing a nasty little rumor that’s going about.” He looked about at his companions, as if seeking affirmation. Some smiled and laughed, while others grew subdued.

Frankie’s lips still smiled, but any hint of merriment had left his eyes. “And what rumors might those be, Devol?”

“Nothing we don’t all indulge in from time to time,” Devol leered.

Frankie’s eyes started to smolder. “I am so sorry, I do not follow you.”

Devol’s face tightened. Then he let out another sharp laugh. “Cheating, my good man, the bread and butter of a successful gambler’s profess-...”

“I do not cheat,” Frankie growled, his face darkening with anger.

Devol’s eyes widened and his face started to redden. “Come now, sir. We all know you do, that I do, that not one man jack of us does not.”

Frankie leaned forward to spit the words into the oaf’s face. “I do not. And if I catch you cheating on Le Beau Soleil, you will find yourself playing cards with the catfish at the bottom of the river.”

Devol’s eyes burned back at Frankie. “Care to make a wager on that?” he asked dangerously.

“What do you have in mind?”

The card shark glared. “Cards… poker I think.”

Frankie eyed him. “How can we make sure there is no one making signals to you?”

“Or you?” Devol riposted, then flinched at Frankie’s hand coming up to rest on his shoulder.

The barber spoke up, tripping on the words. “Th-the-ere’s a p-preacher on the boat, Mr. Deramus. And an opera singer from Italy. Why not ask them to sit in. Neither will be likely to be in on the cheat.”

Frankie nodded. “That might work. Do you agree, Mr. Devol?”

~*~*~*~

The tables had been moved against the walls in the first class dining saloon to make room for all the passengers and some of the crew who crowded in to watch the game. Frankie entered after Devol, frowned and motioned to Charles William. “I thought everyone understood this is a private game. Only that blackguard, the reverend and the singer.”

“I will take care of it, sir.” Charles William began to shoo the protesting passengers out. Some took position at the room's windows, then had their view obscured by drawn curtains. Soon only Charles William, the two card players, and two men remained.

Frankie looked at the men, a preacher, with drab clothes and a Bible sticking out of his pocket, and a second man, in an impeccable, expensive suit, with a curled moustache and a small, neatly groomed goatee. The second man Frankie addressed, “I am sorry, sir, but this is a private game; no witnesses except for the preacher and … where is the lady, Charles William?”

Charles William shook his head. “Lady, sir? Oh, I think you are talking about the opera singer.” He indicated the second man. “This is Maestro Andreas Da Luca, from La Scala. He is their lead tenor, sir, and on his way to Chicago to perform at a special concert.”

Frankie bowed deeply. “My humblest apology, Signore Da Luca.”

In a thick accent, the Italian said, “I am afraid I cannot sit in, for I do not know how to play this poker.”

The preacher inserted, “And I most certainly do not intend to engage in such a sinful activity!”

Frankie leaned toward his manservant. “And this is?”

Charles William supplied, “The Reverend Mr. Ezekiel Bloford, sir. Of the Seed of Abraham Baptist Church in Vicksburg.”

“Vicksburg, eh? Well then we had better get this game started, before the good reverend disembarks at his home dock.” To the two witnesses he bowed and advised, “We do not ask you to play, but I do charge you to watch every move either of us makes. If you see anything, anything at all that does not seem to fit, speak up.”

The Italian made a fluid gesture with his hand. “But, signore, I would not know what fits and what does not.”

Frankie shrugged. “I will depend on your best instincts. Now shall we play?”

As the play began the two witnesses alternated between sitting and watching, and moving about the table to look at the players’ hands. The preacher frowned his disapproval at every click of chips on the table. Frankie heard him mutter “Filthy lucre” more than once. The opera singer was quiet but attentive. He had fitted a cigar into a long holder and took his time lighting and then smoking it. He kept glancing at Frankie with a considering look on his finely sculpted features.

The play went along with little remarkable about it. Devol won some, Frankie won some, and the stakes stayed consistent if not modest.

Devol chattered away, doing all he could to jostle Frankie off his game. “So, you expect everyone to believe that the stories about you are all so much fiction? What I heard was that you were in a tight place.”

Frankie kept his face impassive, responding to Devol’s provocations with little more than bland smiles.

“I heard your partner has been borrowing against more than his own portion of Le Beau Soleil.” He pronounced it “so-leel”.

Frankie managed not to show how interested he was in this gem of information.

He noticed after some time that Devol was getting the better of him more hands than not. He concentrated on his game. He knew that even if he identified how the man was cheating, his word would not be enough. He glanced briefly at each of the witnesses. Bloford scowled. Da Luca looked bored.

“Mi scusi,” came the interruption some time later. “Perhaps it is nothing,” the Italian began.

Play stopped. Devol grinned at Frankie. “Maybe the dago has found you out,” he smirked.

“No, it is you, signore.” Da Luca looked straight at Devol.

Frankie laid his cards face down on the green baize in front of him. “Please, maestro, do explain.”

“For the past hours I have found nothing to be amiss,” the tenor began. “Then there was something familiar, something that reminded me of how the concertmaster signals to the orchestra when he wants a change in tempo or, how you say, loudness?”

At the word “signals” Frankie noticed a frown on Devol’s face. The preacher shifted from foot to foot, looking agitated.

“This man here,” Da Luca continued, indicating Bloford. “He has been making little gestures, not refined ones like a concertmaster, but not idle ones either. I believe he is signaling his partner.”

Bloford’s face went white. He started to back out of the saloon. “George, let’s get out of here,” he said as he reached the door.

“Aw, for Christ’s sake, Parker. It was a lucky guess. If’n you hadn’t spilled the beans...” Devol was reaching for his inside coat pocket.

Frankie had his derringer out before the bearded man pulled his hand out of his pocket. “You are in no position to shoot your way out of this, monsieur,” he said.

Devol’s eyebrows went up. “Shoot my way out? Not my style, Deramus. I simply wanted my kerchief. It is very hot in here.” Indeed he had a much-used linen kerchief in his hand. “Now is there any way we can work out this situation?”

Frankie kept the barrel of the small gun pointed at Devol’s chest. “There might be.”

Devol waited, while “Bloford” hovered at the door.

“First, never set foot on Le Beau Soleil again, nor in any establishment in which I hold an interest.”

The bearded man nodded. “No problem. There is plenty of room on the river for us both. And second?”

“Tell me what you know about this rumor about Smythe.”

A grin spread across the crooked gambler’s face. “I’m afraid I can’t help you there, Deramus. Parker here got the rumor from some whore in New Orleans. Seems she’s sweet on you. Didn’t want to see nothing bad happen to you. Parker told me, that’s all.”

Frankie replaced the derringer in his pocket. “I believe you.” He stood and went to a bell cord. “Charles William will see you off the boat at the next landing.”

As Devol went to scoop up his winnings, Frankie stopped him. “Signore, when did the signals begin?”

The opera singer thought about it. He glanced at the ornate clock on a sideboard. “I believe… about two of the clock, perhaps fifteen minutes before.”

Frankie calculated. He started to pull chips out of the pile in front of Devol. “You were down about two hundred and forty dollars then. But I will err on the side of generosity.”

All three men in the room looked at him with amazement. Parker said, “You can remember that?”

“I don’t believe it,” shot Devol.

“That does not matter to me. Believe it or not, you will go to your stateroom and pack.” Frankie suited his expression to his words. The two cheaters huffed and puffed but made haste to quit the saloon.

“Signore, is it true?” Da Luca asked.

“Yes, it is. I am, as I often have occasion to say, that good.”

The singer came closer. “Are you... good... at many things?”

Frankie grinned. “Shall we retire to my stateroom and find out?”

The singer’s smile went from tentative to delighted. “Si.”

~*~*~*~

Frankie made his way to the telegraph office just up the hill from the landing at Vicksburg. It was a busy town, with all types and stations of people coming and going. He caught more than a few eyes with his elegant suit and gold tipped cane -- some women, some men, and all appreciative.

In the telegraph office he wrote out his message to Michael Murphy: SMYTHE DEBT STOP INVESTIGATE STOP POSSIBLE SOURCE OF TROUBLE STOP EXTREME DISCRETION STOP RETURNING EARLY STOP FD STOP

He tipped the telegrapher generously and returned to Le Beau Soleil, but not before arranging a booking on another riverboat heading south. In his stateroom he told his manservant, “Charles William, please pack me a bag. I am returning to the city but hope to rejoin you in St. Louis. I may not be able to join you there, but if not, you can find me at my hotel.”

~*~*~*~

Back in New Orleans Frankie felt the absence of Le Beau Soleil as he passed its empty moorage. He had his coach take him directly to Murphy’s office.

He found the man just preparing to lock his office door behind him. “Michael, my friend, where are you headed so fast?”

The detective turned, his handsome face showing pleasure and surprise. “Frankie, you are indeed early. I'm glad you caught me. I got your wire.”

“Can I offer you a lift to your destination?” Frankie smiled back.

“You can do better than that. You can come along.”

Murphy directed the driver to a narrow street in the Latin Quarter. As they rattled along, he leaned toward Frankie and filled him in. “You heard right about Smythe. He's in hock up to his eyeballs. Maybe higher.”

“And he is using what for collateral?” the gambler questioned, knowing the answer already.

“His share in Le Beau Soleil, and …” He hesitated. “Much of yours as well.”

Frankie pursed his lips and looked out the coach window. “Perhaps you can tell me how he is managing to do that?”

Murphy grinned. “We are on our way now to find out.”

They alit in front of a ramshackle building with rickety stairs to a gallery that looked little less treacherous. “This is the factor's place. His name is Frémis. He will know how Smythe is getting money on your property.”

The two climbed the stairs and passed along the gallery. The card tacked on the door said “Fiduciary Partners”. Murphy did not knock but pushed his way in. An old mulatto wearing spectacles turned to the newcomers from where he stood leafing through a ledger.

“Ah, Mr. Murphy, I was expecting you.” The accent was Caribbean. He showed his yellowed teeth in a polite smile. “And I believe I know this young man as well. M. Deramus, I believe?”

Frankie bowed. “Indeed, M. Frémis. Though I have not had the pleasure of making your acquaintance, I know you by reputation. I am honored.”

The silver-haired man gestured toward two oft-repaired chairs in front of his desk. He himself took his own seat behind the desk. “As to my reputation, sirs, I am all about truth, mes amis; I never lie. But that truth belongs to the highest bid.”

“And I believe you have some information about a mutual acquaintance, a Cornelius Smythe.”

Murphy interjected, “M. Frémis informed me that he had come into possession of some revealing documents.”

Frémis shook his head. “Only copies, dear sir. But indeed revealing.” He reached into the central drawer of his desk and took out some papers. He hesitated for a moment. “Now, you are the high bid, I understand?”

Murphy looked over at Frankie. “Monsieur?” he led.

Frankie took out his pocket book, opened to a blank draft and inquired, “Do you have a pen I might use?”

Frémis offered him the pen on his desk. Frankie looked at Murphy and raised one eyebrow. The detective named a sum that might have made most businessmen look up sharply, but Frankie wrote it on the bank draft without hesitation. He tore it out of the pocketbook, fanning it to dry the ink, and handed it to the old man.

“And here you are,” Frémis said, handing one sheet of paper each to the two men.

Murphy read his copy, then exchanged sheets with Frankie. The latter pressed his lips together. Looking up he commented, "Good work. I may have to find this forger and use his talent to my own purpose someday.”

Murphy was no innocent. He knew deeds of property were as easy to forge as any other document. But it still astounded him. “I don’t know how this fellow thought he could get away with something so bald.”

Frankie took the second copy back, folded the two sheets together and slipped them into his inner pocket. “Well, in point of fact, he didn’t get away with it.” He looked at the old man. “Do you have a boy I can send a message with?”

Pushing forward some blank memoranda sheets for Frankie’s use, he called over his shoulder, “Benoît! Come in here.”

A light-skinned boy of about twelve years of age entered wearing a sunshade and sleeve protectors that were spotted with ink. “Sir?”

Frankie handed the note he wrote to Murphy to read. “I want you to take this message to a Mr. Cornelius Smythe at the Taylor Building. No need to wait for an answer.” He reached into a pocket and took out a silver piece. “Your…” he glanced at the old man and posited, “Grandfather?” At the old man’s nod, he went on, “Your grandfather will have this waiting for you when you return, if you can assure him you put the message directly into the man’s own hand.”

Benoît grinned, took off his shade and sleeve protectors, shoved them into his pants pocket, then reached for the note, which Murphy had folded and put into a small envelope Frémis gave him

Frankie turned back to the detective. “Well, Mr. Murphy, if that boy is as quick as I hope, we had better get back to my hotel before Mr. Smythe arrives.”

~*~*~*~

The two men had only had time to remove their hats and sit down with a small brandy when a knock came at the door. “Come,” Frankie called.

A perplexed looking Cornelius Smythe appeared around the door. “Frankie, I thought you had left on your trip north. Is there something amiss?”

“Come in, Cornelius,” Frankie effused. “Yes, I did leave, but I had to return on the Mary Elena. Important business, you know. Sit down, sit down. May I get you a brandy?”

Smythe waved away the offer of the drink and sat on the edge of a chair. “Important business? Our business?”

Frankie nodded in Murphy’s direction. “Yes, in fact, Mr. Murphy here has found some documents of interest to our mutual venture. Mr. Murphy, would you oblige me?” He indicated the two folded sheets of paper on the low table between them.

“Certainly,” Murphy replied and took the sheets. Turning his attention to Smythe he leaned toward him. “Mr. Smythe, I have here some documents that seem to indicate that you have a greater share in Le Beau Soleil than Mr. Deramus tells me you actually own.”

Smythe went deathly pale. “Who are you, mister? Some sort of copper?”

Murphy shook his head. “Not exactly. But I have many friends in the police force. Should I need to, I could summon them.”

Smythe scowled and reached for the pistol at his belt.

Murphy instantly had his own pistol in his hand.

“No need,” Frankie exclaimed. Then more quietly said, “There is no need for violence, my old friend. And no need for the police. I think I can make you an offer that will satisfy all concerned.”

Murphy took Smythe’s weapon. He opened the chamber and let the bullets fall into his palm. These he pocketed before returning the gun.

Staring blankly at the now useless pistol, Smythe asked in a tremulous voice, “Offer?”

“Indeed,” Frankie affirmed. “I am prepared to buy your actual share of Le Beau Soleil. Its value now, I mean, with an additional ten percent in lieu of interest on the investment you made.”

“Buy it out? But I owe more than its full value.”

“Unfortunate. That is as much as I am prepared to offer. I suggest if you have so many who want repayment, you might want to get the hell out of town. Go west, perhaps.”

“Can you give me some time, for old time’s sake, Frankie?”

“No.”

“Damn you! You know, I know your secret, you sodomite. I can ruin you.” Smythe started to stand.

“Don’t bother. It’s not much of a secret. I do have a question you must answer before you go however.” Frankie sipped his brandy and waited.

Smythe grinned. “That’ll cost you, Deramus.”

Frankie seemed to ponder a moment. “All right. Are you the one who has been spreading the rumor about my cheating at cards?”

Smythe’s grin was smug. “Yeah, that was me. I figured if you were ruined, you would have to sell me your share of Le Beau Soleil cheap. Then I could sell it for a profit and pay my debts.” He chuckled. “Instead I get to sell you my part for more than it's worth. So I win either way, as it turns out.”

When Smythe had his bank draft and had gone out the door, shooting a “Good luck quashing the rumors, fancy man,” over his shoulder, Frankie said without looking at Murphy, “Follow him, please, and make sure he goes straight to our bank. Get the paperwork on the boat’s ownership and then see the bastard out of town.”

Murphy stood and grabbed his hat. He headed for the door.

“Michael, one moment. Would you come back here and let me know when it is all over?”

~*~*~*~

“So, can I ask? Why were you so generous with the bastard?” Murphy asked when much later he sat again in Frankie’s hotel suite with another glass of brandy.

Frankie replied, “He said I bought his share for more than it is worth, non?”

Murphy nodded.

“That is simply impossible. Le Beau Soleil is beyond riches to me.”

“And you were that sure he would accept? You weren’t worried about your power of persuasion?”

Frankie sat forward. “No, I was not worried. I had a suspicion he was getting in over his head. Our Mr. Smythe is not known for his spine.”

He put down his glass and turned to Murphy. “Michael, the next steamboat to St. Louis is not for a couple days. I plan to be on it.” Frankie reached to put his hand on Murphy’s knee. “I was wondering if you would like to help me while away the hours?”

“Here in your hotel suite?”

Frankie nodded. “Precisely.”

Murphy smiled broadly. “I think I should like to help you out with that, Frankie. I can rearrange my few appointments.” He took the hand that rested on his knee and drew it to his lips, kissing the palm.

Frankie returned his smile. “Why not start now?”

Murphy and Frankie stood and made their way toward the bedroom arm in arm, their free hands already at work loosening their cravats.

~*~*~*~

Author’s note: George H. Devol was a historical figure, a notorious faro and poker player, who wrote his own memoirs, Forty Years a Gambler on the Mississippi (1887).