No Good Deed 63

1913 North Rampart Street was an imposing building built from what in England would have been called sandstone. It was dark brown in colour and the houses on the remainder of the block were built in similar materials and style. There was, however, something which set number 1913 apart. It was not merely the air of gloom caused by the street-lamp outside the house being unlit. Nor was it that – despite the lack of drapery – no light escaped from any window. Each glazed pane was as filthy as a tinker's shirt, but neither was this the cause of the house's apartness. Standing before the house, I discerned an odour – or, rather, the hint of such: it reminded me of the gamy scent Marie Laveau herself had exuded, when I had encountered her in Congo Square. But a few strides to the left and no such olfactory phenomenon was discernible, when standing afront number 1911. Nor did 1915 North Rampart Street pique the nostrils in this way. I enquired of Gottschalk as to what he thought the aroma might be. He mumbled something, but it was surely nonsense, for I heard only, 'Boo Doone'.

A tarnished brass bell-pull was set into the sandstone beside an imposing if slightly rotten-looking door. The handle of the bell-pull was in the shape of a snake's head: a snake which had recently been in receipt of some provocation, it seemed to me. I allowed Gottschalk to pull it, and we waited. Gottschalk shuffled from one foot to the other, which made the wait before the door opened irksome, if not insufferable. I was moved to stamp hard on his left instep to put a stop to it. The door opened as Gottschalk was still hopping and inhaling noisily.

A very tall Negro opened the door to us and gave a bow, which would have been most courtly had he not been so cramped by the narrowness of the vestibule and his own enormous size.

'Mistuh God's Chalk,' he intoned, in a voice as deep as a well.

Gottschalk sketched a bow, 'M-m-miz Laveau invited us.'

The Negro bowed again and walked backwards as if in the presence of royalty, although it was simply that he could neither turn round, nor let us pass. The vestibule was not long, however, and we passed through a beaded curtain into an extremely large room which might – or might not – once have been a dining room. Drapery hung on rails on the walls, between the windows. These curtains were drawn, the majority of them were in dark red damask. The effect struck me as quite bizarre, and I wondered what was concealed behind them. There were some thirty persons in the the room, excluding ourselves, the Negro and Marie Laveau. The majority were white, their eyes darting around as if looking for - and dreading finding – someone they knew. The room was rectangular; Marie Laveau sat in a peacock chair in front of a bookcase which covered the length, breadth and height of one of the shorter walls. My eyes were stinging from the incense fumes emanating from the censer standing near the entrance to the room.

Perhaps that was why it took me several moments to notice the large snake Miss Laveau sported like a stole around her elegant neck.