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The Cipher of Rue Royal

A Mimi Delboise Mystery

By Gio Marron

The brass nameplate on the door read "M. Delboise, Private Detective" in letters that caught the morning light filtering through the French Quarter's narrow streets. Mimi Delboise adjusted the tilt of her hat and checked her pocket watch—eight-thirty sharp. Punctuality was a virtue she demanded of herself, if not always of her clients.

The woman waiting in her small office was clearly nervous, her gloved hands worrying the clasp of an expensive leather purse. She couldn't have been more than twenty-five, with the pale complexion of someone who spent little time in New Orleans' unforgiving sun. Her dress was fashionable but not ostentatious—the carefully calculated appearance of new money trying not to appear too eager.

"Mrs. Boudreaux, I presume?" Mimi settled behind her desk, noting how the woman's eyes darted to the window overlooking Royal Street before returning to meet her gaze.

"Yes, though I... I wasn't certain you would see me. Some of the ladies at the Literary Society suggested that perhaps a woman inquiry agent might not be... suitable for such matters."

Mimi had heard variations of this conversation many times. She leaned back in her chair, allowing a slight smile to play at the corners of her mouth. "And yet here you are. Which suggests your need outweighs your social circle's reservations."

A flush crept up Mrs. Boudreaux's neck. "My husband is receiving threatening letters. The police dismiss them as pranks, but..." She reached into her purse and withdrew a folded paper. "This arrived yesterday."

Mimi accepted the letter, immediately noting the quality of the paper—expensive but not the finest available. The handwriting was educated, with the slight flourishes suggesting European training, but something was deliberately theatrical about the script.

Your accounts must be settled before the moon wanes, or your secrets will illuminate the shadows where your reputation now hides.

"Cryptic," Mimi observed, turning the paper to examine the watermark. "But not particularly threatening. Has your husband any idea what accounts might be referenced?"

"He claims ignorance entirely. Says it's merely some competitor trying to unnerve him before the cotton exchange votes on new regulations." Mrs. Boudreaux's voice carried the careful neutrality of a wife who had practiced believing her husband's explanations.

"But you suspect otherwise."

"I suspect my husband keeps ledgers I've never seen." The admission came quietly, followed by a quick glance toward the door as if Gabriel Boudreaux might materialize to overhear his wife's disloyalty.

Mimi studied the young woman's face, noting the faint shadows beneath her eyes that suggested sleepless nights. "Mrs. Boudreaux, before we proceed, I must ask—are you prepared for the possibility that your suspicions may prove correct? My investigations have a tendency to uncover truths that clients sometimes wish had remained buried."

The silence stretched between them, filled with the distant sounds of the French Quarter awakening—street vendors calling their wares, the clip-clop of horses on cobblestones, the musical cadence of Creole French drifting through the open window.

"I need to know," Mrs. Boudreaux said finally. "Whatever it is, I need to know."

Two hours later, Mimi stood in the shadow of the Cabildo, watching the morning's commerce unfold in Jackson Square. The letter had yielded several clues to someone trained in observation: the particular shade of blue ink suggested a specific type of pen, likely German-made and expensive. The paper's watermark belonged to a shop on Royal Street that catered to the city's more discerning letter-writers. Most intriguingly, the phrasing carried the careful cadence of someone whose first language was not English—French, most likely, though she detected hints of Spanish influence in the sentence structure.

The watermark led her first to Papeterie Dubois, a narrow shop squeezed between a millinery and a dealer in rare books. The proprietor, Monsieur Dubois, was an elderly Creole gentleman whose careful manners barely concealed his assessment of Mimi's unconventional appearance.

"Bonjour, Madame. You inquire about our correspondence papers?"

Mimi produced the letter, keeping the text carefully folded away. "This particular stock. Do you recall who might have purchased it recently?"

Dubois examined the paper with the solemnity of a wine connoisseur evaluating a vintage. "Ah, yes. Our finest grade. We sell perhaps twenty sheets per month of this quality." He paused, his eyes meeting hers. "You are investigating some matter of consequence?"

"A private matter for a client. Nothing that need concern the authorities." The assurance seemed to ease his reluctance.

"There have been three purchases this month. Madame Thibodaux for her weekly correspondence with her sister in Baton Rouge—but she has used this paper for twenty years, since her dear husband's passing. Monsieur Beauregard purchased two packets last week, but his secretary collects his supplies on the fifteenth of each month, regular as clockwork."

"And the third?"

"A gentleman I did not recognize. Well-dressed, spoke French with an accent I could not place. Perhaps from the islands? He purchased only one packet, paid in cash, and seemed... nerveux. Nervous, you understand."

Mimi nodded, filing away the description. "When was this?"

"Voyons... three days ago. Tuesday morning, just after we opened."

Tuesday. The same day the first letter had arrived, according to Mrs. Boudreaux. The timing was too convenient to be coincidence.

Her next stop took her deeper into the Vieux Carré, to a café on Chartres Street where she had arranged to meet Marie Trosclair. Marie operated a small but successful dressmaking establishment and, more importantly for Mimi's purposes, possessed an encyclopedic knowledge of the Quarter's gossip networks.

"Chère Mimi," Marie called out as she approached the small table tucked into the café's courtyard. "You look like a woman with questions that need answers."

Mimi settled into the wrought-iron chair, grateful for the shade provided by the ancient oak tree that dominated the courtyard. "When do I not? What do you know about Gabriel Boudreaux?"

Marie's eyebrows rose slightly. "The cotton factor? New money, from up north somewhere. Married that pretty Treme girl—Céleste—last spring. Big wedding at the Cathedral, reception at the St. Charles Hotel." She paused, sipping her café au lait. "Why do you ask?"

"Professional curiosity. Has he any particular enemies? Business rivals who might wish him ill?"

"Mais non, nothing like that. Though..." Marie leaned forward, lowering her voice despite the courtyard's relative privacy. "I heard from Madame Reeves, who does alterations for some of the American wives, that he's been seen at Baccarat Bob's establishment rather frequently."

Mimi knew the name—Robert Baccarat ran one of the Quarter's more exclusive gambling houses, catering to gentlemen who could afford to lose substantial sums without damaging their social standing. "Recently?"

"The past month or so. And you know what they say about cotton factors and gambling debts."

Indeed she did. The cotton trade was notoriously volatile, fortunes made and lost on the fluctuations of global markets. A man facing significant gambling debts might find himself making increasingly desperate financial decisions.

"Marie, have you heard anything about someone new in the Quarter? A gentleman, well-dressed, speaks French with an island accent?"

Marie considered this, tapping one finger against her cup. "There's been talk of a Haitian gentleman staying at the Pension Marigny. Calls himself Monsieur Dubois—no relation to the paper seller, I assume. Keeps to himself mostly, pays his bills promptly. Madame Marigny says he's been here about two weeks."

The pieces were beginning to form a picture, though Mimi suspected the complete image would prove more complex than these initial fragments suggested.

The Pension Marigny occupied a corner lot on Ursulines Street, its Creole cottage architecture typical of the Quarter's residential buildings. Madame Marigny herself answered Mimi's knock—a woman of indeterminate age whose sharp eyes suggested she missed little of what transpired in her establishment.

"I'm inquiring about one of your guests," Mimi began, presenting her card. "A Monsieur Dubois?"

Madame Marigny examined the card with the same attention she might give a suspicious bank note. "You are an inquiry agent, vraiment? A woman detective?" The concept seemed to both surprise and intrigue her.

"I am investigating a matter involving threatening letters. Nothing that reflects poorly on your establishment, I assure you."

This seemed to satisfy her concerns about propriety. "Monsieur Dubois has been a model guest. Quiet, courteous, pays in advance. He keeps regular hours—leaves each morning after breakfast, returns before dinner."

"Has he received any visitors? Or sent any correspondence?"

"No visitors that I've observed. As for correspondence..." She paused, clearly weighing discretion against curiosity. "He did ask about a reliable messenger service yesterday. Said he had several letters to deliver but preferred not to entrust them to the postal service."

Another piece fell into place. "Did he say anything about the nature of these letters?"

"Only that they concerned debts of honor. I assumed he meant gambling debts—s