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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 Investigations" 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 detective 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 a detective, 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—such things are common enough among gentlemen of a certain class."

Mimi thanked Madame Marigny and made her way back toward the river, her mind working through the connections she had uncovered. A Haitian gentleman with access to expensive paper, sending letters about debts to Gabriel Boudreaux, who had been frequenting the city's gambling houses. The outline of the situation was becoming clearer, but several crucial questions remained unanswered.

Baccarat Bob's establishment occupied the upper floors of a building on Royal Street, its entrance marked only by a discrete brass plaque and a doorman whose intimidating presence discouraged casual visitors. Mimi had no intention of attempting to enter—such places did not welcome women, regardless of their professional credentials—but she knew someone who could provide the information she needed.

She found Thomas Lafitte two blocks away, tending bar at a establishment that catered to river men and dock workers. Despite his surname, Thomas claimed no relation to the famous pirate brothers, though his knowledge of the Quarter's less respectable enterprises was comprehensive.

"Gabriel Boudreaux?" Thomas wiped down a glass with more attention than it required. "Yeah, I know him. Been coming around the past month or so, playing higher stakes than a smart man ought to."

"How much higher?"

"Started with twenty-dollar pots, worked his way up to hundreds. Last week, I heard he dropped near two thousand in a single evening." Thomas set down the glass and leaned against the bar. "Word is, he's been trying to chase his losses with bigger bets. Never works out well."

Two thousand dollars was a substantial sum—more than many working men earned in a year. "Has he been paying his debts?"

"That's where it gets interesting. Bob usually don't extend credit past thirty days, but Boudreaux's been getting special consideration. Seems he's got something Bob wants besides money."

Mimi felt her detective instincts sharpen. "What kind of something?"

"Cotton Exchange information. Advance word on votes, regulatory changes, that sort of thing. Bob's got business interests that benefit from knowing which way the wind's blowing before it starts blowing."

The situation was more complex than simple gambling debts. Gabriel Boudreaux wasn't just losing money—he was trading insider information to cover his losses, which meant the threatening letters might be about far more than unpaid gambling debts.

She returned to her office as the afternoon heat was settling over the Quarter like a heavy blanket. The shutters were drawn against the sun, leaving the room in comfortable dimness. Mimi settled behind her desk and spread out the information she had gathered, looking for the pattern that would reveal the true nature of the threat against Gabriel Boudreaux.

The door opened without ceremony, and a man stepped inside. He was well-dressed, as Dubois had described, with the bearing of someone accustomed to deference. His skin suggested mixed heritage—likely African and European, common enough in New Orleans but carrying social complications that varied depending on which community claimed him.

"Madame Delboise? I am Henri Dubois. I believe you have been inquiring about me."

Mimi didn't reach for the small pistol in her desk drawer, but she calculated the distance between her position and the weapon. "Indeed I have, Monsieur Dubois. Please, sit."

He took the chair recently vacated by Mrs. Boudreaux, his movements careful and controlled. "You are investigating the letters I have sent to Monsieur Boudreaux."

"I am investigating threats made against my client's husband. Whether those threats originated with you remains to be determined."

Dubois smiled, though there was no warmth in the expression. "You are careful with your words. Wise, in a woman who has chosen such an... unconventional profession."

"My profession requires precision, Monsieur Dubois. Perhaps you could provide some precision regarding your business with Gabriel Boudreaux?"

"Gladly." He reached into his coat—slowly, keeping his hands visible—and withdrew a leather portfolio. "I represent certain interests in Haiti. Coffee growers, sugar producers, merchants who trade with New Orleans. We have been... disadvantaged by recent changes in cotton exchange regulations."

He opened the portfolio and removed several documents. "Monsieur Boudreaux provided advance information about these regulatory changes. Information that allowed certain competitors to adjust their positions while our clients suffered substantial losses."

Mimi examined the documents—shipping manifests, letters of credit, trading records that showed a pattern of perfectly timed market transactions. "You're accusing him of insider trading."

"I am stating a fact. The question is what remedy might be appropriate for such... indiscretions."

"And the remedy you propose involves threatening letters?"

"The letters were intended to encourage voluntary restitution. My clients would prefer to resolve this matter privately, without involving either the authorities or the Cotton Exchange's disciplinary committee."

Mimi leaned back in her chair, reassessing the situation. "How much restitution are we discussing?"

"Fifty thousand dollars."

The sum was staggering—more than enough to destroy Gabriel Boudreaux financially and socially. "And if he refuses?"

"Then my clients will pursue other remedies. The Cotton Exchange takes violations of fiduciary duty very seriously. Criminal charges might also be appropriate."

Mimi studied Dubois's face, looking for tells that might indicate his intentions beyond what he was stating directly. "You've done your research, Monsieur Dubois. You know that fifty thousand dollars exceeds what a cotton factor might reasonably be expected to pay."

"Indeed. Which is why my clients might be willing to accept... alternative forms of compensation."

"Such as?"

"His cooperation. Advance information about future regulatory decisions. Monsieur Boudreaux has proven quite useful to others in this regard."

The true nature of the situation crystallized. This wasn't about punishment for past indiscretions—it was about ensuring future compliance. Dubois wasn't just collecting a debt; he was recruiting a permanent agent within the Cotton Exchange.

"I see." Mimi closed the portfolio and slid it back across the desk. "Thank you for your candor, Monsieur Dubois. I believe I understand the situation now."

"I hope you do, Madame. It would be unfortunate if misunderstandings led to... complications."

After he left, Mimi sat in the gathering darkness, considering her options. Gabriel Boudreaux was guilty of insider trading, but he was also being coerced into ongoing criminal activity. His wife had hired her to investigate threats, but the threats were legitimate responses to her husband's crimes. The case had no clean resolution—only choices between different types of damage.

Mrs. Boudreaux returned the following morning, her nervousness replaced by a determined calm that suggested she had spent the night preparing herself for unpleasant truths.

"You've discovered something," she said, settling into the same chair she had occupied two days earlier.

"I have." Mimi chose her words carefully. "Your husband has been gambling heavily and losing substantially. To cover his debts, he has been trading Cotton Exchange information to parties who use that information for illegal market manipulation."

Mrs. Boudreaux absorbed this without visible reaction. "How much does he owe?"

"The gambling debts are manageable—perhaps three thousand dollars. The larger problem is that he's being blackmailed by the parties who lost money due to his insider information. They want fifty thousand dollars or his cooperation in future market manipulation schemes."

"Fifty thousand..." Mrs. Boudreaux's composure finally cracked slightly. "We don't have fifty thousand dollars."

"Which is precisely the point. They don't want the money—they want your husband as a permanent source of inside information."

The silence stretched between them, filled with the weight of choices that had no good outcomes. Finally, Mrs. Boudreaux spoke.

"What are my options?"

"Limited. Your husband could confess to the Cotton Exchange and face disciplinary action, which would likely end his career but might provide some legal protection. He could attempt to continue the cooperation, which would eventually lead to more serious criminal charges. Or..."

"Or?"

"He could disappear. Leave New Orleans, assume a new identity, start over somewhere else."

Mrs. Boudreaux considered this. "What would you do, Madame Delboise?"

Mimi thought of her own husband, of the choices that had led to his death, of the compromises that seemed reasonable until their consequences became clear. "I would choose the option that allowed me to sleep at night. Money can be replaced. Reputations can be rebuilt. But moral compromises have a way of compounding until they destroy everything you thought you were protecting."

Two weeks later, Mimi read in the Times-Picayune that Gabriel and Céleste Boudreaux had departed New Orleans for an extended honeymoon in California. Their house in the Garden District had been quietly sold, their affairs settled through intermediaries. The Cotton Exchange noted his resignation with polite regret.

Henri Dubois had checked out of the Pension Marigny the same day, leaving no forwarding address.

Mimi's fee had been paid in full, along with a brief note thanking her for her discretion and expressing hope that she and Gabriel might find in California the fresh start that New Orleans had been unable to provide.

She folded the letter and placed it in her files, then turned her attention to the new case that had arrived that morning—something about a missing painting and a suspicious art dealer. Simple theft, most likely, though experience had taught her that in New Orleans, nothing was ever quite as simple as it first appeared.

Outside her window, the French Quarter continued its daily dance of commerce and intrigue, secrets and revelations, the eternal cycle of human ambition and consequence that provided the backdrop for her chosen profession. Somewhere in those narrow streets, another mystery was taking shape, another client was discovering that the truth they sought might not be the truth they wanted to find.

Mimi Delboise adjusted the tilt of her hat, checked her pocket watch, and prepared to meet whatever complications the day might bring.

The End.

From all of us here at the Elephant Island Chronicles, we hope you have enjoyed this original short story by Gio Marron. Until next time, stay curious.

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