No Good Deed 4

The horse-drawn vehicle came to a precipitate halt at the corner of 21st Street, up ahead Jefferson Pratte Avenue crossed Olive Street, it looked a more likely place for a sporting establishment than anything immediately visible. The driver leapt from the cab, tossing the reins to the fellow who had taken my money. I disembarked myself, proposing to follow the driver. First, however, I approached the fellow newly-charged with the responsibility for the vehicle.

'This seems a strange way of operating transportation, sir.' I said.

'Conductor got the money, friend, may as well give him charge o' thuther val-ya-bles.'

How bizarre I found this American trait of appropriating the musical for almost any purpose. A jog-trot sufficed to place myself sufficiently close to the delinquent driver to follow without arousing too much suspicion. My quarry, head well forward and shoulders hunched, walked as though in a hurry for some appointment, looking neither left or right. 21st Street became Mercer Street and the man passed someone who might well have been his twin, judging by the clothing and demeanour. Each growled a greeting to the other and within short moments my fellow had entered a building on the left. I found myself at the threshold of a house that most assuredly was not yellow.

It was brick; dull, smoke-discoloured, common brick – the building, had it been named for any colour, would surely have been 'The Ochre House.' Grey pilasters flanked a less than ostentatious door. There was no handle or knob to the exterior, nor any name-plate. Two brass digits were affixed to the un-prepossesing brick on the left of the door. Below the number 13 was a bell pull. Operation of this rewarded me with a wait of some minutes, whereupon the door opened to the minimum extent required for a wall-eye to take account of myself.

'I am informed that these are the premises known as The Yellow House, is it so?'

The eye disappeared with the closure of the door. This estate lasted no more than the blink of a more prepossessing eye than the one recently encountered.

The door opened wide to disclose a woman. Tall, by any estimation, she was elegantly dressed by the standards of St Louis. A long skirt with a minimum of crinoline, with much less flare than would be considered usual in Paris or London. It gave a pleasing bulk to her figure in the appropriate places and flattered an already slim waist. A face belonging to a woman of relatively mature years crowned this impressive shape, but that was not the most striking thing about the woman. Her complexion was a thing of beauty, no artifice – whether cream or powder - hid any blemish. For there were none. And the colour was beautiful – that of a light butter caramel. I should have said that she was what many, including the recently arrived driver, would have termed an “Octaroon”. Evidently, the establishment was named in her honour.

Her voice was like the mellow tones of an oboe,

'Welcome stranger, we are glad you did not pass by.'