Doctor Death (18 page)

I brought out the glass jars with Father Abigore’s specimens. The pale growths floating in the alcohol looked more like some kind of marine polyps than something that had once been a part of a human being.

“Alcohol or formaldehyde?” he asked.

“Alcohol,” I said, again a bit apologetically. Formaldehyde preserved better because it killed the bacteria instead of just slowing their growth. But it was also more expensive.

“All the better!” he said enthusiastically.

He was right, of course, I suddenly realized. Precisely because it was
not
formaldehyde, the chance of finding some kind of bacterial remnant was significantly greater.

The professor fished the infected tissue from the jar and with practiced, precise cuts sliced through one of the abscesses. I prepared a new set of petri dishes with gelatin and transferred what I hoped was sufficient bacterial material to begin a cultivation.

After a fairly humble lunch—just a cold platter of pâté and Brie that Elise had fetched from Dreischer & Son—we returned to the laboratory to observe the results. Professor Dreyfuss seized the first petri dish, from one of the wolves, and without comment I handed him the solution of methylene-blue alcohol and caustic potash that we used for bacterial identification.

The microscope was back in its usual place on one of the workbenches.

“It is not from Zeiss, unfortunately,” I apologized.

“Dear mademoiselle, it is a fine instrument and entirely sufficient,” said the professor somewhat distractedly, while he adjusted the lens. “Hmmm. Yes. Hmmm.” The last was apparently a running, unconscious commentary to what he was observing.

“Have a look,” he said, and waved at my father with one hand while still crouched over the apparatus himself.

“Yes,” said my father. “Clear chains . . . and quite a lot of them.”

“Is it streptococcus?” I asked, and had to hold myself back from pushing both men aside so I could get a look. “May I . . . ?”

The professor gallantly took a step away from the microscope. “Of course.”

The methyl had taken effect and had colored the bacteria, and I could clearly see the drop-shaped microorganisms and the short S-chains they formed. When Pasteur described streptococcus for the first time, he had compared the bacteria chain to a rosary. However, these chains were shorter, in some cases only a single pair.

“Some kind of micrococcus,” said my father. “I am not sure which. It is a bit like Fehleisen’s erysipelas-causing bacteria but . . .”

“Micrococci can be frighteningly difficult to distinguish one from another,” said the professor. “We still know too little about their various forms. And even less about their effect.”

“Rosenbach describes erysipelas bacteria as fern shaped, while pyogene cocci are supposed to look like acacia leaves,” I said.

“Pyogene micrococci might cause pyaemic lung abscesses,” said the professor thoughtfully.

“Apparently not in wolves,” said my father dryly.

“No. You are right about that.”

All the wolf samples showed traces of micrococci. It was time to turn to Father Abigore’s samples. I did not have the greatest expectations for the tissue samples that the professor now—somewhat disrespectfully—simply referred to as the “priestly abscesses.” Not after the freezing, and after that, the alcohol solution. However, the professor studied the culture even longer and even more intensely than he had done the wolf samples, all the while accompanying his efforts with his unconscious “Hmmm. Hmmm.”

“Well,” he said at last, “the material is of course not the best,
but . . . well, have a look.” His gaze fell on me when he said it. My father and I almost bumped into each other because I followed his encouragement.

“Maddie!” said my father, surprised and perhaps a touch annoyed. He was not used to my pushing ahead.

“Pardon me,” I said. “I was too eager . . .”

His smile was warm but also overbearing.

“Do calm down,” he said. “I will let you have your turn in a minute . . .”

While he bent over the sought-after microscope, I felt a certain unfamiliar irritation. It was not just my usual impatience; it was that I did not want his permission, I wanted the
right.
Laboratory work was more than just an odd and rather unsuitable hobby for me. It was a part of the profession I was planning to devote my life to, regardless of what my father thought.

I realized that the professor was observing me again, and I wondered whether my rebellious thought was visible. I quickly pushed it back where it came from, as if it were a strap from a chemise that was not supposed to be visible to the general public.

“There
is
something,” said my father. “But whether it is the same organism . . . is difficult to determine.”

Finally it was my turn. And I could see why neither of them would speak categorically. The growth was poor, the pigmentation weak, and the morphology consequently difficult to determine. All the same, a conviction was born in me that was no doubt entirely unscientific.

It
was
the same bacteria. It had inhabited the wolves without making them sick, but it had been deadly for Cecile Montaine—and would presumably have killed Father Abigore had not someone got to him first with a coal shovel.

Rodolphe Descartier looked at me with a certain lack of enthusiasm.

“I understand that you wish to discuss a deposit?” he said.

“Not really.”

“No?” He frowned. “Did Monsieur Lavalle misunderstand something?”

“No.” I cleared my throat. I was not used to this kind of deception and forward behavior. “I am afraid I misled Monsieur Lavalle. You see, I am here because you were engaged to Cecile Montaine.”

His reaction to this simple statement was extraordinary. A scarlet tide surged across his otherwise pale skin, and he got up clumsily from his stool behind the counter.

“How dare you!” He gasped. “Leave. Now. At once!”

His outburst provoked curious glances in the bank, which neither he nor I cared for.

“Unfortunately, I cannot help you,” he said in a more normal tone of voice.

“I think you misunderstand me,” I said quietly. “The Commissioner was of the opinion that it was better if you and I were to discuss a banking matter quietly. But if you would prefer a more official inquiry, then I am sure . . .”

“No,” he said. “You are right. If you would come this way?” He lifted a part of the counter and indicated that I should follow him.

It was hardly likely that all apprentice clerks in Varonne Commerce could just walk into the assistant director’s office and say, “Excuse me, Maurice . . . I need to discuss something with this young lady . . .”

But though Rodolphe Descartier might officially still be a lowly clerk, the assistant bank director knew very well that it was only a matter of time before this gangly and still somewhat
pimply-faced twenty-year-old would be sitting in the director’s office next door. He got up and bowed politely in my direction.

“Of course. Mademoiselle, will you have a seat? Would you like tea or coffee? Or perhaps a glass of sherry?”

“Thank you very much. A cup of tea if it is not too much trouble.”

“Not at all. I will see to it.”

After which he managed to turn over his office to the bank apprentice and his “young lady” without it in any way seeming awkward. Clearly a man with a well-developed sense of diplomacy.

Rodolphe Descartier was not nearly as well versed in this area. He stared at me with poorly disguised affront.

“What is it you want, then?” he asked.

“We are attempting to track Cecile’s movements in the weeks before her death.”

“Why?” Again the lurid flush as if the sound of her name alone initiated processes he could not control.

“It is of critical importance for the public health,” I said with all the authority I could muster. “We need to trace the infection Cecile died from. I will also need to take a specimen from your nostrils.” It was probably best not to mention the mites.

“Nostrils?”

“Yes.”

Did I imagine it, or did he look relieved?

“I am not sick,” he said.

“Nevertheless . . .”

“Oh, very well. If it is only my nose you are concerned about . . .”

“The Commissioner appreciates your cooperation.” The Commissioner had no idea I was there. But
if
he had known, he would definitely have appreciated it, I assured myself.

We had found no traces of mites anywhere in Cecile’s circle of acquaintances either in Varbourg or at the Bernardine School,
and Cecile had not displayed any sign of illness before her disappearance. I needed to study both Koch’s and Fehleisen’s work with micrococci more closely, but I seemed to remember that they reproduced quite quickly when they became pathogens. Therefore, it was most likely that the mite invasion had occurred after Cecile’s disappearance, perhaps as a result of long and close contact with Emile Oblonski. But he had not yet been found in spite of Marot’s search, neither “healthy, sick, dead, or alive” as the Commissioner had expressed it, and we could therefore not be sure.

In other words, I did not expect to find much in Rodolphe Descartier’s nose apart from thoroughly normal nasal discharge. But if I did find mites . . . then it would suggest that he had been in contact with Cecile after she had disappeared. And that would be an extremely interesting piece of news for both the Commissioner and Police Inspector Marot.

I got out my loupe, my mirror, and a fresh pipette. Descartier looked, if possible, even less enthusiastic. His Adam’s apple, already fairly prominent, moved uneasily under the skin of his throat.

“What do I need to do?” he asked.

“Lean your head back and relax.”

I directed the lamp at his face and bent over him. He smelled strongly of cologne and shaving cream, and once again I noticed how the blood rushed into the tiny capillaries of his facial epidermis. His breathing became quicker and more shallow, and that was probably what suddenly made me perceive this simple examination, which I had performed literally hundreds of times before, as something far more invasive and private.

“I am sorry,” I said. “But it really
is
necessary.”

He went along with having his nostrils and throat illuminated, but when I directed the pipette at his second nostril, he suddenly jerked his head aside and batted at my arm.

“No,” he said. “That will have to do.”

His flailing blow had been uncommonly hard, enough so that I had dropped the pipette. I picked it up. The glass tube was full of clear, only slightly white fluid, and I could not immediately see any sign of mites.

At that moment there was a knock on the door.

“Come in,” said Descartier, thankful for the interruption, I think, and slightly out of breath.

It was the tea, arranged on a small trolley, which was being pushed across the threshold by a middle-aged woman the size of a sparrow.

“Milk or lemon?” she asked as she poured a strong orange-colored liquid into the cups.

“Lemon,” I said. “One sugar.”

Apparently she did not need to ask Descartier. His cup received a generous helping of milk before she retreated with a small curtsy.

A short pause ensued while we sipped the tea.

“I apologize for my behavior,” said Descartier at last. “Cecile is a painful memory.”

“I understand that, of course,” I said. “Was that why you did not attend the funeral?”

He looked up sharply. “Yes. I . . . did not feel up to it.”

He was lying. I couldn’t say exactly how I knew he was lying, but he was. It was not just the blush that raced across his face again. After all, it seemed to appear almost constantly. Perhaps it was something about his voice.

“Have they determined precisely what kind of infection it was . . . ?” he asked, his eyes rigidly focused on his teacup. And then it dawned on me. I suddenly understood why he had been so relieved when he realized that it was “only his nose” that I wanted to examine.

“Not yet,” I lied. “But we know that it is primarily transmitted by certain forms of intimate contact.”

He choked on his tea. Orange droplets sprayed the assistant director’s desk.