Little Demon in the City of Light: A True Story of Murder and Mesmerism in Belle Epoque Paris (27 page)

Even in the case of an amoral person such as Gabrielle, hypnotism could not induce criminal activity, Brouardel asserted. Gabrielle’s behavior resulted from her own personal failings and was separate from any hypnotic suggestion.
“It did not enter, it could not enter, an instant in our minds that hypnotism and hypnotic suggestion could have intervened as a determining factor in the reproachable acts of Gabrielle Bompard,” the doctors asserted. Although Gabrielle presented symptoms of hysteria and was easily hypnotized, the doctors sided firmly with the Charcot camp and delivered a warning to those who would defend her at trial. Offering a preview of the testimony Charcot’s experts would give in support of the prosecution, the doctors said: “We repeat it, neither hypnotism, nor suggestion, is linked to the accomplishment of criminal acts.”

How, then, was the court to view Gabrielle? The doctors conceded she was a complex, incomplete woman, lacking a moral compass. She was a hysteric but she was not crazy and should not—on account of her mental condition—be excused from appearing in court. There was nothing in the doctors’ view that should prevent her being
brought to trial and held fully accountable for her actions.
“Gabrielle Bompard is not a sick person,” the doctors concluded. While she was impaired morally, she was intelligent enough to know right from wrong. “She should not then be considered as irresponsible of the acts that are attributed to her.”

At long last, chief Goron marched back into the Sûreté offices at 36, quai des Orfèvres in mid-March. He’d gotten back on his feet in late February, then took a couple of weeks in the south of France to regain his strength. Now he was welcomed with a round of press accolades.
Le Figaro
reminded its readers just how much his leadership had been missed. He’d shown foresight, daring, and consummate skill in his direction of the case:
“He knew by a series of inductions and deductions that were sharply contested how to reconstruct the entire crime in such a way that is proven correct today by the confessions.” Now this audacious bulldog was needed more than ever in the search for the phantomlike Michel Eyraud.

Tips poured in to the Sûreté but Eyraud’s scent had vanished. On a hunch Goron dispatched a couple of detectives to Mexico, where they wandered aimlessly. On April 26,
Le Gil Blas
declared that the fugitive was “unfindable.”

But Goron’s hunch was not so far off base. While Soudais and Houlier had been ambling around New York, Eyraud had been tracking their movements as much as they were tracking his. He was avidly reading the newspapers, keeping tabs on the agents, and cagily staying ahead of them. Finally he realized New York was too hot for a hunted man. In February he fled to Mexico and, unable to stay put, he made his way first to Havana.

He arrived at the height of carnival, and the streets were filled with music and dance. Bonfires roared, street performers entertained the crowds. Everyone gorged on empanadas and omelet fritters and roast pork and boiled plantains, and the rum and aguardiente flowed. Mysterious-looking men and women roamed the city in masks and costumes.

How easy it was to vanish here! Eyraud donned a disguise of his own. He was now a Polish silk merchant named Michel Gosski, and he had some fine pieces to sell—silks, fabrics, lace—articles he’d stolen in New York. He visited a dressmaking team, Michel Pucheu and his wife, Marie, and impressed them with his knowledge of the craft. He discoursed on the value of lace, both antique and modern. Madame Pucheu and her assistant, Albertine Biemler, were charmed by the newcomer. The Pucheus bought several items and begged the salesman to show them another piece he had praised at length. This one was an exquisite Oriental robe, unlike anything they would have ever seen, a masterpiece of fine Turkish handicraft. Unfortunately, Gosski told them, he didn’t have the robe with him, having left it with his other samples in Mexico. He’d forgotten it was carnival, and this extraordinary gown was perfect for the festival; any woman draped in it would attract many eyes.

Shortly after Gosski left, news reached Cuba that the Sûreté was searching for Eyraud in New York. The Pucheus read that the killer was believed to have fled to Mexico with some beautiful fabrics and silks he’d stolen. Their eyebrows rose when they saw that the fugitive had made off with a gorgeous Turkish robe exactly like the one their visitor had mentioned. They compared the newspaper’s description of Eyraud to the garrulous merchant they had entertained and realized that both men had large, powerful hands.

The Pucheus closely read the newspapers for developments in the Gouffé case, and soon they knew all the details of the Paris killing. Now they were curious about Gosski and slightly alarmed, but they didn’t see him for three months. Then, in the middle of May, he showed up and tried to talk Michel Pucheu into joining a partnership in a tobacco business in Mexico, an invitation Pucheu politely declined. Gosski then tried to write some fabric orders and take payment, saying he now represented a British company. But when the Pucheus asked to see his samples, he said he didn’t carry any; it wasn’t necessary because the British company was so well known around the world. Sprinkled in with his sales pitch were fascinating tales of his journeys in Mexico over the past several months.

When Gosski was asked about the beautiful Turkish robe—did he still have it?—he apologized, saying that he had sold it. But he promised to return the following day, this time with more details
about the tobacco partnership so the Pucheus could better understand its value.

Still uncertain whether Gosski was Eyraud, the Pucheus decided on a subtle strategy to find out. When he came back, Albertine asked him if on his adventures through Mexico he had encountered the elusive Eyraud. Michel and Marie Pucheu watched his reaction closely. At first, Gosski betrayed nothing. Oh, he knew about the case, he said, and went on at length about the Sûreté agents’ travels across America, even praising how skillfully Eyraud seemed to evade them. Then his face lost its color and he seemed dazed for several moments, before he recovered and resumed the conversation. But now he was preoccupied, as though something was racing through his mind. Marie and Albertine told Gosski they wanted to see a picture of this man Eyraud.
“All the newspapers have published it!” Gosski exclaimed. But the women insisted they hadn’t seen it.

Gosski stayed away for the next few days. In the meantime a horrific tragedy struck Havana. At 11:00 p.m. on Saturday, May 17, 1890, a fire erupted in a hardware store called Ysasi’s, sending volunteer firefighters racing to the scene. A crowd gathered to watch the brave souls—all from leading families of Havana—fight the inferno that lit up the night sky. Four fire chiefs directed the battle: the Venezuelan consul, Francesco Silva, looked on from the street. Inside the shop, the flames gradually crept toward a barrel of gunpowder and, without warning, a gigantic explosion rocked the neighborhood and incinerated the building. Flames leaped to nearby houses and the fire burned out of control. The four fire chiefs and the Venezuelan consul were killed, along with twenty-nine others. More than a hundred people were injured. Some locals were never accounted for. The governor-general and other top officials raced to the scene and their fancy carriages were used to cart away the injured. The next day charred limbs were still being carried out of the ruins. Shocked Cubans feared that hell had swept across the earth. Every year afterward, the catastrophe was marked with a solemn remembrance full of music and flowers. Houses were draped in mourning, flags were displayed, and the largest parade of the year would move through the city to the cemetery.

Two days after the disaster, Michel and Marie Pucheu and Albertine Biemler joined nearly the entire Havana population for a funeral service honoring the thirty-three known dead. The dressmakers were
in a miles-long procession when suddenly Gosski approached with a newspaper in his hands. Ignoring the tragedy—and obsessed by only one point—Gosski held out the paper, saying,
“Look, the portrait of Eyraud.” He explained that he had found the paper lying on a table at a Havana spot called Café du Louvre. It was a poor likeness that bore no resemblance to the man who stood in front of them. “Doesn’t he have the look of a scoundrel!” Gosski said. The paper was dated February, and even though it was three months old, it was in near-perfect condition, raising the Pucheus’ suspicions. How could the newspaper have been in such fine shape if it had been lying on a café table since February and passing through the hands of hundreds of patrons? Could Gosski have hoarded it himself, saving it in his private belongings? Did he have a special interest in the Gouffé case that drove him to collect newspaper clippings about it?

Gosski’s behavior was certainly peculiar, but the Pucheus still weren’t convinced that he was the fugitive murderer. This Polish silk merchant was alarming enough, however, that they brought their concerns to François de Ripert-Monclar, the French consul general.

Immediately the consul general flew into action, first by alerting the Havana police. Then he started searching consular records for a Frenchman living in Havana who might be able to identify Michel Eyraud if he were hauled in, and by a miraculous coincidence just such a man existed: Ernest Gautier had worked for six months at the Joltrois and Eyraud winery in Sèvres, unwittingly assisting Eyraud and his friend Rémy-François Launé in their scam. Gautier would certainly recognize his former boss.

But how to find Gautier? The consul general remembered that a former consulate employee named Hagerman was friendly with Gautier and likely knew his habits. So Hagerman was put on the prowl and caught up with Gautier as he was going into the Café du Louvre. Hagerman informed the former winery worker that the consul wanted to see him immediately. Rushing off to the consulate, Gautier was alarmed to learn that Eyraud was possibly in Havana. He had read about the Gouffé murder and, having already lived through the disaster of the distillery, preferred never to see Eyraud again. But he promised the consul that he would keep his eyes open.

It turned out that Gautier didn’t have to look far. At around ten that very same evening, he got the surprise of his life when he suddenly found himself face-to-face with the murderer in a Havana park. Eyraud identified himself not as Gosski or Garico or Vanaerd or Moulié but by his real name. Wary, Gautier pretended not to know him. But Eyraud persisted, rattling off details about the Joltrois and Eyraud winery and Gautier’s work there. When Gautier finally acknowledged his former boss, Eyraud leaned on their past relationship to beg him for help. Eyraud needed money—and he needed to flee. Frantic, he hurled questions at Gautier: How could he get loans
in Cuba? Would he have to establish a fake name to do so? And would he need to visit the consulate to prove his identity? And would he need a witness to go with him? Gautier didn’t like the direction of the conversation. And Eyraud refused to let him go.

“Gautier, I saw you earlier at the Café du Louvre,” Eyraud said. “I heard a man with a black beard tell you the consul wanted to see you right away.” Gautier realized that Eyraud had seen Hagerman, the consul’s messenger. “I’ve been following you,” Eyraud said. He had trailed Gautier to the consulate and waited outside, then followed him to the park.

Feeling trapped, Gautier tried to reason with Eyraud, but the murderer was desperate. Gautier agreed to go somewhere to talk—someplace public, Gautier thought, a crowded place, the Café du Louvre.

“I don’t have any illusions,” the fugitive told Gautier at the café. “I am a marked man.” He needed to get out of the country, but he had only thirteen francs. He begged Gautier to give him some money. Gautier, protected by the crowd in the café, felt safe putting him off, saying he had very little cash with him. Tomorrow, he promised, he would bring Eyraud enough money to send him on his way. Wild-eyed, Eyraud asked what Gautier would do if he found himself in a similar position. And then he cried: Help me!

As they left Café du Louvre, around midnight, Eyraud took Gautier’s arm and tried to steer him toward the quiet side streets. Gautier stood his ground. Alarmed yet trying to keep his composure, he explained that Havana wasn’t a safe place and they had better keep close to the crowds. But the powerful Eyraud was dragging him, and Gautier realized the man was beyond reason. Gautier had only one thought: to get away. But he had to be crafty—who knew what Eyraud might do? As a free hackney rolled by, Gautier seized the moment. He bolted from Eyraud in one sudden move and climbed into the carriage, leaving the murderer abandoned on the street. But Gautier was so terrified he didn’t go to the police and didn’t seek out the consul. Eyraud had so unnerved him that Gautier could not think straight: He just went home and trembled. The next day he was still too frightened to go to the consulate, fearing that Eyraud would be lying in wait for him. Finally he went instead to see the president of the French Chamber of Commerce, a man named Dussaq, who
alerted the Cuban civil governor, Rodríguez Batista, who also served as the prefect of police.

Dussaq informed the French consul of Gautier’s encounter with Eyraud. So now it was a fact: The murderer was in Havana. But the consul could not arrest a French citizen on Cuban territory without a warrant from France, or a telegram indicating that a warrant existed. It would take at least a day to secure the necessary paperwork and by then Eyraud might have fled. Understanding the urgency, Batista dispensed with formalities and ordered Eyraud’s arrest on his own authority. Havana’s second chief of police, Antonio Pérez-López, was put in charge of hunting down the fugitive and bringing him in. Pérez-López and his men swarmed the Hotel Roma where, Gautier had gleaned, Eyraud was staying. The hotel register showed no one by the name of Eyraud, but Pérez-López discovered that a Michel Gosski who fit the description of Eyraud had left the hotel at ten that morning with two trunks after paying his bill of eighty francs. It was curious that a man so used to skipping out on his bills stopped to pay this one—and it raised a troubling question: Did Eyraud have enough money to flee Havana? Clearly he had lied to Gautier about his dire financial condition.