The Alchemy of Murder
Read The Alchemy of Murder Online
Authors: Carol McCleary
To Junius Podrug,
my mentor and incredible friend,
this book is in honor of you.
Without you, Nellie would never
have been rediscovered.
CONTENTS
Praise for
The Alchemy of Murder
Journal of Nellie Bly Paris, October 27, 1889
“I have never feared any man as much as I fear the man in black. His is an evil that seeks blood in the darkest places of gaslit streets and forgotten alleys…”
Until the discovery of the manuscript containing this passage, these words written by Nellie Bly, the world’s first female investigative reporter, were kept secret. The French government decided over a hundred years ago that knowledge of gruesome deeds and a diabolical plan should die with her and others who shared her secrets—Jules Verne, the creator of science fiction, Louis Pasteur, the great microbe hunter who battled deadly creatures invisible to the naked eye, and the wonderfully flamboyant and witty Oscar Wilde.
We are confident that once the reader is acquainted with the contents of this manuscript, they will appreciate the reason for the secrecy.
While the editors of this work wish first and foremost to protect the reputation of Nellie against the baseless accusations that she has not been entirely candid in this “lost manuscript” about her adventures in Paris, and about the serious events that took place, we are also forced to counter accusations that we had in some manner “concocted” this tale from Nellie’s previous writings and a liberal use of historical facts. As the ensuing litigation over the ownership of the manuscript revealed, it was found in a metal box during demolition of the building that had housed the newspaper that employed Nellie Bly, the
New York World
.
The editors admit to having made modest corrections to the manuscript before submitting it for publication (Nellie was a terrible speller), but we want the reader to rest assured that they may compare our truth and veracity to that attributed to the lioness of literature, Lillian Hellman, by none other than Mary McCarthy.
T
HE
E
DITORS
Paris, October 27, 1889
I have never feared any man as much as I fear the man in black. His is an evil that seeks blood in the darkest places of gaslit streets and forgotten alleys. The Alchemist, is how I’ve come to think of him—like a medieval chemist trying to turn lead into gold or seeking the elixir of life, he has a passion for the dark side of knowledge, mixing murder and madness with science. What purpose he has for the broth he’s brewing I’ve yet to discover, but in an age where many young doctors are following the footsteps of Dr. Pasteur in searching for benefits to mankind in their laboratories, a man who uses his microscope to concoct evil … well, I fear his ambitions are of the most preternatural sort.
My name is Nellie Bly, though it isn’t my birth name. I had to adopt a pen name because the common wisdom is that newspaper reporting is no job for a lady. As an investigative reporter for Mr. Pulitzer’s
New York World
, I’ve chased many strange tales and written of things that seared my soul, but on this night I’m questioning my own sanity as I set out to track a killer at Montmartre, a notorious hillside overlooking Paris.
Through intuition, a little information, and perhaps a great deal of imprudence, I’ve followed his gruesome deeds from New York to London and now Montmartre—the hillside Parisians call “La Butte,” noted for artists and poets and its Jezebel streets, where men buy empty shouts of pleasure and women lose the shine on their souls.
As a carriage carries me down dark cobblestone streets on my hunt for a madman, I can’t help but worry about the task I’ve set out for myself. No matter how hard I try to find good sense in my plan, nothing comes to mind. Thinking about what I may face this gloomy night gives me the shivers. “A goose walked over your grave,” my mother always said whenever I got cold chills. Not a pleasant thought on this dreary night.
Streets wet from an earlier drizzle glisten where sallow glow from gaslights reach. Now the night air tastes damp as a fine gray mist falls.
Had Mr. Dickens wrote about Paris today, he would no doubt find that this is not the best, but the worst of times. The City of Light is racked with attacks by anarchists out to destroy civilized government while a deadly pestilence sweeps in from the East, striking down people like the Grim Reaper wielding his bloody scythe.
With the city besieged by a plague of violence and sickness, no one will listen to my warning that another evil stalks the city. I am left with no other choice but to go out alone to bring the beast to bay.
The German doctor.
That’s what we called him at the madhouse on Blackwell’s Island because of his accent and clothes, although we knew nothing about his background or nationality. What I do know is that he’s evil, a depraved monster lusting for the blood of women.
Since his preference for victims are prostitutes, I’ve dressed the part.
I boldly bought from a Montmartre streetwalker a jaded black dress that plunges immodestly at the neck, with the hemline a scandalous six inches above my naked ankles. Despite a vigorous washing, it still bears a scent of cheap rose water. A wool shawl, trashy red lipstick, and a vulgar swish that would erupt fire and brimstone in a Baptist minister complete my costume. Having donned many disguises—from ballet dancer to elephant trainer, servant girl and thief—I pride myself on authenticity.
I’ve learned a great deal about the Alchemist since my first encounter with him in New York. For a time I thought he was simply a rabid beast who murdered women for satanic pleasures, but now I believe his acts of madness cloak a diabolical plan and the test tubes and microscopes in his laboratory play a sinister role.
My carriage pulls to a curb at the destination I gave the driver. The time has come to test my plan—along with my courage and resolve.
The cabby has a lumpish face devoid of sensibility. He leers at me and does a vulgar half whistle-click sound with his lips and teeth as he takes my money. “Good hunting, Mademoiselle.”
He thinks I’m a streetwalker. Good. I’ve passed the first test and this gives me a bit more confidence, but as I step down from the carriage I find myself praying for my nerves to hold.
I’m in an area I’ve gauged the man in black will be hunting for his prey. Normally it would be filled with people, but because of a fall carnival at Place Blanche, I’m walking up a deserted street. The damp chill closes in on me and I pull my shawl snugger.
Paris is an ancient, urbane city with graceful, curving streets and wide boulevards, but its bastard child Montmartre is a cranky old woman with bulges and lumps; streets are narrow and crowded with small shops, sidewalk cafés, and the cheap hovels of artists and writers. Roads accommodating carriages stop halfway up the hillside, then blend into a maze of narrow alleys and stairwells shaded with moss-covered weeping willows and clusters of creeping vines.
Nothing about the Montmartre is considered respectable by decent society; the immorality and depravities of its bohemian inhabitants is a scandal known throughout the world. Its reputation is further tarnished by the crimes and social ills of the
marquis
, an area of dank shacks in which the phrase “unwashed masses” is not a literary allegory but a description of the inhabitants.