The Alchemy of Murder (13 page)

“Anarchists,” a prostitute says with disgust.

From the curses hollered back from the crowd and the instant arguments that arise from the girls in the police wagon, I can see everyone has an opinion about whether the country needs another revolution.

Without warning a man steps out of a corner café and hurls a beer bottle at the anarchists. A revolutionary jumps down, fists begin to fly, and in seconds there is bedlam in the square as shouts for revolution resound against shouts for death to revolutionaries.

Our police wagon surges forward, but behind us Lussac and his officers with clubs get out of their carriage to join the
mêlée
. The political controversy remains with us as two prostitutes arguing opposite sides turn to hair pulling.

I sit quietly in my corner as the other girls pull the combatants apart, but words of the revolutionaries stay with me. My days as a factory girl were marked by strikes, injuries to workers, and layoffs. I don’t like to think about what happens to families when factories close. Losing one’s job—whether it be in Paris, New York, or London—ultimately has one consequence: desperation. Often times, starvation sets in.
*

While my heart goes out to the workers, I don’t condone violence.

The anarchists are particularly violent in their approach to changing the social system, advocating the extermination of all political leaders in the hope their deaths will cause governments to fall. Yet, when the government falls and the new leadership takes over an interesting phenomena happens—they become what they revolted against.

I still wonder why my man in black wears the red of anarchy. It’s a disguise? Or is he an active anarchist?

I ask one of the girls why we’re being unloaded at a precinct house and not taken directly to police headquarters.

“We’ll be processed here. Only those who can’t set bond or who are wanted for other crimes will be taken to the central jail.”

It seems only fitting that rain starts falling just before we make it up a set of worn stone steps. A policeman leads us into an austere high-ceilinged room and has us line up to be physically measured by the Bertillon method. I’m familiar with the criminal identification method invented by Alphonse Bertillon when he was a young clerk in the Sûreté. Called “anthropometry,” it’s a system of body measurements. A surer method would be to photograph suspects, but photography is expensive and time consuming.

As soon as a girl is measured, she goes to another line where an officer at a desk questions her about her charges.

When my turn comes, measurements are taken of my head, feet, two fingers, arm span, forearm, and torso. With fourteen different measurements taken, the odds of any two people having the same exact measurements are nearly three hundred million to one. It’s a much more improved system of identification than having criminals line up in front of detectives to see if any of the officers recognize them as past offenders.

Another new criminal identification system, favored by Scotland Yard, is based upon claims that each person’s fingerprints are unique. In 1880, Henry Faulds, a Scottish physician, proposed the idea of using fingerprints for identification. Faulds fortuitously became the first person to catch a criminal with fingerprint identification. Working in Tokyo, he identified a thief by fingerprints the man left on a cup. Truly amazing. But it’s the anthropometry system that’s in use throughout Europe.

As my measurements are taken with a tailor’s tape, I make a quick assessment of my predicament. Mr. Pulitzer’s heart beats with the same rhythm as the circulation numbers for his newspaper. His heart will turn stone cold when circulation drops because his
girl
reporter is humiliated and ridiculed by other newspapers. Especially when they’ll have fun satirizing about “mi’lord” and his burned Long Tom. This bogus arrest will not only severely damage my career, but it will get the biggest laugh from those in newspaper circles who want to see a woman reporter fail. I’ve got to get out of this mess.

My first concern is how to deal with Chief Inspector Morant. Perhaps I should disarm him with my knowledge of the Sûreté. Its history is a romantic one involving a notorious thief, the Emperor Napoléon, and the first detective agency. It began early in the century when Empress Josephine’s necklace, given to her by Napoléon, was stolen.

A thief, Eugène-François Vidocq, was in prison. He convinced the police that the best way to catch a thief was with a thief and made a deal with them—he would recover the necklace in return for a pardon. He recovered the necklace and was permitted to create a new police agency—the
police de sûreté
, the “security police.” He organized a network of spies and informers that infiltrated the criminal milieu and brought the first women into police work, including the notorious “Violette,” a highly paid prostitute.

Vidocq’s colorful life was immortalized—Victor Hugo modeled his relentless policeman, Inspector Javert, in
Les Misérables
, after him; Balzac the criminal genius, Vautrin, in
The Human Comedy
. The first detective story,
The Murders in the Rue Morgue
, by Edgar Allan Poe, was inspired by Vidocq. After leaving the Sûreté, Vidocq opened the world’s first private detective agency.

“Name?”

My turn has come at the processing desk.

“Nellie Bly.”

The officer quickly checks a list without looking up. “I don’t find your name. What are your charges?” He looks up with a deadpan face as if this is the thousandth time today he has asked the question.

“Unlicensed prostitution, but—”

“Yes, yes, I know, you’re innocent, they all are. Prior offenses?”

“Of course not.”

“Then you may set bond. Do you have five francs?”

“Fi—five francs? Yes, I have it.” I quickly glance behind me, fearful that Detective Lussac will walk in at any moment.

The officer scribbles on a piece of paper. “This is your receipt. List your address, sign here. If you fail to appear before the court in three days, you’ll be arrested and charged with obstructing the work of the police. Next.”

Keeping my face blank and fighting my feet from taking flight, I walk out of the station house like someone trying to make it to a toilet. My mind is reeling. When I reach the street, a carriage pulls up and a middle-aged man with the bearing of a military officer steps out. He’s dressed in top hat, tails, white tie, and carrying an ivory handled cane. He stares at my harlot’s dress as I sweep by him to step into the carriage he just vacated.

“Pardon,” I mumble, keeping my head down.

“Mademoiselle.” He tips his hat and proceeds to go up the steps.

As my carriage pulls away another carriage draws up and I hear excited British voices. I lean out the window to look—
big mistake
. Eye contact is made with the mi’lord who has the burned Long Tom. I quickly stick my head back in the carriage.

“The Grand Hotel,” I tell the driver. “
Please hurry
, my … my baby is sick. I’ll double your fare”

He gives me a dubious look but gets the carriage moving. As with a hanson cab, the driver of a fiacre is mounted at the rear of the two-wheel carriage with the reins going over the roof. A trapdoor on the roof is used to speak to passengers. He leaves the trapdoor open and stares down at me as if he thinks I’m going to steal the seat.

I smile up at him. “Can you imagine? I dressed as a prostitute for the fair and was arrested by mistake.”

His expression doesn’t give me confidence that he believes me and I change the subject.

“Who was that distinguished gentleman you dropped off?”

“Monsieur Morant.”

He confirms my suspicion.

“Chief Inspector of the Sûreté. He always gets his man.” Once again he gives me a look of doubt. “Or woman.”

17

As my carriage rumbles along, I think about my next move. I’m a foreigner wanted by the police. Short of me being guillotined, my consequences will be grave. I could lose my career and freedom. Not even the influential Mr. Pulitzer can intervene if I’m tried for flaunting French justice.

I have only one reasonable recourse—to leave the country at once.

“Pull over here,” I tell the driver, even though we are several blocks away from my hotel.

After doubling the fare and adding an appropriate gratuity sacrosanct to cabbies everywhere, I enter an all-night telegraph office and send a telegram to my hotel instructing them to arrange passage for me on the morning train to Le Havre and the New York steamer leaving in two days. I also instruct them to pack my bags and forward same to the station.

Satisfied that I have taken the proper steps, I engage another cab to take me back up the Butte to Place Pigalle. My destination is farther up the hill, but I’ll tread the rest of the way on Shanks’ mare rather than risk leaving a trail for the police to follow.

Obviously I have no intention of abandoning my investigation. It’s not only against my principles, but failure is unacceptable. The telegram is a ruse for the police. Since Lussac and the assiduous Inspector Morant know the charges against me are trumped up, I suspect they’ll be satisfied if they believe I’ve left the city with my tail between my legs.

As for the slasher … I’ll just have to take my chances and pray the gods will continue to watch over me.

Checking into another hotel is out of the question. I’d have to show my passport and use my real name, not to mention my clothes will arouse suspicion. Even though I’ve brushed most of the dirt from my black dress and my heavy shawl covers it, it still won’t fare well under hotel lights. The lack of luggage will also draw suspicion.

I have no choice but to find alternative accommodations. I know of a place that’s available, even though it’s not to my liking. David Bailey, Mr. Jones’s replacement as the
World
’s Paris correspondent, receives a stingy stipend that provides for a Montmartre garret. Since he is on assignment in French Algeria covering a rebellion, the room is mine if I want it.

I had visited the building my first day in the city, but after learning I’d have to climb six flights of stairs to an attic room and that the building lacks a convenience facility—I would have to lug my bedpan down six flights of stairs each day to empty it in a hole above the sewer—I declined the room, sight unseen.

Knowing Paris is an ancient city adds to its charm, except when one considers the lack of elevators and toilet facilities in its tenements and public buildings. The hotel I was staying at is considered the lap of luxury because on every floor, for each ten rooms, there is a water closet. I’m going to miss that place.

Despite the lateness of the hour, Place Pigalle has not gone to sleep. Lounging in doorways and leaning against buildings are prostitutes … waiting for customers. As the shifts change at the Les Halles slaughterhouses, workers covered with blood and mud, puffing on cheap cigarettes and keeping warm with wine, will come into the square to buy a few moments of easy pleasure.

Above the Rue de Abbesses there are no gas street lamps in sight, just complete darkness. I pull my shawl tighter and trudge up a narrow alley and steep, slippery stone stairways. I really hate being alone in the dark and pick up my pace. I just want to be in a bed, all nice and cozy and warm and away from any monsters.

When I arrive at Mr. Bailey’s tenement, I take a moment to compose my thoughts. I know my entrance will be explosive.

Between ten o’clock at night and six o’clock in the morning you must contact the building concierge for entry. The method is crude, but effective: one pulls on a rope at the front door which rings a bell in the concierge’s apartment above. As might be expected, concierges are not fond of having their sleep disturbed by late arriving residents. And I’m told these apartment house managers have an evil reputation in the city.

Parisians complain endlessly of the doings of concierges when you run out of favor with them. If you’re out, your friends can be sent up several flights of stairs to discover you’re not home—or sent away, assured that you’re out, when in fact you’re awaiting them. Letters go astray. Malicious rumors about you are spread around the neighborhood.

I had the displeasure of meeting Mr. Bailey’s concierge, Madame Malon, during my earlier visit. She was not a pleasant encounter even during daylight hours. Her disposition reminds me of buttermilk—slightly sour. In truth, her pale face is uneven and spotted like buttermilk. I dread to think what I’m going to encounter when I awaken her tonight for admission after midnight—I’ll be slapping Medusa in the face.

The only thing that warms the coddles of a concierge’s heart, besides the untimely death of a tenant whose apartment can be rented for more money, is demanding gratuities from late arriving tenants. Tonight, I’m sure I will be paying dearly.

I pull the rope and wait for the ill wind. A moment passes before the wooden shutters to the window directly above the door fly open and Medusa pokes her head of snakes out.

“
What do you want?
”