The Alchemy of Murder (19 page)

A small voice of conscience questions the ethics of how I gained his aid. I push aside the voice and instead tell myself what I’m doing is for the greater good.

As we walk away from our café we can still hear anarchists and police noisily disagreeing over who will run the world. Right now I believe the police have the upper hand and I secretly hope Louise Michel has escaped their grasp. Jules’ voice seems to have lost its edge as he asks me about my visit to Dr. Dubois.

“What did the doctor tell you about the prostitute’s death?”

I quickly sketch my interview with the young doctor and conclude, “He found no signs of violence on the body of the dead woman. He said there was a strange decay to her internal organs.”

“A decay?”

“Yes. He analogized it to what happens to animal and vegetable matter in a sewer. In fact, his theory is that fumes from the sewers are the cause of the condition, the Black Fever crisis. I’m not a doctor, but it did strike me as strange that I saw this woman alive with every appearance of being as healthy as me, and minutes later she’s dead of a fever.”

“Were there any unusual marks on her? A needle mark or—?”

“Yes!” It just struck me. “I do remember a scratch on her left shoulder. The first time I saw it was when I looked at her body in the police wagon. When he flung back the curtain in that lab of his I saw it again, but I was so shocked I forgot to ask him about it. However, I did ask him if he found any needle marks and he said no.”

“A scratch might be an effective way to administer a poison.”

“Doctor Dubois doesn’t believe she died from poison. He said that if it’s a poison, it’s the rarest variety, something he’s never heard of. He also couldn’t find those little animals Doctor Pasteur sees under a microscope.”

“Microbes.”

“Yes, microbes. I’m familiar with the work of Doctor Pasteur.”

“Impressive, Mademoiselle, since there are few trained scientists who can even make that claim.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Yes, yes I know.”

He’s so … so condescending, but I decide to bite my tongue again. I need him.

Jules purses his lips. “He must be a very progressive doctor, indeed, if he has a microscope. Of course, you said he’s young and it’s among the young doctors you’ll find modern advances and acceptance of Pasteur’s findings.”

We walk a bit in silence before he asks, “What is your plan, Mademoiselle?”

“My plan?”

“Yes, your plan.”

He poses a good question. Other than passing out pictures bearing a likeness to Jules and hoping lightning will strike, I have no plan.

“Well … it’s obvious that Doctor Blum is a monomaniac, with a fixation on cutting women’s bodies. He kills prostitutes because they provide the easiest opportunity. It strikes me that I’ve put a crimp in his dirty game by advising the police he’s in the city. He has to know I told the police about him since I called them to the cemetery. Also, someone’s passing around those pictures. In all, that might keep him off the streets for a while.” Then it hit me. “This will probably drive him to a place where he can find prostitutes without having to go on the streets.”

“A house of prostitution?”

“Exactly.”

“Hardly a place you are equipped to investigate.”

There he goes again. I grate my teeth. “I’ll have you know—”

“Yes?”

I take a deep breath. “That I have a plan.” Here I go again, instantly forming a plan without putting thought behind it. “I’m going to dress as a man and go into houses of prostitution to question women.”

He has the bad taste to explode with laughter and once again I have to bite my tongue to keep from boasting of the number of disguises I’ve used in my past investigations.

“You laugh, but the great Sarah Bernhardt often plays male roles.”

He clicks his tongue. “You are a woman who has the scientific knowledge of Pasteur and the acting ability of a Bernhardt. I can see I will learn much from our joint endeavor. With your interest in science and the thespian arts, you’re no doubt aware of the findings in Baron von Krafft-Ebing’s study,
Psychopathia Sexualis
, that uranism, also called lesbianism, is nearly always suspected in females who wear their hair short, dress in men’s fashions, pursue sports or careers as opera singers and in actresses who appear in male attire.”
*

My will to show restraint goes out the window. He’s gone too far.

“
Mister Verne!
I’ve chased this creature on two continents and have been unable to convince the police of even his existence. Last night I was almost murdered by him. I don’t believe I’ve earned your scorn.”

He stops and faces me.

“You’re right, perfectly right. I haven’t been fair and you deserve credit for your courage and resolve. My reluctance is fed by the fact that I came to Paris for a reason entirely alien to finding a killer. Just the opposite, as a matter of fact.”

“What do you mean?”

“Truthfully, Mademoiselle, I came to Paris to kill a man.” He tips his hat. “Shall we say tomorrow at one o’clock? The Procope. I’ll tell the maitre d’ to expect you. Afterward, we shall pay your Doctor Dubois a visit.”

27

Jules leaves me dumbfounded about his strange pronouncement:
I came to Paris to kill a man.

He walks away leaving me staring like a fool with my mouth gaping opened. Have I solicited the help of the wrong man? I should chase after Jules and demand an answer, but I need to check with a café proprietor for messages. Besides, I believe Jules wouldn’t give me an answer.

As I make my way to Café Lavette, I can’t stop thinking about his proclamation. Did a love affair go sour because another suitor intervened? Another man trespassing on his private reserve, the boys in the newsroom would say. Frenchmen are notorious for settling their romantic contests on the dueling field. The fact that Jules is married has no bearing on affairs of the heart. The French middle and upper classes often enter into matrimony for financial reasons, saving their romantic inclinations for love affairs.

I choose the small café as my message center because the owner has a corrupt look and it’s frequented by Montmartre prostitutes. I felt that if they come across a man resembling the handbill drawing and/or acting violent, they won’t feel uncomfortable leaving me a message there. So far, even with the enticement of a reward, no one has stepped forward, though I have had several false leads. Tonight when I approach the owner, he has other interesting information for me.

“A man asked about you.”

“Who?”

“A man with one hand. He claims to be a police detective, but…” He shrugs.

“He asked for me by name?”

“No, he wanted to know who was giving the drawings to the prostitutes. He offered me ten francs for the information.” He wipes his hands on his apron as if he was wiping away the sin of thirty pieces of silver.

“Did you tell him?”

“Mademoiselle! What do you think I am?”

I dare not express my opinion. “What’s his name?”

“I don’t know.”

“Which hand is he missing?”

“Left.”

“Is there anything else about him you know?”

“I know nothing else about him, except…” he stops wiping the bar counter and gives me a sinister smirk.

I give him ten francs. The man with one hand had no doubt offered much less.

“He works for someone very important, and he has a reputation of being a very violent man—especially toward women.” Once again he gives me that sinister smirk.

“Do you know this
very important
person’s name?”

Again he shrugs his shoulders and goes back to wiping his counter.

I give him another ten francs for his loyalty and silence, knowing I can never return to the café. No doubt he’ll be contacting the one-handed man for more money. It’s a good thing I gave him a false name and never told him where I’m staying. He knows who the man is. He didn’t reveal to me his identity because he’s playing both ends against the middle.

Thoughts swirl in my head as I leave the café and trudge up the steps of the hillside, bone weary. Who could be responsible for hiring this awful man? I realize Jules was furious when I showed him the drawings, but he seems to be the type of person who would go and find out on his own.

I quicken my pace as I trek up the Mount of Martyrs toward my garret. All I want right now is to curl up in bed and sleep. My problems are still churning in my brain as I come up Le Passage to the tenement when something catches my eye. In an entryway a little ways up to my left I see a man.

I step off to my right and take cover in a doorway and remove the police whistle from my coat pocket. Just as I’m going to blow it, a tenement door to my right opens and a small white dog rushes out and beelines for the man. An anxious old man steps out and yells, “Pierre! Stop you little cur! Pierre!”

A
very
large man darts from the doorway and hurries up Le Passage with Pierre yapping at his heels and the old man trying to stop the dog.

Nothing is small about this man. He’s tall and wide—over six feet in height and weighing fifteen stone or more. A large hat is pulled down to conceal his face; a long, billowy cape covers his massive frame. As fast as my feet can carry me, I scramble up the tenement stairs, carrying an extreme case of the jitters with me. No matter how hard I keep trying to convince myself that this man could have been waiting for someone else, with my present frame of mind only the darkest of reasons occur to me.

Once I’m in the security of my garret, I not only lock my door, I prop a chair against it. I sit on the bed, weighed down with problems and exhausted from a day in hell.

*   *   *

I
TRY TO
sleep but there is no way my mind will turn off. Dark conspiracies fly at me from every direction. I am really letting my mind run amok. I decide to rummage through Mr. Bailey’s secretarial desk for paper to record more thoughts. I find buried under paperwork a long barreled .44 six-shooter. The weapon isn’t loaded, nor does a search of the room reveal any bullets. My guess is the gun is a family keepsake Mr. Bailey probably uses as a paperweight. I tuck the weapon under my pillow. I’ll use it as a club if the need arises.

Completely disgusted, I blow out my bedside lamp and lie in bed tossing and turning. Sleep once again refuses to come to me. I can’t shake from my mind that huge man opening my door and coming to my bed holding a knife high in the air ready to stab me. Then it’s no longer him; it’s the slasher.

The man in the alley has two hands.

How many men are looking for me?

28

Tomas Roth

Pasteur and Roth were in the laboratory when René, Pasteur’s other assistant, entered bearing the card of Monsieur Depierris, the deputy to the Minister of Interior. The minister was in charge of internal security for the nation, including police and spies. His recent visit to the Institut sent them on a mission to the sewers.

“He must have sent his deputy to inquire about our examination of the sewers,” Roth told Doctor Pasteur.

Pasteur looked at the government official’s card with some reserve and sighed morosely. He did not like to be interrupted in his work. And this was not an ordinary interruption. The government’s concern about the Black Fever outbreak had invaded the intense concentration and focus on his work that he maintained.

“Show him to my office,” Pasteur said with slight hesitation.

To their surprise, the man who entered was not the deputy—it was the minister himself, with a scarf concealing the lower part of his face.

“I apologize for the masquerade, but the newspaper reporters besieging my office are suspicious that we’re covering up the danger of this deadly influenza outbreak. They’re correct, of course. And if they saw me personally visiting you again in the dead of night, hat in hand, on bent knee before the great microbe hunter…” The minister raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders.

His dramatics evoked a smile from Pasteur. “Have you been offered tea or coffee, Monsieur Minister?”

“I’m afraid I need more than refreshments from you, Doctor. The crisis increases with every hour. Let me show you what I mean.”

An aide accompanying the minister unrolled a large map of the city on Pasteur’s desk. Areas of the map had been outlined in red.

“The entire city has suffered influenza symptoms, but in general with few deaths, and those mostly among the very old and very young. But hundreds of deaths hitting every age group began here.” The minister jabbed a finger on the map. “In this poor section above the area of the sewers you examined yesterday. And it has spread like a deadly flood.” He pointed at the surrounding area.

“Staying in the poor neighborhoods.” Roth stated the obvious.

“Only in poor areas,” the minister repeated. “Feeding the accusations of radicals that the poor are being targeted for extinction.”