The Alchemy of Murder (22 page)

“Can it kill in minutes?” Jules asks.

Dubois sighs. “I don’t know. Black Fever has similar symptoms as influenza. If she got a large dose of the contagion directly into her bloodstream it probably would kill her quickly, but
within minutes
…?”

I’ve endured enough of their “ifs.”

“Doctor Dubois, I realize you’re having a hard time believing me, but I know she was healthy. I saw her.”

“Mademoiselle, I don’t doubt your word. She might have looked and appeared healthy, but obviously she wasn’t. We do know of poisonous gases that can strike down a person instantly. If the contagion can kill so quickly, it would support the theory that it’s caused by a poisonous miasma.”

An attendant comes down the hall with a small wooden box in hand. “Doctor Dubois, you’ve received another package from China.”

“Merci. Please put it in my office.”

After the attendant passes, I ask, “Wasn’t there a scratch on her upper shoulder or neck area?”

Dr. Dubois frowns and purses his lips. “I don’t remember a scratch, but I was only looking for signs of significant violence. If there was, it probably came as a result of her falling when she went into a death coma.”

“Is it possible to have the fever spread through a scratch or cut?”

“I can’t answer that because we don’t know for sure yet what causes the fever.”

“What about any scratches, cuts, or unusual marks on any of the other victims of Black Fever?” Jules questions.

“
No
,” agitation fills his voice, “but again, I haven’t particularly looked. Why are you so interested in scratches and cuts?”

I make my statement in a serious tone of voice, because it sounds all too incredible. “We are wondering if the fever can be deliberately passed on.”

Dr. Dubois raises his eyebrows. “The contagion has spread from the steppes of Russia to Paris and is racing far beyond. Only God has such power.”

32

Once we’re back in the reception area, Jules takes hold of my arm and whispers, “Wait for me outside.” He parts with me to speak to a clerk.

When he comes out, Jules is deep in thought. As we walk up the street I tell myself not to interrupt his thinking, but I’m too curious to wait. “What did you ask the clerk?”

“Where the doctor was from.”

“Why?”

“Dubois has a slight accent. Since you’re not a native French speaker, you wouldn’t notice it, but it’s apparent to me. The clerk believes the doctor’s from Bayonne. That’s near the Spanish border and could account for a regional accent. About one out of five French people can’t speak the language well enough in court to testify without an interpreter. Educated foreigners often speak it better than our own provincials. How well does he fit your impression of the slasher?”

“Well, no beard, of course. And the madhouse doctor had much darker hair, although I think the thickness is the same, but not the length. They’re about the same height. Same build. Age is almost the same … I think. It’s hard to tell the age of a man who wears a full beard and hides much of the rest of his head with a hat and long hair.”

I try to picture Dr. Dubois as the long-haired, heavy-bearded, tinted-spectacled Dr. Blum, but the two images will not crystallize. And I can’t say this to Jules, but the hairs on the back of my neck didn’t rise when I first met him at the graveyard, or at the hospital, and not even now. Dr. Dubois doesn’t reek of the evil I felt with Dr. Blum. But even I must admit it would be unprofessional of me to cancel someone out just because of my gut feelings.

“I never spoke to Doctor Blum or observed him face-to-face, except for that one very brief moment in the shack. But I don’t have the feeling he’s Doctor Dubois. What about you, any thoughts?”

“Since only my poor, sick nephew claims to have seen the slasher…” he pauses for effect and I just smile, “and having never met Doctor Blum previously, I have no opinion. I will know more when I find out about the finger.”

“The finger?”

“The tip of his right pinkie is missing.”

How did I miss that! A sideways glance from Jules tells me that I shouldn’t have—and he’s right. I make a strong mental note that I have to be more observant. I am hunting down a killer and sloppiness is unacceptable.

“Perhaps a childhood accident,” he continues, “or a slip of the knife while performing surgery. I will have my doctor wire medical authorities in the Bayonne region and inquire as to Doctor Dubois’ physical description and credits.”

He flags down a fiacre. Once we’re settled in, he instructs the driver, “Institut Pasteur.”

I can barely control my excitement. “Do you really think we’ll be able to meet with Doctor Pasteur?”

“If he is in, I’m sure he’ll receive us. I was once on a government committee with him, some nonsense concerning public health.”

“But this means you’ll have to use your real name.”

“Of course. Nellie, I’m not in hiding, it’s just that I have no desire to let friends know I’m in the city. But Pasteur is not a sociable man. He’s too involved in his work to inquire too deeply about my actions.”

“Still, I can’t imagine just walking in and being able to speak to Louis Pasteur.”

Jules could remind me that I boldly walked into the Café Procope and dropped a murder investigation on one of the most famous writers in the world. I’m relieved he’s deep in thought and doesn’t appear to have picked up on my faux pas.

“We won’t have a problem seeing him,” Jules murmurs, almost to himself. “The Black Fever newspaper stories will have piqued his interest, if he’s not already actually involved in the matter, which I suspect he is. No one on Earth knows more about microbes than Pasteur. We must get his reaction to the prostitute’s death. He’s a chemist, not a medical doctor, but that hasn’t prevented him from delving extensively into the field of medicine.”

“I know. He found a cure for rabies.”

“And rabies is a medical condition. While he can concoct the rabies vaccine in his laboratory, he’s not able to administer it to patients, but employs a medical doctor for that purpose. Unfortunately, the medical profession has been looking for a way to discredit Pasteur and the rabies vaccine has given them their strongest evidence.”

“How could the rabies vaccine be their strongest evidence when it has saved so many lives?”

“Pasteur is very … how would you Americans say it … oh yes, ornery. He’s extremely blunt in his criticism of doctors and continually accuses them of causing disease among their patients by their lack of sanitary practice. He claims that doctors should wash their hands before examining patients and sterilize their instruments, because the microbes he sees under a microscope cause diseases that are spread by doctors to their patients with their hands and instruments.”

“It sounds logical, but I suspect most people are like my mother and believe that all diseases are caused by God and that there is little we can do about it.”

“Fortunately, most doctors have advanced beyond that belief, but many also reject Pasteur’s theories. Doctors see disease as something that arises from conditions in the body rather than spread by microbes. I suspect the truth, as it is so often when two sides take diametrically opposing viewpoints, lies somewhere in between. But Pasteur’s concepts are slowly gaining respect. A noted Vienna surgeon recently proposed that doctors wash their hands before operating on a patient.”

“But wasn’t surgical sterilization already being performed for years by Doctor Lister in Great Britain?”

Jules looks at me in surprise and I lean closer to gently lock eyes with him in the carriage. “As I told you, Monsieur Jules Verne, I read newspapers despite the contention that such matters are not proper for a lady’s mind.”

He allows me a small smile before continuing. “Doctor Lister has found that cleaning a wound after an operation results in fewer infections. The Viennese surgeon is suggesting that hands be sterilized
before
surgery.”

“Please, tell me a little more about the controversy between Pasteur and the doctors. What happened with the rabies vaccine?” I’m eager to learn more because an interview with Dr. Pasteur would be quite a coup.

“The accusation is that Pasteur used the rabies vaccine prematurely without proper testing and caused the deaths of two patients. They claim he was so eager to prove the effectiveness of the vaccine that he had two young people, a boy and a girl, both bitten by possibly rabid dogs, injected with the vaccine prior to proper testing of his concoction. The two young people both died.”

“That’s horrible.”

Jules shrugs. “So is rabies if it isn’t cured.”

“Why do they think he administered the vaccine prematurely?”

“Pasteur’s vaccine is made from rabbits infected by rabies in his lab. The children died from rabbit rabies, not the canine variety. Thus, the children died from the vaccine injected into them.

“Doctor Pasteur is a great scientist,” Jules continues, “the greatest in the world. What he’s done for the world should not be diminished because of human failures. If it were not for him, thousands of people would die each year from poisonous milk, wine would sour on its way to the market, and cattle and sheep all over the world would transmit a deadly disease. Pasteur cannot solve all the ills of the world with his microscope, but his discoveries will pave the way for a golden age of…”

Jules suddenly turns to face the window and a heavy silence ensues.

Hating silence I ask, “Is something wrong?”

A moment passes before he slowly turns back to me.

“I have a bad habit of predicting the future. Too often it is the bad things that come to light.”

My instincts ring like church bells. Whatever demon Jules is fighting has popped up again. I bite my lip to keep from inquiring, but it’s a losing battle with me and once again I open my mouth when I should keep it shut.

“Jules, yesterday you said something that left me in quite a state of agitation. May I ask—”

“No you may not.”

His words are sharp—very sharp, and oddly they hurt. He turns to face the window once again and I look down at my hands. I really hate uncomfortable moments like this and wish we were at our destination.

33

The Institut’s buildings resemble university structures—one stately red brick and the other grey. Smooth stone steps lead to a wide, imposing entryway, from which a long hallway flows the length of the building. The hallway is wide and at least twenty feet high. The atmosphere here is sober and venerable. Quiet and dignified, like a hallowed old university corridor.

Jules hands his card to the clerk at the reception desk and announces himself. “Jules Verne to see Doctor Pasteur.”

The clerk looks up at him in surprise.

“Sans beard,” Jules adds.

As soon as the clerk leaves, I ask him eagerly, “What did you write on the back of your card?”

“Two words. Black Fever. I should warn you, don’t be surprised at the appearance of Doctor Pasteur. He’s had strokes that aged him alarmingly. Although I believe he’s in his sixties, he appears older. And don’t be offended if he won’t shake hands with you.”

“I won’t. He doesn’t shake hands with anyone. He believes it transmits germs. However, I don’t agree. It’s too far-fetched, catching a cold or giving an illness to someone just by shaking hands.”

Jules once again looks at me with surprise. “Mademoiselle Brown, you never cease to amaze me.”

“Thank you … I think.”

“You have an incredible range of knowledge … and completely unsupported opinions. But a word of advice, never rule anything out as
too
far-fetched.” A veil of darkness slips across Jules’ face. The same veil of darkness when he said he came to Paris to kill a man. “I have written of things I never dreamed would come true, and they did. Remember that as you look for your Doctor Blum.”

I am about to respond to his “unsupported opinions” remark when the clerk returns and says Dr. Pasteur will see us.

Tall double doors near the entryway lead to Doctor Pasteur’s private apartment. The walls of the inner hallway are covered with red wallpaper and trimmed with dark wood molding, all quite elegant. This hallway is much narrower than the main one we came through, but the ceiling is also a good twenty feet high and the doors themselves tower a dozen feet.

The simple but grand entrances seem symbolic of the gentleman we are about to meet. One would think that his private apartment would be nestled somewhere more isolated, but I suppose it fits a man whose entire life is wrapped up in his work. Madame Pasteur must be an obliging angel to mesh her private life with her husband’s work.

The clerk asks us to wait in the living room. Being the curious cat that I am, I stick my nose everywhere while Jules explains and complains.

“I’ll use a child’s harness next time I take you anywhere,” he threatens, but I have a feeling he’s not
that
annoyed with me.

The living room’s very formal. Stuffed chairs, end tables crowded with lamps, knickknacks and art objects. Even though a large fireplace warms the room, it feels like a place for receiving guests rather than where one would kick off their shoes and relax. On one wall is a large painting of Pasteur with a small girl.