The Alchemy of Murder (23 page)

“His granddaughter, Camille.” Jules says. “The painting was a gift from Jacobsen Carlsburg Brewery, the first brewery to use his pasteurization process.”

Across the hallway is a very large dining room that conveys the impression it’s used more for business conferences than eating. The room’s dominated by a life-size, tarnished, gilt-framed portrait of Pasteur in his laboratory, holding a glass jar containing the dried spinal cord of a rabbit inflicted with rabies.

“That was painted by Edelfelt, a Finnish painter. If you notice, Pasteur’s left hand is resting on a set of books. His arm became paralyzed from one of his strokes.”

My respect and admiration for this man has increased even before we meet. He is so dedicated to his work even his physical incapacities do not deter him.

“Upstairs are bedrooms and a private sitting room. The downstairs is used for receiving guests.”

At the end of the hallway, near the door which leads into Pasteur’s office, is a large, paned window. The window glass has thin red, blue-green, and purple lines. In front of the window is an amazing statue—a woman striking a soldier with the butt of a rifle. The piece is called
Quand Même
.

“Roughly translated it means ‘Even Though,’” Jules explains. “It’s an Alsatian woman hitting a Prussian soldier and represents that the Germans have been occupying the Alsace-Lorraine region since 1870. Pasteur taught in Strasbourg, the largest city in the Alsace. It is a reflection of Pasteur’s patriotism and the fact that France still considers the area as being held captive.”

The clerk returns and shows us into Pasteur’s office. “He sends his apologies, he’ll be here momentarily.”

Pasteur’s office is not what I expect it to be. I assume a world-renowned scientist running a famous institution would have a large office, but it’s rather small and reflects the fact that his interests are in the laboratory with its test tubes and microscopes and not a room full of books.

The office has dusky green walls framed by dark wood molding. Dark red velvet curtains frame the windows. The rugs on the brown wood floor have an Oriental pattern. Breaking a little of the sober ambiance is a white ceiling, too high up to cast much light down, and a tall mirror that extends from the mantel of the red marble fireplace to the ceiling.

I particularly like the elaborately carved wood mantel. On it is another piece of art, a small statue of a woman on her tiptoes facing the mirror and reaching up with one hand to grasp a rose.

Jules answers my unasked question. “The statue was presented to Pasteur by the grateful agricultural sector after he created a vaccine for the anthrax microbe that killed thousands of animals and many people each year.”

On the wall behind Pasteur’s desk is another piece of art, a simple ink drawing drawn by Henner of a woman in black. “And this picture?”

“It’s called
Woman in Waiting
and represents a woman who is in mourning for the Alsace occupation. Pasteur returned the honors bestowed upon him by the Germans after the occupation of the Alsace area.”

His writing desk is unassuming, a simple wood table unadorned with carvings, and a leather top. A plain brown leather chair sits behind the desk. On the wall across the way is an impressive green and gold porcelain clock, several feet high and wide, Louis XV style, dating from the eighteenth century.

I am in awe as Dr. Pasteur finally enters. He’s old and venerable, like his building. With him is a younger man who introduces himself as Dr. Tomas Roth, Pasteur’s lab assistant. He seems quite reserved.

Jules is certainly right about Pasteur’s appearance. He appears weak, a wasting away that happens to some people in old age. However, I don’t see any dimness in his eyes, even filtered as they are through strong lenses. Instead, I see the wonderment of a child. His eyes are bright and alive and filled with the luster of a man who not only has more years on this planet, but more paths of discovery to hack through. His failing body will not stop him.

As for his assistant, Tomas Roth, he’s a sparse man with an all too serious countenance. I don’t get the personal warmth from him that I do with Dr. Pasteur. He makes me feel uneasy … as if I’m something to be examined under a microscope and dissected.

Dr. Roth has that scientist’s abstraction, as if he has emerged from a darkened lab, blinking in the sunlight. Although facial hair is all the fashion now, like Jules, his face is clean shaven. I recognize his French has a touch of accent. While I had not picked up on Dr. Dubois’ accent, Dr. Roth’s is easier for me to discern.

My introduction by Jules is brief. “This is Mademoiselle Brown, an American.”

They slightly tip their heads, like tipping a hat, but no one offers to shake hands.

Jules addresses Pasteur, “It’s good of you to see us without notice.”

I sense enormous respect in his voice, which is interesting considering that Jules himself is world renowned.

Pasteur gives a nod of thanks. “Your name alone would have caused me to throw open my doors, but I must confess that cryptic message on the back of your card excited my interest. You have shaved your beard,
mon ami
. You and Tomas must be the only men in France over the age of eighteen whose faces are not covered with hair.”

“Perhaps the only ones in all Europe,” Jules says. “Some men would just as soon walk down the street naked than shave the hair on their face. You must know the story that has been circulating in the boulevard cafés, about the Guardsman who brandished six inches of waxed mustachios, the finest eagle wings in his regiment. He burned one while lighting his pipe. Of course he couldn’t parade with his regiment or even show his face in public without his mustachios. The poor devil was so depressed he killed himself. Shot himself in the face so his shame would not be exposed by an open coffin.”

The story elicits chuckles from the men. And they say women are vain. I assume the story is one of those mysterious rumors that spread like wildfire and are rarely true.

“Please Gentlemen, Mademoiselle, sit.” Pasteur sits in the chair behind his desk. “I not only understand his feelings about his mustache, but when my experiments are going bad, I feel like taking my own life.”

“
D’accord
,” Jules says. “As to my beard, sometimes a face is best concealed in plain sight. I have reasons important only to me as to why I’ve shaved my beard to disappear from the public eye.”

Pasteur’s eyes flicker in my direction just slightly and I feel myself redden. He obviously assumes that the reason for Jules’ behavior is a liaison with me.

“I’m a Pinkerton detective from New York,” I find myself announcing boldly. I don’t know where these lies come from. The devil must oil my tongue.

“Not so unusual a profession for women,” Jules hastily imposes, “if you recall that Vidocq used women as undercover agents for La Sûreté.”

“Ah, yes,” Pasteur smiles, “but those women were criminals working undercover. Mademoiselle Brown does not strike me as the criminal type.”

“
Merci
, Monsieur Doctor.”

“Now, my friend, what is the reason for your call in the company of a detective from America.”

Jules leans foward in his chair. “Black Fever. What do the words mean to you, Doctor?”

Pasteur raises his eyebrows. “An illness that I read about in the newspapers. Some form of influenza, it appears. A most lethal and fast-acting disease accompanied with a death that can come quickly, sometimes within hours.”

Sometimes within
minutes
, I want to say, but keep quiet.

“My understanding,” Jules says, “is that the disease has been given its name by the young doctor at Pigalle Hospital, a Doctor Dubois, who has been at the center of the treatment of the cases that have emerged so far. Mademoiselle Brown and I have spoken to the doctor. I would be surprised if you haven’t been contacted about the matter, perhaps directly by the government.”

Pasteur avoids Jules’ last remark and asks, “This doctor, what is he like?”

Jules thinks for a moment. “He’s young, has an inquiring mind. He has a microscope, somewhat of a laboratory set up in a utility room in the hospital. A secret one—considering the opposition of the medical profession to your techniques. He admits some creedence to your theories but is cautious because he’s afraid of offending those who can make or destroy a career still being molded.”

Pasteur nods. “I haven’t met the young man, but I know his type. There are a thousand more like him in France. The medical training he received in school conflicts with what he experiences in practice. The methods I employ in the laboratory excite him. But he stands posed between two worlds, a foot in each, not sure of which way to step.”

“Mademoiselle Brown has met with the doctor twice, once with me. She actually observed the autopsied body of a woman inflicted with the disease and may be able to enlighten us on what she saw.”

Pasteur looks at me with new respect. A woman attending an autopsy without fainting?

“The woman’s internal organs had … blackened, and forgive me for using this analogy for the poor woman, but the color of her innards resembled red meat after it’s been left in a warm room overnight. It even had that … that putrid smell, a
spoiled
meat smell…” my voice trails off as my heart jumps into my throat at the memory.

Dr. Roth pours me a glass of water.

“
Merci
.” I take a sip and continue, “I learned from Doctor Dubois that the victims are in decayed state from the moment of death. The smell and the putrid decay have led him to link the cause of the contagion to sewer gases.”

Pasteur and Roth exchange looks. I must be giving them fresh information and it feels invigorating. I continue, “Doctor Dubois believes the sewer gases cause a rotting of the flesh and organs.”

Pasteur’s lips turn down at the corner. “Sewer gases. Yes, it’s what the medical profession raises every time an illness erupts that they can’t understand. No doubt the young doctor’s conclusions have been influenced by Doctor Brouardel. What did this young man tell you he saw under his microscope when he examined specimens from the victims?”

“Nothing. He saw no microbes.”

“And you, Monsieur Verne, you who conjures up science from your imagination, what is your feeling about the affair?”

“I’m greatly bothered by it. Something strange is going on. Things I cannot explain at this time. But my feeling is that the contagion is going to get worse and that whatever the cause, the nation’s—the world’s—greatest microbiologist should be in the vanguard of examining this strange new disease…”

Pasteur shakes his head before Jules finishes talking.

“No, that is impossible, impossible, until I am invited in by the medical doctors who are handling the matter. And I am afraid that will not happen. Even before this matter, I embarrassed health department doctors when they erred diagnosing a cholera outbreak in Marseille. No, I cannot get involved in the matter.”

“Then perhaps, as a Good Samaritan, you can assist us with our investigation?” Jules asks.

“And what is the nature of your investigation?”

Jules holds up his hands as if he is physically blocking the question. “Mademoiselle Brown is on a secret assignment and can’t disclose the reasons for the investigation. However, I can assure you that as a son of France, there is nothing she is doing that would bring shame on our country. In all honesty what she is investigating is to the benefit of France.”

Pasteur looks at Roth again, as if for confirmation. He leans back in his chair and closes his eyes for a moment. “I don’t doubt your sincerity. We are both members of the Legion of Honor.”

He hesitates again before going on, as if he is gathering his thoughts—and straining them through a filter. “I have, in an unofficial way, become interested in the contagion,” he finally admits. “I’ve been given samples from some of the victims. Tests are still being performed and the origin of the contagion is still under investigation. But logically, there are two sources for the contagion to arise from. Microbes and poisonous chemicals. No chemicals have been found to date, nor has a living organism or microbe. While there is a great deal of logic to conclude sewer fumes are involved—the odor, the decay—
logic
is not science. I know of no incident in which sewer gases harmed anyone in this manner.

“What does concern me is that the symptoms of high fever and coughs are also those associated with an invasion of the body by microbes. The quick decay of organs surprises me. It must be caused by a microbe so virulent it strikes with great speed. Yet when we view the samples under a microscope, we don’t see it. While our microscopes are not powerful enough to see microbes, we can detect their presence by other experiments. We have failed even at that. It’s quite frustrating.”

“Based upon the limited facts before you,” Jules says, “is it more likely that the contagion is caused by an invasion of microbes rather than an exposure to poison?”

“Yes.”

“And you don’t believe the sewer system is the source?”

Pasteur hesitates a moment. “You said sewer
system
. We’ve been talking about sewer
gases
. For certain, microbes are lurking in sewer systems. But in terms of this condition being caused by vapors rising from the sewer, I would need further evidence to reach that conclusion.”