The Alchemy of Murder (26 page)

“Dear girl, why would you shoot me after I helped you?” His voice is very British.

“Helped me?”

“Why yes. How do you think you got from the café to your room?”

How indeed? He starts to sit up and I shove the gun muzzle against his nose. He carefully pushes it aside, but I still keep it pointed at his face.

“I carried you. And wasn’t your concierge a regular Medusa. That’s what you called her, you know, quite accurately, a regular Medusa she is, and fortunately unable to understand your English.”

I back off as he rises on an elbow, keeping the gun pointed straight at him. “I don’t remember any such thing.”

“Of course not, you were quite sponged … slept through the night and the whole day.”

“What?”

“Obviously, you’re not well acquainted with the green fairy. Absinthe has a very high alcohol content, 136 proof, and will knock you silly if you’re not careful.”

I start to defend myself, but have nothing to say, so I let him continue. He seems to have plenty to say.

“Happens to all of us in the beginning. I picked you off the floor and carried you back here.”

“Let’s get down to basics. Tell me why you’ve been following me and what you have to do with the slasher.”

He giggles. In an unconscious gesture he puts his hand to his mouth to hide rather greenish teeth that protrude unattractively from coarse lips. He has two huge rings on his fingers—a ruby and a rough block of silver with a design from Greek antiquity. It isn’t often you see a grown man giggling so, but this huge man does, and rather girlishly. If I wasn’t so confused and angry, I believe I would have giggled along with him—or at him. Finally he stops and clears his throat.

“My dear girl, do I appear to be someone who would be in league with a killer?”

His voice is cultured and haughty, as only an overeducated Brit can be. And it’s melodious, like a finely tuned musical instrument. He speaks as if he enjoys the sound of his own voice.

Giving the man the once over, I can’t decide exactly how I would place him in a civilized society. He dresses as he speaks, from several ages of history. His clothes are of the oddest sort, street clothes that are little less provocative than the costumes at carnival time.

A full overcoat … no, more a cloak that he’s using as a blanket, comes down to his ankles. It’s dark green with black fur trim that matches his hat and black breeches. The breeches come to the top of his knees where black silk stockings flow down to low cut black patent shoes with a shiny silver buckle.

Under the overcoat is a black velvet jacket; a china blue shirt matches the color of his eyes. The wide Lord Byron collar is opened to expose the hair of his chest, the only manly attribute to this person of somewhat dubious sex.

He appears to be in the worst physical condition, striking me as someone who gets his exercise
talking
. With his skin as pale as a winter moon and eyes as blue as the sea, he reminds me of a great white whale—big, flabby, and sluggish. How he carried me up the steps without a coronary is a mystery.

“I was only too glad to be of assistance when you became, shall we say inconvenienced, at the café. It was the luck of the seven Japanese gods of good fortune that I happened along at the right moment.”

“Nonsense. I was drugged at that den of iniquity. And it wasn’t luck that you were there, I followed Doctor Dubois.”

“Naturally, I had deduced that, but being the gentleman I am, I avoided mentioning it to save feelings all around.”

“If you want to save more than your feelings, you better tell me what you and the good doctor are up to. I took shooting lessons from Annie Oakly and my finger gets an itch to pull the trigger after a while. So, let’s start by putting a name to you.”

“Oscar Jones of London, at your service.” If he could have bowed, he would have.

“My trigger finger doesn’t like that name. Try another.”

“I beg your—”

I adjust my grip on the gun.

“Yes, yes, of course. Well, my dear girl, if you must know, I am Oscar Wilde.”

It wasn’t a statement, but an announcement, perhaps even a proclamation. The sort of thing one might expect shouted from the gates of Buckingham Palace.

“Not
the
Oscar Wilde?”

He glows. “There is only one and that is gift enough for the world.”

“Never heard of you,” I tell him truthfully. “You better talk fast, Mister Wilde, because I don’t know how much longer my little fingers can keep this big gun from going off and blowing another hole in your face as big as your mouth.”

He looks more pained by the fact that I didn’t recognize his name than frightened by the gun.

“I’m from London. Rather well known in all the literary circles. I’ve even been to America, but obviously you missed me.”

“Obviously. You write books?”

“I have several planned, but I’m also a poet and playwright. And, until very recently, editor of
Woman’s World
magazine. If you will forgive my lack of modesty, while my name may not be spoken on the streets, people in correct society know it. I am anxiously solicited as a dinner guest for my wit and wisdom.”

He has one of those cultured English voices of the upper class who precisely enunciate their words with an almost lyrical rhythm. The way he speaks to you, even with a gun in his face, makes you feel he is talking down to you.

“Toured your fine country, spoke about art, even out West. Even went out to a boomtown called Leadville and lectured roughneck miners about Florentine art. That’s where I learned about revolvers, exactly like the one you’re holding. The miners consider bad art worthy of the penalty of death—at one saloon, there is a sign which says
Please don’t shoot the pianist, he’s doing his best.
”

He gives me a coy look with a carnal grin and once again his hand goes up to hide his teeth.

I look at the gun I’m holding. He’s knows the gun is empty. If it was loaded you’d see the bullets in the revolving chamber. I let it drop into my lap. It’s getting way too heavy to keep pointing anyway.

“Okay, if you’re so famous for talking, go right ahead. Tell me what you were doing with the doctor.”

“I’m investigating a murder,” he says rapidly. “I’m a detective, in a manner of speaking.”

“You mean the self-appointed sort of detective?” It’s obviously a profession I am familiar with.

“Well … yes, in a manner of speaking. Though I can assure you, I’ve read up on the subject.” He’s telling the truth, I know it. The man can exaggerate, but not lie. He thinks his words are too important to be false.

“Keep talking. Who was murdered?”

He takes a moment, as if it’s hard for him to answer. “A dear friend of mine … Jean-Jacque Telney.”

I honestly feel he’s trying to gain his composure. It’s the same reaction I have when I talk about Josephine. “I’m sorry.”

“Thank you, my dear.” He has true pain in his eyes. “He was a poet. You’ve heard of him?”

“No … I’m sorry. I’ve heard of Verlaine.”

“Ah, a voice of the gods. As a poet myself, I can attest to that.”

“Do you have any idea who murdered your friend?”

“That’s what Doctor Dubois and I are trying to find out.” Oscar sits up and fans his face with a red silk handkerchief, sending a whiff of perfume my direction.

“Was Jean-Jacque a sodomite like you and Doctor Dubois?”

The handkerchief flaps like he is shooing flies away from his face. “My dear, that’s hardly a proper way for a lady to talk.”

“I’ll take that as a yes. Now, would you mind telling me how your friend died?”

Oscar bends his head down for a second before answering and I realize the question came out too bluntly. “I’m sorry.”

“A madman brutally cut him.”

His voice cracks as he answers and agony fills his eyes. Again, memories of Josephine flood my mind and I can’t help but reach out and touch his arm. We sit silent, each feeling our grief for someone we cared for and now gone.

“Please forgive me for asking, but I must. How did he cut him? Can you describe the wounds?”

He makes a cutting motion across his abdomen. “Here. Severely. And lower.” His fat lips tremble with emotion and his eyes tear. “Like they do animals in slaughterhouses. How could anybody do that to another person? And to someone as kind and gentle as Jean-Jacque.”

This makes no sense. The slasher has never attacked a
man
.

“I’ve studied detecting.” Oscar fills the brief void with his words, a very soothing voice at that. “I dined just last month in London with Doctor Doyle who writes those tales about Sherlock Holmes, a consulting detective who uses science and deductive reasoning to solve crimes. I’ve read him thoroughly and also spent an afternoon with a Scotland Yard inspector who is a friend of my father. But frankly, despite my intellect and expertise, I am finding this mystery to be a singularly difficult one to fathom.”
*

“What does Doctor Dubois have to do with this matter?”

“Luc Dubois is my friend.”

“Your friend, that’s all?”

“Why … yes.”

“It’s just that when I saw the two of you last night, I thought…”

“No, no, my dear. He was, however, on intimate terms with Jean-Jacque. When we took up the investigation after poor Jean-Jacque was butchered, we reasoned that a maniac who kills so bizarrely once, will kill again. Luc volunteered to be the police surgeon for Montmartre so he can be called to the scene of the murders. He came into contact with you at the cemetery where that horrible Black Fever victim was found. The officer questioning you at the scene revealed to Luc your theory that the dead woman had been a victim of the slasher. Naturally, that piqued our interest, but we didn’t know how to contact you until you presented yourself at the hospital.”

“What did you expect to accomplish?”

“Why, to gain your confidence, dear girl, and get you to tell me what you know about this unusual affair.”

“Why didn’t you just ask me? Especially since I went to Doctor Dubois with questions. You would think after I told him my situation,
he
would have asked me. Why didn’t he? And why were you hiding outside my garret?”

He starts to say something, then closes his mouth. No doubt one of those rare times he is at a loss for words.

“Too difficult to answer?”

“Don’t be insolent now. I had a plan worked out that even Zeus would have approved. And I wasn’t stalking you. I was waiting for you to come home. Then I was going to approach you, in a gentlemanly manner. But then that damn dog chased me. He almost bit me!”

“Too bad.”

“Wha—?”

“Continue.”

“Luc says you believe the slasher stalks prostitutes. I have a friend, a painter, who knows more prostitutes than anyone in Paris. Like myself, he’s also an anarchist.”

“A famous painter?”

“Oh, no. No one you’ve heard of. His paintings aren’t even bought for wallpaper. He hangs them in cafés because he can’t get respectable showings.”

“Why does he know so many prostitutes?”

“He likes to paint them. To get truly informed about his subjects, he is presently living in a house of prostitution. Really quite an interesting chap. Toulouse is welcomed everywhere and men whisper secrets to him that they would never divulge to their mistress.”

He delicately pats the sweat on his forehead. The sweet scent of lilacs evokes an image of the café scene where men and women gather to practice their unconventional views of sex, sojourning from their day’s work at a place where they can let down their hair—or in the case of women, perhaps push it up under a cap. With that image came an insight into why Jean-Jacque, a man, was murdered, and I jump up from the floor.

“Your friend, Jean-Jacque, was a cross-dresser, wasn’t he? He dressed as a woman. Am I right?”

Wilde’s eyes pop. “How did you know that?”

I lean back against the railing post on the step and let out a great sigh. “Elementary, my dear Mister Wilde, elementary.”

We find the faces of all Lautrec’s friends in the backgrounds of his pictures … In the oils and pastels we can see the madams offering young and more or less unspoiled girls to old, thickly painted gentlemen dressed in grand but slightly soiled clothes and ready for any kind of liaison. To others they are pointing out those whose specialty is whipping, the English vice, who can be recognized by their stern looks. Then there are the lesbians, knowing quite well that the girls often like to forget in their arms the men who keep them. The young pimps are usually brilliant dancers, launching their sisters into the world while overseeing the two or three women who work for them; and, more sinister, the tanned, scarred face and probably tattooed body of the pimp come back from Biribi, the military prison, and ready to become the “terror” of a
quartier
.

—P
HILIPPE
J
ULLIAN
,
Montmartre