The Alchemy of Murder (32 page)

*   *   *

A
S WE CAME
closer to my garret, I can’t help but ask about the Red Virgin’s remark. “What did she mean about you stealing her novel? Is that the connection you mentioned beforehand?”

Jules shakes his head. “A ridiculous rumor that spread all over Paris like wildfire. Following the collapse of the Commune, Louise was sent to a jungle prison in the South Pacific. While there, she discovered a mollusk, a type of sea snail and named it ‘nautilus,’ the same name as the submarine in my novel. From that fact, scandalous allegations erupted that I had purchased the tale of Captain Nemo and his
Nautilus
submarine from her for a mere hundred francs, and the saint that she is, she donated the money to the poor. Of course, the gossip ignored the fact that my book was published a year before she was sent to New Caledonia and that I named my submarine after the
Nautilus
submergible built by the American Robert Fulton many years before.” He shakes his head again. “Where do such stories come from?”

“Stupid people.”

Jules looks at me in amusement.

“I was shocked at the attitude of Louise Michel and her two thug friends. They are willing to protect a murderer just because he’s an anarchist.” I stop and turn to Jules. “If we had said he was bourgeois, they would have enlisted every man in the café to find him. Doesn’t she care that he is killing innocent women?”

“Who knows what a fanatic values? You and I put a high price on every life. To the radical a thousand lives, a million, are merely martyrs for their cause. Look at the bombs anarchists use to kill—for every politician or industrialist killed, a dozen innocent people die.”

“It’s all so insane … did you notice the look that passed between the two from the circus and Louise Michel? They must be anarchists.”

Jules’ cane taps a steady rhythm on the sidewalk as we walk. “Yes, but that doesn’t surprise me. Italy is a hotbed of anarchism, even more so than France. The question is Doctor Dubois’ interest in them. Is he enthralled with their performances—or their politics?”

My impression is that the young doctor is more enthralled with their bodies, especially the brother’s, but it would have been unladylike for me to suggest such a thing.

“I also found the horse pendants interesting,” Jules says. “The girl wearing one on a chain, the brother and the two thugs, as you put it, had them pinned to their lapels. The horses were not highly noticeable because of the dark color of their clothes.”

I didn’t notice the horses on the men and I can kick myself for it. Jules was being polite and making excuses about the dark color of their clothes, but I should have noticed them. Instead, I was too busy arguing and standing my ground.

Jules purses his lips. “I’m just wondering if the pendants are a membership badge for an anarchist group. I find Dr. Dubois’ connection to all of this provocative. I shall be highly interested in the results of the background check I’ve initiated on him.”

As we arrive at the point where the passageway to my apartment leads up the hillside, Jules starts to wave down a fiacre to go back to his own place then stops.

“With everything you’ve been through, I think it prudent of me to walk you to your garret.”

“Jules … how gallant of you. But, I’ll be fine. Besides, it will be impossible for you to obtain a fiacre on my street.” I suddenly remembered the painting. “What did you do with Toulouse’s painting?”

“I left it at the Le Chat Noir. I’ll pick it up tomorrow. Goodnight Mademoiselle. And thank you for such an entertaining evening.”

“No, I’m the one who should thank you. I have to admit I wouldn’t have survived on my own.
Mercí.
”

“You’re welcome, but I don’t underestimate your ability to handle things. You are full of surprises.”

For a moment we stand staring at each other—that awkward pause where no one knows what to do or say.

“Let’s meet at the Institut Pasteur tomorrow at two o’clock.” Jules breaks the spell, but as he stands looking down at my face, I hold my breath hoping he’ll kiss me. But instead he speaks again.

“And I’ll make sure to have the painting.”

“Oh … okay.”

I don’t know what else to say. Obviously I read the tone of his voice wrongly, so I hold out my hand, not so much to shake his, but to give his hand a sentimental squeeze. I realize that shaking hands with a woman is not the custom of men and my gesture catches him by surprise. I give his hand a good hard squeeze.

“Not used to shaking hands with a woman, are you?”

He smiles sheepishly. “If you’re an example of the future of women in a man’s world, I believe there are many surprises in store for men. Perhaps, someday, women will even wear pants, drive their own carriages, and heaven forbid, vote.”

We laugh. He doesn’t let go of my hand.

My heart feels like it’s going to burst out of my chest and my knees tremble at the thought that he might take me into his arms and kiss me again. I need to ground myself, so I say something …

“Oh, I believe woman will do much more than that.”

“I believe you do. But what
more
is there?”

“Run a company, and who knows, maybe a
country
.”

“Mademoiselle Brown, now that is radical thinking. Louise Michel would be proud of you.”

“Yes, but it’s not radical thinking. I’m as capable with a set of reins in my hand as most men, so why can’t we vote, or be a president of a company or country—it’s only fair, don’t you think?” I give him my most charming smile.

He lets go of my hand and bows. “The way you ask, a man can only respond in agreement. I suppose you’re an example of what men have in store for them when there are more women like you.”

“I am not an example of anything. As long as men are frightened of losing their power, they will keep women oppressed—”

“Nonsense, there’s a few mindless suffrages, mostly Lesbos—”

“Is that your idea of what thinking women are—lesbians?”

“You assume that I consider any woman a ‘thinker.’”

“Mister Verne—”

“Monsieur Verne, you keep lapsing into English. And I’m just joking.” He suddenly becomes serious. “But it was foolish of me to have taken a woman into that den of fanatics—especially you. If anything had happened to you…”

He grabs me up in his arms and kisses me.

When he lets go, I kiss him back.

“That’s what you can expect from the
new
modern women.” And then I abruptly turn and hurry on my way, waving to him as I run up the dark alley.

44

Perun

“Mademoiselle Michel.” Perun approaches the Red Virgin’s table with Dr. Dubois by his side. “I see you’ve met the impetuous young reporter from America.”

“Perun … and Doctor Dubois,” Louise Michel forces a smile, “what brings you here? I thought we discussed everything the other day.”

Perun grabs a chair and sits down across from her. “I’ve made an important change in our plan and thought you should know. What was she doing here?”

“What change? Dubois, you might as well sit down.”

The brother of the circus trapeze stands up and puts a chair for Dubois between himself and his sister.

“Do you know who the woman is who accompanied Jules Verne?” Perun asks.

The Red Virgin nods. “I saw her picture once. She’s an American reporter. Her name is Nellie Bly.”

“Why did she come to see you?”

“To solicit help.”

“What help?”

She raises her eyebrows. “Have you joined the prosecutor’s office, Monsieur? Is that what gives you the right to cross-examine me?”

LE MOULIN DE LA GALETTE

“Pardon. I ask as a brother of the black flag.”

“There’s a mad killer, as she puts it, here, in Montmarte, butchering prostitutes and she knows how I feel about women being murdered. She believes he’s an anarchist and she wanted me to help her find him. He killed her sister.”

“And…”

“I refused.”

“Interesting … what did she tell you about this killer?”

“Only that this man is possibly of Eastern European heritage. She encountered him in New York. He was pretending to be a doctor and used his position to murder prostitutes at a madhouse. He’s since killed prostitutes in London and now she believes him to be in Paris. Why the interest in her?”

“A newspaper reporter can be dangerous to our cause. One has to be careful.” Perun’s voice reeks with an underlying threat, but the Red Virgin doesn’t cower. Dubois unconsciously rubs his pinkie.

“Dubois,” Louise looks over to him, “what happened to your finger?”

“Oh … just an accident, I was careless during an operation.”

“Hate to see what happened to the patient.”

Everyone laughs. Louise meets Perun’s eye again. He is not laughing. “Is there anything else I can help you with, Perun?”

“No.” Perun stands up. “You were smart to not help her. Luc…”

45

Nellie

Once safely back in my garret, I flop on my bed and take a deep breath. I kissed Jules. I kissed him! I’ve never kissed a man. What I mean is that I’ve always let the man kiss me, but for me to purposely kiss a man—
never
. What in heaven has gotten into me?

What is it about this man that has me acting so irrationally and thinking about silly things—the feel of my breasts against his chest, the taste of his lips, the warmth and strength of his body, and the yearning that swept over me when he took me in his arms?

My word! I need to stop these foolish thoughts. Sleep will be impossible, so I might as well see if I can figure out who my man in black is. Maybe if I write down all my information he will materialize.

After a long tedious time of compiling notes, all I have is a headache. Exhausted, I crawl into bed. Bright side—I won’t have any problem falling asleep.

*   *   *

I
SIT UP
in a dead stupor. I’m not sure, but I think a sound is coming from my door. A piece of paper slowly materializes from under the door and I stare at it dumbfounded. Groggily I force myself up.

The paper contains a single line:
Notre Dame. Ten o’clock.
No signature. The handwriting is a feminine scrawl. But who?

“Louise Michel.” It has to be.

The paper’s cheap, torn off the type of tablet kept at the cashier counters of cafés. And the handwriting is large and aggressive, as I image Louise Michel’s would be. The secretiveness and abruptness smacks of her. Who else could it be?

But why is the Red Virgin asking me to meet with her? She already told me she won’t help. And why a church? Especially the Notre Dame. It’s not just a church, but one of the most beautiful cathedrals in Christendom.

Is this a trap?

I quickly take a sponge bath. I have to hurry if I’m to make it by ten o’clock this morning. I hope the sender didn’t expect me to show up at the gargoyle-haunted cathedral at ten o’clock tonight!

*   *   *

N
OTRE
D
AME.

One can’t view Notre Dame, which is French for “Our Lady,” without experiencing awe and reverence. Not only is it hard to believe something so magnificent can exist, but the power and glory of the cathedral never fail to raise goose flesh on my soul.

Notre Dame is a symbol of not just Paris, but all France. They built her on the eastern end of the
Île de la Cité
, a small ship-shaped island on the Seine. Settled in the heart of Paris, it’s surrounded by grand old buildings. As I cross the
Pont Neuf
I remember the fact the island harbors both the Police Judiciaries and Police Prefecture. Could I be walking into a trap set by a bloodthirsty anarchist? Clamped in irons by a police inspector? Either scenario is not too difficult to imagine and I question whether I was foolish to come alone. However, Jules and I weren’t to meet until two in the afternoon and I don’t know how to contact him.