The Alchemy of Murder (37 page)

“Yes, and to add another dose of credibility to it, we can tell him that the anarchist was involved in the Haymarket incident in Chicago. The bombing is still a controversial subject in America, but would have little interest to the French.”

“Excellent.” He comes out of his grave reserve to give me a small smile. “Your ability to lie at any moment, on any subject, is quite astonishing.”

I do a little curtsy, as best as I can sitting down. “Thank you, Monsieur Verne. Coming from a man who has thrilled the world with his works of
fiction
, that is indeed a heady compliment. You say Scholl has to defend his articles with duels. Isn’t there a law protecting freedom of the press?”

“Of course there is, but a man’s honor rises above the law. As difficult as it is for a woman to understand, if a man is insulted or called out, he must meet on the dueling field or hide his head in shame.”

“Naturally, we poor, backward women wouldn’t understand honor.”

He suddenly chuckles. It’s a warm and cuddly chuckle and I want to hug him.

“You’re right. Duels are often the work of men who are really small boys. I recall an incident in which two young reporters meeting on the dueling field with swords were so frightened that
both
of them vomited.”

“I hope they put away their swords and went home friends.”

“Actually, they were both so embarrassed they hacked unmercifully, but thankfully amateurishly, at each other.”

“Why are you so angry at that man Artigas?” I blurted it out. My curiosity about his reaction to Artigas has been aching to be satisfied and the timing seemed right—Jules is in a better mood. And I’ve never been one to let sleeping dogs lie, however, as I watch his fists clench and his face redden, I fear I have gone too far.

“
He’s a cannibal who ate my brains.
”

He then turns to the window again, refusing to say more.

*   *   *

S
CHOLL IS UNLIKE
any reporter I’ve ever met. He reminds me of a lone predator, a jungle cat that doesn’t share his kills. But while a rough-and-tumble American reporter would be an alley cat with scuffed shoes and wrinkled raincoat, Scholl—monocle and dressed impeccably—is a haughty and cultured king of beasts. He has a scar on the side of his face and I wonder if it is a memento from a duel.

We sit with him at a sidewalk table. I would have preferred an inside table, it’s a bit cool, but the sun is out and the
café au lait
warms me. As Jules explains our quest for information, Scholl slips a glance at me, examining me through his monocle. From his look, I can see he’s decided that there’s more between Jules and me than the investigation. I find myself wishing he was right.

“A monster,” Scholl says, when Jules asks about Count Artigas, “a giant squid from
Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea
. He swallows everything that comes near him. He makes munitions, of course, sells his guns to the highest bidder. Then he turns around and sells them to his customer’s enemies. He has no allegiance to anyone but the franc. Gold is his lover and his god.” Scholl grins at me. “Something like American businessmen. Only the count sells death.”

“Is he old aristocracy?” I decide to ignore his sarcasm, this time.

“Purchased the title during the Second Empire.”

“What kind of munitions does he sell?”

“Anything that will kill. Small arms, artillery, hand bombs, whatever will do the job. He sells to anyone with the money—to rebels fighting the Turks in the Balkans and to the Turks to use against the rebels. He has agents in the trouble spots of the world. It’s said that he hires
agents provocateurs
to start wars by stirring up trouble when business is slow. Some years ago he was even selling to warring Indian tribes through his agents in Québec.”

“Have you ever heard of a Doctor Leon Nurep?” Jules asks. “He apparently worked for Artigas a couple years ago. It’s Perun spelled backward.”

Scholl shakes his head. “No. Is that your suspect?”

“At this stage we’re not certain, but he fits the description.”

“Is he a medical doctor?”

“A chemist.”

The newspaperman retrieves his attaché case from an adjoining chair. “When you called and asked to discuss Artigas, I grabbed my file on him. There are several pictures of him and some of his employees. Let’s take a look and see if your chemist is among them.”

He sets out pictures that include Artigas and what appears to be a group of executives and workers in front of a factory. Artigas is a short, thin, bald man that looks more like a nervous accountant than a cannon king. I don’t see anyone I take to be Perun.

“If you’re going to deal with the count, you had better watch your step. This man,” Scholl points at a large man, an unpleasant sort with a large pug nose and quarrelsome mouth, “Jacque Malliot—he’s a former policeman who is technically one of Artigas’s assistants. I’ve heard he provides Artigas with the type of assistance that is more of a physical nature.”

“An enforcer?” Jules asks.

“Maybe worse. A killer. He has provoked duels a couple of times with Artigas’s competitors. One man he killed, another he seriously wounded. More than one throat has been slit in a less gentlemanly fashion than dueling for owing money to Artigas or being a disloyal employee.”

I peer closer at the picture. “Is Malliot’s right hand missing?”

“Yes, I’ve heard it was cut off by an opposing gang. What you see in place of the hand is a steel ball, about fist size, quite a nasty thing to get hit by. More than one man’s jaw—or brain—has been shattered from that iron fist.”

“Is Perun missing a hand?” Jules asks me.

“No, not that I know of, I was just curious.” I can hardly tell him that this Malliot might have been seeking information about me and the pamphlets I am passing out. Why is Artigas interested in me? “Artigas and Malliot sound like little more than criminals.”

“Murderous criminals at that. I’ve heard café talk that Malliot is a member of the Haute Pègre. Are you familiar with the organization, Mademoiselle?”

“No.”

“Perhaps organization is too strong a word. It is an association, perhaps even a caste, of criminals—not street apaches or pickpockets, but criminals who control vices and illicit activities of every nature.”

“They call ordinary thieves
chifonniers
—ragpickers,” Jules interjects.

“Yes, and the
gens comme il faut
, the upper echelon of the conspirators, live like princes at the top of a criminal conspiracy that has its own set of rules, soldiers, and weapons. In the old days the police only had to worry about the Romanichel, the Gypsy bands of murderers and thieves. But the Haute Pègre operates like organized military units of pègres, underworld criminals. Have you ever heard the story of the attempt to rob the Duke of Brunswick?” The question is directed at Jules.

Jules shakes his head no.

“Quite the eccentric, this English lord. He settled in Paris and set up residence at a queer sort of house that resembled a strongbox. Appropriate, because he kept a great hoard of diamonds in the house, fifteen to twenty million francs worth. This princely fellow with the wealth of kings was said to be so miserly that he avoided eating meat daily because of the cost. I saw this strange creature many years ago at a lesser café. When he rose to leave, his body made a rattling sound, the clatter of bones when the wind sets a skeleton in motion.

“The Haute Pègre decided to separate the duke from his diamonds. They managed to get one of their tribe into his employ as a servant. The man discovered that mi’lord kept the diamonds in a strongbox hidden in a wolf hole behind his bed. When the duke was out of the house, the thief used an iron bar to break into the wolf hole.” Scholl smiles. He apparently likes this part of the story. “One must be more cautious of separating a miser from his gems than a nun from her own jewel. As the thief grabbed the strongbox, he was shot ten times. The duke had a rack of loaded pistols, connected to electric wires, set to fire when the strongbox was touched.”

As Scholl clips the end of a cigar and prepares to light up, Jules asks, “Is Artigas involved in the Haute Pègre?”

“No one knows.” He blows foul smoke. “But there have been rumors. More to the point is Jacque Malliot. The duke’s deceased servant was also named Malliot.” Scholl shrugged. “An uncle, cousin, brother, father? I suspect a relationship. The Haute Pègre is a close-knit family.”

Jules says, “If men like Artigas practiced their traits on the street, we would call them thieves and murderers and send them to the guillotine. But when they wear fashionable suits and pay someone else to use the knife, we call them businessmen and admire them. There is indeed a thin line between the hand that makes a gun that has no purpose but to kill a human being and the hand that pulls the trigger.”

Scholl puts away the pictures. “If you want to know more about this chemist, why don’t you ask Artigas himself? I hear he’s in Paris for the Exposition. His company has an exhibit in the Palais de Machinery.”

“A munitions manufacturer showing off his wares of death at the Exposition?
Outrageous.
” Jules’ anger is about to explode.

“The power of money. The Exposition directors denied his application for an exhibit permit, but soon after some deputies in the Chamber and other high officials began to receive an extra source of income. When enough graft was paid, the Expo directors were told that France should demonstrate its military power to the world. As you know, the army and navy have exhibits also, but Artigas’s is at least inconspicuous.”

“Artigas represents the dirty side of France’s military power.”

“Exactly. Anyway, a compromise was reached and a small building was built at the back of the Palais de Machinery. The excuse was that for safety and secrecy reasons, the armaments should not be in the main hall, but the real reason is that the directors did not want the exhibit in plain sight.” He pauses for a moment. “I heard another dirty rumor about Artigas. Artigas hired a chemist to develop a new type of artillery shell—”

“I’m familiar with the story,” Jules interrupts. His tone causes me to glance at him.

“Then you’re aware that a chemist involved tried to secretly sell the compound to a foreign power and ended up floating in the Seine?”

“Yes, a man from Marseille. I have another question for you,” Jules says, “this time about an Irishman, one Oscar Wilde.”

Scholl laughs. “Ah, you go from the sinister to the ridiculous. Have you met this prince of the boulevard cafés?”

“I’ve had the doubtful pleasure.”

“The Britisher is an incredible café and dinner phenomena. Never has one man created so much attention in the dining room world of the arts with having done so little. The man’s most significant contribution to the arts is his wagging tongue. And he has a habit of borrowing his ideas from others.”

“Borrowing?” I ask. “You mean plagiarizing?”

“Sometimes taken outright, more often adapted. In fifteen minutes of café oratory at the Café Royale, I’ve heard him espouse the ideas of Plato, Cicero, Descartes, and Karl Marx without giving any of them credit.”

“Marx?” Jules eyebrows go up. “Is Wilde a Communist?”

“An anarchist, I think is what he calls himself, and a socialist. He even wrote a play about that woman, what was her name, the Russian … Vera, Vera something…”

“Vera Zasulich.”

Both Jules and Scholl look at me in surprise. “She tried to kill General Trepov, the Governor of St. Petersburg, but only wounded him. The play was called
The Nihilist
. Nihilists are a type of anarchists, if memory serves me correct. However, the play closed after a few performances.”

I swear I will never stop being amazed at how men are so shocked to find that a woman has any knowledge about politics. I lift my chin a notch higher.

Jules asks Scholl, “This Oscar Wilde is an anarchist and a nihilist?”

“Wilde is a talker, not a doer. He’s at his best in cafés among people who find the green fairy and white angel more stimulating than wine. He’d faint if someone asked him to throw a bomb. He’s not really a political theorist, but a café orator who wraps words in bright paper and tosses them at people as if he’s a king throwing coins to peasants. He says he is an anarchist at heart, but I suspect that his heart is solely dedicated to hearing himself talk and wearing the green carnation.” Scholl shoots a glance at me to see if I am offended by his reference to Wilde’s homosexual orientation.

I flutter my eyes ladylike. “I know the green fairy is absinthe, but what’s the white angel?”

“Cocaine. Wilde, by the way, frequents this café. He claims he once saw an angel fluttering over the square. I image what he saw flying was one of the stone angels from atop the Opera across the street. No doubt he saw the image after partaking of cocaine and absinthe.”

A man enters with a woman on his arm and they sit nearby. Scholl and the man exchange greetings before the man sits. The man is generously built and rather handsome in a brooding sort of way. There’s a bit of gloom about him. Jules moves his chair slightly so the newcomers cannot get a direct look at his face.