The Alchemy of Murder (39 page)

—Plea to the Exposition Director in opposition to the Eiffel Tower, signed by artists and writers and published in
Le Temps, 1887

52

The Paris World Fair, L’Exposition, spread over two hundred and twenty-eight acres. “What a dazzling sight.” Oscar waves his arms, as if a squire showing his domain. “There is something for just about everyone in the world. Industry and the arts on the Champs de Mars, horticulture on the Trocadéro, agriculture on the Quai d’Orsay, colonial exhibits, evil military rubbish, health and social welfare on the Esplanade des Invalides. At one end of the Champs de Mars is the largest structure at the Exposition, the Palace of Machines. On the other end you have the world’s tallest structure, the Eiffel Tower. It’s truly wonderful,” Oscar sings in his melodramatic voice.

As we make our way down the Champs de Mars we pass structures that house attractions. Eastward along the Quay are the food products and agricultural exhibits from all over the world. Most impressive is a huge oak wine barrel capable of holding the equivalent of 200,000 bottles, elaborately carved and gilded with coats of arms of the wineries of Champagne.

Cafés along the way are crowded and overflowing. People are eating wherever they can find an empty spot. Sprawled all over the lawns and steps of exhibit halls are picnics of cold meat, cheese, fruit, and wine.

On the Esplanade des Invalides, the most colorful and aromatic exhibits come from colonial pavilions: smells of Oriental spices, North African couscous, the beat of tom-toms, Polynesian flutes, the cry of a muezzin from a minaret, the concussion of a copper drum at a Cambodian temple.

I have to agree with Oscar; the exposition is nothing like I’ve seen before. While Jules stops for a moment to enjoy the nubile young women from Java and Tahiti perform exotic native dances with authenticity that no doubt offends prim and proper ladies, I am fascinated with Rue du Cairo, a reproduction of a Cairo street: swiveling belly dancers, including Aiousche, the top attraction, beggars demanding baksheesh, carpet sellers hawking their wares, donkeys braying stubbornly, Turkish delight sweets, hot mint tea, and bitter coffee.

“You must see Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show starring Annie Oakley at the Neuilly Hippodrome,” Oscar tells us. “I was out West once, boomtowns, cowboys, Indians, all that sort of thing.”

“Perhaps another time,” I murmur. We are definitely not going to see Bill and Annie. Thank goodness Oscar has forgotten I told him I got shooting lessons when I wrote a story about their show. The moment Annie sees me she’ll scream my name and run to me.

As we approach the Palais de Machines it looms up as a grey colossal volume. Unlike the rest of the exposition the enormous structure, at first sight, has a cold ambience—plain and austere. But the closer we get, the extensive detail with decorative moldings, ornamental pedestals, and arches embellished with different shades of variegated foliage becomes apparent. At the eastern entrance stand two nude sculptures representing Steam by Henri-Michel-Antoire Chapu, and Electricity by Louis-Ernest Barrias.

Jules says, “You can get a bird’s-eye view of the hall by riding on an electrically operated platform high above the machinery. It carries visitors across the length of the building at a height of twenty-two feet.”

There’s pride in Jules’ voice and I realize why. A number of the machines in this vast hall, including a “moving sidewalk,” made their first appearance on the pages of his books.

“Isn’t there a horseless carriage with an engine powered not by steam, but gasoline?” I ask Jules.

“Yes. It is called a Benz. There’s great potential for such a machine.”

“Really? I heard it’s a big toy for a rich man. Why anyone would want to drive a carriage powered by a noisy, smoking, smelly engine when they can drive one drawn by a horse? Besides, these horseless carriages will do nothing but pollute our air, create noise and havoc in the streets, and probably incur unnecessary cost.”

“Indeed.” For a moment I believe I have left Jules speechless. “Look, Thomas Edison has all of his inventions on display. The phonograph is my favorite. I believe this is one invention you can’t condemn.”

A large crowd has gathered at the exhibit; some people have on earpieces to listen to recordings.

“These … these mechanical monsters,” Oscar says, waving his walking stick at the rolls of machinery, “are slavers of man, not his liberator. They are distractions, not
provocateurs
of great ideas. Without them—”

“All this,” Jules waves his walking stick at the rows of exhibits, “is the work of mere lice, parasites on this great living planet hurtling through the heavens. We believe we are so important in the cosmic scheme, but in reality we are insignificant parasites on Mother Earth, bloodsuckers that may some day be shaken off.”

When Jules finishes being philosophical, Oscar stops and pulls out a piece of foolscap from his pocket and makes a note.

I edge closer to Jules. “You know he’s going to repeat your words in a boulevard café by night’s end.”

A small satisfied smile teases the corners of his mouth. “I read that tripe in this morning’s newspaper. They are the words of Henri Vallance, the philosopher. Everyone who hears our friend will know he stole the thought.”

“As I was saying,” Oscar expounds, “man has been enslaved by his own unbridled urge to invent machines—”

“And without them those shiny shoes you wear would be gone and you would be walking barefoot,” Jules retorts. “The extravagant clothes on your back would be replaced by animal skins, and instead of taking a train and boat back to London, you would have to walk and swim and kill your food along the way.” He points his walking stick to our right. “Artigas’ exhibit entrance is in this direction. Perhaps you can keep in abeyance your quibbles on the evils of the Industrial Age until after we have dealt with one of its worse offenders.”

We go through an exhibit hall housing French military artillery pieces and machine guns that make modern warfare so deadly.

Oscar waves a generous hand at the killing machines. “These toys of grown men in uniform are not the future of war. Someday each side will send a single chemist onto the field of battle carrying a bottle containing a compound so lethal it will wipe away whole armies.”
*

Jules stops and stares at Oscar. “Where did you hear that?”

Jules’ body language is so abrupt, Oscar is taken back. “Why, I suppose I deduced it from what is going on in the world.” His eyebrows shoot up. “My good man, no doubt I’ve been influenced by your books, the ones from my youth and the ones my wife is already putting away for my own sons. Captain Nemo and his terrible killing machine, the
Nautilus
, rockets to the moon, the city-killing weapons in
The Begum’s Fortune
—”

“My books were written to entertain, not terrify.”

“And they certainly accomplished the purpose of entertaining. Captain Nemo is an interesting villain, certainly not an Othello or Cesare Borgia, but nonetheless a knave with many facets. He has the mind and soul of an anarchist, a staunch defender of personal liberty, and while the terrible means by which he extracts justice and vengeance are not ones most of us would condone, he is truly a revolutionary, a man who on the one hand wavers between love and hate, pity and revenge, but on the other is above such petty human weaknesses.”

Jules retorts defensively, “Nemo does not attack. He defends when he is attacked.”

“But there’s violence in him, he’s an archangel of vengeance for the deaths of his family and those of his comrades, yet,” Oscar waves his hands in the air as if he’s conducting a symphony of his words, “this sometimes cruel tyrant of the deep is devoting his life to battling the tyranny of nations who put great warships on seas. And despite his sailors, Nemo is a man all alone. Ultimately, there is just him and the sea.”

Oscar’s comments give me pause to think as the two carry on their discussion. I’d never thought of Captain Nemo as an anarchist and self-appointed vigilante, but as I think of him this way—I believe Oscar is correct, and it helps me understand the undercurrent of anger and violence I’ve felt coming from Jules.

*   *   *

T
HE ENTRANCE TO
Artigas’ exhibit is in a far corner of the great hall.

Scholl was right. It is inconspicuous, hidden in plain sight, merely a wood podium with a simple brass plaque on the front bearing the baron’s name and his coat of arms, which gives me an epiphany—what if the slasher has been hiding in plain sight right in front of me? This intriguing thought teases me as we approach the entrance.

A uniformed attendant stands behind a podium by an unmarked door, which I believe I can correctly assume is the door to the lion’s den.

“We’re here to see Artigas,” Jules states.

I note that he doesn’t use the count’s title.

The attendant opens a guest book. “Do you have an appointment, Monsieur?”

“No. Tell him Jules Verne wishes to speak with him.” He hands the man his calling card.

The man adjusts his eyeglasses to look at the card and then stares at Jules.

“The beard is gone, but the name is the same. Please tell Artigas I’m here.”

“One moment, Monsieur.”

While the attendant is gone, I try to read Jules’ features out of the corner of my eye. I sense powerful emotions beneath the surface.

The attendant returns and escorts us in. The high-domed main room displays lethal-looking weapons, its centerpiece being an armored, horse-drawn cart that bristles with an artillery piece and two machine guns that appeare similar to the Maxim guns I’ve seen in the States. Count Artigas and his man, Malliot, are in a small office. I wonder if they, or at least Malliot, will recognize me.

The office is too small for all of us and Oscar politely takes his large frame over to examine weaponry while Jules and I enter. I’m leery, but most curious to meet the men who have been interested in my doings. I just hope that if they do recognize me, they won’t acknowledge it.

In person, Artigas looks more like a wolf in man’s clothing—very expensive clothing—than the accountant type that Scholl’s pictures portrayed. He has cold black hair, a short black beard, and an extravagant black mustache, without a stitch of grey in any of it. He either has an ample supply of bootblack or he manages to deny nature and keep the color of his youth when he is at least in his sixtieth year.

He has that broad, expansive waistline favored by men of wealth all over the world. His black frock coat, grey pants, and white spats are of the finest quality. His cravat is yellow and sports an enormous diamond stickpin that is no doubt worth the national budget of a small country. The most distinguishing feature about him is his eyes—looking at them is like looking down cannon barrels, round and black and lethal. Artigas stands up and offers his hand to Jules.

“This is an honor, Monsieur Verne. I am a great admirer of yours.”

Jules hesitates a brief moment before shaking his hand. I suspect he realizes to refuse to shake will immediately terminate the interview. Both Artigas and Malliot give me a long look when Jules introduces me as Mademoiselle Brown. I’m sure they recognize me.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your company and this lovely lady?” Artigas asks.

“Mademoiselle Brown is trying to find a man who once worked for you. Leon Nurep,” Jules says in a flat tone.

Artigas’ gaze is steady. “Nurep, Nurep, I’m not certain I recall the name. And why is Mademoiselle seeking this man?”

“She’s a Pinkerton agent from America.”

Jules’ answer shocks me and I flinch in surprise, but maintain my composure. The story we’d agreed upon at Le Chat Noir was that the man had abandoned his wife and family.

“Did you hear that, Jacque, a Pinkerton detective who is a woman.”

Artigas and Malliot exchange raised eyebrows and look at me. I keep my expression blank.

Jules smiles. “Come now, Artigas, you must know that women have been involved in criminal detection since the days when Vidocq used them to track down the criminal underworld. But then, Monsieur,” Jules nods at Malliot, “perhaps it’s you who would know something of the criminal underworld.”

A dark look from Malliot confirms he does not miss the innuendo.

“But the women Vidocq used for the Sûreté were of a different sort than this young woman,” Artigas answers smoothly. “Perhaps someday we will have the opportunity to find out more about her background.” His comment carries as much meaning as Jules’. “In the meantime, Mademoiselle, what crimes and misdemeanors did this person commit that brings you across an ocean to find him?”

“Murder,” I state flatly. “He’s an anarchist who we believe was involved in a bombing.”

“The Haymarket bombing?”

“Yes. How did you know that?”

Artigas shrugs. “It’s the most famous anarchist bombing in your country. What is the latest information you have about Monsieur Nurep’s whereabouts?”

“That’s why we have come to you, Count. My information is that he worked for you.”

“I now do recall a man by that name in my employ. But it was for a short time, quite awhile ago, and the work he did was of no consequence.”