The Alchemy of Murder (40 page)

“Then why are you looking for him?” The question just shot out of my mouth. But it suddenly hit me—
that was why they were following me
.

Malliot says, “He didn’t say he was looking for him.”

“Let’s stop chasing cats in the dark.” Anger erupts from Jules’ voice. It’s obvious he’s losing patience. “We want Nurep, you want him. I don’t know why you’re after him, but knowing where your heart is, there must be money at the bottom of it. Mademoiselle Brown is not here for money, but justice.”

Malliot starts to say something but Artigas holds up a hand to stop him and addresses Jules.

“I take offense at your words and your tone. It’s painful for me to receive such abuse from a man whom I admire. You may not believe this, but your fascinating stories have provided considerable inspiration for me in my business affairs.”

“Monsieur, I find it grossly insulting that my writing has encouraged you to carry on a business as heinous as yours. With that sort of inspiration, I’ll gladly give up the pen and bide my time growing lettuce.” Jules abruptly turns and walks out of the room.

I politely smile at the men. “I concur.” And I join Jules in the main room.

“He’s a swine who will burn in hell for his crimes,” Jules says.

Malliot comes out of the room right behind us—sullen and dangerous. The steel ball on the end of his arm looks deadly. Jules turns to him, holding his cane with both hands as if he will draw a blade from it.

Oscar is suddenly between them.

Malliot stops short, surprised by the big man.

“I say, perhaps you can help me,” the Irishman says frustrated. He’s holding a round steel ball, the size of a soccer ball. “I turned the knob on this thing and now it’s ticking.”

Malliot stares at the object. “My God, it’s a marine mine. You’ve armed it!”

“Oh my!” Oscar instantly shoves it into the man’s arm. “Please take care of it.”

We quickly retreat out of the room leaving Malliot holding the ball, looking completely lost as to what to do.

Once out of the pavilion, I give Oscar an appraising look. If I’m not mistaken, he’s not at all the babbling fool he appears to be.

“I appreciate your intervention.” Jules genuinely pats Oscar on his shoulder.

“Intervention?” The big man shrugs. “Purely accidental, I can assure you.”

Neither of us believe him.

“Let’s hope they’re able to disarm that sea mine,” I say.

Oscar chuckles. “Not a problem, my dear girl. A man explaining the equipment told me the explosive charges have been removed from the display items.”

An explosion sounds behind us and we whip around. Firework rockets explode above the pavilion. We break down and have a good laugh.

*   *   *

W
E PART WITH
Oscar at the Port D’Iéna. As we walk, Jules’ features are stoic, but I know he is thinking about how nice it would be to drive a stake through Artigas’ heart.

“Did you notice the count’s teeth?” I say to make conversation. “Unlike the incisors of ordinary human beings, he appears to have a mouth full of rip-and-tear canines. I think I’ve seen tamer smiles on vicious dogs.”

“You have my apology.”

“For what?”

“I permitted my hatred of that man to affect our investigation.”

“Perhaps if you told me why you dislike the man so much,” I murmur. I suspect Jules heard, but chooses not to answer, and we just continue to walk.

Once off the bridge we stop. The sky has cleared and a full moon shines down. Lovers are walking on the river quay as romantic violin music comes from a café. I find myself wishing Jules would ask me to his hotel.

“Would you like to come back to my hotel for a drink?”

For a moment I just look at him not believing what I heard and wishing I could say yes. “Yes, but no.”

Without warning he takes me in his arms, kisses me, and then abruptly turns and leaves. I come very close to running after him, but that stupid code of morality for women rears its ugly head and slaps me in the face. But I must admit, there is another reason I can’t go to his hotel. I already scheduled a secret meeting with Oscar.

I only pray it’s worth it.

53

I’m deep in thought about my feeling for Jules when Oscar shows up.

“Nellie, my dear, I hope you haven’t been waiting long? I was unfortunately detained by an old friend I hadn’t seen for quite sometime…”

Oscar doesn’t want an answer from me, he just goes on and on as he escorts me through Le Passage and down alleys and stairs to Boulevard Rochechouart. How does he have time to breathe? He’s in good humor—laughing, talking away.

“I’ve arranged a meeting at a café with André, a friend of my Jean-Jacque.” He pauses a moment, as to give him respect, and then continues. “The café is walking distance on Bou’ Clichy across from the circus. La Taverne du Bagne. I sent André a telegram this morning asking him to meet us.”

“You really think he can help?”

“Of course, my dear, why else would I arrange for a meeting?”

“Okay, but why do you think he can help us?”

“Because,” Oscar pauses dramatically, “he was the last person to be with Jean-Jacque before…”

“Oh…”

For a moment we walk in horrible silence.

“Oscar, I realize this is hard for you and I want you to know I really appreciate your help…”

“It’s quite all right, my dear, anything to catch this ghastly beast.”

“So, André and Jean-Jacque were … close?”

“Oh! Heavens no. One could not get close to Jean-Jacque anymore than one could fondle an angel. André was a friend. Whatever small affection André had for Jean-Jacque was purely ephemeral. I shouldered him from Jean-Jacque’s heart.”

“Hmmm…”

Oscar gives me a sideways glance.

“This tavern we are going to, is the English translation something like the Labor Tavern?”

“Partly. But the reference is to hard labor, the kind you do in prison.”

“Why would one use a prison term to name a café?”

He chuckles. “One of the loveliest things about Paris is its imagination. While London has might and majesty, Paris has art and mystery. Here, you can travel to the far reaches of the earth and always have the Seine nearby. Tonight you will visit Devil’s Island. Lisbonne, the owner, like Louise Michel, was a Communard who was sent to prison. His café recalls those days as a convict. Some of the waiters are friends from the Commune.”

Entering La Taverne du Bagne, the first person we encounter is a waiter dressed as a convict.

“Pierre,” Oscar whispers to me, “is an actual ex-convict.”

“Another hero of the Commune?” I’m finding Communard heroes are as common as mice in Montmartre.

“No. Actually a nonpolitical felon—he caught his lover cheating and cut off his penis.”

Oscar is an immediate source of attention. It makes no difference that he’s not a particularly handsome man, in the manner of which men are judged; this unique giant with bad teeth and a voice that could coach the gods from Olympus, is admired.

“Nellie, my dear.” Oscar takes me by the hand and introduces me to a Japanese person just before he is swept away. “Miki, we’re here to meet André. Would you mind telling my friend Nellie about poor Jean-Jacque until he gets here.”

Miki has white powder on her skin, mysterious Oriental eyes, red lips, red rouge on her cheeks, and hair up in a bun with a jeweled ivory comb through it. I feel awkward. I don’t know if Miki is male or female. She was talking to a man when Oscar interrupted.

“Please, don’t let me interrupt,” I say. As I wait for Miki to finish her conversation with her friend, all I can hear in my head is Alice’s conversation with the Cheshire Cat:

“But I don’t want to go among mad people,” Alice remarked. “Oh, you can’t help that,” replied the Cat, “we’re all mad here. I’m mad. You’re mad.” “How do you know I’m mad?” said Alice. “You must be,” said the Cat, “or you wouldn’t have come here.”

Her friend gives her airy cheek kisses and moves away to another group.

“He recently returned from the Pacific islands.” Miki takes a puff from her cigarette. It’s held by a long, ivory cigarette holder. Her voice is soft and as exotic as her looks. Her French is noticeably accented, even to me. I give up trying to figure out her sex. Whatever it is, she is a lovely representation of the East. And strangely enough, I can understand a man falling for her.

“Oscar tells me that Jean-Jacque and André were friends.”

“No, my darling, they were lovers. Oscar doesn’t like to admit it. I suppose Oscar also told you Jean-Jacque was one of God’s fondest angels.”

“Something like that.”

“Don’t believe it. Jean-Jacque had most people fooled. Oscar cares for a man’s mind as well as his body, but when it came to Jean-Jacque, well … I’m afraid it was Jean-Jacque’s jade stock that was the greatest temptation.”

I wish I had Miki’s Oriental fan to hide my face.

“It was famous, of course.”

“Pardon?”

“Jean-Jacque’s jade stock. Everyone talked about it. Ten inches, straight as an arrow with a knob on the end that felt like soft, smooth marble.”

I take a long sip of my drink hoping it will mask my flushed face. The door bursts open behind us and a messenger boy in the blue uniform and cap of a British General Postal Office struts in singing, “Telegram for Lord Somerset! Telegram for Lord Somerset!”

I welcome the interruption. A tall man is talking to Oscar and the boy heads directly for him. The man, who is almost as tall as Oscar, is bald, but has an erect, athletic military bearing and sports a wide, thick handlebar mustache.

“Do you know who he is?” Miki asks.

“Oh yes, indeed I do. Lord Arthur Somerset is the son of a duke. For the past several months he has been very prominently mentioned in the New York papers.”

“Why?”

“He fled England in September to avoid prosecution for buggery arising from the Cleveland Street scandal. The scandal erupted when a postal supervisor became suspicious of one of the messengers who delivered telegraphs in the city. Like everyone else, the British love the speed and convenience of telegrams. A number of young men employed in the deliveries became involved with a house on Cleveland Street in London where they engaged in sex acts with other men, reporting that they earned more than a week’s wages for less than an hour’s work. Lord Somerset was identified as the man who engaged the messenger boys for what the newspapers called gamahuching.”

She clapped with delight. It’s obvious I don’t need to explain “gamahuching” to Miki. The twinkle in her eye is priceless, so I continue.

“What gave the New York papers a field day was the fact that Somerset, who is a drinking companion of the Prince of Wales and a member of the prince’s own club, had been given advanced warning to get out of the country when charges were to be brought.”
*

“My, my…” was all Miki could say.

Once across the room, the “messenger boy” delivers his telegraph—he pulls down his pants, exposing the message, “frig me” on his rear.

Oscar returns to me as laughter fills the room.

“Sorry, my dear … on several counts. André sent a message. He’s off to Lyons to care for a sick aunt, so we won’t be seeing him tonight. As for the crude demonstration, one good thing came out of it. I was being forced to listen to Lord Somerset about horses. The man has nothing to say and says it.”

54

I awake that morning eager to meet Jules.

As I step outside, I recognize a yawning girl on her way into the sewing shop. I saw her last night strolling by cafés, subtly letting men know she’s available. She must be what Sûreté Detective Lussac calls a “casual girl”—a laundress or shop girl who must resort to part-time prostitution to make ends meet. It’s sad. There are too many of these girls. To my surprise, coming up the street toward me is Dr. Dubois. He politely tips his hat.

“Bonjour, Mademoiselle. Discovering you on my walk to work is a pleasant surprise. I seldom take this route. Tell me, have you found a solution to your
polar
?” He speaks in bad English, which is as difficult for me to understand as I’m sure my French is for him.

“
Polar
?”

“Ah, an American would say a mystery, a
whodunit
.”

“No, I still don’t know—
whodunit
. I have more questions and fewer answers than when I started. I didn’t realize you spoke English.”

“Yes, a little, I spent a year in England. At school.”

Dubois appears a bit disheveled, his collar is a little off-kilter, and his eyes are red. He doesn’t look as if he had a good night’s sleep. He forces a smile for my benefit.

“So, no luck in finding
le meurtrier
, the killer?”