The Alchemy of Murder (46 page)

I’m puzzled. “What could a plague in China and the cholera in Egypt have to do with Doctor Dubois and this man Perun?”

Pasteur shrugs and spreads his hands on his desk. “Perhaps they obtained samples of the two diseases to compare to this Black Fever, perhaps believing that the fever is a mutated form of one of these known diseases. There are an infinite number of maladies inflicting mankind. Unfortunately, until we have better weapons on our side, we can find and destroy only a few of them.”

“Was this piece of crate the only evidence of laboratory experiments you found in the village?” Roth directs his question to Jules.

“We found the burned out remains of a laboratory and picked up some of the ash debris in the hopes you can analyze it.”

Roth is already shaking his head. “Unlikely we’d find microbes that survived a fire.”

His remark depresses me. “That’s all we came up with, the crate and the ashes. And a handful of dirt from some cursed fields.”

Pasteur reacts as if he’d been slapped. “Cursed fields? What do you mean, cursed fields?”

“A farmer at the village told us that animals die if they graze there. It appears Perun dug up a dead cow buried there. We took a soil sample.” I study Pasteur’s face. His eyes are ablaze. “Is this important?”

“The soil sample, do you have it with you?”

“Yes.” Jules hands the bag containing the sample to Roth.

“Have you touched the materials?” Pasteur asked.

Jules shakes his head. “I was careful not to.”

“Is it just dirt?” Pasteur seems anxious. “Are any of the cow’s remains included?”

“There’s a piece of cow hide in the sample, and perhaps a worm or two.”

“You found worms at the site.” Pasteur gets up, excited. “Just as I thought. Wait while we take a preliminary look at the samples.”

As we wait, we have tea with Madame Pasteur—a quiet, unassuming woman who strikes me as a perfect match for the great scientist devoted to his work. I have a hard time making polite talk with Madame Pasteur because I’m dying of curiosity about Pasteur’s reaction to my cursed fields comment. When Madame Pasteur politely excuses herself to leave the room, I ask Jules, “What do you think is so important about the worms?”

He whispers back, “Perun has been experimenting with them to create a giant worm that will eat the world.”

An hour later, we follow Roth back into the office where Pasteur is already seated. The elderly scientist’s face is drawn and pale, but his eyes are bright and powerful.

“Anthrax,” Pasteur states.

“Anthrax?” I look to see if Jules understands. He does.

“I can understand if you’ve never heard of this microbe, Mademoiselle, it is known mostly in the sheep and cattle industry. It’s commonly called the woolgatherer’s disease because it mostly affects people who work with animal hides.”

“Is it a significant disease?”

“It is if you own cattle or sheep, or work with hides, but it usually isn’t as highly contagious a disease as the Black Death. Anthrax spreads mostly by touch to an open cut, though it can be inhaled from dust brushed from infected animals. The more contagious diseases are inhaled from infected persons. However, anthrax is extremely deadly. If inhaled, it is almost always fatal.”

“Doctor Pasteur developed the vaccination that protects animals from anthrax,” Roth says. “It saved sheep and cattle raisers millions of francs each year. But that discovery came at great risk to the doctor’s reputation as a scientist, especially after others, who thought they knew a better answer, had thrown down the gauntlet.”

Pasteur waves aside Roth’s praise as if discovering a vaccination for a dreaded disease is just something he does on a daily basis.

“I was most fortunate—and had a similar experience to the one you had in the village. Animals were dying from an epidemic of anthrax and workers were getting the condition. I spoke to farmers who said there were certain fields that were particularly dangerous to animals; that more than an ordinary number of animals died when grazed there. They also spoke of these fields as being cursed, damned by God. While walking in such a field, I saw that the farmers had buried the dead animals on the spot where they died. I kicked up dirt on one such burial mound and noticed worms. From those worms, I realized how the contagion was spread from animal to animal.”

He pauses and takes a drink of water. “It’s the process of feeding that spread the disease. The farmers buried the diseased animals in the ground. There, worms would feast upon their flesh. Some of the worms would make their way to the surface, where they are eaten by cattle nibbling grass. Those cattle die from the infection, then are buried and provide more fodder for the worms.”

I shake my head. “Incredible. But wouldn’t it stop and the fields be useful again if they dug up the dead animals and properly disposed of them?”

“It’s not that simple, Mademoiselle. Anthrax is one of the most durable microbes I have studied. The microbes are known to last for decades in affected ground. And, because they’re too small to see with the naked eye and have already been spread by the worms, just removing the dead animals won’t get rid of them. There are billions of them in a single shovelful of dirt.”

Jules says to Pasteur, “The actions of this Perun person is getting stranger and stranger. What possible experiments can he be doing that would involve the plague, cholera, and anthrax? Do you draw any conclusions from these facts?”

“I draw no conclusions that cannot be confirmed in my laboratory. I have a question for the two of you. What is it exactly you believe this man Perun has been doing? What are these dark deeds you hint at?”

A look from Jules tells me to field the question. “I believe Perun has murdered women by somehow injecting them or otherwise infecting them with horrid diseases.”

“
What!
” Pasteur bangs his hand on his desk. “A scientist using his science to kill?
Mon Dieu
, I truly have lived too long. Why would he do such a thing?”

“I suspect he’s mad as a hatter. It may give him the same sort of thrill that another man gets riding a fast horse or shooting a lion or tiger.”

“How does Doctor Dubois fit into this madness?”

“Like you, we have more questions than answers. It may be nothing more than Dubois provided him samples for his experiments. Or that Dubois was somehow involved in it. I rather suspected the latter.”

“Is it possible that Dubois was the killer you sought?” That came from Roth.

“I don’t believe so.” I take a deep breath. “I’ve seen the killer—the man we believe is Perun, at least from a distance. Dubois’ body language was much different, slower and gentler, you could say. No, I’m sure Dubois was not my man.”

When I finish, those penetrating eyes of Pasteur are past me, no doubt seeing eons ahead of us poor mortals.

“First the frogs and rats, and now the worms. And the birds … I must not forget the birds.” Pasteur is lost in very deep thoughts.

“Frogs, rats, worms, and birds?” I raise my eyebrows. “I don’t know about frogs and things, but I do know a woman died from the fever literally before my eyes.”

My statement awakens Pasteur from his thoughts, “Tell me about her again. Tell me
everything
you saw.”

I describe in great detail what happened that night before the graveyard incident and afterward, meeting Dubois, and what I saw the next day at the hospital. The great man taps a pencil on his desk as he sees beyond anything we can envision. An absolute stillness grips the room. I’m afraid to even move—afraid I will break the spell. Finally, he leans back in his chair and expels a great sigh.

“There is an inconsistency, one that bothers me a great deal.”

“And that is?” I have to ask.

“The condition of the woman you saw being autopsied by Doctor Dubois. You described her blood as thick and black. Is that correct?”

“Yes, that’s how I remember it.”

“Even the innards you saw were blackened.”

“Yes.”

“Doctor Dubois told you that they were typical symptoms of the Black Fever. Yes?”

“Correct. Is that a problem?”

“Black blood in the viscera can be caused by an invasion of the anthrax bacteria. Anthrax can only grow and multiply in the presence of oxygen. Oxygen gives blood its bright color; anthrax consumes the oxygen and turns blood blackish.”

“Perun’s been infecting women with anthrax!” I can’t believe it.

“No. Anthrax is a quick-acting contagion, but not something that kills in minutes.”

“She could have been infected earlier.”

Pasteur shakes his head. “The deterioration was too fast to have simply been anthrax.”

“If not anthrax, then what?”

Instead of answering my question, Pasteur looks up to Roth who is still standing beside his chair. “It’s not consistent. You see that, don’t you? What we were provided with is not consistent.”

“Yes, I do see that.”

“What do you see?” I can’t stand it. I’m on the edge of my seat.

Pasteur waves his hand, as if pushing away a nuisance. “The samples we received from Dubois. You say the woman had blackened blood and that’s typical of the fever. I was told that the fever came from some black spots on the flesh that soon disappeared after death. The samples of blood and flesh I’ve been provided have been red.”

Jules interjects. “Red, meaning they have not lost their oxygen.”

“Yes.”

“Dubois gave you false samples.” I say the obvious and silence follows. Thoughts dribble down from my brain and out my mouth. “It’s more than just the women. There are many people sick in the city, people dying. Dubois has hindered the research on the influenza outbreak to let people die. Why?”

Pasteur grimaces. “Mademoiselle, hundreds of thousands of people have died across Europe and North America from the contagion, and those are just the ones counted in the so-called civilized countries where such statistics are maintained. I thought of the Black Fever as a strand of the less deadly influenza. Now I must wonder if it is not even related to the general malady. We are not just talking about a man who stalks women in the night. We may be dealing with a killer that stalks civilization itself. I don’t know what’s killing those people, but I must find out.”

“What are we to do?”

“I must conduct more tests. Everything we have talked about is nothing but the most severe speculation. It must be proven. I must have laboratory results that are irrefutable. No one will listen if I cannot come forward with objective results. I need legitimate samples. We must begin negotiations with the minister.” He looks to Roth. “He must intercede to provide me legitimate samples.”

“Are you talking about a government official?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“That could take a long time.” Those thoughts were not dribbling down from my brain anymore, they were gushing. “I may be able to get you samples in a matter of hours.”

“How?”

“It just happens that the uncle of a victim of the fever is a close friend of mine. I’m sure I can get him to have the body released to me quite quickly.”

*   *   *

J
ULES AND
I are outside the Institut before he asks me the obvious question, with much dread in his voice.

“Tell me that you’re not planning to have Malliot pretend to be Dubois’ uncle and get us the body. That would be ridiculous. The man would never agree.”

“I’m not planning to have Malliot pretend to be Dubois’ uncle.”

“Thank God. I’m relieved.”

“I’m planning to have
you
be his uncle.”

61

“We are all so sad over Doctor Dubois’ death,” the nurse says. “He was an example for all of us. We don’t know what we shall do without him. Are you also a doctor, Monsieur Uncle?”

Jules grumbles something to the nurse that sounds like “no” as we march down the hospital corridor. He looks more like a man being twisted on a rack in a medieval dungeon than a grieving relative. He’s hopeless as an actor. The only saving grace is that there is no reason for the nurse to be suspicious. No one in their right mind would claim the body of a Black Fever victim unless they were a close relative.

Dubois’ body has been keep in a walk-in icebox next to the loading ramp at the back of the hospital. On the way to the hospital, we arranged for a mortuary wagon to pick up the body and wired Pasteur to meet us at the mortuary within an hour.

“I’m so glad that he has close relatives,” the nurse continues, talking through a vinegar sponge. “We all thought he was an orphan. Do you live in Paris?”

“Occasionally,” is all Jules says.

We go out the backdoor and onto the loading dock, depositing our sponges in a tub by the door.

“You both look familiar. Have you ever visited Doctor Dubois here?”

“On occasion.” Jules glances at me with concern.

“Then that must be it.”

The mortuary wagon driver gets off his rig and comes onto the dock. While the nurse has the driver sign papers, Jules and I stand on the dock and try to look like grieving relatives.