The Alchemy of Murder (49 page)

“Which is?”

“When Pandora opened the box, releasing evils and miseries upon the world, she slammed the lid shut before the goddess Hope could escape. Hope is still there ready to use her magic when we release her.”

*   *   *

T
HE QUARTER WHERE
the suspected anarchist doctor is hiding is in chaos. Policemen on horse and foot are trying to contain a large crowd behind barricades. A building is on fire, the very one that the doctor is believed to be hiding in. Behind us arrive fire trucks with clanging bells.

“The people are quarantined,” an officer says. “They want out. Rumors have spread that the government is planning to kill them, part of the process of getting rid of the poor.”

Rocks fly and mounted officers urge their horses against the crowd. In my mind, neither side is handling the situation well, but I put the biggest blame on the police.

“These people are frightened. The Prefect should address their fears.”

“I think he is about to do that in his own way.” Jules looks down the street. A phalanx of helmeted police with shields and clubs attack the crowd at the Prefect’s command. I turn my eyes from the violence.

Someone shouts, “There he is!” A man breaks through the police lines and runs. Shots ring out and he stumbles and falls. I lose sight of him as a dozen officers converge on his prone figure. Moments later I’m called over to look at the man. He’s dead.

“It’s not Perun,” I proclaim sadly. The man is much too tall and skinny.

“I recognize him,” an officer says. “He’s wanted for the murder of his wife. That’s why he tried to escape.”

I ask one of my custodians to carry a message to the Prefect. “Tell him it would be nice if we find Perun and ask him some questions
before
we shoot him.” When the man trots off to deliver the message, I turn to Jules. “When I was arrested, why didn’t you come to my defense?”

“I only want to keep you safe. Besides, they’re not going to let you loose, no matter what.”

After the crowd is beaten back, Jules and I accompany a squad of police to the burning building. Fire-fighters have brought the situation under control.

“Someone started fires,” a fire captain tells Detective Lussac, “on different floors, trying to burn the place down. Because the walls are stone, only the wooden innards caught fire. However, we’re still working localizing fires throughout the building. You must be very careful.”

“Yes, yes, we will.” Detective Lussac turns to me. “The Prefect asks that we hurry. We’ll follow the officers in so you can identify this man Perun. He’s said to be on the fourth floor. There’ll be no shooting unless absolutely necessary. The Prefect says we must take him alive.”

“Smart man,” I mutter as I fall in with Jules at the rear of the contingent. The officers ahead of us enter each floor before we reach it, knocking down doors they find locked. The higher we go in the building, the thicker the smoke becomes. It is thickest when we reach the fourth floor.

“Stay here,” Lussac tells us. “You’ll be safe from bullets.”

We are on the stairs near the fourth-floor landing. I keep a wet cloth to my nose and mouth, but it helps very little in filtering out the smoke. The police break open a door on the fourth floor. A moment later Lussac is at the top of the stairs, coughing.

“We found him, he’s dead. See if you can identify the body. It’s not pretty. His face has been badly burned.”

As we enter the apartment, Jules suddenly grabs my arm. “
Quiet!
Stand still!” He listens intently. I hear it. A ticking sound. Like a clock. My blood turns cold.

“
Out!
” Jules yells.

He grabs my arm, rushing me to the door, the others behind us. We are going down the steps when the bomb explodes. I am knocked off of my feet and would be crushed by those coming down behind me if Jules didn’t act as a shield. When the concussion of the explosion is over, an ominous creaking sound emits.

“
The stairway’s going!
” Jules shouts.

I roll onto my feet. We reach the third-floor landing as the stairway collapses behind us. The bomb ignited the fire and flames are roaring out of control by the time we reach the ground floor and stagger outside, choking and coughing.

“He set a bomb, started a fire, and blew himself up,” Lussac tells the Prefect of Police outside. “Like a good anarchist, he intended to take as many of us with him as he could.”

“It wasn’t him,” I announce.

“You got a good look at him?” the Prefect asks.

“I didn’t have to. As I tried to explain to you before, Perun set the bomb and fire to make us believe he’s dead. It’s all too pat.”

“What proof do you have?”

“I’ve investigated this man on two continents. I know his twisted mind. You have to think like him to understand his actions. He’s playing with you, making a fool out of all of you.”

*   *   *

F
OR WHATEVER REASON
, I find my popularity with the police is always in question. I barely get the smoke out of my lungs and my breath back when the Prefect orders two policemen to take me back into custody.

“I am truly sorry you are being treated this way,” Jules says to me, but lifts neither hand nor objection to my arrest. His idea of keeping me safe.

My dress is torn in several places. My face is black from smoke and soot. And I am being arrested. To say the least, I’m livid about the lack of appreciation I’ve gotten for all my efforts.

“There is no justice in this world,” I inform Jules as they take me away.

*   *   *

A
POLICE MATRON
takes me to a cell that is barely a notch up from a jail cell that I occupied when I had myself arrested in New York as a “thief” to do an exposé on jail conditions. I am still inspecting the cot for bedbugs and other undesirable things when Jules is let in. He seems excited.

“The police are moving fast. They found the location where Perun mixed his deadly concoction.”

“Where?”

He leans forward and whispers, “This must be kept in strict confidence.”

I whisper back, “Who can I tell? The rats in this dungeon?”

Jules clears his throat. Apparently, I’m a woman who doesn’t know her place.

“The poisonous microbe dust is in a barge on the Seine. Perun planned to release the dust into the river as soon as he had enough. He was on the verge of making the release when he killed himself.”

“They found the body?”

“No, it burned up—”

“The police are making an assumption that he’s a common criminal. They don’t realize the man has something you possess in abundance.”

“What?” Jules asks.

“
Imagination
. He’s posed as a medical doctor, a scientist, and revolutionary. The world’s greatest scientist believed he was a dedicated biochemist, and he fooled France’s cannon king into believing he was a faithful employee. He’s helped kill an emperor and God only knows how many others. No one really knows what he looks like. Now ask yourself, if you were writing this character in a book, would he kill himself? Or would he leave the impression that he was dead to fool the police?”

“Nellie, I’m not the only one in this room who has an overabundance of imagination. But I’m able to keep a rein on my fantasies. You must understand that the best police and military minds of France are dealing with this problem.”

“The same ones who have me locked up?”

“Nellie, the barge was rented by Dubois. The police have been watching the barge and have observed known anarchists come and go, along with the type of supplies and equipment needed to create large quantities of microbes.”

“Did they also see a sign saying that it’s an anarchist hideout?”

He squeezes my hand. “I don’t blame you for being frustrated. You haven’t been treated as you deserve, but that situation is only temporary.”

“What are the police going to do about the barge?”

“With anarchists involved, we suspect it will also be loaded with explosives. That means it can’t be stormed by ordinary means. We’re trying to devise a way to get aboard quickly, so the anarchists have no time to react. Because of that imagination you claim I have, the police are consulting me.”

“The next thing you’re going to tell me is that you plan to attack the barge with a submarine.”

His mouth hangs open. “A submarine?”

“You know, like
Twenty Thousand Leagues
—”

He draws back as if I had struck him.

“That’s it! There’s a submarine already in the Seine, the one being exhibited by Zédé for the Exposition.”

“What?”

“We can gain entry underwater. I know exactly how it can be done.” He rushes from the cell.

I shake my head. What have I started?

65

Nellie & Oscar

Early the next morning, Dr. Roth comes to my cell. His face is drawn and I fear the worst for Jules.

“Your friend Oscar has succumbed to the fever. He’s at Pigalle Hospital, clinging to life.”

“Oh, dear God, no.” I’d forgotten all about the Irish poet. The thought of him suffering the horrible symptoms of Black Fever is too much to bear.

“I’ve gotten permission from the Prefect to take you to the hospital. I assured him that you would be on your honor and return here voluntarily after your visit. He agreed after I told him Doctor Pasteur and I would vouch for you.”

“Thank you.”

*   *   *

R
OTH HAS A
carriage waiting at the curb for us. As I enter, I gasp.

“Welcome aboard, my dear Nellie.”

“Oscar!”

He laughs with delight as I climb in and take the seat beside him. Once Roth is inside, the carriage gets underway. I give Oscar a big hug and a kiss on the cheek. “You had me terribly worried.”

He beams with delight. “You didn’t think that I would leave you in the hands of those Huns, did you? We’re taking you to the station for the Le Havre train. I’ve already booked you passage on the boat-train to London. From there, you can book to New York. I shall be your traveling companion, of course. After aiding in your escape, I will be persona non grata in Paris.”

I shake my head in wonderment. “I can’t believe you got me out.”

“Actually, my dear, I am only a common soldier in the endeavor. André is the tactical genius who came up with the plan.” As Oscar speaks, he nods across to Tomas Roth.

“André?”

“Yes! André. My friend I always wanted you to meet.” Oscar rubs his hands together with glee. “Isn’t it wonderful? I always knew André was a superb actor. He played the role of an assistant to Pasteur to get you released. We must get out of French territory before the Prefect discovers our little hoax.”

The man I know as Tomas Roth locks eyes with me.

“André.” The name sticks in my throat. Oscar knows him as André. Pasteur calls him Roth. But add a heavy beard, eyeglasses, and long hair covered by a pulled down box hat and Perun, the man in black, would materialize.

Oscar stares at me as the carriage is coming to a halt. “Why, what’s the matter dear girl, you look pale. Don’t worry, André won’t be arrested, he’s coming with us.”

The door opens. A man with a steel ball for a hand boards. He has a pistol in his other hand.

André grins at us. “I believe you’ve met Monsieur Malliott.”

Oscar stares at me. “Nellie … what—”

“You’re right, Oscar, your friend André is a good actor.” I shake my head. “You must be a great one to have fooled Pasteur.”

André shrugs. “It wasn’t difficult. Pasteur is focused completely on his work—and I complemented his work. I’m a better scientist than anyone at the Institut except Pasteur himself. And I tapped into his one great passion besides science.”

That passion had been obvious from the art in Pasteur’s office. “The German thing. All that artwork about freeing the territory the Germans took from France.”

André claps. “Very good. Some borrowed credentials from an Alsatian researcher in the captured territory, and the accent I already had as a foreigner speaking French, and Pasteur was more than eager to permit me to work at the institute. But I must give myself credit. Once inside, I impressed him with my skills.” André smiles at Oscar. “You look positively ill. Good Lord, maybe you are coming down with the fever. What do you think, Mademoiselle Bly? Does the situation look terminal to you?”

For once I am speechless and deep down I have to admit—the situation does look terminal.

“Oh, Nellie, the gods have given me almost everything.” Oscar sighs. “I have genius, a distinguished name, high social position. Unfortunately, I’m afraid that being able to detect the deception of a friend is not a talent willed to me from Olympus.”

“It’s all right.” I pat Oscar’s arm. “He fooled a lot of people.” I ask André, “How did you manage to be in the picture as Tomas Roth and as the radical Nurep the café artist Toulouse painted?” I’m talking to keep from panicking. My instinct is to throw myself at the carriage door but the gun in Malliot’s hand dissuades me.