Without warning a man steps out of a corner café and hurls a beer bottle at the anarchists. A revolutionary jumps down, fists begin to fly, and in seconds there is bedlam in the square as shouts for revolution resound against shouts for death to revolutionaries.
Our police wagon surges forward, but behind us Lussac and his officers with clubs get out of their carriage to join the mêlée. The political controversy remains with us as two prostitutes arguing opposite sides turn to hair pulling.
I sit quietly in my corner as the other girls pull the combatants apart, but words of the revolutionaries stay with me. My days as a factory girl were marked by strikes, injuries to workers, and layoffs. I don’t like to think about what happens to families when factories close. Losing one’s job—whether it be in Paris, New York, or London—ultimately has one consequence: desperation. Often times, starvation sets in.*
While my heart goes out to the workers, I don’t condone violence.
The anarchists are particularly violent in their approach to changing the social system, advocating the extermination of all political leaders in the hope their deaths will cause governments to fall. Yet, when the government falls and the new leadership takes over an interesting phenomena happens—they become what they revolted against.
I still wonder why my man in black wears the red of anarchy. It’s a disguise? Or is he an active anarchist?
I ask one of the girls why we’re being unloaded at a precinct house and not taken directly to police headquarters.
“We’ll be processed here. Only those who can’t set bond or who are wanted for other crimes will be taken to the central jail.”
It seems only fitting that rain starts falling just before we make it up a set of worn stone steps. A policeman leads us into an austere high-ceilinged room and has us line up to be physically measured by the Bertillon method. I’m familiar with the criminal identification method invented by Alphonse Bertillon when he was a young clerk in the Sûreté. Called “anthropometry,” it’s a system of body measurements. A surer method would be to photograph suspects, but photography is expensive and time consuming.
As soon as a girl is measured, she goes to another line where an officer at a desk questions her about her charges.
When my turn comes, measurements are taken of my head, feet, two fingers, arm span, forearm, and torso. With fourteen different measurements taken, the odds of any two people having the same exact measurements are nearly three hundred million to one. It’s a much more improved system of identification than having criminals line up in front of detectives to see if any of the officers recognize them as past offenders.
Another new criminal identification system, favored by Scotland Yard, is based upon claims that each person’s fingerprints are unique. In 1880, Henry Faulds, a Scottish physician, proposed the idea of using fingerprints for identification. Faulds fortuitously became the first person to catch a criminal with fingerprint identification. Working in Tokyo, he identified a thief by fingerprints the man left on a cup. Truly amazing. But it’s the anthropometry system that’s in use throughout Europe.
As my measurements are taken with a tailor’s tape, I make a quick assessment of my predicament. Mr. Pulitzer’s heart beats with the same rhythm as the circulation numbers for his newspaper. His heart will turn stone cold when circulation drops because his girl reporter is humiliated and ridiculed by other newspapers. Especially when they’ll have fun satirizing about “mi’lord” and his burned Long Tom. This bogus arrest will not only severely damage my career, but it will get the biggest laugh from those in newspaper circles who want to see a woman reporter fail. I’ve got to get out of this mess.
My first concern is how to deal with Chief Inspector Morant. Perhaps I should disarm him with my knowledge of the Sûreté. Its history is a romantic one involving a notorious thief, the Emperor Napoléon, and the first detective agency. It began early in the century when Empress Josephine’s necklace, given to her by Napoléon, was stolen.
A thief, Eugène-François Vidocq, was in prison. He convinced the police that the best way to catch a thief was with a thief and made a deal with them—he would recover the necklace in return for a pardon. He recovered the necklace and was permitted to create a new police agency—the police de sûreté, the “security police.” He organized a network of spies and informers that infiltrated the criminal milieu and brought the first women into police work, including the notorious “Violette,” a highly paid prostitute.
Vidocq’s colorful life was immortalized—Victor Hugo modeled his relentless policeman, Inspector Javert, in Les Misérables, after him; Balzac the criminal genius, Vautrin, in The Human Comedy. The first detective story, The Murders in the Rue Morgue, by Edgar Allan Poe, was inspired by Vidocq. After leaving the Sûreté, Vidocq opened the world’s first private detective agency.
“Name?”
My turn has come at the processing desk.
“Nellie Bly.”
The officer quickly checks a list without looking up. “I don’t find your name. What are your charges?” He looks up with a deadpan face as if this is the thousandth time today he has asked the question.
“Unlicensed prostitution, but—”
“Yes, yes, I know, you’re innocent, they all are. Prior offenses?”
“Of course not.”
“Then you may set bond. Do you have five francs?”
“Fi—five francs? Yes, I have it.” I quickly glance behind me, fearful that Detective Lussac will walk in at any moment.
The officer scribbles on a piece of paper. “This is your receipt. List your address, sign here. If you fail to appear before the court in three days, you’ll be arrested and charged with obstructing the work of the police. Next.”
Keeping my face blank and fighting my feet from taking flight, I walk out of the station house like someone trying to make it to a toilet. My mind is reeling. When I reach the street, a carriage pulls up and a middle-aged man with the bearing of a military officer steps out. He’s dressed in top hat, tails, white tie, and carrying an ivory handled cane. He stares at my harlot’s dress as I sweep by him to step into the carriage he just vacated.
“Pardon,” I mumble, keeping my head down.
“Mademoiselle.” He tips his hat and proceeds to go up the steps.
As my carriage pulls away another carriage draws up and I hear excited British voices. I lean out the window to look—big mistake. Eye contact is made with the mi’lord who has the burned Long Tom. I quickly stick my head back in the carriage.
“The Grand Hotel,” I tell the driver. “Please hurry, my … my baby is sick. I’ll double your fare”
He gives me a dubious look but gets the carriage moving. As with a hanson cab, the driver of a fiacre is mounted at the rear of the two-wheel carriage with the reins going over the roof. A trapdoor on the roof is used to speak to passengers. He leaves the trapdoor open and stares down at me as if he thinks I’m going to steal the seat.
I smile up at him. “Can you imagine? I dressed as a prostitute for the fair and was arrested by mistake.”
His expression doesn’t give me confidence that he believes me and I change the subject.
“Who was that distinguished gentleman you dropped off?”
“Monsieur Morant.”
He confirms my suspicion.
“Chief Inspector of the Sûreté. He always gets his man.” Once again he gives me a look of doubt. “Or woman.”
17
As my carriage rumbles along, I think about my next move. I’m a foreigner wanted by the police. Short of me being guillotined, my consequences will be grave. I could lose my career and freedom. Not even the influential Mr. Pulitzer can intervene if I’m tried for flaunting French justice.
I have only one reasonable recourse—to leave the country at once.
“Pull over here,” I tell the driver, even though we are several blocks away from my hotel.
After doubling the fare and adding an appropriate gratuity sacrosanct to ca
bbies everywhere, I enter an all-night telegraph office and send a telegram to my hotel instructing them to arrange passage for me on the morning train to Le Havre and the New York steamer leaving in two days. I also instruct them to pack my bags and forward same to the station.
Satisfied that I have taken the proper steps, I engage another cab to take me back up the Butte to Place Pigalle. My destination is farther up the hill, but I’ll tread the rest of the way on Shanks’ mare rather than risk leaving a trail for the police to follow.
Obviously I have no intention of abandoning my investigation. It’s not only against my principles, but failure is unacceptable. The telegram is a ruse for the police. Since Lussac and the assiduous Inspector Morant know the charges against me are trumped up, I suspect they’ll be satisfied if they believe I’ve left the city with my tail between my legs.
As for the slasher … I’ll just have to take my chances and pray the gods will continue to watch over me.
Checking into another hotel is out of the question. I’d have to show my passport and use my real name, not to mention my clothes will arouse suspicion. Even though I’ve brushed most of the dirt from my black dress and my heavy shawl covers it, it still won’t fare well under hotel lights. The lack of luggage will also draw suspicion.
I have no choice but to find alternative accommodations. I know of a place that’s available, even though it’s not to my liking. David Bailey, Mr. Jones’s replacement as the World’s Paris correspondent, receives a stingy stipend that provides for a Montmartre garret. Since he is on assignment in French Algeria covering a rebellion, the room is mine if I want it.
I had visited the building my first day in the city, but after learning I’d have to climb six flights of stairs to an attic room and that the building lacks a convenience facility—I would have to lug my bedpan down six flights of stairs each day to empty it in a hole above the sewer—I declined the room, sight unseen.
Knowing Paris is an ancient city adds to its charm, except when one considers the lack of elevators and toilet facilities in its tenements and public buildings. The hotel I was staying at is considered the lap of luxury because on every floor, for each ten rooms, there is a water closet. I’m going to miss that place.
Despite the lateness of the hour, Place Pigalle has not gone to sleep. Lounging in doorways and leaning against buildings are prostitutes … waiting for customers. As the shifts change at the Les Halles slaughterhouses, workers covered with blood and mud, puffing on cheap cigarettes and keeping warm with wine, will come into the square to buy a few moments of easy pleasure.
Above the Rue de Abbesses there are no gas street lamps in sight, just complete darkness. I pull my shawl tighter and trudge up a narrow alley and steep, slippery stone stairways. I really hate being alone in the dark and pick up my pace. I just want to be in a bed, all nice and cozy and warm and away from any monsters.
When I arrive at Mr. Bailey’s tenement, I take a moment to compose my thoughts. I know my entrance will be explosive.
Between ten o’clock at night and six o’clock in the morning you must contact the building concierge for entry. The method is crude, but effective: one pulls on a rope at the front door which rings a bell in the concierge’s apartment above. As might be expected, concierges are not fond of having their sleep disturbed by late arriving residents. And I’m told these apartment house managers have an evil reputation in the city.
Parisians complain endlessly of the doings of concierges when you run out of favor with them. If you’re out, your friends can be sent up several flights of stairs to discover you’re not home—or sent away, assured that you’re out, when in fact you’re awaiting them. Letters go astray. Malicious rumors about you are spread around the neighborhood.
I had the displeasure of meeting Mr. Bailey’s concierge, Madame Malon, during my earlier visit. She was not a pleasant encounter even during daylight hours. Her disposition reminds me of buttermilk—slightly sour. In truth, her pale face is uneven and spotted like buttermilk. I dread to think what I’m going to encounter when I awaken her tonight for admission after midnight—I’ll be slapping Medusa in the face.
The only thing that warms the coddles of a concierge’s heart, besides the untimely death of a tenant whose apartment can be rented for more money, is demanding gratuities from late arriving tenants. Tonight, I’m sure I will be paying dearly.
I pull the rope and wait for the ill wind. A moment passes before the wooden shutters to the window directly above the door fly open and Medusa pokes her head of snakes out.
“What do you want? ”
“We spoke the other day. I’m authorized to stay in Monsieur Bailey’s room.”
“Go away before I call the police!”
The shutters slam shut. With the hardest pull I can muster, I jerk the rope three times. The shutters are thrown open with a vengeance. Water comes out the window and I stumble back. I see red. If I wasn’t so desperate, I’d declare war on this monster. Instead, I hold up a franc. “A franc for the inconvenience, Madam.”
“Three,” she spats.
“Two. And I will not report you to the police for collecting rent while Mr. Bailey is serving the French Army in Algeria.”
I have no idea what Mr. Bailey is doing in North Africa, but I have heard that concierges fiercely guard their financial records from officialdom, so the threat slips naturally off of my tongue.
“Let her in, you old bitch, so we can sleep!” a voice yells from the building across the way.
“Ten sous, give her no more, that’s all she charges the others!” a young female voice shouts from above.
The door latch controlled by another rope in the concierge’s apartment scrapes open and I hurry inside. The entryway is utterly dark and harbors stale cooking smells. And the last person who emptied their chamber pot failed to close the door to the closet that houses the sewer opening and I get an unpleasant whiff of sewer stink as I go up the stairs. I hold my breath. The smell is awful.
LA CONCIERGE
A pale gaslight glows on the concierge’s landing and another is farther up the stairway. Glassless window openings are on every landing in theory that they will bring light and air, but on foggy, rainy nights they provide nothing but dampness and chill. I shiver going up the steps, certain that it is colder inside than out.
Madame Malon is waiting at the top of the landing, her pudgy white face twisted in a menacing scowl. In hopes of avoiding any confrontation, I employ my most ladylike smile and the two francs. Frankly, my desire is to throw her down the stairs.
She slams a police ledger book on the railing. “Write your name and sign. Your presence will be reported to the police.”
I know for certain it won’t. Reporting a temporary tenant will only get attention from the police and tax collector—something no concierge desires. I manage to find an empty space and scribble, “Nellie Moreno, Havana, Cuba.” She snaps the ledger shut, begrudgingly hands me a key, lowers her brows and glares at me.
“No noise, no men. The water pump and sewer hole are on the first level and cost an extra ten sous a week.”
I throw her a sweet, “Buenos noches, Señora,” as she waddles back into her apartment. She mutter’s something ugly about foreigners as she slams the door shut so hard it blows the gas-lamp out, leaving me in complete darkness.
So starts the beginning of a wonderful relationship.
18
I wearily make my way up the cold gloomy staircase to Mr. Bailey’s garret which, like the rest of Montmartre, is designed for mountain goats. I pause before the final ascent and will my body to continue.
The garret, as expected, is small, but I’m pleased to find it’s clean—a big bug-a-boo with me. I hate messy, dirty places. The room has a plain wooden table with two chairs and a potbellied stove holding a copper tea kettle. Three wood shelves above the stove are filled with dishes, drinking cups, a cast-iron pot and pan, and a small galvanized pail holding silverware. A huge ceramic pitcher sits in the cen
ter of the table.
Against the right wall is a day-bed that looks like its being used as a couch. On the other side of the room is a step-up to a space holding a wrought-iron bed, a nightstand, an armoire, and a wooden filing cabinet.
A “close-stool” cleverly designed to look like a stack of very wide books on four legs, what the French call a chaise percée, or “chair with a hole,” is next to the filing cabinet. Inside is a pewter chamber pot. The clever design makes it no less repulsive to carry the pot down six flights of stairs to dump. Mr. Bailey has cleverly placed a basket of potpourri under it. He must hate foul odors like I do.
* * *
HOURS GO BY and my mind refuses to surrender to sleep. Even counting sheep doesn’t help. I plop myself on the couch and start a list—a habit acquired from my mother. First, Dr. Blum knows I’m here. He knows what I look like. I, on the other hand, am wanted by the police. I don’t know Paris. I really don’t know what Dr. Blum looks like and I can’t go around chasing every man that makes the hair on the back of my neck rise. I need help.
This is gong to be a new experience for me—having a partner.
Even Mr. Pulitzer finally gave up on trying to “partner” me with another reporter. But I am going to have to bite the bullet and get myself a partner.
Which puts me to the big question: who?
One name crowded my thoughts.
19
Perun
Evette wasn’t surprised when she heard the knocking on her door past midnight. Perun came to her at all hours. But tonight, even though he paid well—very well—she was tired. She didn’t feel like entertaining him. So she sat on her bed and didn’t answer the door. She hoped if she didn’t answer, he’d think she was out working the streets and leave.
He kept knocking—harder and louder. She felt the anger mounting in each knock and knew she had to answer. If he found out she was there—well, there were rumors about what he did when he was crossed. She opened the door.
The Alchemy of Murder Page 9