“I—I—” I stumble for words, but nothing comes. For certain, I can’t tell him the truth. “I don’t know.”
“Where did you get this?”
“On the streets, from a prostitute.”
The entire café has become still. I look around for an escape route.
“Sit down,” Mr. Verne says in a firm tone that reminds me of my father when he became angry at me. He replaces his chair, sits down, and folds his hands on the table in front of him.
“Now, explain exactly why you have come to me.”
I lift my chin. “I came to you for your help in tracking down the slasher. I thought because of your knowledge of the city, the language, your analytical abilities … but, it’s obvious that I’m wrong. You apparently have no concern that innocent women are being murdered, or that someone is smearing your good name.”
“Mademoiselle, stop trying to throw guilt on me. You have no idea of how I feel about this libel. Or what I will do to the person who has instigated it when I catch him. You claim to have seen two murders in the city in two days, and you yourself were almost killed.” He lifts his eyebrows. “If that is the truth, perhaps you should return to America for your own safety.”
“That would leave Josephine’s murder unavenged. And your name tarnished.”
I decide to make one more desperate plea. He can’t turn away from a damsel in distress. It’s not fitting to his character.
“Mister Verne, I’m a woman, alone, in a foreign city. I need your help. Together we can track down this killer and finally have justice served. What do you say? Will you join me in the hunt?”
“Do I look like a fool to you, Mademoiselle?”
“You strike me as a very angry man, a man who has spent a lifetime building a reputation as a world-famous writer, whose books are read on every continent, and whose name is now being dragged in the mud. This killer bodes ill for both of us. Together, we can bring him to bay. Are you going to ignore the libel being perpetrated on your good name and let the murder of innocent women continue? How would you feel if I was his next victim?”
“Relief.”
I bite my tongue. I’ll just learn to live with his sarcasm.
He shakes his head. “It’s truly contagious.”
“What’s contagious?”
“The brain fever that you and poor Gaston suffer from, it has infected me.”
He salutes me with his glass.
“No, Mademoiselle, I do not plan to give up. To quote a countryman of yours, Monsieur Edgar Allan Poe, ‘the game is not up yet.’”
26
Jules has a noticeable limp as we walk along the boulevard. Not enough to require the support of the gentleman’s walking cane he carries, but still a limp. I suppose the source is his nephew’s bullet.
A small voice of conscience questions the ethics of how I gained his aid. I push aside the voice and instead tell myself what I’m doing is for the greater good.
As we walk away from our café we can still hear anarchists and police noisily disagreeing over who will run the world. Right now I believe the police have the upper hand and I secretly hope Louise Michel has escaped their grasp. Jules’ voice seems to have lost its edge as he asks me about my visit to Dr. Dubois.
“What did the doctor tell you about the prostitute’s death?”
I quickly sketch my interview with the young doctor and conclude, “He found no signs of violence on the body of the dead woman. He said there was a strange decay to her internal organs.”
“A decay?”
“Yes. He analogized it to what happens to animal and vegetable matter in a sewer. In fact, his theory is that fumes from the sewers are the cause of the condition, the Black Fever crisis. I’m not a doctor, but it did strike me as strange that I saw this woman alive with every appearance of being as healthy as me, and minutes later she’s dead of a fever.”
“Were there any unusual marks on her? A needle mark or—?”
“Yes!” It just struck me. “I do remember a scratch on her left shoulder. The first time I saw it was when I looked at her body in the police wagon. When he flung back the curtain in that lab of his I saw it again, but I was so shocked I forgot to ask him about it. However, I did ask him if he found any needle marks and he said no.”
“A scratch might be an effective way to administer a poison.”
“Doctor Dubois doesn’t believe she died from poison. He said that if it’s a poison, it’s the rarest variety, something he’s never heard of. He also couldn’t find those little animals Doctor Pasteur sees under a microscope.”
“Microbes.”
“Yes, microbes. I’m familiar with the work of Doctor Pasteur.”
“Impressive, Mademoiselle, since there are few trained scientists who can even make that claim.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Yes, yes I know.”
He’s so … so condescending, but I decide to bite my tongue again. I need him.
Jules purses his lips. “He must be a very progressive doctor, indeed, if he has a microscope. Of course, you said he’s young and it’s among the young doctors you’ll find modern advances and acceptance of Pasteur’s findings.”
We walk a bit in silence before he asks, “What is your plan, Mademoiselle?”
“My plan?”
“Yes, your plan.”
He poses a good question. Other than passing out pictures bearing a likeness to Jules and hoping lightning will strike, I have no plan.
“Well … it’s obvious that Doctor Blum is a monomaniac, with a fixation on cutting women’s bodies. He kills prostitutes because they provide the easiest opportunity. It strikes me that I’ve put a crimp in his dirty game by advising the police he’s in the city. He has to know I told the police about him since I called them to the cemetery. Also, someone’s passing around those pictures. In all, that might keep him off the streets for a while.” Then it hit me. “This will probably drive him to a place where he can find prostitutes without having to go on the streets.”
“A house of prostitution?”
“Exactly.”
“Hardly a place you are equipped to investigate.”
There he goes again. I grate my teeth. “I’ll have you know—”
“Yes?”
I take a deep breath. “That I have a plan.” Here I go again, instantly forming a plan without putting thought behind it. “I’m going to dress as a man and go into houses of prostitution to question women.”
He has the bad taste to explode with laughter and once again I have to bite my tongue to keep from boasting of the number of disguises I’ve used in my past investigations.
“You laugh, but the great Sarah Bernhardt often plays male roles.”
He clicks his tongue. “You are a woman who has the scientific knowledge of Pasteur and the acting ability of a Bernhardt. I can see I will learn much from our joint endeavor. With your interest in science and the thespian arts, you’re no doubt aware of the findings in Baron von Krafft-Ebing’s study, Psychopathia Sexualis, that uranism, also called lesbianism, is nearly always suspected in females who wear their hair short, dress in men’s fashions, pursue sports or careers as opera singers and in actresses who appear in male attire.”*
My will to show restraint goes out the window. He’s gone too far.
“Mister Verne! I’ve chased this creature on two continents and have been unable to convince the police of even his existence. Last night I was almost murdered by him. I don’t believe I’ve earned your scorn.”
He stops and faces me.
“You’re right, perfectly right. I haven’t been fair and you deserve credit for your courage and resolve. My reluctance is fed by the fact that I came to Paris for a reason entirely alien to finding a killer. Just the opposite, as a matter of fact.”
“What do you mean?”
“Truthfully, Mademoiselle, I came to Paris to kill a man.” He tips his hat. “Shall we say tomorrow at one o’clock? The Procope. I’ll tell the maitre
d’ to expect you. Afterward, we shall pay your Doctor Dubois a visit.”
27
Jules leaves me dumbfounded about his strange pronouncement: I came to Paris to kill a man.
He walks away leaving me staring like a fool with my mouth gaping opened. Have I solicited the help of the wrong man? I should chase after Jules and demand an answer, but I need to check with a café proprietor for messages. Besides, I believe Jules wouldn’t give me an answer.
As I make my way to Café Lavette, I can’t stop thinking about his proclamation. Did a love affair go sour because another suitor intervened? Another man trespassing on his private reserve, the boys in the newsroom would say. Frenchmen are notorious for settling their romantic contests on the dueling field. The fact that Jules is married has no bearing on affairs of the heart. The French middle and upper classes often enter into matrimony for financial reasons, saving their romantic inclinations for love affairs.
I choose the small café as my message center because the owner has a corrupt look and it’s frequented by Montmartre prostitutes. I felt that if they come across a man resembling the handbill drawing and/or acting violent, they won’t feel uncomfortable leaving me a message there. So far, even with the enticement of a reward, no one has stepped forward, though I have had several false leads. Tonight when I approach the owner, he has other interesting information for me.
“A man asked about you.”
“Who?”
“A man with one hand. He claims to be a police detective, but…” He shrugs.
“He asked for me by name?”
“No, he wanted to know who was giving the drawings to the prostitutes. He offered me ten francs for the information.” He wipes his hands on his apron as if he was wiping away the sin of thirty pieces of silver.
“Did you tell him?”
“Mademoiselle! What do you think I am?”
I dare not express my opinion. “What’s his name?”
“I don’t know.”
“Which hand is he missing?”
“Left.”
“Is there anything else about him you know?”
“I know nothing else about him, except…” he stops wiping the bar counter and gives me a sinister smirk.
I give him ten francs. The man with one hand had no doubt offered much less.
“He works for someone very important, and he has a reputation of being a very violent man—especially toward women.” Once again he gives me that sinister smirk.
“Do you know this very important person’s name?”
Again he shrugs his shoulders and goes back to wiping his counter.
I give him another ten francs for his loyalty and silence, knowing I can never return to the café. No doubt he’ll be contacting the one-handed man for more money. It’s a good thing I gave him a false name and never told him where I’m staying. He knows who the man is. He didn’t reveal to me his identity because he’s playing both ends against the middle.
Thoughts swirl in my head as I leave the café and trudge up the steps of the hillside, bone weary. Who could be responsible for hiring this awful man? I realize Jules was furious when I showed him the drawings, but he seems to be the type of person who would go and find out on his own.
I quicken my pace as I trek up the Mount of Martyrs toward my garret. All I want right now is to curl up in bed and sleep. My problems are still churning in my brain as I come up Le Passage to the tenement when something catches my eye. In an entryway a little ways up to my left I see a man.
I step off to my right and take cover in a doorway and remove the police whistle from my coat pocket. Just as I’m going to blow it, a tenement door to my right opens and a small white dog rushes out and beelines for the man. An anxious old man steps out and yells, “Pierre! Stop you little cur! Pierre!”
A very large man darts from the doorway and hurries up Le Passage with Pierre yapping at his heels and the old man trying to stop the dog.
Nothing is small about this man. He’s tall and wide—over six feet in height and weighing fifteen stone or more. A large hat is pulled down to conceal his face; a long, billowy cape covers his massive frame. As fast as my feet can carry me, I scramble up the tenement stairs, carrying an extreme case of the jitters with me. No matter how hard I keep trying to convince myself that this man could have been waiting for someone else, with my present frame of mind only the darkest of reasons occur to me.
Once I’m in the security of my garret, I not only lock my door, I prop a chair against it. I sit on the bed, weighed down with problems and exhausted from a day in hell.
* * *
I TRY TO sleep but there is no way my mind will turn off. Dark conspiracies fly at me from every direction. I am really letting my mind run amok. I decide to rummage through Mr. Bailey’s secretarial desk for paper to record more thoughts. I find buried under paperwork a long barreled .44 six-shooter. The weapon isn’t loaded, nor does a search of the room reveal any bullets. My guess is the gun is a family keepsake Mr. Bailey probably uses as a paperweight. I tuck the weapon under my pillow. I’ll use it as a club if the need arises.
Completely disgusted, I blow out my bedside lamp and lie in bed tossing and turning. Sleep once again refuses to come to me. I can’t shake from my mind that huge man opening my door and coming to my bed holding a knife high in the air ready to stab me. Then it’s no longer him; it’s the slasher.
The man in the alley has two hands.
How many men are looking for me?
28
Tomas Roth
Pasteur and Roth were in the laboratory when René, Pasteur’s other assistant, entered bearing the card of Monsieur Depierris, the deputy to the Minister of Interior. The minister was in charge of internal security for the nation, including police and spies. His recent visit to the Institut sent them on a mission to the sewers.
“He must have sent his deputy to inquire about our examination of the sewers,” Roth told Doctor Pasteur.
Pasteur looked at the government official’s card with some reserve and sighed morosely. He did not like to be interrupted in his work. And this was not an ordinary interruption. The government’s concern about the Black Fever outbreak had invaded the intense concentration and focus on his work that he maintained.
“Show him to my office,” Pasteur said with slight hesitation.
To their surprise, the man who entered was not the deputy—it was the minister himself, with a scarf concealing the lower part of his face.
“I apologize for the masquerade, but the newspaper reporters besieging my office are suspicious that we’re covering up the danger of this deadly influenza outbreak. They’re correct, of course. And if they saw me personally visiting you again in the dead of night, hat in hand, on bent knee before the great microbe hunter…” The minister raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders.
His dramatics evoked a smile from Pasteur. “Have you been offered tea or coffee, Monsieur Minister?”
“I’m afraid I need more than refreshments from you, Doctor. The crisis increases with every hour. Let me show you what I mean.”
An aide accompanying the minister unrolled a large map of the city on Pasteur’s desk. Areas of the map had been outlined in red.
“The entire city has suffered influenza symptoms, but in general with few deaths, and those mostly among the very old and very young. But hundreds of deaths hitting every age group began here.” The minister jabbed a finger on the map. “In this poor section above the area of the sewers you examined yesterday. And it has spread like a deadly flood.” He pointed at the surrounding area.
“Staying in the poor neighborhoods.” Roth stated the obvious.
“Only in poor areas,” the minister repeated. “Feeding the accusations of radicals that the poor are being targeted for extinction.”
“We took samples from the sewer,” Dr. Pasteur said, “and received only this morning the blood and tissue samples of the deceased worker taken by Doctor Brouardel’s deputy. Brouardel refused
to permit us to take samples from the worker ourselves.”
Pasteur’s tone didn’t fail to reveal that he was still rankled by the health director’s attitude. The minister was well aware of the controversy between Pasteurians and the medical community. Like any good politician, he avoided the issue by raising his eyebrows and looking sympathetic while not committing himself to anything.
“What do your tests reveal?”
“We found countless microbes as would be expected in a sewer, but we are unable to isolate a particular microbe that we can identify with the Black Fever. Even if the fever microbe is too small to see with our microscopes, we should be able to detect its presence with our experiments. We did not.”
“How can you detect something that you can’t see?”
“By the symptoms they create when a sample taken from an infected creature is given to a healthy one. We can’t see the microbe that causes even ordinary influenza, but with experiments, we know it exists and that it can be spread from person to person through air and physical contact. If there were Black Fever microbes in the samples, they should cause a reaction in laboratory animals.”
“Does the fact you can’t see them in any way prove the theory that miasma from the sewers is the cause? Doesn’t the death of the sewer worker support the theory?”
Pasteur shook his head. “Monsieur Minister, the death of one worker among hundreds hardly confirms the theory. He could have contacted the disease anywhere. There is no doubt that sewers carry the most varied and concentrated microbes imaginable, but sewers have been with man for thousands of years. The miasma theory has been popular with certain elements because it sounds logical. Microbes breed in sewers, vapors rise from sewers, we smell and breathe them in, thus it sounds logical that we are breathing in sewer microbes.”
“What do you find wrong with the theory?”
“Logic and reason are for philosophers, scientists rely upon objective tests. Many tests have been done of sewer smells and none support the theory that the disease is spread by them. Sewers spread disease in many ways, from physical contact, by contaminated drinking water, but the stench has not been found to carry disease-causing microbes.”
The Alchemy of Murder Page 13