“You are a crusader, Mademoiselle Brown,” he says to me once we’re on the street. “Who else would chase a killer around the world.”
“And you, Monsieur Verne, what are you?”
“A bird that soars high above the world, never touching life. That’s what an adventure writer is. We only imagine what others experience. That’s why I joined you in this mad hunt. I want to peck among real people and see what I’ve been missing. Have you seen the Paris papers this morning?”
“No.” My knees go weak. Am I on the front page?
“Your friend Doctor Dubois is quoted extensively. His hospital is where the fever patients are brought. He’s quoted as saying that it’s strange that the fever contagion spread to another poor district without stopping in between. He says little, but the papers read much into it.”
“That the disease is being deliberately spread into poor neighborhoods?”
“Exactly.”
“But how … and why?”
“Anarchists claim it’s the doings of the rich.”
“That must annoy the poor people and fuel their hatred of the wealthy.”
“That is an understatement. I believe it’s time I hear Dubois’ thoughts on the matter myself.”
“There’s no mention in the papers of the woman murdered in the Pepper Pot?”
“Of course not.”
Now what did he mean by that? That I was right about the cover-up? Or that it wasn’t reported because it was a figment of my imagination? I bite my tongue rather than push for an answer that might cause me to explode. Besides, I have a more pressing issue weighing heavy on my thoughts—what Dubois might say to Jules about me. Last night Jules and I agreed we’d introduce him as a French relative of mine, Jules Montant. Early this morning I sent Dubois a telegram informing him that I would be dropping by with a gentleman who has offered to assist me. I also asked him not to disclose the fact that I am a reporter or anything about the police. If Dubois hasn’t received the message, or doesn’t cooperate, I’m a cooked goose—or whatever that expression is.
In a fiacre, Jules poses a question about the medical education of the man I knew in New York as Dr. Blum. “Many men carrying the title of doctor have not earned the right. Official appearing documents from universities are customarily taken at face value, especially if foreign institutions are involved. From what you’ve told me about the condition of the slasher’s victims, while the person who made the cuts has some medical knowledge, they’re hardly the work of a skilled surgeon.”
“True, but the slashings weren’t done under surgical conditions either. Most likely on a street, during a struggle, and in a great hurry. The police hypothesized that the man got a sexual thrill at opening a woman’s body.” I shutter to think I was almost one of his victims. “We’re dealing with a really sick human being.”
“I wonder…”
Jules is hearing me, and could repeat every word I said, but he’s not really listening. “Wonder what?”
“I’m just thinking … what if he’s looking for something when he’s dissecting?”
“Looking for something?” What a strange thing to say. “What on earth could he be looking for?” Now he really has me puzzled. This remark is so unexpected from a man who is known around the world for his knowledge of science.
“Really, Jules, one would hardly imagine that in this day and age there’s anything unknown about the anatomy of the human body. If a man wants to know where a woman’s liver is located, he need merely consult a reference book on the matter.”
31
At the hospital I force myself up each step. For once my feet aren’t taking over and it’s my mind that’s forcing me forward. When we reach the top I pause and gather my nerves to once again face the terrible smells of sickness, death, and the memory of that young woman on the doctor’s table.
“Are you all right?” Jules asks.
“Yes, I’m fine.” No way will I let Jules know I am having a moment of “womanly weakness,” as he would put it.
The hospital reception area is still crowded with poor people seeking treatment for their ails. I wonder if there is ever a moment when it’s not crowded. Some of the people appear to me to be the same ones that were waiting yesterday, but I dismiss the notion. However, the smell of chemicals and sickness is the same. And the same harried clerks are at the reception station. We slip by to “cold call” the doctor.
Carrying vinegar sponges we wander through the hallways until Jules finds the doctor examining a patient in one of the large dormitory-type rooms that holds both the sick and dead. The doctor joins us in the hallway.
After introductions, Jules asks, “I understand you have identified the source of the infection that struck the prostitute Mademoiselle Brown encountered in the graveyard.”
“Ah, the newspapers, they added much to my statements. And caused me a great deal of trouble. I’ve been sanctioned by the medical director and forbidden to give any more statements to the press.” He lowers his voice. “I suspect the fact my name was in the newspaper and not his may have ignited his ire. Mademoiselle knows I have a microscope. If my superiors find out that I’m experimenting, I will be fired.”
“Isn’t it a bit coincidental that so many victims are prostitutes?” I ask.
Dubois shrugs. “Prostitutes live in poor areas. Poor people are dying.”
“This condition seems to kill very rapidly,” Jules says, “if Mademoiselle Brown saw the victim alive and well moments before her death. Does that correspond to your examination of other victims of the fever?”
If I saw the woman alive and well? “How fast can the fever kill?” I interrupt, trying to hold my temper.
Dubois thinks for a moment. “That would depend upon many factors, ranging from the age and medical condition of the victim, to how a person is infected. We assume the fever rises from sewers and is passed most commonly through inhalation to the lungs. It can also come from touching, eating, drinking.”
“Can it kill in minutes?” Jules asks.
Dubois sighs. “I don’t know. Black Fever has similar symptoms as influenza. If she got a large dose of the contagion directly into her bloodstream it probably would kill her quickly, but within minutes…?”
I’ve endured enough of their “ifs.”
“Doctor Dubois, I realize you’re having a hard time believing me, but I know she was healthy. I saw her.”
“Mademoiselle, I don’t doubt your word. She might have looked and appeared healthy, but obviously she wasn’t. We do know of poisonous gases that can strike down a person instantly. If the contagion can kill so quickly, it would support the theory that it’s caused by a poisonous miasma.”
An attendant comes down the hall with a small wooden box in hand. “Doctor Dubois, you’ve received another package from China.”
“Merci. Please put it in my office.”
After the attendant passes, I ask, “Wasn’t there a scratch on her upper shoulder or neck area?”
Dr. Dubois frowns and purses his lips. “I don’t remember a scratch, but I was only looking for signs of significant violence. If there was, it probably came as a result of her falling when she went into a death coma.”
“Is it possible to have the fever spread through a scratch or cut?”
“I can’t answer that because we don’t know for sure yet what causes the fever.”
“What about any scratches, cuts, or unusual marks on any of the other victims of Black Fever?” Jules questions.
“No,” agitation fills his voice, “but again, I haven’t particularly looked. Why are you so interested in scratches and cuts?”
I make my statement in a serious tone of voice, because it sounds all too incredible. “We are wondering if the fever can be deliberately passed on.”
Dr. Dubois raises his eyebrows. “The contagion has spread from the steppes of Russia to Paris and is racing far beyond. Only God has such power.”
32
Once we’re back in the r
eception area, Jules takes hold of my arm and whispers, “Wait for me outside.” He parts with me to speak to a clerk.
When he comes out, Jules is deep in thought. As we walk up the street I tell myself not to interrupt his thinking, but I’m too curious to wait. “What did you ask the clerk?”
“Where the doctor was from.”
“Why?”
“Dubois has a slight accent. Since you’re not a native French speaker, you wouldn’t notice it, but it’s apparent to me. The clerk believes the doctor’s from Bayonne. That’s near the Spanish border and could account for a regional accent. About one out of five French people can’t speak the language well enough in court to testify without an interpreter. Educated foreigners often speak it better than our own provincials. How well does he fit your impression of the slasher?”
“Well, no beard, of course. And the madhouse doctor had much darker hair, although I think the thickness is the same, but not the length. They’re about the same height. Same build. Age is almost the same … I think. It’s hard to tell the age of a man who wears a full beard and hides much of the rest of his head with a hat and long hair.”
I try to picture Dr. Dubois as the long-haired, heavy-bearded, tinted-spectacled Dr. Blum, but the two images will not crystallize. And I can’t say this to Jules, but the hairs on the back of my neck didn’t rise when I first met him at the graveyard, or at the hospital, and not even now. Dr. Dubois doesn’t reek of the evil I felt with Dr. Blum. But even I must admit it would be unprofessional of me to cancel someone out just because of my gut feelings.
“I never spoke to Doctor Blum or observed him face-to-face, except for that one very brief moment in the shack. But I don’t have the feeling he’s Doctor Dubois. What about you, any thoughts?”
“Since only my poor, sick nephew claims to have seen the slasher…” he pauses for effect and I just smile, “and having never met Doctor Blum previously, I have no opinion. I will know more when I find out about the finger.”
“The finger?”
“The tip of his right pinkie is missing.”
How did I miss that! A sideways glance from Jules tells me that I shouldn’t have—and he’s right. I make a strong mental note that I have to be more observant. I am hunting down a killer and sloppiness is unacceptable.
“Perhaps a childhood accident,” he continues, “or a slip of the knife while performing surgery. I will have my doctor wire medical authorities in the Bayonne region and inquire as to Doctor Dubois’ physical description and credits.”
He flags down a fiacre. Once we’re settled in, he instructs the driver, “Institut Pasteur.”
I can barely control my excitement. “Do you really think we’ll be able to meet with Doctor Pasteur?”
“If he is in, I’m sure he’ll receive us. I was once on a government committee with him, some nonsense concerning public health.”
“But this means you’ll have to use your real name.”
“Of course. Nellie, I’m not in hiding, it’s just that I have no desire to let friends know I’m in the city. But Pasteur is not a sociable man. He’s too involved in his work to inquire too deeply about my actions.”
“Still, I can’t imagine just walking in and being able to speak to Louis Pasteur.”
Jules could remind me that I boldly walked into the Café Procope and dropped a murder investigation on one of the most famous writers in the world. I’m relieved he’s deep in thought and doesn’t appear to have picked up on my faux pas.
“We won’t have a problem seeing him,” Jules murmurs, almost to himself. “The Black Fever newspaper stories will have piqued his interest, if he’s not already actually involved in the matter, which I suspect he is. No one on Earth knows more about microbes than Pasteur. We must get his reaction to the prostitute’s death. He’s a chemist, not a medical doctor, but that hasn’t prevented him from delving extensively into the field of medicine.”
“I know. He found a cure for rabies.”
“And rabies is a medical condition. While he can concoct the rabies vaccine in his laboratory, he’s not able to administer it to patients, but employs a medical doctor for that purpose. Unfortunately, the medical profession has been looking for a way to discredit Pasteur and the rabies vaccine has given them their strongest evidence.”
“How could the rabies vaccine be their strongest evidence when it has saved so many lives?”
“Pasteur is very … how would you Americans say it … oh yes, ornery. He’s extremely blunt in his criticism of doctors and continually accuses them of causing disease among their patients by their lack of sanitary practice. He claims that doctors should wash their hands before examining patients and sterilize their instruments, because the microbes he sees under a microscope cause diseases that are spread by doctors to their patients with their hands and instruments.”
“It sounds logical, but I suspect most people are like my mother and believe that all diseases are caused by God and that there is little we can do about it.”
“Fortunately, most doctors have advanced beyond that belief, but many also reject Pasteur’s theories. Doctors see disease as something that arises from conditions in the body rather than spread by microbes. I suspect the truth, as it is so often when two sides take diametrically opposing viewpoints, lies somewhere in between. But Pasteur’s concepts are slowly gaining respect. A noted Vienna surgeon recently proposed that doctors wash their hands before operating on a patient.”
“But wasn’t surgical sterilization already being performed for years by Doctor Lister in Great Britain?”
Jules looks at me in surprise and I lean closer to gently lock eyes with him in the carriage. “As I told you, Monsieur Jules Verne, I read newspapers despite the contention that such matters are not proper for a lady’s mind.”
He allows me a small smile before continuing. “Doctor Lister has found that cleaning a wound after an operation results in fewer infections. The Viennese surgeon is suggesting that hands be sterilized before surgery.”
“Please, tell me a little more about the controversy between Pasteur and the doctors. What happened with the rabies vaccine?” I’m eager to learn more because an interview with Dr. Pasteur would be quite a coup.
“The accusation is that Pasteur used the rabies vaccine prematurely without proper testing and caused the deaths of two patients. They claim he was so eager to prove the effectiveness of the vaccine that he had two young people, a boy and a girl, both bitten by possibly rabid dogs, injected with the vaccine prior to proper testing of his concoction. The two young people both died.”
“That’s horrible.”
Jules shrugs. “So is rabies if it isn’t cured.”
“Why do they think he administered the vaccine prematurely?”
“Pasteur’s vaccine is made from rabbits infected by rabies in his lab. The children died from rabbit rabies, not the canine variety. Thus, the children died from the vaccine injected into them.
“Doctor Pasteur is a great scientist,” Jules continues, “the greatest in the world. What he’s done for the world should not be diminished because of human failures. If it were not for him, thousands of people would die each year from poisonous milk, wine would sour on its way to the market, and cattle and sheep all over the world would transmit a deadly disease. Pasteur cannot solve all the ills of the world with his microscope, but his discoveries will pave the way for a golden age of…”
Jules suddenly turns to face the window and a heavy silence ensues.
Hating silence I ask, “Is something wrong?”
A moment passes before he slowly turns back to me.
“I have a bad habit of predicting the future. Too often it is the bad things that come to light.”
My instincts ring like church bells. Whatever demon Jules is fighting has popped up again. I bite my lip to keep from inquiring, but it’s a losing battle with me and once again I open my mouth when I should keep it shut.
“Jules, yesterday you said something that
left me in quite a state of agitation. May I ask—”
“No you may not.”
His words are sharp—very sharp, and oddly they hurt. He turns to face the window once again and I look down at my hands. I really hate uncomfortable moments like this and wish we were at our destination.
33
The Institut’s buildings resemble university structures—one stately red brick and the other grey. Smooth stone steps lead to a wide, imposing entryway, from which a long hallway flows the length of the building. The hallway is wide and at least twenty feet high. The atmosphere here is sober and venerable. Quiet and dignified, like a hallowed old university corridor.
Jules hands his card to the clerk at the reception desk and announces himself. “Jules Verne to see Doctor Pasteur.”
The clerk looks up at him in surprise.
“Sans beard,” Jules adds.
As soon as the clerk leaves, I ask him eagerly, “What did you write on the back of your card?”
“Two words. Black Fever. I should warn you, don’t be surprised at the appearance of Doctor Pasteur. He’s had strokes that aged him alarmingly. Although I believe he’s in his sixties, he appears older. And don’t be offended if he won’t shake hands with you.”
“I won’t. He doesn’t shake hands with anyone. He believes it transmits germs. However, I don’t agree. It’s too far-fetched, catching a cold or giving an illness to someone just by shaking hands.”
Jules once again looks at me with surprise. “Mademoiselle Brown, you never cease to amaze me.”
“Thank you … I think.”
“You have an incredible range of knowledge … and completely unsupported opinions. But a word of advice, never rule anything out as too far-fetched.” A veil of darkness slips across Jules’ face. The same veil of darkness when he said he came to Paris to kill a man. “I have written of things I never dreamed would come true, and they did. Remember that as you look for your Doctor Blum.”
The Alchemy of Murder Page 15