The Alchemy of Murder

by Carol McCleary

  An ancient creature that looks like he belongs on a pirate’s boat hobbles over to us on a leg and a stump. There is no question that this is Legay. And Salis was correct—the scars on his face improved his looks. His neck bears the scar of a collar or rope.

  “For Mademoiselle Michel.”

  As he reaches for the note and coin, another scar is exposed on his wrist. After the man hobbles away, Jules says, “The wrist scar is from being shackled to an oar. He spent time on a prison galley in his early years for theft, murder, and revolutionary activities, no doubt.”

  “That seems to sum up all the clientele in this place. What did you say in your note?”

  “That we wish to speak to her about the death of innocent women. And I identified myself and my companion as Nellie Brown.”

  “You signed it Jules Verne?”

  “We came up to this den of anarchists murders in the dead of the night. It would be unproductive to risk getting our throats cut because Louise Michel is unwilling to talk to strangers.”

  “You’ve met her?”

  “No, but I have a rather unusual connection to her.”

  “And that is what?”

  Slurred exclamations come from the table to our right as an old derelict lifts his head for a moment to mutter something before collapsing back down on the table. My mother would describe his condition as pickled.

  Jules nods at him. “The gentleman who appears to have just crawled from the gutter is Paul Verlaine, the poet laureate of France’s bohemians. He’s a drunk and a derelict, but both attributes merely enhance his standing with the rest of the degenerates of the arts. He has never been the same since he shot his lover.”

  “A younger poet I believe … Arthur Rimbaud.”

  “Yes…” Jules looks at me completely surprised.

  I continue. “What is so sad is just a few years ago he was instrumental in publishing Rimbaud’s Illuminations, but here he sits alone and completely wasted. His wife wants nothing to do with him and he has little if no contact with his son, George. I heard one tale that the bullet struck his wrist, and another that it went into his derrière. Verlaine served a two-year sentence at Mons. The Belgians are less tolerant about shooting one’s lover than you are … the French, I mean.”

  “Mademoiselle Brown—”

  “I know … you are amazed at my wealth of knowledge, but what I don’t know and I would like to know—”

  I’m unable to finish my question to Jules about his connection to the Red Virgin because the old murderer, revolutionary, or whatever the waiter is, taps Jules on the shoulder and jerks his thumb toward the table where Louise sits.

  Jules and I rise and make our way, in the haze, back to her table. The men at the table strike me as the type who should be doing time on a prison galley, if such things still exit.

  “Bonsoir, Mademoiselle, Messieurs.” Jules bows.

  “It’s a great honor to meet you,” I tell the Red Virgin truthfully.

  No one says a word as we take seats, not even a response to our greetings. Since formality is obviously not needed, or wanted, I plow right in, speaking directly to Louise Michel.

  “I’m an American. My sister was murdered by a maniac in New York. I have followed the madman’s trail to Paris. I need your help in finding him so he can be brought to justice.”

  Jules sinks down a little in his chair, as if he is cringing from my speech. Louise and her male companions all stare at me as if I climbed out of one of Jules’ moon rockets. Louise starts to say something and stops as her attention is directed behind me.

  To my surprise it’s the trapeze act from the circus, the handsome and daring brother and sister team that mesmerized Dr. Dubois. They’re dressed in street clothes—the young man in a well-cut Italian suit of dark linen and silk, and the girl in a forest green dress with yellow trim. The only jewelry the girl wears is a black pendant in the shape of a horse, not a typical horse but one with a rough and ancient look, carved perhaps from ebony or some other dark stone. It’s quite striking.

  Like us, they don’t fit in this place.

  Greetings are exchanged and a look passes between Louise and the newcomers, a look that I interpret as a signal they’re not to sit at our table—at least not now, not while we are here. They move on. Interesting. Dubois had shown an interest in the two and they have a connection to the city’s most notorious anarchist.

  “Why are you telling me this?” the Red Virgin asks me.

  “I believe the killer’s an anarchist.”

  The man on Louise’s right attacks me. “The only way to bring justice to the people is to destroy the governments and businesses that oppress them. The only way to destroy them is to kill them! If your sister was killed by an anarchist, it was for the good of all.”

  He’s a brute with a mean countenance. He purposely glares, daring me to oppose him. I’ve encountered bullies like him before. They love to see women squirm. My father taught me a trick. Look back at them square in the eye—just one eye. This way their stare will not unnerve you. I do not falter when I answer him.

  “Perhaps you wouldn’t be so generous about death if it was your own life.” I then turn to Louise. “My sister wasn’t killed for political reasons. The killer is a maniac who preys on women, a vicious animal who butchers women for his own demented cravings.”

  She raises her eyebrows. “Do you expect to find your killer here? No doubt there are a few killers among us,” she smiles and looks to the man on her right who had lashed out at me, “but they go after bigger game than women.”

  The men laugh. I’m tempted to stand up and give them all a piece of my mind, but I’ll get nowhere except thrown out, so I control myself and continue.

  “The man I seek murders the poorest and most defenseless women, social outcasts who have no protection from the law. He rips the life from prostitutes with a knife.” I’m certain that the reference to attacks on the dredges of society will appeal to her sense of justice.

  “You still haven’t told us why you have come to this café and approach me with your story. This is a political café, not an institute for the criminally insane.”

  “I told you the murderer is an anarchist—a Montmartre anarchist.”

  I might as well have called the pope a debaucher at a convention of Catholics. The two men at the table stiffen and frown darkly and Louise raises an eyebrow. I have definitely hit a nerve and hurry to get the rest of my story out.

  “The man may have been involved in Chicago’s Haymarket bombing. When I encountered him in New York he was pretending to be a doctor and used his position to murder prostitutes at a madhouse. I tracked him to London where he killed more prostitutes and now to Paris where he’s continuing his dirty tricks. If we don’t stop him he will continue the slaughter, moving from city to city to keep the police off guard.”

  “You seek help from us to turn a comrade over to the police?” The speaker is the man on Louise’s left. He looks as mean spirited as the other man. “We’re not police spies.” He then spits on the floor.

  “The man’s a murderer, not of kings and politicians, but of helpless women. Women you are fighting to free,” I retort.

  “Whores? What’s a few less whores if the yoke of capitalism and tyranny is thrown off?”

  Once again, the men laugh and to my surprise so does Louise. That’s it! My blood rises and I stand up. I feel Jules cautioning hand on my arm, but I’m too angry to obey.

  “I’m not here to talk politics, but humanity. Something I thought,” I look directly into Louise’s eye, “you would understand. Obviously I’m wrong.”

  “Why do you believe this man is an anarchist?” Louise asks me.

  “He wears the red scarf and black clothes you’ve made famous.”

  “There are hundreds of thousands of followers of anarchy in France, millions around the world. You say he’s not even French. Why would you think we could help?”

  “I heard you talk at Place Blanche. I know you are admired
everywhere. You may not know the man yourself, but you can put the word out to others that—”

  “Didn’t you hear us, woman!”

  The big man on her right gets to his feet snarling, knocking his chair over backward. Jules tenses beside me.

  “You’re trying to make us police spies! Get out of here or you’ll end up on a meat hook!”

  Jules springs to his feet. “That’s a foul thing to say to a lady. Apologize or I’ll—”

  “Please, please, sit down, François, Mademoiselle Brown, you too Monsieur Verne.”

  When we are all back in our seats, Louise gives Verne an amused look. “Have you stolen any more of my ideas, Monsieur Verne?”

  “I’m afraid, Mademoiselle, that I haven’t come across any more of your ideas to steal. All the worse for my writing, since Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea is one of my most popular works.”

  “I’m afraid you and your spirited friend have made an unprofitable trip all the way up here. While I don’t condone the death of innocent people, my friend is correct when he says we’re not police spies. We have no interest in your problem. Though I’m sorry you lost a sister,” she says to me.

  I stand up again. “I’m sure that will console the family of the next innocent woman who’s murdered by this fiend. I’m sorry to bother you. When I was a factory girl, a pamphlet with one of your speeches fell into my hands and changed my life. It’s too bad the woman who wrote those words doesn’t live up to her own legend.”

  I was out the front door before Jules caught up with me.

  “I’m sorry. I couldn’t keep my mouth shut.”

  “It’s all right.”

  Never have I felt so deflated. Louise Michel is a person I have admired and tried to emulate. And now, for the moment, all that came crashing down. I was hit with a harsh reality of life—when you put a person on a pedestal, you will be disappointed. It’s the nature of the beast. I just had a dose of reality and right now it stinks.

  * * *

  AS WE CAME closer to my garret, I can’t help but ask about the Red Virgin’s remark. “What did she mean about you stealing her novel? Is that the connection you mentioned beforehand?”

  Jules shakes his head. “A ridiculous rumor that spread all over Paris like wildfire. Following the collapse of the Commune, Louise was sent to a jungle prison in the South Pacific. While there, she discovered a mollusk, a type of sea snail and named it ‘nautilus,’ the same name as the submarine in my novel. From that fact, scandalous allegations erupted that I had purchased the tale of Captain Nemo and his Nautilus submarine from her for a mere hundred francs, and the saint that she is, she donated the money to the poor. Of course, the gossip ignored the fact that my book was published a year before she was sent to New Caledonia and that I named my submarine after the Nautilus submergible built by the American Robert Fulton many years before.” He shakes his head again. “Where do such stories come from?”

  “Stupid people.”

  Jules looks at me in amusement.

  “I was shocked at the attitude of Louise Michel and her two thug friends. They are willing to protect a murderer just because he’s an anarchist.” I stop and turn to Jules. “If we had said he was bourgeois, they would have enlisted every man in the café to find him. Doesn’t she care that he is killing innocent women?”

  “Who knows what a fanatic values? You and I put a high price on every life. To the radical a thousand lives, a million, are merely martyrs for their cause. Look at the bombs anarchists use to kill—for every politician or industrialist killed, a dozen innocent people die.”

  “It’s all so insane … did you notice the look that passed between the two from the circus and Louise Michel? They must be anarchists.”

  Jules’ cane taps a steady rhythm on the sidewalk as we walk. “Yes, but that doesn’t surprise me. Italy is a hotbed of anarchism, even more so than France. The question is Doctor Dubois’ interest in them. Is he enthralled with their performances—or their politics?”

  My impression is that the young doctor is more enthralled with their bodies, especially the brother’s, but it would have been unladylike for me to suggest such a thing.

  “I also found the horse pendants interesting,” Jules says. “The girl wearing one on a chain, the brother and the two thugs, as you put it, had them pinned to their lapels. The horses were not highly noticeable because of the dark color of their clothes.”

  I didn’t notice the horses on the men and I can kick myself for it. Jules was being polite and making excuses about the dark color of their clothes, but I should have noticed them. Instead, I was too busy arguing and standing my ground.

  Jules purses his lips. “I’m just wondering if the pendants are a membership badge for an anarchist group. I find Dr. Dubois’ connection to all of this provocative. I shall be highly interested in the results of the background check I’ve initiated on him.”

  As we arrive at the point where the passageway to my apartment leads up the hillside, Jules starts to wave down a fiacre to go back to his own place then stops.

  “With everything you’ve been through, I think it prudent of me to walk you to your garret.”

  “Jules … how gallant of you. But, I’ll be fine. Besides, it will be impossible for you to obtain a fiacre on my street.” I suddenly remembered the painting. “What did you do with Toulouse’s painting?”

  “I left it at the Le Chat Noir. I’ll pick it up tomorrow. Goodnight Mademoiselle. And thank you for such an entertaining evening.”

  “No, I’m the one who should thank you. I have to admit I wouldn’t have survived on my own. Mercí.”

  “You’re welcome, but I don’t underestimate your ability to handle things. You are full of surprises.”

  For a moment we stand staring at each other—that awkward pause where no one knows what to do or say.

  “Let’s meet at the Institut Pasteur tomorrow at two o’clock.” Jules breaks the spell, but as he stands looking down at my face, I hold my breath hoping he’ll kiss me. But instead he speaks again.

  “And I’ll make sure to have the painting.”

  “Oh … okay.”

  I don’t know what else to say. Obviously I read the tone of his voice wrongly, so I hold out my hand, not so much to shake his, but to give his hand a sentimental squeeze. I realize that shaking hands with a woman is not the custom of men and my gesture catches him by surprise. I give his hand a good hard squeeze.

  “Not used to shaking hands with a woman, are you?”

  He smiles sheepishly. “If you’re an example of the future of women in a man’s world, I believe there are many surprises in store for men. Perhaps, someday, women will even wear pants, drive their own carriages, and heaven forbid, vote.”

  We laugh. He doesn’t let go of my hand.

  My heart feels like it’s going to burst out of my chest and my knees tremble at the thought that he might take me into his arms and kiss me again. I need to ground myself, so I say something …

  “Oh, I believe woman will do much more than that.”

  “I believe you do. But what more is there?”

  “Run a company, and who knows, maybe a country.”

  “Mademoiselle Brown, now that is radical thinking. Louise Michel would be proud of you.”

  “Yes, but it’s not radical thinking. I’m as capable with a set of reins in my hand as most men, so why can’t we vote, or be a president of a company or country—it’s only fair, don’t you think?” I give him my most charming smile.

  He lets go of my hand and bows. “The way you ask, a man can only respond in agreement. I suppose you’re an example of what men have in store for them when there are more women like you.”

  “I am not an example of anything. As long as men are frightened of losing their power, they will keep women oppressed—”

  “Nonsense, there’s a few mindless suffrages, mostly Lesbos—”

  “Is that your idea of what thinking women are—lesbians?”

  “You
assume that I consider any woman a ‘thinker.’”

  “Mister Verne—”

  “Monsieur Verne, you keep lapsing into English. And I’m just joking.” He suddenly becomes serious. “But it was foolish of me to have taken a woman into that den of fanatics—especially you. If anything had happened to you…”

  He grabs me up in his arms and kisses me.

  When he lets go, I kiss him back.

  “That’s what you can expect from the new modern women.” And then I abruptly turn and hurry on my way, waving to him as I run up the dark alley.

  44

  Perun

  “Mademoiselle Michel.” Perun approaches the Red Virgin’s table with Dr. Dubois by his side. “I see you’ve met the impetuous young reporter from America.”

  “Perun … and Doctor Dubois,” Louise Michel forces a smile, “what brings you here? I thought we discussed everything the other day.”

  Perun grabs a chair and sits down across from her. “I’ve made an important change in our plan and thought you should know. What was she doing here?”

  “What change? Dubois, you might as well sit down.”

  The brother of the circus trapeze stands up and puts a chair for Dubois between himself and his sister.

  “Do you know who the woman is who accompanied Jules Verne?” Perun asks.

  The Red Virgin nods. “I saw her picture once. She’s an American reporter. Her name is Nellie Bly.”

  “Why did she come to see you?”

  “To solicit help.”

  “What help?”

  She raises her eyebrows. “Have you joined the prosecutor’s office, Monsieur? Is that what gives you the right to cross-examine me?”

  LE MOULIN DE LA GALETTE

  “Pardon. I ask as a brother of the black flag.”

  “There’s a mad killer, as she puts it, here, in Montmarte, butchering prostitutes and she knows how I feel about women being murdered. She believes he’s an anarchist and she wanted me to help her find him. He killed her sister.”

  “And…”

  “I refused.”

  “Interesting … what did she tell you about this killer?”

  “Only that this man is possibly of Eastern European heritage. She encountered him in New York. He was pretending to be a doctor and used his position to murder prostitutes at a madhouse. He’s since killed prostitutes in London and now she believes him to be in Paris. Why the interest in her?”