He leaves the table. I get up and pace the little breakfast nook, trying to contain my excitement and digest all that he has said. There’s no proof that Perun is my maniac from the madhouse, but my intuition is screaming he is.
I hear Chernov opening the front door and an exclamation. An explosion erupts that knocks me off my feet.
I sit on the floor, stunned, my ears ringing.
Smoke, a burned, bitter, chemical smell, pours through the doorway from the living room. Struggling to my feet I lurch to the doorway. The living room is full of smoke. The front part of the house is ripped wide open and on fire. Mr. Chernov is on his back, on the living room floor. There’s nothing to be done for him—what’s on the floor is hardly recognizable.
I cough my way to the kitchen door and stagger into the garden. A gate leads out of the garden to the alley-street at the rear of the house.
I cry uncontrollably. Poor Mr. Chernov is dead.
47
I stumble coming out of the alley and onto the street. My hearing’s stunned, my eyes sting, tears blur my vision. There’s great commotion around me, people shouting, running, but it’s all a fog. What is clear is that I have to get away before I’m detained by the police. A woman touches my arm and says something. I think she is asking if I’m injured. I mumble “no” and just keep walking—moving myself away from the turmoil, from poor Mr. Chernov, back in the direction I had come.
Tears keep coming, not just because of the sting from the smoke, but for Mr. Chernov. I hope he’s at peace and has joined his wife and children. Fire trucks rumble by, bells ring, the heavy hooves of the horses pounding the cobblestones. Slowly my hearing starts to come back. Someone else, a man, asks if I need help. I shake my head no and keep walking.
“Nellie!”
A carriage pulls up beside me. Jules opens the door and jumps down.
“You’re hurt!”
“No, no, not hurt. Just…” I couldn’t finish. My tears become sobs.
He puts his arm around me and assists me into the coach.
* * *
TWO HOURS LATER we are sitting in a café and talking. Jules had taken me home to change and freshen up. My clothes and face were blackened by smoke. Entering the building, Madame Malon stepped out of her flat to glare at me and quickly fled back inside, slamming the door behind her, after Jules gave her a menacing look and tapped his cane aggressively. He escorted me to the door of my garret and then went back down to give me privacy.
I told him how I had received a note from Louise Michel and that she directed me to the czarist agent.
“I returned to Monsieur Chernov’s while you were cleaning up. A bomb blew out the front of the house. What saved you were the walls between you and the blast.”
I shudder at the thought of being ripped to pieces.
“I spoke to the officers on the scene. A neighbor returning to her home spotted a man near the apartment a moment before the blast, but was not able to give a description.”
“It was Gilles de Rais, who is also known as Perun.”
Jules gave me a look not unlike the one he gave me when I told him I’d been an inmate in a madhouse. “Why do you say that?”
“Louise Michel said the killer’s name is Gilles de Rais. He’s Russian and apparently he speaks fluid French. Monsieur Chernov said the man’s code name in the Russian anarchist underground is Perun. My guess is that he’s using the Gilles name in Paris as a cover.”
“Perun. Some sort of Slavic god.”
“The god of thunder and—and that sort of thing.”
“Do you think that the Red Virgin deliberately sent you to the Russian’s house to be murdered?”
“Of course not. She could have had me killed in the alley outside my room or a thousand other places. Not to mention Notre Dame. But I won’t doubt her anarchist friends tipped off the bomber that I was going there. This Gilles person doesn’t want me to trace him back to Russia.”
Jules rubs his chin, thoughtful. “I agree. Killing someone with a bomb isn’t Louise Michel’s style. If she wanted you dead, she would more likely hand you a knife and fight you one-to-one with her own knife.”
“Jules, I don’t understand. You don’t seem pleased by my information. We have a name for the killer. There can’t be more than one Gilles de Rais in Paris. We can now track him down.”
“Nellie, Gilles de Rais has been dead for at least the last four hundred years. He was a baron and marshal of France back in the 1400s. He had a distinguished military career, rode with Joan of Arc, and fought several battles at her side. He rose to be one of the richest and most powerful men in the country, maintaining a court that was more lavish than the king’s.
“Unfortunately, he was also quite mad. He became fascinated with black alchemy, certain that he could invoke the power of the devil and make himself master of the world. To achieve this end, he murdered many people—abducting, torturing, and murdering over a hundred children alone.”
“Good God.”
“His end came at a relatively young age, in his early thirties I believe, he was arrested, tried and hanged.”
“Louise tricked me … but why?”
“No, I don’t think that was her intent. I believe that she was truly aroused by your accusation that an anarchist was killing prostitutes. I suspect she didn’t call him Gilles de Rais to identify him, but was commenting upon his murderous character—just as a person in London might refer to an anonymous slasher as ‘Jack the Ripper.’”
I felt completely deflated. “And I thought I’d broken the case.”
“Perhaps you have, perhaps you have,” he murmured.
“How? I thought Gilles de Rais was Perun, but he’s dead—long dead. I assumed he followed me to poor Mister Chernov’s and blew him up to keep me from knowing his identity. It looks like I was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time—an anarchist deciding to do away with a policeman. Or maybe … Jules?”
He looks at me with that faraway look, as if he is staring beyond the now and into a book of secrets, but I decide to continue even though I know he’s not really listening.
“Maybe this Perun person, whoever he is, was trying to blow both of us up because he’s the slasher. He knew I would discover who he was once I talked to Chernov and he couldn’t have that happen. I was just plain lucky to escape. But, if I take into consideration what Chernov said about Perun, his profile might not fit the slasher’s.”
Jules comes out of his brown study pursing his lips. “Louise steered you to Chernov because she learned a Russian is involved. So, why can’t this anarchist Perun be the slasher?”
“Chernov told me Perun is an idealistic anarchist who is killing government leaders. The slasher is a homicidal maniac who kills women for pleasure. They don’t match up. Chernov also said something big is planned here in Paris and he’s certain Perun is behind it—as he was with the Haymarket bombings in Chicago. I don’t see the slasher being involved in an elaborate scheme to blow up the government. It just doesn’t fit his profile. He’s here to kill women, just like he did in New York and London.”
“You’re wrong.”
“Excuse me?”
“There is no reason the slasher cannot be a homicidal maniac and an anarchist terrorist. He could be killing women for his perverted pleasure while maintaining his anarchist activities to satisfy his political views.”
I look at Jules long and hard. “Ok … I have to admit that after Chernov told me about Perun, my intuition screamed he’s the slasher. But, when I look at the whole picture, I must say it’s too bizarre, too far-fetched.”
“Maybe not. I have found that when nothing makes complete sense, there’s usually a clever mind behind it. I think it is time we spoke to Doctor Pasteur about Toulouse’s painting. I’ll take you back to your room while I go to the Institut. You’re in no condition to make a trip to Pasteur’s.”
Men. Why do they believe when a woman experiences any kind of traumatic situation they need rest? I’m positiv
e even a man would need rest after what I experienced. Well, this is my hunt and he is not going to pursue it without me. It took every ounce of my strength to stand up and say, “Let’s get a fiacre and be on our way. I’m going with you. And that’s final.”
48
At the Institut, we’re admitted into Pasteur’s private office shortly after requesting to see both Dr. Pasteur and his young assistant, Tomas Roth. The two men join us minutes later. Pasteur looks older and more stressed than the last time I saw him. Jules stares at him with concern.
“Monsieur Doctor,” Jules says, “I’m sorry to intrude on such short notice. Should we come another time?”
“No, no. It’s just that this is a sad occasion.” Pasteur is not only downhearted, but troubled. “One of our young assistants died from an exposure to a microbe, perhaps the Black Fever contagion. The authorities removed his body just hours ago. If it had been anyone but you, Monsieur Verne, they would have been turned away at the door. The entire Institut is concerned about our colleague’s death.”
Jules and I both murmur our condolences.
“I do apologize, but the matter that brings us to you concerns this painting and also deals with life and death.” Jules unwraps it and sits it on the desk.
Both men stare curiously at the painting.
“A café artist,” Jules continues, “painted this at Le Chat Noir several years ago. You appear surprised, Doctor Roth, but we’ve been led to believe that this man is you and that the others are from the Institut.”
“It certainly appears to be me.”
I don’t know if it’s just me, but he seems to be slightly agitated about the picture. I glance at Jules. He’s poker-faced as Tomas continues talking.
“I did work briefly for the Institut a few years ago, before taking on another task. I returned months ago. I do remember the café incident, though I didn’t know we were being painted.” He raises his eyebrows. “I suppose an artist would make a pencil sketch and then paint the rest from memory, since we didn’t sit for him.”
“We’re interested in the identity of this man.” Jules points at the man wearing the red scarf. “Do you gentlemen recognize him?”
“Yes, that’s Doctor Leon Nurep, a Russian chemist that worked here briefly.”
“How is that spelled?” Jules asks.
“N-u-r-e-p.”
“What is this about, Monsieur Verne?” Pasteur asks.
Jules hesitates. “The man may be involved in murder.”
“Murder!” Pasteur is shocked.
Dr. Roth shakes his head, but he doesn’t look anywhere as shocked as Dr. Pasteur. “Perhaps so, perhaps so.”
I’m curious as to his response and ask Dr. Roth, “You’re not surprised at the charge, Doctor?”
“Nurep is both an anarchist and a Russian, which, as everyone knows, is an explosive combination.”
“Do you know where he is?” Jules directs his question to Dr. Roth.
“No, I haven’t seen him in several years. In fact, not since the night we attended Le Chat Noir for dinner. The event was a farewell gathering for him, dinner earlier and then the cabaret antics. Nurep had been associated with us briefly in work we were doing for his employer. We terminated the work when we discovered that the nature of the work had been misrepresented to us.”
“Who was he working for?” I ask.
Rather than answering me, Dr. Roth looks to Pasteur.
Jules speaks directly to Dr. Pasteur. “It is a matter of great importance. You know that I’m a great admirer of your work. I assure you that we have no information that the Institut is in any manner involved in this affair. We’re not seeking scandal, only justice.”
“I believe you because I know you are a patriot of France and would not be involved in a lark,” Dr. Pasteur says to Jules, but gives me a grave look.
I bite my tongue, for I instantly want to defend myself.
“I vouch for Mademoiselle. She’s not only completely trustworthy, but she is the chief foe and investigator of a criminal scheme that bodes the most severe consequences to France.”
I glow in the light of Jules’ praise.
Pasteur sighs. I have the feeling that nothing short of the earth opening and swallowing Paris would draw him from his work. But now he has a death at the Institut and our strange visit that implies the two might be intertwined. The poor man is torn and tired and would probably like nothing better than to go to his lab and bury himself in his experiments.
“He was working for the Comte d’Artigas.”
“Artigas.” Jules’ face goes dark as he repeats the name.
I ask, “The munitions manufacturer?”
“Yes,” Roth replies, “I’m certain you know of his reputation even in America.”
“His reputation has indeed reached America. He is a cannon king like Krupp in Germany.”
“A warmonger is what he is. He’d sell poisoned candy to babies if he could profit from it.” Jules does not hide his anger.
Pasteur nods in agreement. “Exactly. He is not a person we would be associated with—ever. He approached me with a project concerning weapons and when I flatly turned him away, he employed Nurep to come to us under false pretenses. Nurep told us he was working on a new type of agricultural fertilizer, a product to help farmers. When I discovered he was working for Artigas, I immediately terminated the relationship. Not that there was much of a relationship, it only lasted a few months. I personally have no recollection of having met Nurep myself. He met with Doctor Roth a few times. They conducted some experiments regarding a chemical compound.”
“What was this compound?” Jules turns to Roth.
“I am afraid, Monsieur, that even though I am not well disposed toward the gentlemen for their falsehoods, I will not disclose their secrets.”
Dr. Pasteur noted assent to his assistant’s position.
“Doctor Nurep, was he a strange one? By that, I mean, did he have any queer sort of ideas—besides his politics? Perhaps in regard to the way he, uh, thought of women?”
Pasteur looks at me quite puzzled, but Dr. Roth answers my question as if I asked what time of day it is—very matter of fact.
“If he did, it was not disclosed to us. Nor was his politics. We wouldn’t associate with a radical. I only worked with him briefly in a laboratory environment and didn’t socialize with him except that one night at Le Chat Noir. Dr. Pasteur suggested we at least give him a farewell dinner when he was forbidden to work further at the Institut. That was the first time he wore the red scarf of a revolutionary in our presence. At first we thought he was simply being amusing. As you know, most revolutions are café table talk. But Nurep became very verbose about his political beliefs that night. I can assure you we cut the evening short.”
“What did he say?”
“I really don’t remember. Something about how the wealthy want to keep the people poor and the only way to stop this abuse of power was to get rid of these people—take their wealth and distribute it evenly among everyone. We were quite surprised.”
“Oh…” It’s not what I wanted to hear, it’s too generic, so I decide to take a chance and probe further. “Did he ever mention the Society of the Pale Horse?”
“No. As I said, we didn’t encourage his radical conversation and cut the evening short.”
“Can you tell me what sort of man he was to work with?”
“I found him competent in the laboratory. Quite a brilliant researcher as a matter of fact. Not as up to date on techniques and literature in the field as one would expect, but I suspect that innovations are slow to reach Russia.”
“How was his French?”
Roth smiles. “Much better than yours and mine, Mademoiselle. He would not be taken for a Parisian, but like many educated Russians, he speaks official French better and with no more accent than provincials.”
“What is your accent, if I may ask?” Jules asks.
“Alsatian.”
“I am lucky to have obtained Doct
or Roth as my assistant,” Doctor Pasteur speaks up. “He was offered a position by Koch in Berlin, but his Alsatian soul is French, not Prussian.”
“When was the last time you saw Nurep?” I ask.
Roth raises his hands in a frustrated gesture. “Mademoiselle, as I have told you—that night at Le Chat Noir.”
“Did anyone else at the Institut work with him? Someone who might know something more about him?”
“Only me.”
“And the other man in the painting.” Pasteur corrects Roth. A shadow passes across his face. “But he will not be able to help you. He’s René Grousset, the young man who died of fever. He was a student helper then, not a full-time employee.”
Silence lay heavy in the air. As always I am the one to break the silence. “What was Nurep’s field of work?”
“Explosives.” The response came from Jules. “A chemical weapon, if I know Artigas. The devil is trying to devise some weapon of horror to make war even more terrible than it already is. He counts lives in terms of how many francs he can make exterminating them.”
Pasteur and Roth confirm Jules’ theory by the expressions on their faces.
I am surprised at Jules’ tone. There is anger in his voice. Not the wrath one expresses against abstract injustices, but anger that is personal—and violent.
49
We left Toulouse’s painting for safekeeping at the Institut because Jules called his newspaper friend and arranged for us to meet him at a café before meeting Oscar at the Procope.
“Aurélien Scholl is an old friend,” Jules says as a fiacre takes us to the Café de la Paix across from the Opera. “He’s one of those rare newspapermen whose sword is mightier than his pen. As is his dueling pistol. He periodically fights duels to defend his articles, and being something of a café lover, a duel to defend his life against a jealous husband is occasionally necessary.”
I change the subject because a more important issue has been gnawing away at my brain.
“I didn’t find the conversation with Pasteur and Roth very satisfying. Don’t you find it odd that a member of the Institut who had dealings with this man Nurep is dead of the fever? I mean, how convenient can that be? And Roth … he puzzles me. Something’s not right. I feel it, and it’s eating away at me. I didn’t like him refusing to tell us what Nurep and his boss were concocting. Didn’t you find the whole conversation a bit … I don’t know … off?”
The Alchemy of Murder Page 25