The Alchemy of Murder

by Carol McCleary

  “Oh, no…” I sit down on the stone bench. Oscar joins me.

  “They found him in an alley in the wee hours this morning. I got the news from his concierge, a message at my hotel. Luc instructed the man to give me something if anything happened to him. I didn’t have the strength to talk to the concierge, but instead came over here in the hopes you will go there with me.”

  Poor Oscar. He’s truly miserable. I give him a hug. “I’m sorry.” Unfortunately, I’ve had so many black thoughts about Luc Dubois that at this moment I’m only sorry he died before I could trap him into a confession.

  “He must have contacted the fever at the hospital. I told him it was risky dealing with fever victims, but he was so intent on finding Jacque’s killer.”

  “No, he was murdered. Probably by his anarchist friend.”

  He nods slowly. “I think that, too, but I was hoping for a more heroic death.”

  “He was up to his neck in this thing. We found evidence at a countryside lab that implicates Luc sent a crate there. And more evidence of murders.”

  “The … the slasher?”

  “Yes,” I sigh wearily, “the one and only. Did you talk to Luc before he died?”

  Oscar shakes his head. “I tried. I even went to the hospital, but he wouldn’t see me. Naturally, that provoked my suspicions, ones I’ve tried to suppress even after hearing your damnation of him. I asked our friends and was told he had grown more and more distant from them for the past few months. Lately he’s been withdrawn and depressed.”

  “Is that all you know about his death—found in an alley, stricken down by Black Fever?”

  “That’s all the concierge’s message stated, along with the fact he’s holding something for me.”

  “You don’t know what it is?”

  “No clue. I know it’s my duty to find out, but I don’t have the strength to go alone.”

  “It’s okay. Let’s both do your duty. Take me to this concierge.”

  * * *

  THE CONCIERGE IS a pleasant, courteous older man with a mop of thick white hair and rosy cheeks. Showing concern and remorse for the passing of Luc Dubois, he could give Madame Malon lessons in concierge-ship. He’s surprised to see us and gives us startling news.

  “But, Monsieur, the doctor’s uncle gathered the package an hour ago.”

  “His uncle?”

  “He said you asked him to pick it up when he came by to gather things.”

  “When the uncle came, did he specifically ask for Monsieur Wilde’s package?” I ask.

  “Yes, of course, he said he was here to gather his nephew’s family memoirs.”

  I exchange looks with Oscar. It’s obvious that the man who took Oscar’s package didn’t come specifically for it. The concierge volunteered it, despite what he’s telling us.

  “Can we have the uncle’s address?” I ask.

  “He didn’t give it.”

  “His name?”

  “I don’t know that either, I never saw the man before this morning.”

  “Never saw him before—then how did you know he’s Luc’s uncle?” Oscar’s upset.

  “Because he said so.”

  “Did he take anything else from Luc’s room?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “I don’t know, but if he did, it couldn’t have been much or I would have helped him because of his hand.”

  “His hand?”

  “Yes, he has only one.”

  “Malliot,” I tell Oscar.

  “Good, you know him.” The concierge is relieved. “For a moment I thought he might be a thief.”

  “May we see Luc’s room?” I ask. “Oscar wishes to say good-bye to his friend there.”

  “But of course. On the second floor, second door from the stairs.”

  “Is it locked?”

  “Locked? Of course not, my tenants are all honest people.”

  “I wonder what was in the package?” I ask Oscar as we are going up the stairs. “I guess we’ll have to ask Uncle Malliot.”

  “He will probably cut our throats as an answer. Isn’t he the clever one. Coming here to clean out Luc’s things.”

  “I believe they call that destroying evidence.”

  I push open the door to the flat and pause. “We know the reason for Malliot’s visit. He was searching for something. Now the question is, what?”

  Books were thrown on the floor, knickknacks were broken into pieces, clothing was emptied from drawers, bedding tossed, mattresses overturned, and even the food goods were opened and dumped.

  Oscar sighs. “Wasn’t it a thorough search.” He pushes a pile of flour near the sink with his foot. “What can one hide in flour?”

  “Plenty. My mother used to hide grocery money in it. Who knows? Luc may have feared for his life and tried to get evidence into your hands to protect himself.”

  “Or name his killers.”

  I shrug. “It could be anything or … nothing. Malliot may have been looking for a clue to the whereabouts of the man they know as Perun.”

  “Doesn’t it also mean Malliot was involved in Luc’s death?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t know, maybe. But if Luc was killed last night and Malliot didn’t show up until an hour ago, it’s not likely.”

  Oscar pulls his cape tight. “Nellie girl … Luc died of the fever. Doctor Pasteur’s little killers could be crawling toward us right now, ready to eat us.”

  “Don’t worry, I don’t think there’s been anything accidental about the people who’ve been struck down by the fever. Luc was involved in the chicanery, of that I am certain. But where he fits into the scheme is as murky as the purpose of the machinations.”

  Oscar starts to say something, but his eyes water and he turns from me.

  To me, Luc Dubois is a villain, but I have to remember that he was Oscar’s friend and probably his lover. And something I’ve discovered about Oscar—besides the fact he’s no fool, he’s also no phony. His bigger-than-life emotions come from the fact he’s bigger-than-life himself. He’s a bear of a man in size, but is more emotionally sensitive than a wronged woman in a penny-dreadful novel. I take his arm and lead him out of the flat. I’m sure Malliot had not left anything for us to find.

  * * *

  I SEND OSCAR back to his hotel to rest, though I suspect he will end up at a café with friends and drinks. He is not the type to suffer alone. As we part he says, “I’ll contact André and arrange a meeting.”

  “All right.” What I really want to say is, why? He has several times said he would arrange a meeting with the cross-dresser, but there has always been a reason why André can’t join us. But it’s probably good for Oscar—gives him something to do.

  * * *

  I SEND A message to Jules at his hotel, telling him I need to speak to him urgently and send another wire to the carriage driver at the Normandy train depot asking questions we had both forgotten to ask when he transported us. I request an immediate response from the coachman directed to Jules’ hotel. It’s waiting for me when I arrive. I read it to Jules in the fiacre carrying us to the Institut Pasteur: “The day before you. A man with one hand.”

  “I am humbled before you, Nellie. I completely missed it.”

  “We both did.”

  We had not asked about other men the taciturn carriage driver had taken out to the village.

  “Artigas’ felon has been one step ahead of us.” Jules is disgusted. And angry at himself.

  “Light years ahead.”

  “This Russian chemist must be developing the goose that lays golden eggs for Artigas. The count is a man who deals with heads of state and can stir up war between nations. Nothing short of gold sufficient to bedazzle Croesus would keep Artigas’ interest for several years. I wonder if Malliot found anything at the village that would have helped our investigation.”

  I shake my head. “Something’s not right.”

  “Not right? Is there anything right about this situation?”

  “I mean, it’s just not a
dding up. It was difficult enough searching for a mad doctor. Now it seems there’s a powerful industrialist and the Lord only knows who else is leaving muddy boot marks on top of my clues.”

  “I must give you credit for something, Nellie. Wiring that carriage driver was very clever. You are a great detective. Perhaps you should be writing detective stories.”

  I have to bite my tongue to keep from telling him I just finished writing one—The Mystery of Central Park.* It appeared in the bookstores just before I left for Paris.

  60

  We wait only a few minutes in Doctor Pasteur’s office before he and Dr. Roth join us.

  “Gentlemen,” Jules does a polite nod with his head, “have you heard about Doctor Dubois’ death?”

  They look at each other in surprise.

  “He died of the Black Fever.”

  Dr. Pasteur is genuinely shocked. “Mon Dieu, can it be? First poor René, and now another young doctor investigating the contagion. It is carelessness, my own fault. I should have had stricter controls for handling the beast here and been more aggressive about warning other researchers to avoid infection when handling deadly microbes.”

  I am genuinely touched by Dr. Pasteur’s strong compassion for his assistant and Dubois. Jules and I had agreed not to slander Dubois’ name until we have solid evidence.

  Jules pulls the piece of wood crate from his bag. “We brought back a couple of items from the area where Perun apparently had a laboratory. This crate bears shipping marks that indicate it was sent from China. When we met with Doctor Dubois at the hospital he received what the clerk called another package from China.”

  “Why is a crate from China in the countryside?” Pasteur asks.

  “Perhaps for something devious and sinister.”

  “Sinister? Devious?” Pasteur turns to Roth who’s standing by his chair. “I have lived too long if such words have entered the technical jargon of science.”

  Jules shakes his head. “I also have lived too long, my friend, long enough to see so many of the terrible things I imagined come to fruition. But be as it may, does this type of crate have any significance to you?” Jules hands Pasteur the piece of crate.

  The elderly scientist examines it before handing it to Roth. “It says it’s from the Yunnan region of China.”

  “Is that of importance?” I ask.

  “Perhaps it’s nothing, but that region has been battling the plague for several decades.”

  I ask, “Is the plague and Black Fever the same?”

  “The symptoms are not the same.” Pasteur is grave. “We considered whether it was a form of the plague and it may well be, but while we can at least detect the existence of the plague microbe in laboratory tests, we have neither seen nor even detected the fever bacterium.”

  “Did I mention previously that the first time I was in Dubois’ office I also saw a crate shipped from Alexandria, Egypt?”

  Pasteur looks to Roth again, lifting his eyebrows. “There’s a cholera epidemic in Alexandria, still raging after many years. I sent three of my staff to Egypt to investigate the outbreak. It appears to have come out of Mecca, traveling the routes of the pilgrims back to their homelands, ultimately making its way to Europe. Poor Thuillier, one of my brightest scientists, succumbed to the contagion and died in Alexandria.”

  I’m puzzled. “What could a plague in China and the cholera in Egypt have to do with Doctor Dubois and this man Perun?”

  Pasteur shrugs and spreads his hands on his desk. “Perhaps they obtained samples of the two diseases to compare to this Black Fever, perhaps believing that the fever is a mutated form of one of these known diseases. There are an infinite number of maladies inflicting mankind. Unfortunately, until we have better weapons on our side, we can find and destroy only a few of them.”

  “Was this piece of crate the only evidence of laboratory experiments you found in the village?” Roth directs his question to Jules.

  “We found the burned out remains of a laboratory and picked up some of the ash debris in the hopes you can analyze it.”

  Roth is already shaking his head. “Unlikely we’d find microbes that survived a fire.”

  His remark depresses me. “That’s all we came up with, the crate and the ashes. And a handful of dirt from some cursed fields.”

  Pasteur reacts as if he’d been slapped. “Cursed fields? What do you mean, cursed fields?”

  “A farmer at the village told us that animals die if they graze there. It appears Perun dug up a dead cow buried there. We took a soil sample.” I study Pasteur’s face. His eyes are ablaze. “Is this important?”

  “The soil sample, do you have it with you?”

  “Yes.” Jules hands the bag containing the sample to Roth.

  “Have you touched the materials?” Pasteur asked.

  Jules shakes his head. “I was careful not to.”

  “Is it just dirt?” Pasteur seems anxious. “Are any of the cow’s remains included?”

  “There’s a piece of cow hide in the sample, and perhaps a worm or two.”

  “You found worms at the site.” Pasteur gets up, excited. “Just as I thought. Wait while we take a preliminary look at the samples.”

  As we wait, we have tea with Madame Pasteur—a quiet, unassuming woman who strikes me as a perfect match for the great scientist devoted to his work. I have a hard time making polite talk with Madame Pasteur because I’m dying of curiosity about Pasteur’s reaction to my cursed fields comment. When Madame Pasteur politely excuses herself to leave the room, I ask Jules, “What do you think is so important about the worms?”

  He whispers back, “Perun has been experimenting with them to create a giant worm that will eat the world.”

  An hour later, we follow Roth back into the office where Pasteur is already seated. The elderly scientist’s face is drawn and pale, but his eyes are bright and powerful.

  “Anthrax,” Pasteur states.

  “Anthrax?” I look to see if Jules understands. He does.

  “I can understand if you’ve never heard of this microbe, Mademoiselle, it is known mostly in the sheep and cattle industry. It’s commonly called the woolgatherer’s disease because it mostly affects people who work with animal hides.”

  “Is it a significant disease?”

  “It is if you own cattle or sheep, or work with hides, but it usually isn’t as highly contagious a disease as the Black Death. Anthrax spreads mostly by touch to an open cut, though it can be inhaled from dust brushed from infected animals. The more contagious diseases are inhaled from infected persons. However, anthrax is extremely deadly. If inhaled, it is almost always fatal.”

  “Doctor Pasteur developed the vaccination that protects animals from anthrax,” Roth says. “It saved sheep and cattle raisers millions of francs each year. But that discovery came at great risk to the doctor’s reputation as a scientist, especially after others, who thought they knew a better answer, had thrown down the gauntlet.”

  Pasteur waves aside Roth’s praise as if discovering a vaccination for a dreaded disease is just something he does on a daily basis.

  “I was most fortunate—and had a similar experience to the one you had in the village. Animals were dying from an epidemic of anthrax and workers were getting the condition. I spoke to farmers who said there were certain fields that were particularly dangerous to animals; that more than an ordinary number of animals died when grazed there. They also spoke of these fields as being cursed, damned by God. While walking in such a field, I saw that the farmers had buried the dead animals on the spot where they died. I kicked up dirt on one such burial mound and noticed worms. From those worms, I realized how the contagion was spread from animal to animal.”

  He pauses and takes a drink of water. “It’s the process of feeding that spread the disease. The farmers buried the diseased animals in the ground. There, worms would feast upon their flesh. Some of the worms would make their way to the surface, where they are eaten by cattle nibbling grass. Those cattle die f
rom the infection, then are buried and provide more fodder for the worms.”

  I shake my head. “Incredible. But wouldn’t it stop and the fields be useful again if they dug up the dead animals and properly disposed of them?”

  “It’s not that simple, Mademoiselle. Anthrax is one of the most durable microbes I have studied. The microbes are known to last for decades in affected ground. And, because they’re too small to see with the naked eye and have already been spread by the worms, just removing the dead animals won’t get rid of them. There are billions of them in a single shovelful of dirt.”

  Jules says to Pasteur, “The actions of this Perun person is getting stranger and stranger. What possible experiments can he be doing that would involve the plague, cholera, and anthrax? Do you draw any conclusions from these facts?”

  “I draw no conclusions that cannot be confirmed in my laboratory. I have a question for the two of you. What is it exactly you believe this man Perun has been doing? What are these dark deeds you hint at?”

  A look from Jules tells me to field the question. “I believe Perun has murdered women by somehow injecting them or otherwise infecting them with horrid diseases.”

  “What!” Pasteur bangs his hand on his desk. “A scientist using his science to kill? Mon Dieu, I truly have lived too long. Why would he do such a thing?”

  “I suspect he’s mad as a hatter. It may give him the same sort of thrill that another man gets riding a fast horse or shooting a lion or tiger.”

  “How does Doctor Dubois fit into this madness?”

  “Like you, we have more questions than answers. It may be nothing more than Dubois provided him samples for his experiments. Or that Dubois was somehow involved in it. I rather suspected the latter.”

  “Is it possible that Dubois was the killer you sought?” That came from Roth.

  “I don’t believe so.” I take a deep breath. “I’ve seen the killer—the man we believe is Perun, at least from a distance. Dubois’ body language was much different, slower and gentler, you could say. No, I’m sure Dubois was not my man.”

  When I finish, those penetrating eyes of Pasteur are past me, no doubt seeing eons ahead of us poor mortals.