The Alchemy of Murder (17 page)

I have an urge to pick her up and take her home to bathe, clothe, and feed. She’s a victim of unfortunate luck, a bad hand dealt by those mischievous Dark Sisters the ancient Greeks call the Fates, as is her mother and baby sister, for I am certain they all have the influenza and will soon be dead. My heart breaks and I do the only thing I can at this time—I grab money from my purse and give it to her, certain that there’s enough for the little family to eat well for a week, and saddened that probably most of it will go for drink.

The entryway is even dirtier than the street outside. The smell is cheap and basic—cooking smells of rancid meat and rotted vegetables mixed in with an odor left by people without soap and hot water. A dungy odor, soiled and unsanitary. To my dismay the building is five stories and Simone’s lodgings are on the top floor.

It’s uncanny, but during moments like this when I doubt my courage and have feelings of hesitation, for some inexplicable reason my feet have a mind of their own and take the steps one after another.

Coarse laughter coming from men on a floor above floats down as I climb the steps. When I reach the fourth floor I identify the source of the laughter as coming from a flat in which the door is open. The laughter of the men makes my heart race. It’s the same laughter of my step-father coming home after a night out with his drinking pals, disturbing the house with his mean spirit. Often these disturbances would end up with an explosion at my mother, causing me to rush from my bed to make sure he didn’t hurt her.

A man appears at the open door. He’s almost as dirty as the little girl outside, unshaven, hair uncut and unkempt falls from under a sailor’s cap that’s greasier than the hair. His neckerchief is stained from sweat and grime, giving only the barest hint that it was once red. He has the look of a street thug, the breed Parisians call apaches.

“Eh, where you going, mon dame?”

I resist the urge to respond, for I’m sure he’d interpret it as a signal of interest in him. Instead, I quicken my ascent of the stairs. On the fifth floor I find Simone’s flat and knock several times. No response. I knock again, harder, causing the door to slip open a crack. Pushing it wider, I poke my head in. “Bonjour?”

It’s a large single room. On one side is a messy kitchen counter with opened shelves and a wood stove, on the other side are two small rumpled beds separated by a worn sheet.

“Hello …
Bonjour
?” Two steps into the room I stop.

Mother of God!

On the floor next to a bed is the naked body of a woman.
Blood is everywhere.
She’s been butchered, laid open from between her breasts to her female parts. I back out, gagging, biting my fist to keep from screaming.

“What’s the matter?”

I let out a scream. It’s the lout from downstairs.

“What is it?”

I dart by him, rushing down the steps, nearly losing my footing. My dress prohibits my feet from keeping up with my panic and I stumble and grab the railing. As soon as I get my balance again, I lift my skirts and pedal down the steps as fast as I can. I’ve gone only a flight when I hear the man yell from above, “
Meurtrière!
” Murderess!

A group of men come out of an apartment and the man above shouts for them to stop me. They’re as startled as I am and stare at me in confusion as I bolt by them, hurrying down the stairs.

“
She murdered Evette!
” the man above yells down.

The heavy steps of the men are behind me when I reach the second-floor landing. I almost run into the mother that I had given money to. In one arm is her little baby. In the other, a bag filled with food, I think, for bread is on the top. Her little mudlark is behind her eating candy. Seeing my terror, she quickly opens a door and points. It’s a connecting door to the adjoining tenement. Without hesitation, I race through the door and she shuts it behind me.

It’s another dim landing with apartment doors like the one I just left. On the ground floor I leave by the back door that leads into a courtyard formed by four connected buildings. I enter and exit the building opposite me.

It’s only when I’m two blocks down the street and aboard a fiacre that I regain my breath.

24

The death of a prostitute in a big city is of no account to those who run the world, but coming face-to-face with it again has left me cold and frightened. I have the carriage let me off at a café near Place de Clichy. I can’t eat anything, but I have a café au lait in the hopes it will melt the hard ball in my stomach.

I am tempted to present myself at the office of Chief Inspector Morant and ask him how many women have to be murdered before a city-wide alarm is made.

I struggle with the impulse to board a train for the port and a steamship home. Finally, I leave the café in a brown study, unsure of my next move except to return to the sanctuary of the garret. Even though there’s still a chill in the air, I’m glad to find the fog has slipped away as I make my way toward Place de Clichy. People along the streets seem excited and I ask a woman what’s happening.

“The Red Virgin’s at Place Blanche.”

I can’t believe my luck—the famed anarchist giving a speech. I hurry toward the square. I’ll never forget the first time I was introduced to the ideas of Louise Michel.

I was a factory girl standing in line, waiting for the gates to open for work, when a woman came down the line handing out pamphlets. As she came closer I watched the reaction of the people in line—they ranged from being polite, to snapping in anger. By the time she reached me my curiosity was completely piqued and I had to take one. When the girl behind me whispered, “It’s the word of the devil,” I decided to hide it and wait to read it at lunchtime.

I was shocked as I read the pamphlet. I’d never heard such talk—equal rights for women, the right to vote, to be educated, and to receive the same wages as men when doing the same job—
unbelievable
, until I accomplished things that were considered unsuitable for a woman. Still, there are times when I harbor doubt because there is one reform I am positive will never happen—a world without prejudice. There is just something in human nature that will not allow it to happen.

I was lucky to have a father who respected the abilities of the “weaker sex.” He wanted me to understand, to believe I could accomplish anything I wanted. “Pink, in order to have what you desire, you must want it with
all
your heart, then you have to
use your brain
and
never give up
. Success takes time. Always has for me.”

I read a quote from Louise Michel that day at the factory that will forever burn in my mind and heart: “Humanity has two parts, men and women, and there will never be equality as long as the ‘stronger’ half controls a ‘weaker’ half. Each woman must exert her right to be equal. Molière said women were the ‘soup’ of men. I refuse to be any man’s soup.”

These words embolden me many times when I begin to falter.

Louise Michel, nicknamed Red Virgin because of her radical political ideals and her refusal to marry, is the stuff of legends—manning the revolutionary barricades, her hat and clothes full of bullet holes, but her body miraculously escaping harm.

The legend began about eighteen years ago here on the Butte. Louis Napoléon, the nephew of the great Bonaparte, sat on the throne of France as the Emperor Napoléon III. He was tricked by Prussia’s cunning chancellor, Bismarck, into a war against the Germans which France was unprepared to fight, enabling the Prussians to storm the gates of Paris.

In the wake of the debacle, the autocratic government of royalists and imperialists fell, leaving a political vacuum. Power was up for grabs and revolutionaries, “reds” of all types—anarchists, socialists, communists, and others—scrambled for control. From the chaos came the birth of the “Commune,” an experiment of government by the common people.

Soon troops of the Republican government that controlled the rest of France battled the rag-tag army of the Commune for control of Paris. This final battle took place on the Butte and was won by the Republican forces. But Louise Michel, the fiery leader of a women’s Commune brigade, never lost her idealism. When she was finally freed after years in prison, she went back to the streets, urging workers to rise up and kill the factory owners and seize the factories. This is where we differ. I will never believe killing is a solution.

It’s nearly dark when I arrive at Place Blanche. I can hear her voice as I reach the outer edge of the crowded square. She’s standing on a wagon and wearing her signature clothing—all black except for a red scarf. She claims scarves worn by revolutionaries are red because they’ve been stained by the blood of the people.

Her raven black hair is cardboard flat. With rather severe looks for a woman—a narrow face that carries a patrician nose and prominent forehead—she’s not “pretty” in the conventional sense of drawing room beauty. Rather she has strength—in her voice, her gestures—a fire that radiates from within. I am spellbound as I listen to her powerful and compelling words.

“Factories are closing not because there’s no demand for goods, but because the factory owners are conspiring to break the back of French workers! To keep workers from making enough to buy bread, to starve their families until they see their children thin and broken. When the workers are cradling their starving children in their arms, they’ll accept slave wages.”

Boisterous shouts of agreement rise from the crowd. This audience is much friendlier than the one last night—she’s playing to a Montmartre assembly of workers and bohemians.

“Villains that we are, we claim bread for all, knowledge for all, work for all, independence and justice for all! The worse tyrant is not the one that takes you by the throat, but the one that takes you by the belly. Not the one who locks you up, but the one who starves you!”

Shouts of approval come from people in the crowd. “Hang the tyrants!” A woman next to me screams at the top of her lungs, “Kill the bastards! They deserve to die.”

“Have you asked yourself why only the poor are dying from the influenza? I’ll tell you why—they’re being killed by the fumes from poisons put into the sewers in poor neighborhoods. The survivors will be slaves of the rich!”

Someone hands her a flag on a stick. She lifts it so the crowd can see it—the black flag of anarchy.

“The people shall not be free until the factory owners are hanged from the doorways of their châteaux! We’ll weave the ropes from the money they’ve stolen from workers!”

A commotion breaks out as mounted troops enter the square. As the horses push into the crowd, I’m shoved against a red-faced panicked man. I go down as he strikes me with his flying elbow. Strong hands grab and jerk me to my feet. My body is pushed against a pillar while arms go around me from behind, grasping me and the pillar, as people stampede by like wild horses. My eyes are watery and I’m heaving for air because my breath has been knocked from me. The panic ends almost as quickly as it had erupted, the arms around me release their pressure and I turn to thank my benefactor.

“
You!
”

25

As we make our way from the crowds of Place Blanche I thank Jules Verne and ask, “Will you join me for a bite? I’m hungry.”

“Yes.” He takes my arm in a manner that warms my heart and guides me to a café on Boulevard de Clichy.

“How did you happen along?” I ask, wondering if he had me followed.

“I was in the area and overheard that the Red Virgin was to speak. I saw you in the crowd.”

Even though his answer is credible, something in his voice doesn’t settle right with me. I smile and change the subject. “She’s quite amazing, don’t you think?”

“She’s a fanatic who should be rotting in prison.”

So much for political small talk.

It’s too early for dinner and Mr. Verne orders red wine and a plate of assorted cheese, bread, and olives. I add mineral water to the order.

I smile with innocence. “Montmartre is the most interesting area I’ve seen. In just the past two days I’ve seen a colorful carnival, two political riots, two murders, and came a camel’s breath away of being murdered myself.”

Mr. Verne looks puzzled for a moment. “Mademoiselle, that’s a hairbreadth.”

“Oh.”

“Earlier today I threatened to have you arrested and committed to a mental institution. I suggest you keep this conversation at a rational level or I’ll go through with my threat.”

“
Rational level!
Who do you think you’re talking to?” I slap my napkin on the table and stand up. I had enough with this pompous man. “I came to you in good faith to discuss a serious problem that concerns you and I refuse to be bullied.”

“Sit down, you’re attracting attention.”

I sit down but my temper is still up.

He continues in an irritating tone of superiority and suppressed anger. “You are the only one who can answer that question.”

“What question?”

“
Who
am I speaking to?”