The Alchemy of Murder (18 page)

“Nellie … Brown. My name is Nellie Brown.”

“Why did you attempt to contact me today?”

I gather my thoughts while pretending to be interested in two bohemians loudly arguing politics at another table. I didn’t dare use the Spanish name or accent that I used with the concierge. Mr. Verne is too well traveled and educated to fall for my Cuban act. His adventure novels are often recommended by American high school teachers for interesting ways to learn geography and the flora and fauna of regions. My research on him revealed that he has an adventurous spirit not unlike the heroes in his books—sailing his own boat to pirate-infested waters in North Africa, journeying to the warring Balkans to research a tale of horror in Transylvania, and trekking to the Arctic Circle to see the maelstrom, the incredible oceanic whirlpool that sweeps ships into its jaws. He has even traveled to America.

I have found that when all else fails, turning to the truth is best. At least a version of it.

“I’m here because of Gaston and the murder of a very dear friend.” I don’t attempt to hide the subtle threat that underlines my words, nor the anger I feel.

His mood darkens and a bit of temper pulls down the corners of his lips. Perhaps I should have been more subtle. Bright, liquid steel eyes overshadowed with heavy charcoal brows seem to penetrate into my very being.

“Have I the pleasure of addressing Gaston’s wife, Mademoiselle?”

“Of course not.”

“Then perhaps his lover?”

“Monsieur Verne!”

“His nurse? I think not. Too young to be his mother, a woman I am intimately acquainted with, since she is married to my only brother.” He leans forward in his chair, as if he’s ready to leap at my throat. “By what authority granted by God or man do you appoint yourself as a spokesman for my poor sick nephew!?”

It is obvious I must carefully select my words. “Mister Verne … may I be honest?”

“If that’s possible.”

A group of policemen come down the street, fresh from the Place Blanche disturbance. Mr. Verne gives them a knowing look and pulls out his pocket watch. With calculated precision he opens the cover, notes the time with deliberation, and places the watch on the table.

“Mademoiselle, you have precisely three minutes to convince me not to turn you over to the authorities. You have even less time if I discover you suffer from the same sort of brain fever that inflicts poor Gaston.”

“I’m an American, from New York.”

“Of course. One would not expect such improprieties from a French woman.”

“Should we call the police now? Perhaps it would be to both our benefit to have a referee in this matter.” My heart pounds, but the only way I know how to deal with a bully is with my dukes up.

A pin on his lapel—a small red rose, catches my attention. Red is the symbolic color of the revolutionaries. Is Jules an anarchist? The thought puts me even more on guard. The slasher had sported an anarchist scarf.

He snaps the watch case shut. “Tell me your story.”

“
Merci beaucoup.
A little over a year ago I did suffer from brain fever, a nervous condition not as severe as your nephew’s, but still requiring a stay in an asylum for a fortnight.”

“How did you find me at the Procope?”

“I … I went to your house in Amiens and was told you were in Paris and that it’s your favorite café.”

He nods. “I suspect you’re telling me the truth but you left out part of the story. My household staff is forbidden to disclose my whereabouts and my family never would. All of my servants have been with me for years—no, wait, there is one, the girl who comes in as a maid to help the rest of the staff. She has a loose tongue…”

I keep my features frozen but the devil take him! Such a quick mind. The servant girl indeed loved to gossip. With a little encouragement, she told me that Mr. Verne had become increasing short-tempered with his family and his staff of late. A few weeks ago he up and shaved off his beard and left for Paris. The staff suspected a woman was behind his sudden flight to the city, a not unlikely scenario in a country where extramarital love affairs are an accepted social institution.

“You were telling me about your mental derangement.”

I clear my throat. “During my stay in the insane asylum, I learned that several women had disappeared. All were prostitutes. The asylum is on a river island in New York City and it was assumed that the women who had drowned were trying to escape or during a period of intense mental disturbance.”

I continue expecting my strange tale to stimulate questions from the fertile mind of one of the world’s most imaginative writers, but Mr. Verne remains as excited as a mortician.

“As you have probably guessed, Josephine failed to return the night she went to the doctor’s quarters.” I go on, explaining how I went to the pier and into the shack only to discover a laboratory. My story draws not the slightest response, not even a raised eyebrow.

My throat goes completely dry and the words scrape coming out. “Glass containers were filled with bloody specimens that must have come from Josephine.”

I close my eyes for a moment as my mind revisited the ghastly scene.

Without a word, Mr. Verne leaves the table and returns with a glass. He pours wine in the glass and puts it in front of me. I’m not one to imbibe strong spirits, but this is an exceptional moment. I force myself to go on and relate my narrow escape and the fire.

“Everything was wiped out by the fire. All evidence of Josephine, the doctor, his laboratory, and whatever other foul deeds this monster committed … it all went up in smoke. Within minutes both shack and pier collapsed into the river and were washed away.

“Because of my temporary brain fever, no one believed my story. Then later that year, last October to be more accurate, I went to London after Jack the Ripper began his killings. I was drawn there because of the newspaper reports about how he killed his victims. His method of slashing was similar to how Josephine was murdered.

“In London I followed the slasher’s acts with great interest and was able to make the acquaintance of a lead investigator in the matter. He told me that suspicion had fallen upon a doctor. He described how the doctor fled, leaving his apartment on fire, identical to what happened at Blackwell’s Island.

“In the debris of the burned flat my suspicions were rewarded by the discovery of a charred microscope and those small, tall glass vials that scientists use to hold samples, indicating that like Doctor Blum the man had set up a laboratory.”

I pause for a storm of questions, but Mr. Verne’s features remain stoic.

“In London while cov—uh, investigating the matter, I fell into a conversation with a man who turned out to be a newspaper reporter from Paris. He told me that Paris was having a slasher incident.”

Interesting … still no reaction from him.

I go on doggedly with my tale, telling him of my discoveries since arriving in Paris and how the man I believe to be the slasher almost killed me. Still no reaction. I include the attitude of the police, but omit the fact I’m a fugitive from justice.

“I’m determined to bring Josephine’s murderer to bay and to stop this crazed killer from striking again. Regrettably, the police have other priorities and therefore will not help me or do a proper job.”

I pause, twisting my kerchief between my fingers. It’s now or never. “Will you join me in this task, Monsieur Verne? Will you help me snare a killer before he kills another innocent woman?”

Finally. I said what I have been dying to say since this morning and I’m positive it will guarantee to provoke a reaction from this man. He raises an eyebrow and I hold my breath.

“You have explained a great deal, Mademoiselle … Brown, but you have failed to disclose one critical piece of information.”

Oh, Lord, has my arrest last night been reported in the newspapers?

“You have not disclosed your motives for coming to me.”

“
Excuse me?
” I am flabbergasted by his response.

“Your motive for approaching me at the Procope…”

“Gaston…” I offer, hoping that is all I need to say.

“Gaston?”

“A reporter told me of a an incident here, in Paris, several years ago. Your nephew Gaston was on his way home one night when he heard a commotion in an alley. He went into the alley and observed a man bent over a woman lying on the ground. The man fled at Gaston’s appearance and Gaston discovered to his horror that the woman on the ground had been slashed.”

That moves him.

Mr. Verne’s two handsome, bright eyes—what are called laughing eyes—become dark and severe. “My nephew suffers from a mental illness, like yourself!”

I open my mouth to protest but he ignores my objection and continues.

“When questioned by the police, he told them it was I he had seen fleeing the scene. The police recognized that poor Gaston has developed a monomania about me and the matter was
dropped
.”

“Which, of course, led to Gaston shooting you.”

“These events are well known to the police and my family. The tragedy poor Gaston played out in the grip of his fantasy about me were also well played in the newspapers. It’s obvious your intentions are to blackmail me and it will not work. You have come all the way from America and the only thing you will get from me will be a referral to the police.”

“
Blackmail you!
That’s utterly ridiculous! I came to solicit your help and to give you the opportunity to help yourself.”

I pull my trump card out of my handbag and fling it on the table. If this doesn’t work, nothing will.

“Perhaps it does not offend you, Mister Verne, that you resemble this mad killer so much that pictures of you are being passed out on the streets by someone seeking information about the killer.”

At last, I finally have the great man’s attention rather than just his ire. He stares down at the picture. The result is a superficial resemblance, but I must say, the artist did a fine job. I’m quite pleased at the forgery.

Mr. Verne leaps to his feet, sending his chair over backward. “
Who’s responsible for this libel!
”

The words blow me back. I jump up, nearly sending my own chair over.

“I—I—” I stumble for words, but nothing comes. For certain, I can’t tell him the truth. “I don’t know.”

“Where did you get this?”

“On the streets, from a prostitute.”

The entire café has become still. I look around for an escape route.

“Sit down,” Mr. Verne says in a firm tone that reminds me of my father when he became angry at me. He replaces his chair, sits down, and folds his hands on the table in front of him.

“Now, explain exactly
why
you have come to me.”

I lift my chin. “I came to you for your help in tracking down the slasher. I thought because of your knowledge of the city, the language, your analytical abilities … but, it’s obvious that I’m wrong. You apparently have no concern that innocent women are being murdered, or that someone is smearing your good name.”

“Mademoiselle, stop trying to throw guilt on me. You have no idea of how I feel about this libel. Or what I will do to the person who has instigated it when I catch him. You claim to have seen two murders in the city in two days, and you yourself were almost killed.” He lifts his eyebrows. “If that is the truth, perhaps you should return to America for your own safety.”

“That would leave Josephine’s murder unavenged. And your name tarnished.”

I decide to make one more desperate plea. He can’t turn away from a damsel in distress. It’s not fitting to his character.

“Mister Verne, I’m a woman, alone, in a foreign city. I need your help. Together we can track down this killer and finally have justice served. What do you say? Will you join me in the hunt?”

“Do I look like a fool to you, Mademoiselle?”

“You strike me as a very angry man, a man who has spent a lifetime building a reputation as a world-famous writer, whose books are read on every continent, and whose name is now being dragged in the mud. This killer bodes ill for both of us. Together, we can bring him to bay. Are you going to ignore the libel being perpetrated on your good name and let the murder of innocent women continue? How would you feel if I was his next victim?”

“Relief.”

I bite my tongue. I’ll just learn to live with his sarcasm.

He shakes his head. “It’s truly contagious.”

“What’s contagious?”

“The brain fever that you and poor Gaston suffer from, it has infected me.”

He salutes me with his glass.

“No, Mademoiselle, I do not plan to give up. To quote a countryman of yours, Monsieur Edgar Allan Poe, ‘the game is not up yet.’”

26

Jules has a noticeable limp as we walk along the boulevard. Not enough to require the support of the gentleman’s walking cane he carries, but still a limp. I suppose the source is his nephew’s bullet.