The Alchemy of Murder (30 page)

“Why would I know their identity? And more important, I have a restaurant to run. I suggest you ask Toulouse.”

He starts to turn away and I stop him.

“The man with the red scarf is my husband. He has left me with three small children to feed and has gone with another woman, changing his name. I need to find him. It could happen to any of your daughters.”

“Could happen? Mademoiselle, it happens to them every day.” He points at one of his waiters. “He has two daughters and their husbands are all like that scoundrel in the picture, café revolutionaries who are too proud to work but not too proud to have an old man labor to stuff their bellies.”

He examines the painting again, then picks it up and holds it out arm’s length. He turns it this way and that way, squinting, and then scrunching his nose like a rabbit.

“No … I don’t know him. Obviously one of the Red Virgin’s followers. They spend half of their time plotting assassinations and the other half in prison. No, I’m sorry, I don’t know the man’s name or his whereabouts.”

“
Merci
, Monsieur.”

Jules takes the painting and as we turn to leave Salis poses a question that stops us.

“Why don’t you ask his friends?”

We both stare stupidly at the café owner.

“His friends?” I ask.

“The ones from the institute.”

“What institute?”

“Institut Pasteur, of course. I’m sure these men are Pasteurians. I’ve seen them at times with other members of the Institut, celebrating a birthday or a promotion at work.”

I take the picture from Jules and look at it again more carefully. “I can’t believe we didn’t see that.”

“See what?” Jules is still puzzled.

“Pasteur’s assistant. That’s Tomas Roth.” I didn’t recognize the other “Pasteurian.”

Stunned, Jules and I stare at each other. Pasteur’s staff at a café with the slasher? As we leave, the sad-but-comely young woman sings one of those songs of the streets that the bourgeois Parisians love to be teased with.

Stray dogs have their holes, murders have their prisons, but a poor old worker like me, doesn’t have a home …

42

“Pasteur’s associates with a Red Virgin anarchist?” This is all so crazy. “Members of the Institut at a social gathering with the slasher? What do you make of it?”

Jules stops and faces me. “We don’t know it’s the slasher.”

“True, but it’s still a radical anarchist with Pasteur’s people. We must talk to these people immediately.”

His face becomes stern. He hasn’t been in a good mood since we watched the shadow play.

“It’s nearly midnight, hardly a time to call on Dr. Pasteur, though I’m sure that would be of little concern to you.”

I can’t believe how unkind he can be at times, but he’s right. It’s late. “You’re right, I forgot what time it is. However, it’s the perfect time to check out this anarchist café, Le Couteau. I bet the Red Virgin is there right now.”

“And be murdered? Has that brain fever you’re so susceptible to attacked you again?”

I bite my tongue and take a deep breath. “I don’t think—”

“Exactly, Mademoiselle, I couldn’t have put it better.”

“And you—you can go straight to Hades, Jules Verne!”

“I’m already there.”

“Then stay there and boil in whatever self-pity is gripping you. I have a killer to catch. Goodnight.”

I abruptly turn around and march purposefully down the street leaving Jules in my dust. Damn him! Who does he think he is? How dare he be so rude to me? Frenchmen! Forget about any romantic ideas I had about him. He’s right, I do have brain fever, but it has nothing to do with the slasher; it’s Jules. He drives me crazy.

I’m around a corner and halfway down the street when I realize Jules still has the picture. Rats! I should have taken it and dropped it off at my garret. Heaven knows what might happen to it in his hands. But the die is cast. Besides, after that outburst I’ve probably lost Jules as a partner—but as the French say,
“C’est la vie.”

Tomorrow I’ll just storm into the Procope and retrieve the picture from him. But that’s tomorrow and this is now. Nothing will stop me. Not even the chilly night or the brooding black clouds driven on the breath of an icy wind that appears unending in the sky. Then, as if the gods are trying to warn me, in the distance comes a long, deep rumble. A storm is brewing.

I know I’m not acting rationally. I’m still heated from anger and I have to admit I’m also angry at myself for once again I have put my foot in my mouth and placed myself in a bad situation. But what’s done is done. I basically know were the Moulin de la Galette is located—at the top of the Butte. Once up there, I should be able to locate the café … I hope.

The path I have to climb in order to talk with the Red Virgin looks singularly uninviting. The dark night shrouds the top of the steps—a steep, twisting stone way bordered by a wall. Vines, blackened by freezing nights, droop listlessly over the wall like wilted, old fingers waiting for some poor, unexpected soul to walk by so they can snatch them up. Okay, this is no time for my crazy imagination to act up. It’s important I remain calm and clear headed.

I cautiously follow the stone steps. Hidden behind the walls on each side of the steps are small white cottages with wooden shutters tightly shut and gardens forgotten for the winter. Their red tile roofs accent the dark of the night. When they abruptly end I am confronted with a dirt path and an endless pasture. The tinny clang of a goat’s bell comes from somewhere in the pasture. Thunder rumbles again, long and deep. Only this time it’s closer, a definite threat to drench me with cold rain. Scattered about are small, thorny-like bushes and little mounds of barren dirt. An empty wooden cart with a broken wheel has been stranded on the side of the path.

Near the top of the hill stands a large somber tree, its branches stripped and showing a purplish color when the storm lights up the sky. For a split second as the lightning flashes I see a figure under the tree. It disappears when darkness falls again.

My feet drag to a halt.

Why would someone be waiting under a tree on a rough night? Is it a man I see? My man in black? Or is it the dark night playing tricks on me? I don’t know what to think, but the impression of a man standing under that tree stays with me. I’m positive I saw a figure. Am I to face the slasher again …
alone
?

I stand rooted, unsure of what to do, as my fears duel with my pride. I finally decide what I saw was nothing but branches being tossed about in the wind, playing a trick on me. I force my reluctant feet forward. They drag as if they know something I should.

Thunder rumbles overhead and lightning ignites the sky again.

A person
is
under the tree.

I stop in my tracks, my heart racing. There’s no doubt in my mind. Someone is out there waiting in this dark night. Another flash and the figure is gone. I strain to look, but I can’t see anyone. Then the figure emerges.

It’s walking toward me.

My instincts scream for me to run, but my feet are cemented to the ground. Thunder breaks my trance and I turn, running back down the hill. As I reach the steps I glance back.

The person is still coming toward me.

Gathering the bottom of my dress in hand, I take the steps two at a time. My foot turns on something and I stumble, suddenly free-falling.

43

“
Nellie!
” It’s Jules. “What are you doing?”

“I’m sitting here, enjoying the beautiful night,” I snap at him. “What does it look like I’m doing?” I don’t add that my pride is broken. “What are
you
doing?”

“I thought you’d try something stupid, so I came after you. Are you hurt?”

“No, just a little bruised. How did you get ahead of me?”

“I know the area.”

“You scared the life out of me.”

“I know, I’m sorry, but I didn’t know it was you. I came closer to get a look and you ran. I don’t blame you for being frightened. You’ve faced this madman alone and you know how dangerous he is.”

There he goes again, saying something thoughtful and very kind that melts my anger away, so I permit him to help me up.

“I was unfair to you,” he continues. “That shadow play turned my stomach. I know it’s only men behind the screen manipulating objects of war, but—”

I wait for him to finish. When he doesn’t, I pipe in. “It’s somehow connected to that strange remark you made about being in Paris to kill someone.”

We lock eyes. I don’t see anger, but something else. Before I can formulate what, I’m in his arms, his lips pressing against mine. They are warm and lush and I meet them eagerly, my chest hard against his. When the kiss is over I don’t move. I finally get my wits about me and remember my duty of modesty and break away.

“My apologies,” he says.

Like a lost child, I stupidly look down at the ground. He, thank goodness, gently takes me by the arm and helps me up the hill.

“Is it far to the café?”

“Not far. Let’s find it before we’re murdered.”

*   *   *

A
S WE CREST
the hill, the Church of the Sacré-Coeur stands off to our right. Stately, but unfinished, scaffolding clings to it like a spiderweb. We have passed no one along the way and continue on in silence, navigating a maze of stony passageways wedged between walls of dark gardens going this way and that way.

“Jules, are we lost?”

He gives me a grunt of irritation, which leads me to believe we’re lost. There is no longer even the pretense of street lighting and the houses become less cared for as we progress. Then I hear music. “Where’s the music coming from?”

“It’s not music. It’s the blades of a windmill, sadly, the last of them. For centuries windmills ground the flour for the bakers of Paris. What you hear is the last one crying out because they’re no longer wanted or needed.”

“How sad.”

“I’m being cynical.”

“Really…”

He ignores me and for a moment we stand looking at a tall dark structure near the top of some stone steps, a strange and uncanny cenotaph against the moonlit horizon. It’s an old giant filled with memories. Happy, spirited music comes from inside as we get closer.

“Le Moulin de la Galette,” Jules says deflated. “We’ll drop in and get our bearings.”

Bright lanterns led the way to the windmill which has taken up a different profession than grinding flour. While Jules is getting directions from a ticket taker, I sneak up the passageway to get a peek inside the dance hall. An old woman is collecting coats in a vestiary. I hand her fifty sous “to take a look” and she waves me inside.

Like the Moulin Rouge, the Galette’s dance hall is very large, with a band of only trumpets and trombones on an elevated stage at the far end. Some of the musicians are sitting on stools, some standing, while others are sitting on the edge of the stage. The music is loud, the clothes of the dancers bright as a rainbow. The center floor is crowded with young men and women, stepping, swirling, laughing. Grins cover the face of every man and it’s no wonder—the girls are showing considerable leg, and sometimes a bit of thigh.

Unlike the “ladies” who visit the cabarets on the boulevards below, stepping out of carriages in tall hats and bellowing silk dresses, these women are hatless and the clothes are simple—mostly white blouses and black skirts. A bow pinned here and there adds some variety to their simple outfits. As for the men, there are no top hats and tails here. Their faces are red from the exertion of the dances, their caps mounted at a rakish slant, their trousers fitted tight at the knees.

I recognize the young people in the hall because I was once one of them: shop girls, messenger boys, and factory workers. They work six long days, from daybreak to nightfall and Sunday is the only day they can rest and enjoy themselves. They’re the kind of people I knew in Pittsburgh; people I worked with shoulder to shoulder.

The Moulin Rouge and cabarets of Montmartre are for the middle and upper classes. The Galette is a place of the worker, the kind I was raised with and for which I have fond memories.

A group of shop girls come swirling by and one of them grabs my arm and suddenly I’m swept off onto the dance floor. I’m a little awkward at first because I don’t know exactly what to do, but I mimic the girls and quickly find myself kicking up my heels, laughing.

It’s wonderful! I feel free—free of all worries and cares. And I can’t stop laughing. I’m a young woman just having fun. A hand grabs me and as quickly as I joined the dancing I am off the dance floor and into Jules’ arms … again. He holds me close and we just stare into each other’s eyes.

I want him to kiss me and I know from his eyes it’s what he wants. But instead he gently brushes a strand of hair off my cheek. “Time to go.” With a sigh I turn from my past and follow him to an underground café, Le Couteau, run by a felon and named for a deadly instrument.