The Alchemy of Murder (41 page)

“No, not yet, but I do believe I’m getting close.”

“Really? What evidence have you acquired?”

I regret my foolish boast. I only made it to see his reaction. “It’s nothing I can talk about.”

He stares past me. “Yes, I know what you mean, so many secrets, the fever…”

“Secrets?”

“Yes, you know, things that must be kept from the public.” His answer is as forced as his smile, as if he’s covering up a slip of the tongue. He’s nervous, fidgety.

“How goes the fight against the fever outbreak?” I ask.

“Splendidly—if you’re on the side of the malady. It’s all coming to a head.”

“The outbreak?”

“Yes, of course the outbreak. What do you think I mean?” He’s almost rude. “My superiors will not be pleased if they discover I’ve spoken to you. I’ll be fired.” He lifts his eyebrows again. “Perhaps arrested.”

“Well, I think it’s been very courageous of you to help. We both owe it to the women of this city to do our best to track down this crazed killer.”

“I would feel better about my not revealing to the police you’ve contacted me if I knew you are making progress.”

“A doctor performing laboratory work is involved in the death of prostitutes. We’re working closely with Doctor Pasteur concerning the matter.” What a golden tongue I have! I said everything and nothing.

“Is there anything else you can tell me?”

I decide to test the waters. “He’s Russian.” Did I see him blink when I made my pronouncement?

“A Russian—that would make sense.” He rubs the stub of his severed pinkie.

“Why?”

“Why?” He raises his hands in a particularly French gesture. I have the impression he is backpedaling, trying to cover for his reaction. “Russians are violent and crazy. Did you hear about the explosion at the Café Momus?”

“No.”

“It happened late last night. The café’s popular with newspapermen, usually those of a conservative bent. Someone placed a bomb on a window ledge and walked away. It blew out the front of the café, injuring several people. Strange enough, the only person seriously hurt was a leftist reporter, a man with anarchist sympathies, who was dining with a friend.” He leans closer to me. “The police suspect there is a connection between the bomber and the fever.”

“Why?”

“The bomber left a note claiming he set the bomb to revenge attacks on the poor.”

“Is there any progress on finding a cure for the influenza?”

“None, but the best medical doctors in the city are dealing with the problem.”

“If Doctor Pasteur had—”

“He has everything he needs. The hospital’s director assigned me to provide the samples that are sent to Doctor Pasteur. There’s nothing else he needs.” He looks around. “I’m risking not just my job, but my career talking to you.”

“You’re right.” I squeeze his arm. “I’m sorry. You have been very cooperative with me.”

He pulls out his pocket watch and presses it open to check the time. “If you see my friend Oscar, would you please tell him I will meet him later at the café?”

“Certainly.” I don’t ask what restaurant. I assume it to be the Rat Mort. As he turns to leave I say, “He’s an anarchist, you know.”

“Oscar?”

“The slasher.” Once again, just a subtle reaction by him. But I decide to continue. “An anarchist. And he’s made mistakes, or I wouldn’t be so hot on his trail.”

“What mistakes?”

“I’m not really in a position to reveal that. Let’s just say he’s left a trail.”

“Mistakes that leave a trail … Yes, of course, we all make mistakes. You can do everything right and then be brought down by one little mistake.” He speaks as if he is talking to himself.

“Doctor Dubois?”

“Please pardon me. I must go.”

I stare at his back as he hurries away. Now what was that conversation about? If I’m not wrong, the young doctor has had a very traumatic experience. Or a terrible fright. Very strange. My suspicion of him, waylaid by Oscar’s endorsement of his good character, is boiling over again.

*   *   *

J
ULES LOOKS READY
to put a bomb down Oscar’s throat as they await me at a café on Boulevard de Clichy. It’s a chilly morning and they’re seated inside. Oscar is talking. And talking and talking. Jules looks like he’s being roasted over a hot fire … very slowly, his flesh scorching, fat dripping from his body feeding the flames.

I take my place at the table and immediately give them a summary of my conversation with Dr. Dubois. It doesn’t make Oscar happy.

“You think my friend Luc is a homicidal maniac.”

“I’m not saying that, I’m just saying I’m wondering about him. I don’t know what to think. He acted so strangely. I have the impression he was seeking information.”

Oscar strokes his chin. “There is one thing. Luc’s route to the hospital is nowhere near your garret. To the contrary, he lives in exactly the opposite direction.”

“You should look further into your friend’s activities,” Jules suggests a little too eagerly.

“So I shall.”

“And you can put your detective skills to good stead in other ways. The police have not investigated properly the whole affair involving Jean-Jacque. You should go underground, perhaps even in disguise and work as a consulting detective does.”

Oscar’s eyes light up like the revolving torch atop the Tour Eiffel. “A consulting detective, yes, like my friend Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes.”

“Don’t forget Poe—”

“Of course, there must be French editions of “The Murders in the Rue Morgue” in the bookstalls along the Seine. I shall have to review them for methodology. I’ll look into it immediately!”

“And don’t forget your disguise. Perhaps a black cape and—”

“Of course! A large black hat, one with a broad rim. A lilac shirt—”

“And knee-high boots,” I interject.

Before Oscar rushes off to prepare for his disguise, I give him the message from Dubois. Jules and I share a laugh after he leaves.

“Very clever,” I tell Jules. “That should keep him occupied for a day or two.”

“It will take him a week just to prepare his disguise. Hopefully, after that he will run into your slasher in a dark alley and be cut into little pieces.”

“Jules! What a horrid thing to say.”

“Mademoiselle, if I tied you to a chair and forced you to listen to this pompous, self-proclaimed paradigm of wit and social manners—”

“I would cut my own throat.”

“I will join you if I have to listen to Monsieur Wilde again today. But before we suffer that fate, we must go to the Institut. As I was leaving the hotel a messenger arrived from Doctor Pasteur stating that he had information concerning the matter we discussed.”

Leaving the café, Jules makes another observation. “It’s interesting that Luc Dubois appears to be under stress at the very time we seem to be making progress in the investigation. And then there is Oscar acting the fool.”

“Does Oscar strike you as a fool?”

“Not at all. Perhaps a god from Mount Olympus cast down for some great sin—or to punish us for our sins.”

*   *   *

A
T THE
I
NSTITUT
we are immediately shown into Dr. Pasteur’s office. His assistant, Tomas Roth, is at his side. The elderly scientist is apologetic.

“I was not aware when we spoke that the Institut did in fact have a more recent contact with this man Nurep, or whatever his name is. Two months ago he ordered soups for the preparation of cultures.”

“Soups?” I’m lost.

“A sterilized medium used to grow microbes in. It may be distilled water or rainwater, animal blood, any number of broths, such as chicken broth, or even solids.”

“Did Peru … Doctor Nurep say what he was working on?”

“There were no discussions. The soups were ordered by post and shipped to a train depot.”

“Is that the total contact with the man?” Jules asks. “A written communication?”

“The letter simply stated the type and number of soups and the delivery address. We no longer have it, but my clerk showed it to me to obtain approval for the shipment. I’m afraid I’d forgotten about it.”

“How was payment arranged?” I ask.

“Sufficient francs were enclosed in the communication.”

“Can the type of soups ordered tell you anything about the nature of his work?” I am hoping we can get some insight in Perun.

“Nothing, except that it involves microbes. He ordered a number of different soups and could be experimenting with almost any type of bacterium.”

“So there is nothing about the request that gives us any clue about Nurep’s activities?”

“It tells you that several months ago he lacked basic laboratory equipment to prepare his own mediums. Because experimenters usually prepare their own mediums, we found his request unusual. Had there not been a prior relationship with the Institut, we would not have filled the request.” Pasteur smiles a little shyly. “I am a detective only in regard to the crimes of microbes, but from the nature of the request, I would deduce that Nurep was only at the locale where we sent the soups for a short time and had not yet set up a proper lab.”

“Where were the materials shipped to?” Jules questions.

“A train depot in the Normandie region. Doctor Roth will provide you the information.”

“What’s the status on the Black Fever research?” I ask Dr. Pasteur.

“We are in the same situation as before.”

“You mean the research is still being hampered by controversy with the medical doctors.”

Dr. Pasteur says nothing, but his features tell me he doesn’t disagree.

I decide to tell him about Dubois’ visit. “I had a discussion this morning with Doctor Dubois, the man who sends you the fever samples.”

“Yes, the young doctor at Pigalle Hospital, I believe.”

“Then you don’t know him?”

“No, his samples arrive by messenger.” Pasteur turns to Roth. “Has he ever been at the Institut?”

Roth shakes his head. “No. The samples come by messenger.”

“We only hope that he is competent in his task of taking samples.” Pasteur adjusts his glasses and peers narrowly at me. “I sense a question in your mind about this Doctor Dubois.”

“Frankly, I found our discussion unsettling. I have the impression that he’s in some sort of difficulty and was seeking information from me.”

“Information?” Pasteur appears intrigued.

“Yes. I think about the murders we’re investigating.”

“But what can this young doctor have to do with the crimes?”

“We don’t know,” Jules interjects, “but we intend to find out. Other than the fact he’s been deputized to provide you with samples, do you know anything else about Doctor Dubois?”

“Nothing. I assume he’s one of Brouardel’s young trainees.” Pasteur shakes his head. “Microbes are so much easier to understand than humans. They either benefit or harm you. But no microbe, not even the Black Plague, tries to harm you, not even ones that kill.”

“A microbe that kills doesn’t intend to?” I ask.

“If they kill you, they are destroying their host. They kill only inadvertently.” Once again he shakes his head. “But humans … they are so much more premeditated.”

55

“Since the soups had been shipped to Normandy, I must travel there immediately,” Jules announces as we walk away from the Institut.

I try to suppress that rush of anger that surges in me when I am being left out—especially when I realize the reason is because I am a woman. “I’m going with you.” As soon as I spoke, Jules does exactly what I expect. He objects.

“It’s no job for a lady.”

I stop, take a hold of his arm so he also has to stop, and look him square in the eyes. “Neither is chasing a mad killer halfway around the world.”

“You will just be in the way.”

“Funny, Monsieur Verne, I was just thinking the same about you.”

“I know you have accomplished a great deal for a woman, but you don’t understand that there is an excellent probability of real danger.”

“And being chased by the slasher in a graveyard wasn’t? Or my coming within a hairsbreadth of being killed by him in the dead of night on Blackwell’s Island?”

“Mademoiselle—”

“I am going with or without your consent. And you can’t stop me.”

He looks at me like a father would glare at a stubborn daughter. “The station is two hours by train. An overnight stay will be necessary. Since it is impossible for a woman to travel more than an hour from home without sufficient luggage to equip an entire division of the French army—”

“I could travel around the world with a single valise.”

“You may recall, I wrote a book about a trip around the world. The quickest it can be done is in eighty days. And several large trunks would be necessary to maintain even the most minimal comportment of respectability for a woman.”