The Alchemy of Murder (45 page)

“Are you sure? I can have your clothes cleaned.”

“Thank you, but I think it best I go to my place.” I was lying, but I needed time alone … to think.

“All right. But after we see Doctor Pasteur, I insist on taking you to dinner.”

“That, I won’t refuse. But, don’t you think we should meet with Oscar before dinner? We can have drinks at the Rat Mort. He can give us a report of his activities as a consulting detective and who knows, maybe he’s discovered something.”

“A meeting with your friend will only give me indigestion and destroy any chance of enjoying dinner. Please think twice about your idea.”

A fiacre pulls up and Jules insists I take it. I squeeze his hand after he helps me in and he squeezes it back. “See you at Pasteur’s in three hours.”

“All right.” And I wave my assent as my fiacre pulls away from the curb.

*   *   *

A
S
I
COME
trudging up Le Passage, I find Oscar sitting on a stone bench in front of the apartment building. I’m too tired to deal with energy-charged witticisms. And I’m in desperate need to order a bath and just soak. He spots me and gains his feet.

“Nellie!” He looks grave. “I’ve been waiting for hours.”

“Sorry. The train was late. What’s the matter, Oscar? You look like you lost your best friend.” I don’t know why I said that, but from the shocked look on Oscar’s face I realize something close to it happened.

“You heard.” His tone and look changes to drama—a woman relating that her lover died in battle.

“Heard what?”

“He’s dead.”

“Who’s dead?”

“Luc.”

“Doctor Dubois is dead?”

“Yes…”

“But … how?”

“Black Fever.”

“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.”

*   *   *

T
HE 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
O
SCAR
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 adding 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.”