The Alchemy of Murder (14 page)

“We spoke the other day. I’m authorized to stay in Monsieur Bailey’s room.”

“Go away before I call the police!”

The shutters slam shut. With the hardest pull I can muster, I jerk the rope three times. The shutters are thrown open with a vengeance. Water comes out the window and I stumble back. I see red. If I wasn’t so desperate, I’d declare war on this monster. Instead, I hold up a franc. “A franc for the inconvenience, Madam.”

“Three,” she spats.

“Two. And I will not report you to the police for collecting rent while Mr. Bailey is serving the French Army in Algeria.”

I have no idea what Mr. Bailey is doing in North Africa, but I have heard that concierges fiercely guard their financial records from officialdom, so the threat slips naturally off of my tongue.

“Let her in, you old bitch, so we can sleep!” a voice yells from the building across the way.

“Ten sous, give her no more, that’s all she charges the others!” a young female voice shouts from above.

The door latch controlled by another rope in the concierge’s apartment scrapes open and I hurry inside. The entryway is utterly dark and harbors stale cooking smells. And the last person who emptied their chamber pot failed to close the door to the closet that houses the sewer opening and I get an unpleasant whiff of sewer stink as I go up the stairs. I hold my breath. The smell is awful.

LA CONCIERGE

A pale gaslight glows on the concierge’s landing and another is farther up the stairway. Glassless window openings are on every landing in theory that they will bring light and air, but on foggy, rainy nights they provide nothing but dampness and chill. I shiver going up the steps, certain that it is colder inside than out.

Madame Malon is waiting at the top of the landing, her pudgy white face twisted in a menacing scowl. In hopes of avoiding any confrontation, I employ my most ladylike smile and the two francs. Frankly, my desire is to throw her down the stairs.

She slams a police ledger book on the railing. “Write your name and sign. Your presence will be reported to the police.”

I know for certain it won’t. Reporting a temporary tenant will only get attention from the police and tax collector—something no concierge desires. I manage to find an empty space and scribble, “Nellie Moreno, Havana, Cuba.” She snaps the ledger shut, begrudgingly hands me a key, lowers her brows and glares at me.

“No noise, no men. The water pump and sewer hole are on the first level and cost an extra ten sous a week.”

I throw her a sweet, “
Buenos noches, Señora
,” as she waddles back into her apartment. She mutter’s something ugly about foreigners as she slams the door shut so hard it blows the gas-lamp out, leaving me in complete darkness.

So starts the beginning of a wonderful relationship.

18

I wearily make my way up the cold gloomy staircase to Mr. Bailey’s garret which, like the rest of Montmartre, is designed for mountain goats. I pause before the final ascent and will my body to continue.

The garret, as expected, is small, but I’m pleased to find it’s clean—a
big bug-a-boo
with me. I hate messy, dirty places. The room has a plain wooden table with two chairs and a potbellied stove holding a copper tea kettle. Three wood shelves above the stove are filled with dishes, drinking cups, a cast-iron pot and pan, and a small galvanized pail holding silverware. A huge ceramic pitcher sits in the center of the table.

Against the right wall is a day-bed that looks like its being used as a couch. On the other side of the room is a step-up to a space holding a wrought-iron bed, a nightstand, an armoire, and a wooden filing cabinet.

A “close-stool” cleverly designed to look like a stack of very wide books on four legs, what the French call a
chaise percée
, or “chair with a hole,” is next to the filing cabinet. Inside is a pewter chamber pot. The clever design makes it no less repulsive to carry the pot down six flights of stairs to dump. Mr. Bailey has cleverly placed a basket of potpourri under it. He must hate foul odors like I do.

*   *   *

H
OURS GO BY
and my mind refuses to surrender to sleep. Even counting sheep doesn’t help. I plop myself on the couch and start a list—a habit acquired from my mother. First, Dr. Blum knows I’m here. He knows what I look like. I, on the other hand, am wanted by the police. I don’t know Paris. I really don’t know what Dr. Blum looks like and I can’t go around chasing every man that makes the hair on the back of my neck rise. I need help.

This is gong to be a new experience for me—having a partner.

Even Mr. Pulitzer finally gave up on trying to “partner” me with another reporter. But I am going to have to bite the bullet and get myself a partner.

Which puts me to the big question:
who
?

One name crowded my thoughts.

19

Perun

Evette wasn’t surprised when she heard the knocking on her door past midnight. Perun came to her at all hours. But tonight, even though he paid well—very well—she was tired. She didn’t feel like entertaining him. So she sat on her bed and didn’t answer the door. She hoped if she didn’t answer, he’d think she was out working the streets and leave.

He kept knocking—harder and louder. She felt the anger mounting in each knock and knew she had to answer. If he found out she was there—well, there were rumors about what he did when he was crossed. She opened the door.

“What took you so long?” He walked in and began undressing.

“Perun, I can’t tonight. I’m sick.” As soon as she said the words she regretted them. She saw the back of his muscles tense and immediately tried to rectify it. “I want to, I really do, but I’m not feeling well.”

He turned around and looked at her, “Evette, come here.”

His voice sent a chill down her spine.

She slowly came to him. She flinched as he put his hands to her face.

“You don’t look sick to me.”

“I … I feel sick.” She realized her answer was lame and it really didn’t make any difference how she felt. He wanted her and he always got what he wanted one way or another. “But, for you…” She started to unbutton his pants.

“Evette,” grabbing her hands, “I’m no longer in the mood.”

His voice frightened her. She had to do something, so she kissed him, long and hard. He let go of her hands and she unbuttoned his pants as she kissed him. She palmed his hard cock. He pushed her down and then held her shoulders so she couldn’t come up.

She knew what she had to do.

*   *   *

“P
ERUN
…”

He kept dressing and didn’t answer her. She sat on the bed and fiddled with the sheet.

“Did Simone tell you where she was going after seeing you earlier?”

Her question stopped him on his way to the door. Without turning around he asked, “Why do you want to know?”

“Because we were to meet up at a café and she never showed. It’s not like her.”

“I wouldn’t worry. She probably met a man.” He started to leave, then stopped. Once again he didn’t turn around as he spoke, “Come here, I have something for you.”

Evette eagerly came to him, hoping he remembered he hadn’t paid her.

He reached in his pocket and brought out a scalpel.

20

Nellie

I’ve never been one to be in a sweet disposition when I wake in the mornings, especially when I’ve had broken sleep. This morning I’m in a particularly dark mood.

I made a decision of who my partner will be. Sleep from that point on was basically fruitless because I hated my solution. But I have no other options. The only candidate that finally came to me is a man I don’t trust.

His name is recognized throughout the civilized world, although I’ve heard that some malady of body or soul has caused him to retreat from public attention. Without him knowing who I am, I have weaved a tangled web involving him and now I need to turn it to my advantage.

My interest in him was piqued when Mr. Jones, the foreign correspondent, told me about a bizarre incident in which the adult nephew of this noted Frenchman stumbled onto a scene in an alley in which a man was attacking a woman with a knife. The man fled and was never caught, but the nephew became obsessed that the slasher had been his famous uncle … and acted out his fixation by shooting the uncle. Fortunately, the man was only wounded.

The nephew is Gaston Verne and his uncle is Jules Verne, the world-famous writer.
*
Like so many people, I grew up reading his fantastic tales like
Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea
and
Around the World in Eighty Days
.

Staring at a picture of Jules Verne after I arrived in Paris, it struck me that a few alterations by an artist would create a reasonable likeness of the slasher: a box hat, round eyeglasses, shaggy hair, and beard. Of course, the same would be true of the pictures of most bearded men, but it was Mr. Verne’s picture that I had when I found a street artist to make the alterations. I had copies of the finished picture printed so I could distribute them to prostitutes.

When I nosed around about Mr. Verne’s movements, I was unable to piece together a four-month absence from his home that would have permitted him to play the role of Dr. Blum at the asylum—but unable to eliminate him, either.

At the moment my interest is not in establishing that Verne is the elusive Dr. Blum, but in having him as an ally. And I chose him for two reasons: He is a very important man, literally an institution in the country … and I have a hole card to use in making him help me.

I prefer to think of my action not as blackmail, but as a subtle form of persuasion in a situation where the end justifies the means. Not exactly the best way to begin a partnership, but making war on evil is not a game for the timid.

The morning sky does nothing to help sweeten my disposition—it’s grey and heavy. But I shake off my inclination to crawl back in bed and cover my head for I have rivers to swim, castle walls to scale, mountains to move, and an immediate need for a bath and fresh clothes. It would be very disrespectful of me to approach one of the most famous men in France in a harlot’s dress that has recently rolled in a fresh grave.

I’m lucky to find a cape in the armoire. It will do to hide my dress while I go shopping. Mr. Bailey must only be a couple of inches taller than me; his cape doesn’t touch the floor when I put it on.

It’s my good fortune not to run into Madame Malon on the way out—this is a good omen. Maybe today will work out.

Le Passage, the alley outside, is a busy little thoroughfare of pedestrians and small shops. An old gentleman across the street beating his rug from his window doesn’t miss a beat as he yells down, “
Bonjour
,
Laitier
,” to the milkman below who methodically deposits milk bottles at each doorstep. The milkman doesn’t even look up, but returns, “Bonjour, Louis.” It must be a daily ritual.

A young girl pushes a handcart loaded with bread down the cobblestone lane, while an older woman opens a flower stand. Concierges drag trash cans out into the court, as droves of ragpickers fall upon them like rats.

These gleaners are a queer lot. Individuals and families each have a distinct purpose. One appears to be taking nothing but bones, glass, and crockery, while another is sifting the ashes for coal; one is taking only paper and rags; another old shoes and hats, and so on, moving from can to can in a hypnotic movement, none interfering with any of the others.

Where the steps end and a wider street begins, small shops and many more street vendors appear—a man roasting chestnuts over hot coals in a metal barrel, a women serving crisp brown
frites
, deep-fried. From a girl with a handcart, I purchase a
café au lait
, dark roasted coffee with hot milk, the favorite breakfast drink of Parisians and a taste I’ve developed. I get directions from her to an establishment that provides baths and the location of clothing merchants.