The Alchemy of Murder (21 page)

“You’ve had a number of deaths from the fever,” Pasteur said. “Has this building suffered more than others?”

“Oui. At least half the people in the building have had the fever and eighteen have died.”

The tenement house covered half a city block, seven stories of smoke blackened stone, crowded around a filthy cesspool of a courtyard. The only “plumbing” fixture was a pump handle in the center of the courtyard to draw water. The sewer hole they came to inspect was in a small room on the ground floor. A metal cover that had long ago rusted opened and a trail of droppings from chamber pots were the only furnishings. Pigeons cooed from the rafters as they entered.

“Take samples,” Pasteur instructed Roth.

The smell inside was worse than they had experienced in the sewer. The sewer smell was almost chemical. The room had the odor of human waste. It occurred to Roth that in many ways the sewer, where waste was periodically flushed out completely, was more sanitary than the pest hole of a room. The sewer opening was the suspected source of the miasma inhaled when people came to empty their chamber pots.

“When a family suffered the fever, did it usually begin with the person who disposes of the family’s chamber pot?” Pasteur asked.

The concierge shrugged and raised his eyebrows. “Everyone gets it, Monsieur, all that God wants to have it.”

“Of the people who died, how many were men, women, children?”

“Nine women, five men, four children.”

Most dumping of chamber pots would be done by women and older children, exposing them more to the sewer hole. But that fact meant very little. Women were also more likely to care for the sick, and thus were more exposed to it, and children, along with old people, were most likely to perish from the fever.

“Tell me, Monsieur Concierge,” Pasteur said, “is there anything about your building that is different from the others around it?”

“My building is better run and cleaner than any around.”

Pasteur and Roth exchanged looks and abandoned any notion of getting information from the man. There was little difference about this tenement building, the people in it, or the way waste was disposed of, than thousands of other buildings in the city. Most private homes, except those of the very rich, lacked up-to-date plumbing. And even the rich often had less effective plumbing than was available to the Romans two thousand years ago.

During their earlier venture in the sewer, Dr. Brouardel boasted that he refused to have plumbing installed in his own home out of fear that the pipes would draw poisonous fumes into the house from the sewer. Pasteur and Roth both scoffed at the notion. Plumbing with proper traps kept out sewer fumes, but many people still maintained the notion that the pipes would let in poisonous gases.

When Roth finished gathering samples, he found Pasteur staring up at the ceiling. Pigeons were coming and going through a hole near the ceiling and nesting in the rafters.

“Pigeons,” Pasteur said in almost a whisper, watching, lost in a world of his own. He had found another piece to the mystery.

The director’s assistant stuck his head in the room. The fool was wearing a nosegay. “Messieurs, the Director inquires as to whether you are ready to leave.” He sounded like a scared child. “A problem is mounting out here.”

A much larger crowd had gathered outside and continued growing as people throughout the neighborhood became aware of their presence. Men wearing the red scarves of revolutionaries were arguing with the police officers.

“They’ve come to murder more poor people!” a Red yelled.

Another shouted, “All oppressors of the people must die.”

The building manager was trying to sneak away when Pasteur’s sharp command stopped him. “Monsieur Concierge, have you discovered any dead pigeons or other birds?”

“No, Monsieur.”

“How about any dead animals? Dogs, cats, rats?”

“No. But there would be none of those.”

“Why?”

“The people eat them. Pigeons, too, when they can catch them.”

Pasteur continued staring up at the ceiling, oblivious to the chaos outside. Roth took his arm and hurried him toward the carriage for Roth was certain a riot was to unfold at any moment. The director had exited his carriage and walked beside them.

“What have you concluded?” he asked.

Pasteur stared at him dumbfounded. “I don’t reach conclusions from staring at tea leaves, Monsieur Director.”

“Are you accusing me of being a witch doctor?”

“I was speaking of my own methods, not yours. I must return to my lab and test the samples. Now, you must excuse me. I’m tired and hungry and wish to return to the Institut before I’m murdered by anarchists.”

As their carriage rumbled away, Pasteur leaned back, worn and fragile. His hands were shaking from the exertion and his complexion was pale. Pasteur said something and Roth, deep in thought, didn’t catch it.

“What did you say?”

Pasteur’s eyes fluttered open for just a second. “Pigeons and frogs.”

Pigeons and frogs. A microbe that killed humans and rats, but not pigeons and frogs. What did hot-blooded birds and cold-blooded amphibians have in common that protected them from the microbe?

30

Nellie

During the carriage ride to the Café Procope to meet Jules I decide not to tell him about the man who inquired about me at the café and the large man in the alley. Best I proceed with caution, until I know I can trust him. Besides, he may have hired the large man to spy on me. His comment about coming to Paris to kill a man still buzzes in my head.

When I enter the café and observe Jules sitting at his table writing with the ghost of Voltaire by his side, I find myself drawn to him in a romantic way. He’s quite attractive with his salt-and-pepper hair, strong jawbones, and imagination—traits I’ve always been drawn to. I love a man with an active and intelligent mind. Like my father.

He’s writing frantically, captured by an idea, perhaps another balloon journey to a mysterious island or to the bottom of the sea in a submersible. What a thrill it must be for the writer to play God, creating a world and populating it with people and places of their imagination.

I shake my head. These silly, romantic thoughts are plain out ridiculous. This is just a business arrangement,
nothing else.
I must stay focused. Besides, as my mother would tell me, he’s too old for me.

The maitre d’ maintains a pretense that this is the first time he’s seen me as he escorts me to the table.

“Are you ready to continue your crusade, Mademoiselle?” Jules asks, putting aside foolscap and pen. “This mad passion to find this creature of your nightmares?”

My affinity with the man flies out the window.

“My crusade, Monsieur Verne? I don’t mind playing Joan of Arc to
your
country, doing the work of the police, but my penchant for sacrifice falls short of being burned at the stake. Furthermore, he’s not a creature of my nightmares, but of your city.”

“Mademoiselle Brown,” Jules stands up, “I stand corrected. I just hope I won’t be burned along with you. Shall we go?”

I am amazed at how quickly this man can turn my heart around; one minute I have a deep affection toward him, the next I could strangle him, and then he’s back to warming my heart. I could use a
café au lait
and a sweet roll, but I smile graciously and we leave.

“You are a crusader, Mademoiselle Brown,” he says to me once we’re on the street. “Who else would chase a killer around the world.”

“And you, Monsieur Verne, what are you?”

“A bird that soars high above the world, never touching life. That’s what an adventure writer is. We only imagine what others experience. That’s why I joined you in this mad hunt. I want to peck among real people and see what I’ve been missing. Have you seen the Paris papers this morning?”

“No.” My knees go weak. Am I on the front page?

“Your friend Doctor Dubois is quoted extensively. His hospital is where the fever patients are brought. He’s quoted as saying that it’s strange that the fever contagion spread to another poor district without stopping in between. He says little, but the papers read much into it.”

“That the disease is being deliberately spread into poor neighborhoods?”

“Exactly.”

“But how … and why?”

“Anarchists claim it’s the doings of the rich.”

“That must annoy the poor people and fuel their hatred of the wealthy.”

“That is an understatement. I believe it’s time I hear Dubois’ thoughts on the matter myself.”

“There’s no mention in the papers of the woman murdered in the Pepper Pot?”

“Of course not.”

Now what did he mean by that? That I was right about the cover-up? Or that it wasn’t reported because it was a figment of my imagination? I bite my tongue rather than push for an answer that might cause me to explode. Besides, I have a more pressing issue weighing heavy on my thoughts—what Dubois might say to Jules about me. Last night Jules and I agreed we’d introduce him as a French relative of mine, Jules Montant. Early this morning I sent Dubois a telegram informing him that I would be dropping by with a gentleman who has offered to assist me. I also asked him not to disclose the fact that I am a reporter or anything about the police. If Dubois hasn’t received the message, or doesn’t cooperate, I’m a cooked goose—or whatever that expression is.

In a fiacre, Jules poses a question about the medical education of the man I knew in New York as Dr. Blum. “Many men carrying the title of doctor have not earned the right. Official appearing documents from universities are customarily taken at face value, especially if foreign institutions are involved. From what you’ve told me about the condition of the slasher’s victims, while the person who made the cuts has some medical knowledge, they’re hardly the work of a skilled surgeon.”

“True, but the slashings weren’t done under surgical conditions either. Most likely on a street, during a struggle, and in a great hurry. The police hypothesized that the man got a sexual thrill at opening a woman’s body.” I shutter to think I was almost one of his victims. “We’re dealing with a really sick human being.”

“I wonder…”

Jules is hearing me, and could repeat every word I said, but he’s not really listening. “Wonder what?”

“I’m just thinking … what if he’s looking for something when he’s dissecting?”

“Looking for something?” What a strange thing to say. “What on earth could he be looking for?” Now he really has me puzzled. This remark is so unexpected from a man who is known around the world for his knowledge of science.

“Really, Jules, one would hardly imagine that in this day and age there’s anything unknown about the anatomy of the human body. If a man wants to know where a woman’s liver is located, he need merely consult a reference book on the matter.”

31

At the hospital I force myself up each step. For once my feet aren’t taking over and it’s my mind that’s forcing me forward. When we reach the top I pause and gather my nerves to once again face the terrible smells of sickness, death, and the memory of that young woman on the doctor’s table.

“Are you all right?” Jules asks.

“Yes, I’m fine.” No way will I let Jules know I am having a moment of “womanly weakness,” as he would put it.

The hospital reception area is still crowded with poor people seeking treatment for their ails. I wonder if there is ever a moment when it’s not crowded. Some of the people appear to me to be the same ones that were waiting yesterday, but I dismiss the notion. However, the smell of chemicals and sickness is the same. And the same harried clerks are at the reception station. We slip by to “cold call” the doctor.

Carrying vinegar sponges we wander through the hallways until Jules finds the doctor examining a patient in one of the large dormitory-type rooms that holds both the sick and dead. The doctor joins us in the hallway.

After introductions, Jules asks, “I understand you have identified the source of the infection that struck the prostitute Mademoiselle Brown encountered in the graveyard.”

“Ah, the newspapers, they added much to my statements. And caused me a great deal of trouble. I’ve been sanctioned by the medical director and forbidden to give any more statements to the press.” He lowers his voice. “I suspect the fact my name was in the newspaper and not his may have ignited his ire. Mademoiselle knows I have a microscope. If my superiors find out that I’m experimenting, I will be fired.”

“Isn’t it a bit coincidental that so many victims are prostitutes?” I ask.

Dubois shrugs. “Prostitutes live in poor areas. Poor people are dying.”

“This condition seems to kill very rapidly,” Jules says, “if Mademoiselle Brown saw the victim alive and well moments before her death. Does that correspond to your examination of other victims of the fever?”

If
I saw the woman alive and well? “How fast can the fever kill?” I interrupt, trying to hold my temper.

Dubois thinks for a moment. “That would depend upon many factors, ranging from the age and medical condition of the victim, to how a person is infected. We assume the fever rises from sewers and is passed most commonly through inhalation to the lungs. It can also come from touching, eating, drinking.”