The Alchemy of Murder (48 page)

Inspector Morant gawks at Jules. “Are you proposing that it’s possible for this madman to kill everyone in this city? With these invisible animals, creatures you can’t even see without a microscope? That it can turn Paris into a deserted city? You expect us to believe that?”

“Yes.” Pasteur is quite grave. “It’s definitely possible. Some of these microbes, the anthrax and botulism for example, can lie dormant for decades on the ground, waiting to be inhaled or otherwise enter the bloodstream where they suddenly come alive and begin to multiply when they receive nourishment.”

“How has it been spread so far?” Inspector Morant demands. “People are not eating worms. Has our food been contaminated? Our water? Air? What?”

“Perhaps all three, air at one place, water another, as he searches for the most effective way to spread the contagion. The man is an excellent scientist, even if he is lower than a worm as a human being.
Mon Dieu
, what Mademoiselle thought was simply an insane slashing of women may have been a perverse and perverted method of autopsy.”

“Checking the progress of the disease in his human lab rats.” Jules sighs.

The Minister of the Interior rubs his forehead. “This is insane. How can he spread it, this microbe mixture, bomb, or whatever it is to be called?”

Pasteur answers. “First he will have to produce the compound in sufficient quantity to be spread. We can assume that at this point he has developed a soup rich in killing power. To make large quantities of the soup is very simple. The difficult part is preventing the person who prepares the substance from being infected himself, but as a scientist, he is no doubt adept at handling deadly microbes in the laboratory. After he has the compound, he must choose how it is to be spread. A liquid could only be widely spread by putting it into water—perhaps a river or lake.” Pasteur bows his head down as if in prayer.

“The Seine,” Jules whispers.

“A dry compound might be spread by throwing it in water,” Pasteur says, “but it can also be put in food, or in a dust form in the air.”

“From a high point.” Jules’ mind is on a roll. “The Eiffel Tower on a windy day?”

There is general murmuring of assent around the table. It occurs to me that a scheme in which a madman drops deadly dust from a high place like the Eiffel Tower is the type of story Jules writes. The Minister rises from the table. He takes a deep breath and holds his head back for a moment, closing his eyes. Finally, he opens them and looks around the table.

“Messieurs and Mademoiselle, please correct me if I am wrong. An anarchist, possibly a Russian, is conspiring with other anarchists, this group known as the Pale Horse Society,” he nods in my direction, “to destroy Paris. The French nation, in fact. And after that … the world, perhaps?

“He began his experiments on individuals, prostitutes, and has graduated to the stage where he is able to spread the calamity over a large area. From a high place, or a river, this anarchist could unleash a deadly contagion that will kill thousands. The microbe spores in the dust can remain lethal for decades, making Paris, in effect, uninhabitable for generations.” He looks around the table. “Does that define what we are up against?”

“I would only add one thing,” the Prefect of Police says. “The economy in France, and throughout Europe, is in deep depression. If Paris is destroyed or disabled, untold misery will spread throughout the country.”

“Giving the anarchists exactly the condition of economic and political chaos they want,” the Minister concludes.

“There is one other factor you need to consider,” I tell the Minister.

“Mademoiselle?”

“
Time.
You don’t have any. There hasn’t been a new outbreak in days. And the ones that have occurred have been eminently successful. We must assume that he is producing his deadly brew in great quantities, or that he already has stockpiled it and has just been testing ways to spread it.”

The Minister directs a question to the Prefect of Police. “What measures can you take?”

“Arrest and question every known violent anarchist in the city. We have informers everywhere and can spread the word that a large reward will be granted for information concerning this matter. All police vacations and days off will be canceled and all reserve units activated. We’ll immediately post officers at Eiffel’s tower and put the tower through a serious search.”

“How about high buildings?” Jules interjects.

“We must post men atop tall buildings throughout the city.” The Prefect looks back to the Minister. “We’ll try to maintain secrecy to keep from creating a general panic, but how much of a barrage of activity can be kept secret is yet to be seen.”

“The army—” Jules starts to say.

“Yes,” the Minister says, “the army must do what it can. I will speak immediately to the President.”

“The Seine is the obvious target,” Inspector Morant says. “It will be the easiest to poison. From there the contagion can spread throughout the city in drinking water and fish.”

Something is wrong. I can feel it. Perun is too smart for the obvious. I meet Jules eyes across the room. There is neutrality in his eyes toward me, as if I am a stranger on a street corner asking for directions. Behind the neutral stare must be anger—anger at me. Naturally for good reason—Chief Inspector Morant let the cat out of the bag when he called me “Mademoiselle Bly.” He is too well read not to know that Nellie Bly is the world’s first woman investigative reporter. Now Jules knows I betrayed him. I need to talk with him.

But, first I must get my feelings across to the men around the table. They are sitting on a powder keg big enough to blow the roof off of one of the greatest cities of the world, and they neither will solicit nor tolerate an opinion from someone who is of the wrong sex, nationality, and occupation. But my instincts are
screaming
that there is a piece to the puzzle missing. Unfortunately, everyone has decided what they believe must be done, so the meeting breaks up. I rise to leave. Two officers suddenly flank me as I start to follow Jules and Dr. Pasteur out.

“You’re arresting me?” I ask the Prefect.

“Protective custody. Only until the crisis is over. To insure that you are safe from this maniac.”

“This is a rotten way to repay someone who’s trying to save your city.”

“Mademoiselle, when this is over I will personally recommend you be granted a medal for your efforts. Until then, you will be held for your many crimes, not the least of which is escaping police custody.”

I look to Jules for help. He says nothing, but speaks to Dr. Pasteur. Pasteur is nodding his head in agreement when an out-of-breath officer bursts in, desiring to speak to the Prefect. After a whispered conversation, the Prefect turns to us.

“We have been advised by an anonymous source that a man we suspect is both an anarchist and a doctor is hiding out at an apartment building in the quarter where the latest contagion broke out. My men are already encircling the place. Because of the importance of this matter, I need to be present. And I will invite doctors Pasteur and Roth to attend, in case their advice concerning any substance is needed. And of course, Monsieur Verne. In case we need any advice on how to deal with this madman.”

I speak loudly. “You are deliberately ignoring the one and
only
person who has had an encounter with the slasher … me.”

He turns his back on me to leave and I blurt out, “It’s a ruse.”

“A ruse?”

Everyone looks at me like I have lost my head. But I know I’m right.

“Mademoiselle, what you are saying is preposterous!”

“No, it’s not. You gentlemen seem to forget I have been hunting this man for the past two years, while you have become involved only in the last few hours. This is a decoy to distract your attention so he can release Pandora’s Box.”

The Prefect is flabbergasted. “Mademoiselle, we appreciate all you have done, but this is not in your field of expertise. You have nothing to back your theory of this being a ruse—”

“Yes, I do. When I first discovered him, a shack burned at Blackwell’s Island and concealed his crimes. He learned from it. A year later in England, a Scotland Yard Inspector received an anonymous tip that the doctor would be working in his lab in an apartment building in a bad neighborhood. We no sooner arrived when an explosion rocked the building and a fire roared. Once again the police announced all evidence went up in smoke, along with the slasher. Don’t you think it’s a coincidence that your police receive an anonymous tip he’s in a building? He’s going to blow it up. You’ll think he’s dead. And then he can go off and do his horrible deed.”

Silence fills the room. From the looks on their faces, I think they were trying to find a way around my logic and facts.

“Mademoiselle, I don’t think you realize the amount of strain you have endured.” Dr. Roth says softly. “You need rest.”

I start to rebut him, but he puts up a hand to stop me. “Don’t you agree, Monsieur Verne?”

Everyone looks to him.

“Well … she has endured a lot of stress…”

“Yes, Doctor Roth is correct, we have wasted enough valuable time.” The Prefect clears his throat. “Mademoiselle, you will stay here where we can provide you with the utmost protection.”

I wait until the door is opened before I give them the
coup de grâce
, the finishing blow the French call the stroke of mercy.

“Monsieur Prefect, you are able to identify this madman, aren’t you?”

There is a pause at the door and a huddled conference between the Prefect and his aides. The conference breaks up and the Prefect smiles with all the sincerity a politician can muster.

“Once again, Mademoiselle, France needs your services.”

I take his hand, smiling.

64

Paris knows something is amiss.

No matter how the police try to hide their presence, they can’t. A bartender in the Bowery once told me that he could smell a copper, claiming that all the flatfoots in New York used the same brand of cheap cologne given out free by the company that sells them uniforms.

As we roll through the streets in three carriages—black, unmarked vehicles—the people look at us with suspicion. Even the plainclothes officers driving the rigs smack of police—short, freshly trimmed hair, neat mustaches, inexpensive suits cut in a faded fashion, and the body language—sharp-eyed, straight back, and authoritative. No, the only people we are fooling are ourselves.

I share a carriage with Jules and two police officers. The police are not in the carriage to watch Jules. I’m not pleased with my status as a prisoner of war when I am the only one winning battles. Without my determination, Paris might already be a ghost city. The silence between Jules and I works on me till I finally cannot stand it any more.

“Yes, it was me who passed out the handbills with your likeness. I deceived you. I am a terrible person. But I did it for a good cause.” There. I confessed my last foul deception.

He examines me with half-closed eyes. “I read the Paris edition of foreign newspapers.”

I give that some thought. My reporting occasionally appears in the French edition of the
World
. “You’ve known who I am from the very beginning!”

“When you stormed out of the Procope, tossing behind Gaston’s name as a threat, you naturally piqued my interest. Since you identified yourself to the maitre d’ as Nellie Brown from New York, I contacted a newspaper friend of mine—”

“Scholl … he knew, too.”

“Yes. He contacted the Paris office of the New York paper and found out from the
World
that Nellie Bly was in the city. Having read some of your escapades—”

“
You deceived me!
”

That causes his jaw to drop. I quickly squeeze his hand. “However, I’m going to forgive you. But Jules, I think there is something wrong with the police’s theory about the slasher’s plans. They’re going about it in a logical manner.”

“And?”

“Perun is a madman. He may be in fact a brilliant scientist, but as you have pointed out, that’s not a testament to his sanity. His actions up to now have not been logical nor reasonable, therefore we should not expect him to act the same way we would.”

“What do you think he’s up to?”

“I don’t know. But I’m positive this is just another ruse to throw us off his trail and give him more time. The police talk about Perun poisoning the Seine. Don’t you agree that’s a futile act? The river will wash itself clean.” I don’t wait for his answer, I keep on going. “Or releasing dust from a tall building, something that would have little effect. No … Perun is a
mad genius
. He will do something insanely spectacular. I just know it.”

“You might be right, but until we come up with information about his plans, I have to agree with Doctor Roth. We must act on the possibilities we are confronted with. As you pointed out, the microbe bomb he has concocted is truly Pandora’s Box. However, the story of Pandora has a twist that most of us forget.”