The Alchemy of Murder (25 page)

As my escort leads me in, Dubois, the big man, and the woman, rise from their table and disappear up a stairway.

36

“Over here, Rosine, you girls join us.”

The woman who beckoned us wears a man’s fedora, the hat made popular by Victorien Sardou’s play of the same name. Another woman sits next to her. Both have clumsy figures and so much rouge and lipstick caked on, they look like clowns. As they fawn over Rosine and eye me, they remind me of the matronly hens who cackled the loudest at church socials when I was a little girl.

To say the least, I have no interest in the women’s conversation and pay no attention. I needed to know what Dubois and his big friend were doing upstairs but I couldn’t just rush up the steps. I don’t even notice the drink before me until I feel Rosine nudging me.

“My friends bought you a green fairy.”

“
Merci
.” I take a gulp and it goes down my throat like green lava. I stop breathing. My whole body lights on fire. My eyes feel like they have swelled and are ready to burst from their sockets. Determined not to draw attention to myself, I very slowly let out a breath, sure I am expelling fire. I cough politely in a handkerchief and wipe my teary eyes. I try to breathe, but it hurts.

“All right, my dear?” The woman with the fedora gives me a sloppy grin.

“Fine,” I croak. “It tastes like licorice.”

Rosine takes a swig of her own drink. “You have to get used to it, of course, but once you do, you’re hooked like a fish.”

The three women go on with their empty café chatter as I politely force myself to slowly sip my drink. I do say, Dr. Dubois is full of surprises.

“Here, my love.” Rosine places another green fairy in front of me, disrupting my thoughts. “This one will taste much better, now that you’ve got the burn of the first out of the way.” She laughs and goes back to talking with the women.

I am leery of having another drink.

“Come on.” Rosine leans close and whispers in my ear, “You don’t want to insult my friends. Drink up.”

I know the score when it comes to alcohol. It all boils down to mind over matter. It’s really that simple. My reaction to alcohol is just a matter of mind over matter. I can surrender to the alcohol, let it take control of my mind, or I can take control of it. My choice. It makes no difference that this is my first experience with a strong drink; I will be able to handle it because I am a very determined, strong-willed, modern woman.

As I told Mr. Pulitzer before I left for Paris, we cannot be afraid of the challenges that are presented to us in our life. The only way to conquer them is to face them head on with a strong determination to conquer and win. The same goes for liquor.

Satisfied that I have this beverage well under control and feeling quite forthright, I have another and wait patiently for Dubois and his friends to reappear. As the minutes tick off, I begin to feel lightheaded. Finally I ask, “What goes on upstairs?”

Rosine puts her hand on my thigh and leans much closer than she did before, her lips brushing my ear this time as she whispers, “It’s a private place for secret things. Let’s leave these old cows and I’ll show you.”

Ah, secret things.

Exactly what I thought—the dark heart of the den of iniquity. No doubt I will catch Dubois and his friends red-handed in flagrante delicto. Excited, I gulp down the last of my third drink and lick my lips, grinning at Rosine.

“Yummy. You’re right about this drink. I like it.” I get up and flop back down. “Whoa! I feel dizzy.”

Rosine helps me up. “Its okay, honey, you just need to get your feet under you.”

“Keeping them under me is the problem.” I giggle as we head for the stairs. Rosine’s arm is around my waist holding me up. “Up, up, up the stairs, one, two, three—up we go.”

“
Shhh,
” she laughs, “you’re attracting attention.”

“That won’t do,” I cackle. My head is so light; I could have flown up the stairs.

“
Shhh.
”

“Rosine,” I try to whisper, “do you know why it’s called a green fairy?”

She shakes her head no and laughs. “Please tell me.”

“It’s because it makes you as light as a fairy.”

We both break out giggling, making it harder for us to get up the steps. At the top of the stairs we enter a smoky room that smells sweet.

“Over there, I want a dark corner.” I steer her to a small table hidden in a dark corner. Once seated, I look around the room, trying to spot my prey. Rosine snuggles very, very, close to me. Her hand goes onto my thigh, while her lips kiss my cheek, then my ear. I pay no attention, for I am on a mission.

In the haze of smoke I see the big man, Dr. Dubois, and the woman. Dr. Dubois appears to be pointing at something.

“That’s them,” I say, frowning at the group. I stare at them and finally realize it’s
me
Dr. Dubois is pointing at.

“You surprise me…” Rosine whispers in my ear as her hand moves way up inside my dress and pushes between my thighs. “I didn’t take you for one who wanted fun.”

I turn to her to respond and
she gives me a full kiss on the mouth!

In a flash she wraps one hand around my shoulder holding me tight, while the other fondles my breasts. The room starts to spin—faster than a merry-go-round. And even though I try, I can’t pull away from her. Finally she stops.

“Wha—!” is all that comes out of my mouth. I shove her away from me, sending her and her chair flying onto the floor. As I stand up, the little table goes over.

My head continues to swirl and swirl and I collapse back down, but the swirling won’t stop. It becomes a maelstrom, like the terrible black whirlpool Jules Verne traveled to the Arctic Circle to witness.

A wave of vertigo engulfs my mind and then there is nothing.

37

Tomas Roth

While Roth was in the laboratory studying his notes, Émile Duclaux, Dr. Pasteur’s second in command of the facility, poked his head in and instructed Roth to meet Pasteur in the rabies lab. As Roth got up to wash his hands and follow him out, Duclaux pointed down at something on the floor. “Isn’t that René’s cap?”

“Why, yes. He must have dropped it on his way out.” Roth picked up the yarmulke knitted by René’s wife and tossed it on the counter.

Roth’s job as Pasteur’s assistant did not include the highly specialized rabies work, but he was not surprised that he was instructed to meet Pasteur there. Inflammatory accusations about the Black Fever outbreak were on the front pages of last evening’s newspapers. No doubt the Minister of the Interior made another visit to the Institut.

Duclaux read Roth’s thoughts as they walked down the corridor. “Last night it was the minister again. Next time I believe it will be the President himself pleading for help.”

“Perhaps the Institut should give classes to politicians on how to use a microscope.”

Duclaux gave him a look of disapproval that said humor was not appreciated with the city in a crisis.

Immediately upon entering the rabies laboratory, Roth rolled up his sleeves to wash his hands at a sink with an overhanging spigot and deep basin. Hand washing was mandatory for each person who entered or left a laboratory—a fixed ritual established by Dr. Pasteur. One began by washing the bar of soap itself, rinsing away the outer layer, then lathering hands and wrists, rinsing a layer off the soap again before returning it to its dish.

“The laboratory is a zoo with many exotic and dangerous animals,” Pasteur told Roth when he had come to work at the Institut. “You must take care none of them bite you.”

Roth had even seen Pasteur unconsciously wiping his water glass, plate, and utensil with his napkin during Institut lunches. The man was a fanatic about cleanliness, but one could not blame Pasteur after what he had discovered under the microscope and was always reminded of the horrible deaths these unseen creatures did to his family and close friends, not to mention society.

Dr. Pasteur was standing by, deep in thought, while a rabies assistant examined a rabbit’s spinal cord. Roth didn’t dare disturb Pasteur with questions or suggestions. Rising at dawn, Pasteur was completely engrossed in his work throughout the day, spending most of his waking hours in the laboratories. In the evening, to save his eyesight from the ravages of gaslights and oil lamps, Madame Pasteur read the day’s newspapers to him in their private apartment. That was his life, a life that did not include the opera or even family picnics.

Pasteur was dedicated, determined. Roth agreed that it was the only way to be if one wanted to accomplish anything of importance in life. He also thought the opera and family picnics were trivial and boring.

Dr. Grancher, the medical doctor who performed Dr. Pasteur’s medical procedures, appeared at Roth’s side. Pasteur gave a little start, as if he was suddenly aware that he was not alone in the universe. Roth believed no one, other than himself, had such concentration.

“The children from America, have they arrived?” he asked Grancher.

“A few minutes ago.”

Three children, two boys and a girl, each about nine or ten years old, had been bitten by a rabid fox in a rural area south of Boston. A Boston newspaper paid passage for the children across the Atlantic, sending along a reporter to wire accounts of the race to get the children to Institut Pasteur before they were driven mad and died from the loathsome disease.

Rolls of sterilized flasks held marrow infected with rabies—nerve tissue of a rabid rabbit that was mixed with veal broth and inoculated into bitten victims. After Pasteur made arrangements with Dr. Grancher to initiate treatment to the American children, Roth followed him to the sink where they washed their hands before leaving the lab.

“What are the results of the tests you and René have been conducting?” Pasteur inquired.

“The same. We’ve been unable to see the microbe under the microscope or isolate it and transfer it to another host.”

“
Mon Dieu
, could the microbe actually die immediately upon the death of the host? Certainly we would expect the invaders to die after they’ve used up all the nourishment in the body, but can that happen so quickly? And leaving no trace?”

“Perhaps the creature has an extremely short life span.”

“Not that short, it has to live to be passed to others, otherwise it wouldn’t be infectious. And René, where is he? I need his results.”

“I believe he went home. But I can check and see if he is in the lab next door.”

Pasteur picked up the pad Roth recorded lab notes on. “I’m sure he hasn’t gone home. He knows never to leave without going over his results with me first.” There was a slight irritation in his voice. “When you find him, please ask him to see me.”

Roth went to the lab where René ran his tests. As he opened the door an obvious odor prevailed. After a moment, he closed the door and returned to Dr. Pasteur. Pasteur was engrossed in reading Roth’s notes and Roth gently placed his hand on Pasteur’s arm to get his attention.

“Monsieur Doctor, we have a serious problem.”

His liquid greyish-green eyes found Roth’s.

“What is it?”

“René is dead. The microbe is loose in the Institut.”

38

Nellie

I awake slowly, struggling out of a deep well of sleep. My head is heavy. I lie perfectly still, surrounded by darkness, slowly letting each of my senses come awake. A strange sound finds my ears—a harsh, rumbling noise, but I can’t identify the sound or my whereabouts. Light is coming from some source and I automatically turn my head—not a good move. I can’t believe how my head hurts.

Things around me begin to come into focus. I’m in my own room, in bed, fully clothed and completely confused. How did I get here? And what is the source of that strange noise? Not knowing which will be the lesser evil—sitting up or moving my head—I choose to slowly twist my neck and follow the sound to its source.

Good God—the large man I saw kissing Dr. Dubois is sprawled on my floor! He’s sound asleep and snoring.

I jerk awake. My head forgets about its pain. I feel under the pillow for the long-barreled .44. It’s not loaded, but the big man won’t know that. Clutching the gun, I carefully climb out of bed so not to wake him. Once I’m standing over him with the gun pointed straight at his head, I command in a loud voice, “Put up your hands!”

Nothing. I kick his foot. It merely makes a bump in his snoring. Kneeling down, I stick the gun in his face. Holding it with two hands, I pull back the hammer. Annie Oakly told me the tell-tale click of a gun cocking is the loudest little sound in the world. She was right. The snoring came to a rumbling halt and the man’s eyes flutter open.

“Put up your hands.” I demand.

He blinks at me. “Why?”

“So I don’t shoot you.”

He seems to be mystified by the threat, as if he’s puzzled by the notion I would shoot him.