it directly into the bloodstream will of course speed up the action. The bloodstream will carry it to nerve endings and cause the muscles to contract. In the final stages there will be paralysis and death.” He grins at Dubois. “Are you sure you don’t want to sample the sausage?”
Dubois rubs his burning pinkie.
Perun’s sardonic humor evaporates. “What’s so important that you interrupt me tonight?”
“We have a serious problem that must be taken care of immediately.”
“Well, what is it?”
“There is a woman newspaper reporter from America who knows about you and has informed the police.”
Perun breaks out laughing.
Dubois’s fear level soars. He doesn’t know how to deal with Perun’s mood changes. “She knows who you are. She’s determined to catch you. We must stop her before she ruins everything.”
“No. Leave Nellie Bly alone.”
“You—you know her?”
“She’s chasing shadows.”
“But Detective Lussac told me that the Chief Inspector of La Sûreté is coming to see me tomorrow to ask questions about the girl you killed tonight.”
Perun abruptly stands up, almost knocking over his stool. He comes within inches of Dubois’ face. “You’re talking about the girl that died from fever … aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Dubois looks down afraid, “yes, that’s what I meant.”
“Good. Then there’s nothing to be concerned about, is there?”
“No, but she has raised questions and I’m to be questioned. Questions that would never have been asked.”
“You’re a doctor. Give them some technical drivel so they think their concerns are being dealt with.” Perun pauses, his eyes penetrating deep into Dubois. “You are capable of handling such a simple task?”
“Yes. Yes, of course. I just thought…”
“Let me do the thinking.” Perun paces back and forth. “This is all very good. As a matter of fact, it’s perfect. This will be your opportunity to convince the Chief Inspector that all fever victims should be sent to you for examination.”
“But that duty belongs to my superior, Doctor—”
“ Change it .”
Dubois knows he has no other option. He doesn’t want to think about what would happen if he doesn’t obey Perun’s commands.
“Yes, this is very good.” Perun picks a scalpel off the table and taps it against his palm. He looks genuinely pleased. “When everything is accomplished, I must thank her for helping me.” He tucks the edge of the scalpel under Dubois’ chin. “You agree, don’t you, Monsieur Doctor?”
“Yes.”
Dubois holds his breath.
Perun smiles as he teasingly slides the scalpel back and forth on Dubois’s neck. “It will give me great pleasure thanking her as I kill her.” He then sets the scalpel down as if he is bored with the game and goes back to his microscope.
“Leave. I have work to finish.”
When he is on the street above the quay, Dubois collapses on a bench. His hands are shaking. He touches his neck. No blood, but he can still feel the cold steel against his throat.
16
Nellie
The police wagon and fiacre behind us carrying Lussac and other officers come to an abrupt halt. I push open a wood flap to find we are in the middle of a commotion in Place de Clichy.
Crowds have overflowed from the Place Blanche carnival to watch a group of chanting men and women standing on a flat bed wagon that has stopped in the middle of the square. It’s the same group I saw earlier.
“Anarchists,” a prostitute says with disgust.
From the curses hollered back from the crowd and the instant arguments that arise from the girls in the police wagon, I can see everyone has an opinion about whether the country needs another revolution.
Without warning a man steps out of a corner café and hurls a beer bottle at the anarchists. A revolutionary jumps down, fists begin to fly, and in seconds there is bedlam in the square as shouts for revolution resound against shouts for death to revolutionaries.
Our police wagon surges
Dubois rubs his burning pinkie.
Perun’s sardonic humor evaporates. “What’s so important that you interrupt me tonight?”
“We have a serious problem that must be taken care of immediately.”
“Well, what is it?”
“There is a woman newspaper reporter from America who knows about you and has informed the police.”
Perun breaks out laughing.
Dubois’s fear level soars. He doesn’t know how to deal with Perun’s mood changes. “She knows who you are. She’s determined to catch you. We must stop her before she ruins everything.”
“No. Leave Nellie Bly alone.”
“You—you know her?”
“She’s chasing shadows.”
“But Detective Lussac told me that the Chief Inspector of La Sûreté is coming to see me tomorrow to ask questions about the girl you killed tonight.”
Perun abruptly stands up, almost knocking over his stool. He comes within inches of Dubois’ face. “You’re talking about the girl that died from fever … aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Dubois looks down afraid, “yes, that’s what I meant.”
“Good. Then there’s nothing to be concerned about, is there?”
“No, but she has raised questions and I’m to be questioned. Questions that would never have been asked.”
“You’re a doctor. Give them some technical drivel so they think their concerns are being dealt with.” Perun pauses, his eyes penetrating deep into Dubois. “You are capable of handling such a simple task?”
“Yes. Yes, of course. I just thought…”
“Let me do the thinking.” Perun paces back and forth. “This is all very good. As a matter of fact, it’s perfect. This will be your opportunity to convince the Chief Inspector that all fever victims should be sent to you for examination.”
“But that duty belongs to my superior, Doctor—”
“ Change it .”
Dubois knows he has no other option. He doesn’t want to think about what would happen if he doesn’t obey Perun’s commands.
“Yes, this is very good.” Perun picks a scalpel off the table and taps it against his palm. He looks genuinely pleased. “When everything is accomplished, I must thank her for helping me.” He tucks the edge of the scalpel under Dubois’ chin. “You agree, don’t you, Monsieur Doctor?”
“Yes.”
Dubois holds his breath.
Perun smiles as he teasingly slides the scalpel back and forth on Dubois’s neck. “It will give me great pleasure thanking her as I kill her.” He then sets the scalpel down as if he is bored with the game and goes back to his microscope.
“Leave. I have work to finish.”
When he is on the street above the quay, Dubois collapses on a bench. His hands are shaking. He touches his neck. No blood, but he can still feel the cold steel against his throat.
16
Nellie
The police wagon and fiacre behind us carrying Lussac and other officers come to an abrupt halt. I push open a wood flap to find we are in the middle of a commotion in Place de Clichy.
Crowds have overflowed from the Place Blanche carnival to watch a group of chanting men and women standing on a flat bed wagon that has stopped in the middle of the square. It’s the same group I saw earlier.
“Anarchists,” a prostitute says with disgust.
From the curses hollered back from the crowd and the instant arguments that arise from the girls in the police wagon, I can see everyone has an opinion about whether the country needs another revolution.
Without warning a man steps out of a corner café and hurls a beer bottle at the anarchists. A revolutionary jumps down, fists begin to fly, and in seconds there is bedlam in the square as shouts for revolution resound against shouts for death to revolutionaries.
Our police wagon surges
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