Upon mention of the magical name, the officer snapped to attention. “We look all over ze island,” he insisted. “We go to ze hotels and make sure ze young lady has not boarded a plane or a ferry.” He held out his hands as if to indicate there was nothing else to be done. “But come. I show you ze report.”
Unlocking the front door of the station house, he led Rex into a feebly lit lobby and asked him to wait while a copy of the report was made. A few minutes later, Latour returned with two typed sheets stapled together. As Rex scanned the report, he came across several French words he did not recognize.
“Requins?” he asked.
The officer formed an upright triangle with his hands and slowly slid them sideways, humming the ominous theme from Jaws.
“Sharks?”
Latour nodded. “Ah, oui, monsieur. Évidemment.”
“Merci,” Rex said. “I’ll call if I have any questions.”
As he turned to leave, the gendarme wished him bonne chance.
“How did it go?” Paul Winslow asked when Rex dropped off the Jeep.
“I met with Lieutenant Latour. He wasna verra cooperative.”
“I didn’t expect he would be. That’s why we sent for you. We were getting nowhere.”
Rex waved the papers in his hand. “I did get a copy of the missing person’s report. It’s in French.”
“Elizabeth can help you with that. She lived in Paris for a number of years as a student.”
“From what I gather, the police are blaming sharks.”
“Well, it’s the most facile explanation and absolves them from having to get off their froggy derrières and do something about it.”
“They did send out a plane, apparently.” Rex had noticed the word avion on the report.
“It was probably a training exercise the navy has to perform at regular intervals.” Winslow clapped him on his sunburned back, and Rex winced. “We’re relying on you, old chap. What next?”
“I’d like to talk to the Austrian doctor.”
“He’s on the beach with his wife and daughter.”
When Rex returned to his cabana to change, he was ecstatic to see his suitcase waiting inside the door. He undressed and pulled on his Bermuda trunks, purchased in Miami. Then, sunscreen, notepad and pen in hand, he headed toward the beach where he easily spotted the rotund von Mueller family.
“Guten Tag,” greeted the bespectacled doctor.
The blonde wife and daughter smiled at Rex before wading into the shallows hand in hand.
“Can I have a quick word?”
“Natürlich.” The doctor gestured for him to sit down on one of a trio of lounge-chairs draped with yellow towels. “Please, proceed with your questions.”
“Thank you. First of all, I understand you have known Sabine for five years.”
“Ja. First in a professional capacity. Then we met again here on St. Martin. I never forget a face I have worked on!”
“Did you do much work on her face?” Rex doubted science could fashion a face so naturally perfect as hers.
“Nein, nein.” The doctor gave a dismissive wave of the hand. “A little bump on her nose—I remove it. A simple procedure. Und I erase a scar on her temple from a riding accident in Fontainebleau when she was a child. Other than the rhinoplasty, there was not much room for improvement. Her bone structure was perfekt!”
“Paul told me you were able to match the blood found on the beach with Ms. Durand’s blood type on file at your clinic.”
“That too was easy. Sabine had a very rare blood type.”
“How rare?”
“Type A Kp(b-).”
It sounded like his son’s American fraternity house, and Rex’s puzzlement must have shown.
“Other than the major ABO blood groups, there are more than two hundred minor groups,” the jovial doctor explained. “About one in a thousand people inherit a rare type, und this particular type is extremely rare and belongs only to Caucasians.”
“So there can be little doubt it was hers?”
Von Mueller resolutely shook his head.
“Doctor, in your professional opinion, did Ms. Durand seem like someone who might have drowned herself?”
“Nein und abermals nein! A thousand times no! Sabine had so much to live for.”
“Have you any idea what might have happened out there?” Rex gazed pensively toward the promontory.
The doctor lifted his round pink shoulders in a gesture of despair. “Perhaps she smashed her head on a rock? But no. Her body would have been found if she was that close to shore. There was no trace of sea water on the strip of material, so it could not have been washed ashore. Und there was so little blood—unless the rest was washed away. It is possible she was dragged to the water.”
Rex recognized the validity of the doctor’s statement. Short of burying the body in the sand, there was nowhere else to dispose of it. A sheer cliff at the back of the promontory cut off the beach, and the barrier of jagged rocks would have made it difficult to carry a body across without being seen, since the resort stood barely a mile away. At nighttime, such a feat would have been almost impossible.
“She might have been strangled,” Rex hypothesized. “Barehanded or with the rest of the pareo. That would account for there not being more blood at the spot where the material was found. If that’s the case, her attacker is less likely to be a woman, unless she’s verra strong.”
“There could have been some sort of struggle,” the doctor agreed. “Her broken ankle bracelet was found closer to the water. Anything might have happened there.”
“We don’t have much to go on.” Rex glanced at the doctor in the adjacent lounge-chair. “What time did your daughter’s flight get in last Tuesday?”
“Five o’clock. Then we went to The Créole House in Philipsburg for dinner. Gaby was hungry. She says she never gets enough to eat on the plane.”
Gaby could afford to miss a meal, Rex thought uncharitably; not that he could talk. He surveyed the spare tire bulging over the waist of his Bermudas and resolved to lose it by the end of his trip. Salad, grilled meat and fish, he promised himself. No beer.
“We returned to our cabana at eight-fifteen or so. We didn’t go out again,” von Mueller added, answering Rex’s next question. “We helped Gaby unpack und then we all went to bed.”
That left Vernon Powell, Paul Winslow, David Weeks, Sean O’Sullivan, and Duke Farley of the male guests, who had all gone diving on July 10.
A telephone conversation with the captain of the Ocean Explorer later that afternoon confirmed that the dive boat had dropped the men off down the beach by the village just before six, although only Toni Weeks had been able to pinpoint the time of her husband’s arrival: 6:00 p.m. The other wives had been in their bathrooms preparing for Paul’s party. Dick and Penny Irving, who had been on a day excursion to St. Barts, had missed the dinner at The Cockatoo, as had the von Muellers.
As Rex returned to the beach from the main building, he wondered if anything further might be gleaned from the police report. He would ask Mrs. Winslow to translate it. He saw her, cocktail in hand, in the spot she had occupied that morning, contemplating the cover of People Magazine, which featured a photograph of Sabine Durand’s unforgettable face along with the caption, “Into Thin Air.”
Half an hour before sunset, Rex went back to the promontory he had visited that morning with Paul Winslow. Nine days before, Weeks had seen Ms. Durand heading toward this point at just after six, giving her ample time to return before it grew dark.
The Weeks, strolling toward the resort, stopped when they drew level with him.
“Are you going to the crime scene?” Toni asked.
“I wanted to get a feel for the place when it’s dark.”
“Night falls like a curtain out here. Don’t get stranded.”
“I brought a flashlight.”
“We’ll see you back at the resort,” David said. “Swing by for a drink at The Cockatoo.”
“Will
do.” Rex, impatient to be on his way, walked on toward the outline of rocks before him.
Standing on the most prominent boulder, he surveyed the darkening expanse of sea. He imagined Sabine standing there as he now was, her white pareo billowing in the breeze. What had she been thinking in those last few moments? Was someone waiting for her behind the rocks? Was it someone she knew? Is that why she hadn’t screamed? If she had, someone might have heard. Any footprints would have been washed over by the tide or else trampled before the police got there.
David Weeks’ cabana stood at the near end of the row. He was the only person to have seen her on her walk, but anyone who knew her routine could have hidden on the beach until she arrived. There had been a quarter moon that night, according to several statements. At around ten o’clock, the security guards had flashed their lights over the beach looking for a body, but it was not until the next morning when the gendarmes searched the area that the ankle bracelet and scrap of pareo were found. These were the last physical traces of her. The caption from People Magazine played through his mind: Into Thin Air.
“Where are you, Sabine?” he asked the darkness.
Silence echoed from the looming cliffs and empty sea, followed by the mocking cry of seagulls. Clambering back down the rocks, he turned toward the resort, consoled by the prospect of a cold beer. Just one, he assured himself, recalling his resolution to drop a few extra pounds.
At The Cockatoo, he found most of the resort guests in their pareos and wraps gathered at one end of the bar. Sean O’Sullivan sat by himself, staring into the bottom of his tumbler. “Me oul shagogsha,” he said when he saw Rex.
Rex took the stool beside him and ordered a Guinness.
“A man of taste,” the Irishman approved. His hands shook as he touched his lighter to his cigarette.
A white-shirted bartender gave him the evil eye, even though the restaurant was open to the outdoors on two sides and no one was dining yet.
“You saw Latour from the Gendarmerie today,” O’Sullivan said, studiously ignoring the bartender.
“News travels fast.”
“That it does. And I suppose you’re none the wiser for your visit.”
“What makes you say that?”
“This whole investigation is a load of cock. They know full well what happened to Sabine, but they’re not saying.”
“Who is ‘they’?”
“The gendarmes, the whole lot o’ them.”
“What do they know?”
The Irishman touched his nose. “Ask that cute-hoor Bijou.”
“I’m seeing him tomorrow. What can you tell me?”
O’Sullivan cast a conspiratorial look about him. “There’s been a string of missing women. All beautiful, all white.”
“I’m listening.”
“He’s sponsored various recreational projects on the island: kiddie playgrounds, botanical parks, golf courses. His luxury residential project is doing a lot to enhance the French side, boosting the economy and attracting a posh class of tourist. He pretty much has the authorities in his pocket. He’s as good as royalty here, that he is.”
“What has this to do with missing women?”
“I heard he started out with seedy strip clubs in Amsterdam, and that he may have run prostitution rings before that. Girls were found tortured to death. They were all linked to his name, one way or t’other.” O’Sullivan signaled to the bartender for another drink and laid two fingers on his glass.
The bartender poured a double shot of whiskey. Rex thought it just as well the Irishman didn’t have to get behind the wheel afterward; all he need do was stumble to the sixth cabana down the beach.
“Rumour has it his name isn’t really Bijou,” he continued as the bartender moved away to serve another customer. “Bijou is just a nickname—‘Jewel’ in French. The murders in Amsterdam were called the Jewel Killings because semi-precious stones were found in the dead girls’ mutilated navels. His real name is Coenraad van Bijhooven. About two years ago, a girl was found bound and gagged in a cellar on St. Martin, dead for over a week. A ruby was embedded where her bellybutton should have been. Now, I ask you, is that not a striking coincidence?”
“Was anyone arrested?”
“Some vagrants were brought in for questioning, for form’s sake. Unlikely any of them would have left a ruby behind, d’you think?” O’Sullivan blew a puff of cigarette smoke into the ceiling, where a cockatoo preened its feathers on a trapeze.
“Did Bijou’s name come up?”
“One rag on the island dug up some dirt and rehashed the Amsterdam murders. Our Mr. Bijou sued the pants off them. Never another word was mentioned.”
“Why would a man like Bijou resort to torture and murder?”
“He’s a vicious, hedonistic shite, that’s why.”
“You’ve met him?”
“Once was enough. His eyes are as cold as the concrete he entombs the girls in.”
“Someone could be trying to frame him.” Or else the story was all hooey, a fantastical figment of the Irishman’s imagination.
O’Sullivan sagged in his chair. “Sure,” he said, dispiritedly gazing into his whiskey. Where are you, Sabine? Rex imagined him asking the dregs, just as he himself had addressed the darkness just minutes ago.
After a prolonged silence, he decided to leave Sean O’Sullivan to his drink-induced demons. Squeezing him on the shoulder, he got up off his stool. “Catch you later,” he said.
“Tooraloo.”
Rex joined the rest of the group, who were discussing Vernon Powell. Sabine’s husband, it seemed, was keeping to his cabana and not answering the door. According to Paul Winslow, who lived next door, maid service had been unable to get in. “If he doesn’t surface tomorrow,” he announced, “we had better get management to open up.”
“I don’t think we need worry that he topped himself,” David Weeks said. “When we passed his cabana on our way here, we heard Broadway hits playing at top volume.”
“We should leave him be,” Toni advised. “Let him work it out of his system.”
“Work what out of his system?” Elizabeth Winslow demanded. “We don’t know if he’s grieving or gloating.”
“Really, Elizabeth,” her husband chided.
“Don’t be a hypocrite,” she returned. “You know he did it.”
Rex thought he should try to diffuse the situation. “I’ll go and see Vernon tomorrow.”
“About time,” Duke Farley muttered. “He’s the one with all the answers.”
“Why d’you say that?” Rex asked.
“It’s obvious he knows more than he’s letting on,” the Texan responded belligerently. “That’s why he’s avoiding us.”
“Brooklyn Chalmers isn’t around much either,” Rex pointed out. “And I don’t think he’s got anything to hide.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Dick Irving said, looking like Tarzan in his short wrap. “He and Sabine were tight.”
“Pretty lady!” a voice chirped.
Rex glanced up toward the rafters where a yellow-breasted macaw wrapped its claws around a second trapeze, trailing blue tail feathers.
“This place is a veritable aviary,” Rex commented. “How many birds are there here?”
Penny Irving threw it a cashew, which the macaw adroitly caught in its hooked beak. “Four, all in the parrot family. This is Long John. He was Sabine’s favorite.”
“Pretty lady!”
“He says that every time he hears her name.”
“He misses her,” Winslow said. “O’Sullivan’s already in his cups, I see,” he murmured to Rex, with a sideways look down the bar. “What was he rambling on about?”
“He seems to have a conspiracy theory regarding Ms. Durand’s disappearance.”
“Don’t tell me. Monsieur Bijou is a sadistic serial rapist, but the police are too cowardly to do anything about it.”
“In a nutshell.”
“Poor old sod. His mind’s shot. He has the shakes, you
know. Suffers from cirrhosis of the liver.”
“Why is he still drinking?”
“Can’t quit. Nora put him in rehab but he managed to sneak out to the local pub. He’s incorrigible.”
Rex chuckled. “An incorrigible Irishman. Fancy that. So there’s no truth to this story of his?”
“What do you think?”
“It’s verra far-fetched,” Rex conceded. “All the same, I’ll have my colleague in London do a background check on Mr. Bijou—see what comes up. What can you tell me about him?”
“He’s very respected on the island. He’s given the French side a certain caché it never had before. His private marina community is attracting big money. And he’s creating a night life to rival the Dutch side.”
“Strip clubs?”
“My dear man!” Winslow clapped him on the shoulder. “Nothing so sleazy. Tasteful nudity—artistic stuff. You really must meet him.”
“I intend to. What’s his nationality?”
Winslow looked puzzled. “I really can’t say. He speaks perfect English and French, but now you mention it, I don’t think he’s either. You’ll find him very cosmopolitan. Remind me to give you his number later. He’s not an easy man to pin down.”
“The island’s not that big.”
“Twenty-one square miles on the French side, sixteen on the Dutch,” Winslow informed him.
“What’s your poison?” the Texan asked Rex.
“Guinness—thanks.” One more only, just to be sociable.
“A Guinness over here,” Duke Farley boomed across the bar. “Didn’t mean to sound off about Vernon earlier,” he told Rex. “I just want to put a lid on this business and get on with my vacation. If Vernon killed the gal, he needs to fess up and get it off his chest—give the rest of us a break.”
“I appreciate your sentiments,” Rex said. “But he’s not the only suspect.”
“Did you read my statement?”
“Of course.”
“I never was much good at writing essays. That’s why I went into oil and cattle. ‘But here goes nothing,’ I thought at the time. I felt I should describe that scene at our ranch when Vernon and Sabine came to visit last year. Things got pretty ugly.”
Murder in the Raw Page 5