No Sale

by Patrick Conrad

  “I hope we didn’t interrupt your dinner,” says Sax.

  As he was driving to the Babylon Motel, Lannoy had given him a couple of details over the radio. The body of a young woman had been found at around half past twelve in the shower of bungalow no. 17 by the cleaning lady. Given the advanced state of decomposition, she must have been lying there according to Sax for at least seven days or so. She had been murdered with a kitchen knife. A real butcher’s job. Sax had been able to count at least fourteen wounds on the visible parts of her body. All the evidence seemed to have been wiped away and they had not found a single item of clothing in the bedroom. Luckily her notecase, with her personal documents, was lying under the bed. Her name was Marion Mees. She was single, a teacher and twenty-three years old.

  “Is anyone in charge around here?” asks Luyckx.

  “Yes, me,” says an old, unshaven man hiding behind the bar clutching a bottle of brandy, whose belly is bulging out of an unbuttoned green-and-orange-striped nylon shirt.

  “Are you the owner?”

  “No – the nightwatchman… and the porter and receptionist. The owner lives in Maastricht and doesn’t show up here much, hardly ever.”

  “But you’re the one who registered the victim last weekend?”

  “We don’t have a register. The guests pay in advance and choose a room that’s free. I give them a key and when they go past I can see them driving off from my booth.”

  “So you don’t take down their names?”

  “Definitely not when it’s a couple, if you know what I mean.”

  “But you remember Miss Mees, I assume?”

  “Who?”

  “Marion Mees. The victim.”

  “Never saw her. Just the man who was with her. More or less. I’d had a glass or two too much and was lying there snoring when they came in.”

  “When was that?”

  “Last Saturday. Don’t ask me what time. But it was late.”

  “Were any of the other bungalows taken?”

  “No.”

  “Could you describe the man?”

  “I don’t look too hard at the guests any more. He was pretty normal, I think. Not young. Not old either. We didn’t say anything. He paid cash, I remember that. And because I find it hard to get up, he took the key off the table himself. An hour later I heard him drive off.”

  “Without bringing the key back?”

  “They never do that.”

  “And you didn’t go and check if everything was all right?”

  “In the middle of the night? I’m not stupid.”

  “What sort of car did he have?”

  “No idea. I only heard the engine.”

  “You managed to hear that,” interrupts Lannoy. “But you didn’t hear her crying out. She must have been screaming the place down.”

  “The telly was on and I was out for the count after my drink, like I said.”

  “Drop it, Luc. Have you been working here long?”

  “I live here free of charge. Since I left the Foreign Legion.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Mertens, Jos.”

  “If I’ve understood correctly, Mr Mertens, the room was locked all week?”

  “Right. We’ve had a total of three guests since last Saturday so there was no need to open up number seventeen.”

  “Not even to clean it?”

  “The cleaning lady only comes twice a month. Things are different nowadays.”

  “At night?”

  “Yes. During the day she works at the soap factory.”

  “She’s the one that found the body,” says Lannoy.

  “Where is she now?”

  “She’s lying down in number twelve. Her kids and old man are with her. She’s in a state of shock. I couldn’t get a word out of her.”

  “She doesn’t say much anyway,” says Mertens. “Her name’s Turia Abdelkader.” He winks at Luyckx. “Name says it all. I’m not a racist, don’t get me wrong, but that tells you something, right? You want me to come with you?”

  “You stay here, Mr Mertens, until I give you permission to move your fat arse.”

  “Do you suspect him, Sponge?” asks Lannoy as they go over to bungalow no. 17 with the gendarmes.

  “A man with the brain of a dead sheep who buys his shirts in Albania is by definition suspicious.”

  “We’ve opened the windows because of the smell and to get the flies out,” says one of the gendarmes. “Apart from that we haven’t touched a thing.”

  Luyckx shivers with excitement and looks around. At the desolate landscape, at the rainbow patterns in the patches of oil on the tarmac, at the reflection of the blue neon sign in the puddles, at the overgrown ruins of the amusement park, at the highway where the traffic is rushing by.

  “The fellow who lured her out here knew this place,” he says and goes inside.

  Despite the handkerchief he holds to his nose, the stench of rotting flesh grabs him by the throat. The bed has not been touched, indicating that the murderer’s only intention was to lure her to the most forgotten place in Flanders and kill her safely and unseen.

  The swollen corpse has fallen back into the shower. Her left foot has been gnawed to the bone by rats. Her back and right side display gaping, dry lacerations crawling with carrion flies. White maggots are creeping out of her open mouth.

  “Not much blood,” mumbles Luyckx into his handkerchief.

  “It’s as if he washed away the traces of blood with the shower before he went off,” says Lannoy. “An absurd reaction.”

  “And no sign I suppose of the murder weapon?”

  “No.”

  “Not outside either?”

  “The technical service people can only get here tomorrow morning,” says Sax.

  “Lazy bastards.”

  “I’ll take a few photos before they take her away.”

  “Please yourself. Did she have any family?”

  “I wired through her identity. Still waiting for a reply.”

  “She wasn’t a prostitute. But she followed the murderer here willingly. Which shows that she knew him.”

  “Shall we carry on the discussion in the fresh air?” asks Lannoy, gagging.

  “The fucker must have left behind some finger prints when he tidied up the mess and took her clothes,” says The Sponge, turning in the doorway. “What else did you find in her notecase?”

  “Some money, a tram ticket, a receipt from the laundry, a couple of photos.”

  “Showing her with a man?”

  “No. At first sight with her parents. And one with a youngish woman in the Alps.”

  “Too bad. Where’s the cleaning lady again?”

  “In number twelve.”

  Turia Abdelkader does indeed look as if she has been struck dumb. She is lying trembling on the bed, staring with blank eyes at the ceiling. She is not even answering her children or husband. Luyckx says she should be sent to hospital for the night.

  “She isn’t sick,” protests her husband.

  “No, but she needs psychological attention. Do what I say, Mr Abdelkader, take your wife to the nearest hospital. I’ll ask a gendarme to go with you and explain everything.”

  “And what shall we do with Mertens?”

  “Have him stuffed and stick him in the entrance.”

  “Could you drop me at the Blue Note?” asks Sax. “If I don’t play I can’t get to sleep.”

  “Good idea,” replies Luyckx. “I’ll come and have one more drink with you. Luc, will you stay here until they clean up the mess?”

  “Guess I’ll have to.”

  “Do you know what we say in our country?”

  “No, Mr Abdelkader. What do they say where you come from?”

  “The first shall be last is what we say.”

  “We say the same thing in our country too,” replies Lannoy.

  15

  Janet Leigh

  Sunday, 27th August 2000

  Last night saw Lulu, that gem of Geor
g Wilhelm Pabst’s, for the umpteenth time. A magical open-air performance in the courtyard of the Royal Palace with live piano accompaniment by Sven Lambrechts. It was as if in a dream Louise Brooks was walking on the screen through the dark sets of Ernö Metzer lit by Arno Wagner while simultaneously sitting next to me caressing my knee under the sensuous star-lit sky. Brooks is the most beautiful, mysterious, sensual film diva of all time. Her lips incite you to murder, her eyes to revenge on ugliness, her breasts to the annihilation of everything that has nothing to do with love. The slightest hint that her nostrils are flaring or her eyelashes fluttering is like the promise of that fleeting moment of mental self-mutilation that precedes ecstasy. What man would not plunge into eternal damnation for one glimpse of her legs? Starr is right when she says that she would rather look like her than Clara Bow.

  Cox is interrupted by the telephone ringing. It is Starr, asking excitedly if he has listened to the morning news.

  “No. I was writing. Why?”

  “Have you had breakfast?”

  “Not really.”

  A quarter of an hour later she rushes into Cox’s study with currant buns and the Sunday paper. He reads the banner headline: GRUESOME KILLING AT BABYLON MOTEL.

  “Babylon Motel… That old heap in Londerzeel?”

  “Yes.”

  She sits down on the edge of his desk, crosses those legs that go on for ever and starts to read out loud:

  “The body of a brutally murdered young woman was discovered last night at the Babylon Motel in Londerzeel. The victim was naked and displayed numerous knife wounds over her entire body. She was discovered at about 11 p.m. by a chambermaid in the shower of bungalow no. 17. Initial findings indicate that she died a week ago. The Antwerp Criminal Investigation Department has identified her as twenty-three-year-old lecturer Marion Mees from Antwerp…”

  “What!? Marion was one of my colleagues! She taught elocution at the Institute! You had classes with her in the first year!”

  “I know. Feel like a currant bun? I bought them at Goossens.”

  “We were talking to her at my farewell bash, you remember? She had a warm voice and enunciated every syllable.”

  “I never liked her. I thought she was a pretentious cow.”

  “She was strict, Starr, and a little old-fashioned, that’s all. But what was such a serious young lady up to in that godforsaken place?”

  “Come on, Vic, everyone has their dark side, don’t they?”

  “Not Marion. I just can’t believe it. Is there a picture of her in the paper?”

  “Yes, here, on page three.”

  “Yes, that’s her. How appalling… Have they any idea who was with her?”

  “Of course not. Just like with the other girls, your friend Luyckx is fumbling in the dark.”

  “Now I understand why he had to leave so suddenly last night.”

  “Doesn’t anything about it strike you as strange?”

  Cox looks at her, shaking his head.

  “What film does it remind you of? Motel, shower, knife wounds…”

  “Psycho? ”

  “I’m amazed you didn’t think of it right away.”

  “It must have been a random killing, perhaps, no… I just can’t imagine it… I can still see her standing there in front of me.”

  The doorbell rings.

  Starr gives Victor a currant bun, which he begins to chew on.

  “You expecting anyone?”

  Starr walks along the passage lined with old film posters and opens the front door.

  “Superintendent! We were just talking about you!”

  “That’s nice. So Mr Cox is at home?”

  “Yes. He’s in a state of total shock.”

  Following Starr down the passage, The Sponge asks if she is living with Cox.

  “No,” she replies without turning. “I came round to bring him the paper.”

  Cox starts when he sees the policeman. It’s as if time has stood still and events are repeating themselves. That strange feeling of déjà vu. The last time he had been in this room was 8th June 1998. It was about a dead woman that time, too.

  “I see you already know all about it,” says Luyckx. “So my visit will come as no surprise.”

  “On the contrary.”

  Luyckx looks at Starr, who stretches out on the sofa, and then at her photo, which is displayed on the desk next to Shelley’s.

  “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

  Starr smiles, shakes her head and lights a cigarette.

  “Good. I’ve just been speaking to the director of the Drama Institute, who referred me to you. It seems you knew Miss Mees well.”

  “No better than my other colleagues.”

  “It seems she had a bit of a crush on you. Apparently she was literally pursuing you after the death of your wife.”

  “You know, if you believe all the gossip you hear in class… Marion and I respected each other… on a professional level.”

  “Do you know if she had a relationship with anyone else?”

  “We didn’t speak about that kind of thing. But since she lived with her sister, I would be inclined to say the answer’s no.”

  “A real goody-goody,” interrupts Starr. “Why don’t you tell the inspector about the resemblance to the murder in Psycho? It could be a clue.”

  “I’m not following you. Sorry, I haven’t slept all night and…”

  “Ever heard of a film called Psycho?” asks Starr.

  “Yes, vaguely.”

  “Well,” says Cox, “there are, as Miss Mortenson correctly observes, certain points of resemblance between the murder in the Babylon Motel and the manner in which, in the film, Perkins barbarically dispatches Janet Leigh in his motel. But it could be coincidence.”

  “Coincidence?” Starr jumps up. “In both cases the murder took place in the shower of bungalow number seventeen. There were twenty-eight knife wounds, exactly as in the film. And what was the name of the character played by Janet Leigh? Marion! Marion Crane! Coincidence?”

  “A memorable scene,” says Cox staring dreamily at the patterns in his Persian rug. “Janet Leigh was the star of the film, yet Hitchcock decided to have her killed at the beginning of the story, because the surprise effect on the audience would be all the greater. In his conversations with François Truffaut he told how Leigh did not want to take her clothes off. That’s why she keeps her bra on in the scene where Norman Bates spies on her through a hole in the wall, which today comes across as a little ridiculous. And for the sequence in the bathroom a stand-in was called in. We only see Leigh’s face, hands and shoulders. And then to be sure that the private parts, the breasts, come into the frame, some shots were filmed subsequently. Hitchcock had a fake woman’s torso made of rubber and filled with ox blood. But he never used it. In reality the knife never touches the actress’s skin. It’s all a question of montage. The shots took seven days. Seventy different camera angles. And all for forty-five seconds of film. A textbook example.”

  Luyckx turns yawning to Starr.

  “So what you’re saying is that Miss Mees’s murderer deliberately copied the murder from this film?”

  “Yes, obviously.”

  “But the question is: what did he intend by doing so?” says Cox, back in reality.

  “I was just going to ask you that, Mr Cox. You’re the specialist.”

  “I’m a film historian, not a psychiatrist.”

  “Right. And where was the film historian on the night of Saturday the 19th of August? Just a routine question.”

  “In my bed,” replies Starr for him. “Or rather, I was lying in bed with him. In the bedroom next door.”

  Victor nods in embarrassment.

  “My compliments, Professor. Just as well that Miss Mees never knew that,” says Luyckx. He thanks Cox and takes his leave.

  “I’ll just see you out,” says Starr.

  Luyckx turns in the doorway. His look is icy. His breath smells of whisky.

  “Whenev
er I talk to your boyfriend I come away having learnt something,” he says quietly. “I bet you never get bored together.”

  “Never.”

  “Does he still talk about his first wife?”

  “Sometimes. Her death affected him more than you think.”

  “I don’t think anything. They call me The Sponge. And sponges don’t think.”

  “They soak up the liquid they’re dipped in… and swell up.”

  “And when they’re full…”

  “… you squeeze them dry again. To the last drop.”

  “Exactly,” mumbles Luyckx.

  “Why did you tell a lie just now?” asks Cox when Starr appears again in the room.

  “To get rid of him.”

  “False witness. That can have serious consequences.”

  “He suspects you.”

  “That’s just a professional disease. These people suspect everyone.”

  “He wanted to know where you were on the night of the murder.”

  “They check that automatically.”

  “He didn’t ask me anything. What were you up to actually last Saturday?”

  “Like Howard Hughes, I was lying with Janet Leigh in a king-size bed in the Chateau Marmont.”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “Everyone has their dark side, don’t they?”

  16

  Debbie Marchal

  Saturday, 13th October 2001

  I’m staring at Starr. Or rather, at her framed photo on the table by the open door to the balcony through which you can hear the rumbling of the waves in the distance. Because she went to her grandparents’ in Sweden a fortnight ago, I decided last Saturday to take a large room with a sea view at the Astoria Hotel in Koksijde. The building dates back to the late Twenties and has lost much of its former splendour. But what remains of the original decor still recalls the sets that Fred Hope and Hobe Erwin, the inventors of the “white telephone” look, designed for Jean Harlow and Wallace Beery in films like Dinner at Eight. I’ve always liked the coast in autumn, when the tourists have disappeared and I have the promenade to myself, and, like Dirk Bogarde in Death in Venice, I can drift aimlessly through the quiet streets of the abandoned resort. When Shelley was still alive I used to come regularly to this hotel, far from our domestic hell, for the weekend to gather my thoughts in peace. At that time I sought a kind of fulfilment in my unhappiness rather than baying for my lost happiness like a mad dog. Just like then, I can sit on my balcony at low tide staring at the ballet of the seagulls on the endless beach and the grey breakers in the distance, until the horizon starts to dance before my eyes.