In our fair city there are but two geniuses who have understood the true magic of the cinema – and that is the two of us. So it would amaze me if, thanks to your phenomenal knowledge of film, you have not yet discovered the link between my various creations. In the meantime it is obvious that Luyckx and his useless assistants will never succeed in deciphering my message. No one but you possesses the necessary intellectual development to unmask me. So whether I will be able to carry out my remaining awe-inspiring projects is up to you. Or rather, up to your lethargy. “Stop me, or there will be another murder.”
You don’t know me, but we have more in common than you think. To put it simply, you are the light while I am the shadow, the darkness. So consider me your latest playmate. I think you now possess enough clues to continue the search, and wish you much success.
“I allow myself to be understood as a colourful fragment in a drab world” – Errol Flynn.
“A man should control his life. Mine is controlling me” – Rudolph Valentino.
Cordially,
Henri C.
P.S. One final additional hint: I do not draw my inspiration exclusively from films.
Cox’s hands are trembling as he reads the letter. He does not have the slightest idea who is hiding behind the name Henri C. But it seems this man knows him well. A former student? He has taught more than a thousand in his time. He would have to search through the student rolls at the Institute for the last thirty years. But it seems from the letter that Henri C. is no fool and has surely predicted that Cox will look at the student rolls. So that would just be a waste of time. In any case, he cannot recall a single Henri. Perhaps someone who was in the hall when he gave his public lecture on Hitchcock? Or is it just a feeble joke? The sort of joke that Starr was all too capable of.
Cox puts the letter to one side, calls the number of the High Noon Film Club and recognizes at once the voice of the chairman.
“High Noon Productions, good afternoon.”
“Good afternoon, Mr Van Lierde. This is Victor Cox speaking.”
“Professor Cox! You must be ringing for your fee. My apologies, but our accountant stepped on a sea urchin while on holiday in Corsica and…”
“To be honest, I had forgotten all about the fee.”
“Then it must be the group photo.”
“Not that either. Do you have a member whose first name is Henri and whose surname begins with C? I have just received a letter from a Henri C. who had some questions about my lecture and…”
“I’ll have to look it up on our mailing list.”
“If you could. You can reach me at home.”
A quarter of an hour later Van Lierde rings back. He has not found anything.
Cox puts the letter with its envelope in a transparent plastic folder so as not to leave behind any unnecessary fingerprints. Then he calls Luyckx and gets Lannoy at the end of the line. They agree to meet at six o’clock at the Macumba, Jos the Screw’s bar.
30
Thelma Todd
Katia smells of coconut milk, a penetrating, sweet smell that clings to Cox’s skin and clothes all day long. For fear that Luyckx will immediately recognize her scent, he has showered long and hard.
What really bothers him is that Henri C. knows so much about him while claiming that Cox is ignorant of his identity. Is he one of Starr’s friends and has she given him information? Impossible. In all probability, Starr was his sixth victim. No, it can only mean that the mysterious author of the letter has been spying on him for years with the sole aim of implicating him as a silent witness, an unconscious accomplice in his crimes. As if he needs someone who understands and admires him. Like an unrecognized artist in despair because no one appreciates the refined subtlety of his murders, he asks his alter ego to publicize and explain his oeuvre to the world. What he craves is recognition. And only Cox can provide that. Which also explains why Cox had met most of the victims at some point and had been questioned by the police after almost every crime. That even applies to Louise Vlerickx, the soap star who had taken classes for a couple of months at the Institute. In fact it would not surprise him if he had also known Virginia Steiner in one way or another.
Cox dries himself, throws his clothes into the laundry basket and puts on clean underwear, cotton summer trousers and a fresh shirt. After shaving he douses his cheeks with aftershave. Even if Luyckx kisses him he won’t be able to smell the scent of his girlfriend.
Two murders remain unexplained for Cox: Vlerickx and Steiner. But in his postscript Henri C. had written that he was not always directly inspired by a film. That is why Cox is still fumbling in the dark. But it is obvious that even in these cases the cinema is the source of his correspondent’s inspiration. If it is not a character in a film it can only be an actress, or a tragic episode in her private life. Probably the violent way in which she met her end.
From the terrace of the Macumba, Luyckx and Lannoy watch as Cox parks his car up the street by the floating hotel, walks to the Nassau Bridge where he leans sunk in thought over the railings and stares at the drifting rubbish on the still waters of the Bonaparte Dock, then crosses the road and waves at them when he sees them sitting there.
“Hello, Victor!”
Luyckx’s bonhomie sounds exaggerated, thinks Cox, he must have something to hide. Perhaps Katia has been talking. Perhaps because Luyckx has just left her: the whole terrace smells of coconut milk. In the distance, over the reclaimed landscape of the polders, threatening storm clouds are approaching and Cox asks whether it would not be better to go inside.
“If it starts to rain we can always move,” replies Luyckx.
Cox pulls over a chair and says: “I still don’t understand why no one noticed anything when Shelley was thrown into the water that night.”
“Some people would prefer not to be implicated in that kind of drama and sometimes are unwilling to talk about it, but there are witnesses, rest assured, Mr Cox, there are witnesses,” says Lannoy.
“Why have you kept this from me for the last four years? What did they see?”
“Nothing you don’t know, Victor,” interrupts Luyckx. “A grey car that collided with her head-on in the middle of the bridge. The driver got out, picked her up, chucked her into the dock and disappeared into the night with a broken headlight.”
“Who deliberately ran her over,” says Lannoy, correcting his boss, “embraced her and even kissed her before throwing her into the water. That’s something completely different.”
“That’s the version according to Gin Joe, who hasn’t been sober since Bernard Thévenet beat Eddie Merckx in the Tour de France in 1975. And as you know, it was bucketing down that night and you could hardly see a thing. Anyway, tell us why we’re here, Victor.”
Cox takes the plastic folder with the letter and envelope out of his trouser pocket and hands it to Luyckx.
“This is what I received this morning. I wrapped it up to protect it from fingerprints.”
The Sponge takes off his Ray-Bans and starts to read. He clenches his jaws together like Clint then hands the letter over to Lannoy without a word.
“Any idea who Henri C. is? A long-lost twin brother, for example, who’s called Henri Cox?”
“No. My father’s middle name was Henri but he died over twenty-five years ago.”
“A former student, perhaps?”
“That’s what I thought at first, but I fear that’s not the case. You could always have it checked out, of course. Perhaps you know someone with the same initials?”
“Apart from the chief commissioner of the vice squad, Henri Cools, I don’t know anyone,” says Lannoy.
“Let’s stay serious, Lannoy. Take this to the lab. And while you’re there, have a DNA check done on the saliva on the back of the stamp.”
Lannoy gets up, casts a concerned look at Cox and walks to the police car. Jos the Screw comes out with two Duvel beers and puts them down on the table.
“Looks like there’s going to be a storm. Is your colle
ague already off?”
“I’ll have his one,” says Cox.
“And is what’s in the letter true?” asks Luyckx, his upper lip covered with foam.
“Undoubtedly.”
“There’s no business like show business.”
“This fellow has the same encyclopaedic and, I admit, quite useless knowledge of the cinema that I have. I had already got to the bottom of this some time ago but I wanted to be a hundred per cent sure before I spoke to you about it. That is to say there are two murders for which I have not yet found the cinema version.”
“Which ones?”
“The first two: Vlerickx and Steiner. In my view they are not based on films but on true events.”
“Why?”
“Because otherwise I would have found the answer.”
“It’s time we put our heads together and went after him. What exactly do you mean by true events?”
“Perhaps Henri also draws his inspiration from the ways in which well-known actresses died.”
“That would be child’s play for you to figure out, wouldn’t it?”
“The problem is that not many of them died in their sleep in peaceful old age.”
“Perhaps… But how many of them suffocated in a chocolate-coloured Lincoln Convertible 1935?”
“Just one,” says Cox, who can suddenly see it before his eyes. “Thelma Todd.”
“How come you didn’t think of that before!”
“I didn’t remember the make of car, the year or the colour. But now I do.”
“What was her name?”
“Thelma Todd. On Monday the sixteenth of December, 1935.”
“Sixty years to the day before Louise Vlerickx…”
“Correct. On the 16th of December her maid, Mae Whitehead, found Thelma bent over the steering wheel of her Lincoln. At first she thought the actress had fallen asleep in her car. But she soon realized the gruesome truth that Thelma was dead.”
Suddenly it starts to rain, just like it rains in a film: too loud, too hard and with no warning. Luyckx and Cox run, bent over against the storm, into the crowded bar.
“As far as I’m concerned the similarities with the murder of Vlerickx are beyond question,” says Luyckx, handing Cox a fresh Duvel. “Actually, what it boils down to is that if Mr Donders the notary hadn’t had a 1935 Lincoln in his collection our young actress would still be alive, right?”
“Indeed.”
“What we must do now is go through every murder again, detail by detail, and compare my information, which for argument’s sake we’ll call reality, with your information, which we’ll name fiction. And who knows, maybe Henri C. will write some more letters. I suggest we meet tomorrow at the station.”
“I’ve got a meeting tomorrow at ten o’clock. But I’ll be free in the afternoon.”
“Two o’clock then. In any case, thanks for the letter. I feel we’re on the right track now.”
Luyckx calls for a taxi and leaves the Macumba at about half past seven. Cox remains at a table by the window and watches the downpour falling on Docklands through the misted-up glass.
Two Duvels later he sees himself crossing the Nassau Bridge next to Shelley. Two faint shadows behind a sparkling curtain of rain. The racket of the falling water on the steel structure is deafening. They stand still. Is he embracing her? Strangling her? It’s hard to make out. A grey car with headlamps like yellow flames drives on to the bridge. Cox watches as Shelley tries to wriggle free from his grip, falls over in front of the car, flies through the air and flops on to the shining tarmac like a ragdoll, sees how the unseeing car continues on its way and vanishes into the darkness like a fish in muddy water. In horror he watches as he picks her up, drags her over to the railings, cradles her for a time in his arms like a crushed child, and strokes her shattered skull. Then throws her like a sodden bundle into the Bonaparte Dock and runs off.
31
Roscoe “Fatty” Arbuckle
The next day at five to two, Cox walks into the police station in high spirits. Not to be questioned this time, but to work with The Sponge. It is as if he has stepped through the looking glass. The eternal suspect has finally landed in the world where he belongs – the world of investigators and avengers. He left home early that morning and drank a milky koffie verkeerd on the terrace of a Greek café on Sint-Paulusplaats. After the previous night’s storm the steaming pavements smelt cool and the trees looked green again. Then he paid Katia a brief but refreshing visit. She reassured him that Luyckx did not know a thing. He feels he is walking on air.
“Bang on time for your first day at work,” laughs Luyckx as Cox comes into his office. “Take a seat.”
Cox opens his leather satchel, pulls out a bundle of handwritten notes and says: “I have found some more information about the Ice Cream Blonde.”
“About who?”
“The Ice Cream Blonde. That’s what they called Thelma Todd in Hollywood.”
“In my opinion we already know enough about Thelma.”
“Fine by me. I’ve also found the explanation for Steiner’s murder.”
“That sounds more interesting! Another copy of a film?”
“No, based on facts.”
“Good. I prefer facts.”
“Ever heard of Fatty Arbuckle?”
“No.”
“He was a plumber and weighed nineteen stone. The lad had incredible comic talent and was hired by Mack Sennett in 1913 for three dollars a day to appear in his famous Keystone Cops farces. He quickly worked his way to the top and one year later appeared with Mabel Normand in Fatty’s’s Flirtation, with Charlie Chaplin…”
“I’ve heard of him!”
“… in The Rounders, and with Buster Keaton in The Butcher Boy. In 1917 he signed a contract with Paramount bringing him $5,000 a week. He was an incorrigible party animal who spent money like it was going out of fashion, and a heavy drinker to boot.”
“And now the facts.”
“Arbuckle fell in love with the brunette on the cover of the sheet music for the song ‘Let Me Call You Sweetheart’. He arranged an introduction to the young starlet on the set of Joey Loses a Sweetheart. Soon after that she was noticed by William Fox and won the Best Dressed Girl in Pictures contest, and things started moving for her. Meanwhile Arbuckle signed a contract with Paramount for the colossal sum of three million dollars. To celebrate he organized one of his most notorious parties. To escape the Beverly Hills paparazzi, he decided on the St Francis Hotel in San Francisco, taking three adjacent suites. On Saturday the third of September 1921, he drove down the Pacific Coast Highway in his brand-new Pierce-Arrow with Lowell Sherman, Freddy Fishback, the mysterious beauty with whom he had fallen in love and her friend Bambina Maude Delmont. A second car followed with a dozen girls to spice up the party if necessary. On Monday the fifth of September – Labour Day – the party was still in full swing. More than a hundred guests had shown up. Most of the women were wandering around the rooms half-naked, the men were wearing pyjamas and everyone was blind drunk.”
“There’s no business like show business.”
“At about half past three on the Monday afternoon, Fatty finally locked himself up with his prey in suite 1221. The big chance of his life. A little later the guests heard the young woman screaming from the suite next door. After that only groaning could be heard through the closed doors. Bambina Maude Delmont was about to go and see what was going on with her friend when Fatty appeared in the doorway, his clothes torn, and asked her to dress the young woman who was still calling for help and take her to another hotel. The room looked like a battlefield. ‘She’s making too much noise,’ he said, ‘and if she carries on screaming I’ll chuck her out of the window.’ The poor girl is brought to the Pine Street Hospital where, before sinking into a deep coma, she finds the strength to whisper that Fatty Arbuckle did this to her and must be punished. She died on the tenth of September without playing the starring role promised her in Twilight Baby. She was twenty-five. Her name w
as Virginia Rappe.”
“Virginia. Just like Virginia Steiner. And the date: the tenth of September. It really fits. What was the cause of death then?”
“Her sexual organs had been mashed up and her bladder perforated, causing fatal peritonitis. Arbuckle had violated her with a champagne bottle. Exactly the way that Steiner was murdered.”
“First of all, I’m going to check out whether anything suspicious occurred in one of Antwerp’s hotels on the night of the ninth to the tenth of September 1996. If Henri C. followed this to the last detail when he staged the murder then perhaps we have a clue.”
“Waste of time. He did it at home, or who knows, in the hospital car park where she was found.”
“Victor, I’m still in charge of this investigation, right? His profile is more or less clear. But as long as we can’t put a face to the name we’re nowhere.”
“It’s as if I can see him in front of me.”
“Well, describe him then.”
“I can’t. It’s hard to make out. It’s like… a vague silhouette… in the rain or mist.”
“Steiner is the only victim you didn’t know personally, or am I mistaken?”
“Steiner and Vlerickx.”
“But Vlerickx attended classes at the college where you lectured?”
“Yes, but I didn’t know her.”
“Look, I’ve really got to be off now. Let’s meet up tomorrow to carry on working on this. Same place, same time?”
“Fine by me.”
“Can I drop you off anywhere?”
“Don’t let me put you out. Which way are you going?”
Luyckx blinks guiltily and says: “Verversrui.”
32
Virginia Rappe
It is midnight when I leave the little neighbourhood cinema where I’ve been watching a showing of Bound, the lesbian thriller by the Wachowski brothers. The auditorium was barely half full and the film had just started when a young woman with a razor-sharp profile and wavy raven-black hair came over and sat down right next to me. There was so little room between the seats that our knees were touching throughout the film. I don’t know whether she was doing it deliberately, but during the hottest scenes she pressed her left leg against my right and through my corduroy trousers I could feel her thigh glowing.
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