George was mystified. “Patrick Mastrolli has done all he could for the time being, so who did you have in mind?”
“Think about the person in whom Michel confided most, his partner in crime.”
They both said together – “Johnny Mendes.”
“Do you still have those vouchers for a free night at their hotel?” George grinned.
The Dark Star hotel had changed its name to ‘The Crescent Moon’. Johnny Mendes met the visitors with a big smile and supervised the unloading, then George drove the car to a nearby underground car park and walked back, finding Thérèse and Johnny in the bar chatting amicably over a drink. It was clear that having heard Patrick Mastrolli’s story about Johnny’s secret life, Thérèse now felt better disposed towards him. The ‘bad box’ was still heavy but the ‘good box’ had gained weight.
Thérèse turned and brought George up to date. “We haven’t been up to the room yet, but Johnny was suggesting that he takes us on a quick tour of the hotel now, while he is available, then he has invited us out to dinner later.” George was happy to accept and they picked up their drinks and followed Johnny in a short and admiring view of the ground floor, where the original colours had been toned down and the elegance turned up compared to the images in the early brochures. Johnny was dressed in a smart, beautifully tailored suit, expensive shoes and immaculate shirt, which made him look every inch the successful businessman, dressing down only by omitting to wear a tie.
Johnny explained that the main hotel building was run as conventional tourist accommodation, mainly for wealthy Arab and Asian clients. “We have no kitchen or restaurant as such, but we serve breakfast in the bar area and use a nearby top-class food service supplier for room service orders anytime of the day or night, or the same food can be served in the bar.” The two guests looked around admiringly. It was like a smart night club with a stage and sound system for musicians, a small dance floor, and probably thirty tables. The bar was around ten metres long and decorated with a pattern of changing soft lights inside the bar itself. The overall effect was palatial in the style of Las Vegas, though on a smaller scale.
Johnny continued, “There are twenty-six standard suites on two floors and the top floor is a single penthouse apartment, which I can’t show you today because it is let long-term. Did you see the long building next door with the arched carriage entrance?” George said he had noticed it on the way back from the car park but apart from recognising that it was an ancient building, could see nothing much beyond the front wall.
“We bought that for very little about three years ago. It was built in the time of Louis XV as an arms depot and base for his militia. Later it was used as a warehouse; then it was abandoned to become one of twenty thousand empty properties in Paris. We originally intended to convert it as an extension to the hotel but it was a listed building and the cost and complication would have been prohibitive, so we worked out a scheme with the local authority whereby we would buy it from them at a reasonable price and they would guarantee us an income from its use as a dormitory for homeless people.
“We did the deal and now Beatrice runs it as a commercial operation. There are three sleeping areas, each with forty beds and washing facilities and a dining area in the middle. We get paid per head per night and we take anybody except illegal immigrants, les sans papiers.”
“So if one of those girls imported by force to become prostitutes managed to escape, you wouldn’t take her in?” George queried.
Johnnie thought about that, swirling his glass under his nose. “There are refuges where they can go, but if one came to us I would probably find her a room in the hotel.” He grinned broadly and drained the glass.
“What happened to your other hotel on the east side of Paris?” asked George.
“We sold that, because we were having increasing difficulties with some seedy characters that were using the place, and it was getting a bad reputation with the police which made it uncomfortable for us. In any case we couldn’t have both, and once this was up and running we sold the other one.”
When Thérèse and George reached their second floor accommodation, George checked the mirrors by shining a lamp close to them. He didn’t know how effective this method would be but he felt it necessary to check. The Miltons sat on their bed in their spacious and comfortable suite and pondered on the questions that had arisen as a result of what they had just seen and heard. They decided to save the questions for later over dinner.
When they came downstairs an hour later, Johnny insisted that they should have their free glass of champagne in the bar with him. They then walked to the restaurant, and, once they were installed at a discreetly positioned corner table, it wasn’t long before the conversation returned to the hotel and how it had evolved.
“We originally conceived this as a club for swingers,” admitted Johnny cheerfully. “We always had the middle-eastern and Asian markets in mind. That worked well for a while, but then some shady characters tried to muscle in and we decided we could earn almost as much for doing a lot less, so we reverted to hôtellerie. Nowadays I have to keep my hands clean. I’m a pillar of the local establishment.”
“How did the dormitory building come about?” asked Thérèse.
“First it was just sitting there festering on our door-step, so it was a neighbourhood liability. Secondly, Michel needed a tax shelter because he had sold some property in France and had to roll over his capital gain to avoid paying tax. He was getting a share of the revenue from the municipality which proved to be quite generous. Now he’s gone that income is paid to Charlotte, and their daughters of course. I am a local councillor, so I was able to follow the acquisition through the system and negotiate good terms.” He winked.
“So you are a municipal councillor; I somehow don’t see you as a citizen, Johnny,” Thérèse goaded. Johnny chuckled, then took another swig of wine and rolled it around his mouth appreciatively, enjoying the luxury.
It wasn’t long before the Miltons asked where Ayida was and how Johnny’s investment in Haiti was progressing.
Ayida was in Haiti now, tidying up their affairs there.
Johnny leaned across the table. “If I confide in you two it’s because you know the background and I trust you to understand that there would be a very high price to be paid if it got out.”
“If what got out?” Thérèse bounced on her chair and leaned forward, placing both arms on the table.
Johnny looked down and examined his fork seriously. “What we set up in Haiti was never intended to be our end game. Let’s just say that things here were getting uncomfortable and it was necessary for Michel and me to have a bolthole where it would be more difficult for unwelcome people to approach us. If that move became compromised in any way, we could move to plan B which was all set up and funded in advance.”
“So what was plan B? Is that in operation now?” asked George.
“I can’t give you any more details. It would put you or the other people involved at risk.”
“But…” insisted George.
Johnny raised a hand and his voice hardened slightly. “It’s no good pressing me, George. What happened to Michel was very unfortunate and he is no longer part of our concern. But I and my family could still need the protection we have set up. That’s why I can’t tell anybody about it.”
The Miltons had come with an objective but they now realised they would get no more from Johnny and they sensed that Michel was no longer part of Johnny’s concerns, so the evening continued amicably. They enjoyed discussing politics and the economy, making comparisons between France and the UK. Johnny wrapped it up.
“I guess that despite sharing the same problems as the US and UK, and constantly complaining about the economy, we are still here and probably no worse off than most. We have an expression that a fish rots from the head down and the modern class groups are for me an example of where the rot has set in at the top and the others take on the same odour.”
“Where do you fit
into that hierarchy, Johnny?” asked Thérèse, smiling sweetly and tapping the table as if to bring the meeting to order.
“Ha! Not in any of the definable categories. That’s something else that Michel and I had in common. We wanted the best for ourselves and our families, but none of the structured avenues on offer suited us, so we kind of made our own different paths to success and happiness.”
“And did you achieve it?” asked George. There was a pause.
“Achieve what?”
“Happiness.”
“I am happy,” replied Johnny emphatically. “I’m not sure that Michel was ever happy. He was never really satisfied with anything he achieved. He liked approbation, but his mind was restless and he was always looking to the next project.”
“And didn’t that quest leave a trail of unhappy people behind?” asked Thérèse.
“Possibly, but it depends on what they expected and whether their expectations were realistic.”
The conversation petered out, so they sat with their own thoughts for a while. There was no tension between them and it was as if they had cleared the air without a storm. The waiters were laying tables nearby for the next day and the other diners had left, so the three rose, Johnny paid and they walked slowly back to the hotel.
George and Thérèse continued their drive next day to Bordeaux. On the long car journey they were able to compare notes from their conversations with Johnny and consider whether they should leave things alone or probe deeper into ‘Plan B’.
Within a day of arriving, Thérèse contacted Patrick Mastrolli. She put it to him again that the Haiti scenario could have been only the first step in a possible disappearance plan. Patrick accepted that as a possibility. “But supposing Michel had arranged his disappearance, for what were to him very good reasons, what would you have to gain by tracking him down? Don’t you think it might do more harm than good to him and the family?”
“You’re right, Patrick, but could you try to find out what might have happened without going into detail, without necessarily obtaining confirming evidence and keeping it as discreet as possible?”
“If we did that, what value would it have for anybody, including you, Thérèse?”
“It’s not a question of value, it’s more about sentiment and what memories we carry. Some people are happy to believe any fairy story, but I need to know more, even if there are some gaps. You can edit what you tell me if you think it’s too sensitive.”
“Whoa, who said I can or will do anything?”
“Patrick,” Thérèse turned on the charm, “you are the only person who can help and I would be very disappointed if you said, ‘no’.”
Patrick decided to start by putting some hypothetical questions to Eugène Kotor and see what he thought. He made it clear in a message that no investigation should be entered into which might stir up the wrong kind of interest.
Epilogue
REPORT
Date: 2014
To: Patrick Mastrolli
From: Eugène Kotor
In answer to your hypothetical questions, here are my thoughts:
Identity Change: It would be relatively easy for a European with enough cash to obtain a new identity here. At least a new passport and driving licence could be provided for a credible third country nationality, (i.e. not Haitian) and that should be enough for international travel and to open bank accounts.
Ideal location: Next to Haiti, sharing the same island is the Dominican Republic (DR). It’s a different world to Haiti and has become a major Caribbean tourist resort. I know from personal experience that it is easy to open bank accounts there. The DR is a preferred money laundering centre for Columbian drug cartels and about eight per cent of cocaine entering the USA comes from there. The southern part is heavily populated, but if you were looking for a quiet place to hide, the northern coastal area is quieter and there is some nice land for development at Puerto Plata, for example.
Feasibility: It would be easy for a European to fly out of Haiti to say Miami, on one identity, and fly back to the Dominican Republic on another. Alternatively, from the northern coast of Haiti, you could just sail east and land in DR. There is no sophisticated immigration control, at least for whites, and a small amount of money goes a long way.
Miscellaneous information: I thought this was all I would have to say on the subject, but then I found out that Madame Ayida Mendes was in Haiti, at Port de Paix recently. She is an almost white Haitian creole, still very pretty, though she must be well into her 50s. The Mendeses were friends of the Bodins and had also tried to buy land here almost next to the tract the Bodins rented. While she was here, Madame Mendes tried to visit a Madame Cassandra Mantou, a forty-year-old Haitian widow, and a very attractive one, I was told. Her husband was shot and killed in some sort of turf war down in the south. However, the important bit is that when Ayida Mendes was enquiring after Cassandra Mantou, she described her as a friend of Monsieur Bodin.
I don’t know what importance that might have, but consider this: Madame Mantou has disappeared, said to be visiting relatives in the mountainous Cotes de Fer area, which is completely inaccessible even for aid workers, so I think that story is unlikely. Could Madame Mantou have gone off with Monsieur Bodin? Not to DR, because blacks are not welcome there and have been persistently persecuted or sent back to Haiti by successive governments.
My reading of the situation is that Madame Mantou may have been helpful to Monsieur Bodin in some way, but for what, and when? If, as you say, he could still be alive, is there a connection? And if there is a connection he may have rewarded her with enough money to enable her to set up somewhere else, possibly in Haiti, but more likely in the USA or Canada. I doubt they are together, though I may be wrong. There is no evidence either way at the moment. This is pure speculation on my part. The fact that they may have been friends before he died/disappeared is not of itself a lead, but her disappearance raises questions, though it does not yet shed any light on Michel Bodin’s fate.
One more point is that the nice wooden house Monsieur Bodin had built on his rented land is now occupied by a Haitian family and no Europeans have been there since Madame Alvarez died. I am not washing my hands of this subject, but there is no more I can do for now. I will let you know if anything interesting is brought to my attention about these people.
Important note: I had to go to the US embassy in Port au Prince to send this, so you may appear on WikiLeaks before long.
(PS Thanks for the package)
Signed EK.
THE END
Acknowledgements
Aaron Brake
Albert Camus
Ambrose Bierce
Andrew Carnegie
Anne-Marie Carrière
Clément Weill-Raynal
Denis Diderot
Der Speigel
Ernst Fehr
Euripides
François Mitterrand
Fyodor Dostyevski
Jacques Chirac
Jacques Dutronc
Jean Montaldo
Jaqueline Bisset
Karl Marx
Le Canard Enchainé
Le Figaro
Mahatma Ghandi
Najat Vallaud-Belkacem
Napoleon Bonaparte
Radio France Culture
Sigmund Freud
The Daily Mail
Thomas Jefferson
Transparency International
US Embassy, Port au Prince, Haiti
Wikipedia
Copyright
Published by Clink Street Publishing 2015
Copyright © 2015
First edition.
The author asserts the moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior consent of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or co
ver other than that with which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
ISBN: 978–1–909477–87–2
Ebook: 978–1–909477–88–9
A Clean Pair of Hands Page 24