Chapter Nine
In everyday life, we tend
to believe that we control our own destinies and make our own decision, but I
figure that’s often not the case. Other people frequently control the way we
behave. Last night my behaviour had been cunningly manipulated by a mere
teenager and I felt ashamed that I had allowed it to happen.
I told
myself angrily that it wouldn’t happen again, and I resorted to a mug of black
coffee to help set me up for whatever further stress the day had in store. And
there was no doubt in my mind that stress would appear on my horizon before the
day was out. God! This was supposed to be a vacation to help me relax!
First
problem: where had Viola’s body been taken? No one could have carried it far in
the time it took me to walk into Rennes and back, unless there had been a
vehicle waiting nearby. Looking about, I could see a dozen places where a body
might be hidden or where someone might have been lying in wait before killing
Viola. Bushes, trees, the farm buildings: it was all there. If I had to choose
an ideal spot for an assassin to strike, it would be somewhere like this.
Damn
it, the killer could be still out there watching me right now.
I
shivered.
Disjointed
thoughts wandered out of nowhere, testing my resolve to continue with the
journey. Was it worth confronting Hassim? The guy who owned the boat would have
to appear in my list of suspects, but for no sound reason. I thought the days
when a guy killed his ex-fiancée out of pique had gone with the wind. Then
again, the Europeans seemed to go a bundle on crimes of passion. Besides, what
the hell did I know about Hassim anyway?
Nothing.
I knew
even less about the swarthy skinned watcher who, I was convinced, had been
dropping his cigar butts inside the cruiser. But I couldn’t finger a suspect
for murder just because he drops his filthy ash on the floor, much as I would
like to.
Neither
was I clued up on the girl who’d been languishing in Viola’s bunk when I
brought the French cops into the act. In fact, all I knew about her was bundled
up in the visual appeal of her body. Even aside from her shapely figure, there
was still very good reason for me to keep her in mind. She just had to be
somehow tied up in the crime, but was she the murderer? If not, that left only
the L’Orly family—who were unlikely to be all they seemed—and those two youngsters who had
moored just downstream from the Breton
Belle.
The big
youth and his girlfriend certainly had the opportunity to carry out the murder,
but for what motive? I suppose my principle reason for including them on my
list of suspects was the fact that I didn’t like the guy or his foul attitude.
And he had already assaulted Viola in St. Malo. Even so, it wasn’t a sound
reason to suspect him of murder. It wouldn’t have got a conviction in court.
As for
the L’Orly family, it seemed inconceivable that mama or Brigitte could kill in
cold blood, but they certainly had the opportunity to do it. And what did I
really know about them, beyond the fact that Brigitte had a delicious body and freely
gave me the use of it? Oh, God! Why did I give in to her so easily? And why was
life being so cruel to me right now?
I
needed a period of quiet reflection, but in the past few days four women had
bared themselves naked in front of me and I’d had sex with two of them. Further
feelings of guilt threatened to swamp my analysis of the situation, so I forced
myself to turn my attention towards a viable plan for the day.
The
sun was already high in the sky when Brigitte staggered out from her cabin into
the short corridor. She yawned, looked at a bulkhead clock indicating ten
thirty, and then put a hand to her mouth. So much for the image of a
hard-working farmer’s daughter.
“Shouldn’t
you get dressed?” I said.
“Pah!
Why?” Nevertheless, she dipped back into her cabin and draped an open shirt
round her shoulders before returning to the saloon.
“You
want some coffee?” I asked. “The water’s hot in the kettle.”
“Oui. I will have the coffee and then I
will make you the breakfast.”
I
suddenly woke up to the fact that I hadn’t eaten that morning. Mind too
preoccupied with the question of Viola’s death and what I could do about it.
Brigitte’s offer had a certain appeal to it.
“Sounds
like a good idea.”
My
immediate culinary expectations were, however, quickly put on hold. There were
other things on Brigitte’s mind. Apparently in no great hurry to feed my
stomach, she sat down on the nearest seat, sipped at the coffee mug
thoughtfully and asked, “Will you go on down the river today?”
“Possibly,
later. I still want to know what happened to Viola.”
She
eyed me sullenly for a full minute. Then she drew back her head and said, “You
told me the police were at the boat. What did they say to you?”
“They
didn’t believe what I told them. Why do you ask?”
She
shrugged her shoulders. “I just wondered.”
“What
did they say to you, Brigitte?”
She
held the mug to her lips a few seconds too long, probably to disguise the fact
that I had caught her on the hop. Eyes lowered, she began to reply, “I told
you…”
“You
told me that they didn’t speak to you. But I don’t believe you. They did speak
to you, didn’t they?”
She
shrugged and then grinned. “It is easy to tell the lies to someone like you.”
“Really?
So tell me the truth, what did they say to you?”
For
some moments an awkward silence filled the boat, broken only by the gentle
lapping of the water outside. Brigitte pulled her shirt tighter round her chest,
as if that alone would protect her from my questions. Then she responded with
carefully considered words. “They asked about you and Viola. They said you told
them Viola was dead.”
“And
what did you tell them?”
“Nothing.
I do not like to talk to the police. In fact I do not like the police.”
“You
don’t like them, eh?” Cynicism was now bursting from my mind. I just couldn’t
hold back from poking fun at her. “I suppose you’re the one who dug the big
hole outside the police station?”
“Pardon?”
“The
police are looking into it.”
“Pardon?”
“It’s
a joke.” Or so I told her. It didn’t sound so funny in hindsight.
“That
is a joke?” She wasn’t laughing. In fact she was sitting there, staring at me
all po-faced, with the sour expression of an aged nun who’s suddenly realized
she’s missed out on what life is really all about. Below the neck, the simile
was quite out of order.
“A
sort of joke,” I assured her, following up with a sigh of exasperation. “Don’t
worry about it. Do you believe that Viola is dead?”
Brigitte
set her mouth in a firm line and nodded. She turned away, avoiding looking at
me as she replied. “I expect she is dead.”
“Why
do you believe that?”
“She
was frightened when she came to the farm.”
“Now
we’re getting somewhere. Frightened, you say?”
Brigitte
turned back to me and nodded again. “She said she was being followed and
someone… how do you say it in English? Someone had it in for her.”
Someone
sure as hell had it in for her, poor kid. “Tell me more about it.”
“I
cannot.”
“Cannot
or will not?”
“Cannot.”
She pouted before adding, “Will not.”
“Okay.
So tell me about the coloured girl. The one who was here on the boat when the
police arrived, stark naked in Viola’s bunk.”
“Non.”
“Tell
me, Brigitte.”
“Non!”
“Brigitte…!”
“Non, non, non!” She suddenly jumped to
her feet and ran back into her cabin.
After
that I had to make my own breakfast, so I settled for what I could find in the
way of eggs and ham, which I fried to a frazzle. Brigitte didn’t reappear from
her cabin and I decided to let her be. Maybe she would talk again when she was
ready. In the meantime, there was one man I knew who had spoken to Viola.
Marcel in the marina office at St. Malo.
More
in desperation than anticipation, I pulled myself together and set off down the
canal path to Rennes where I found a public telephone. After some confusion
with the operator, I eventually got through to the marina office at le port des Bas Sablon. The Frenchman
who answered didn’t understand a word I was saying, but fortunately he went
away and fetched Marcel. I had already decided to say nothing about Viola’s
death. The police didn’t believe me, so why should Marcel?
“Monsieur Bodine?” Fortunately, this was
a Frenchman who could speak passable English.
“You
remember me, Marcel?”
“Oui. You are the American who was here
two days ago?”
“That’s
right. I need to talk to you about Viola Bracewell, the girl who—”
“Ah, I
remember, the girl who is taking the Breton
Belle down to La Roche Bernard.”
“Yes.
Well, she was on her way down river.
Right now she’s disappeared and I don’t know where the hell she is. That’s why
I’m phoning. Look, can you tell me any more about her? Do you know any of her
friends? What about this man, Hassim?”
“That
is a lot of questions, Monsieur
Bodine, and I do not know all the
answers. But why do you ask? What has happened to her?”
“It’s
not an easy story. The fact is she’s… well, she’s just plain missing. Isn’t
there anything you can tell me about her?”
“Not
much, I do not know the young woman. I have seen her once or twice with Monsieur Hassim.” He paused, as if
thinking. “There was one strange thing—”
“Yes?”
“She
came to see me early that morning you left St. Malo. She said someone was… how
do you say it in English… someone was on her tail. She said that was why she
agreed to let you go along with her. I think perhaps she was afraid, you see,
of whoever it was. She thought you might help her. Protect her.”
Protect
her? She had been depending on me to protect her? Damn! Further feelings of
unreasoned guilt came rumbling out thick and fast.
“Someone
was on her tail, you say?” I bit my lip and felt the pain. “You mean someone
was actually after her? God sakes, Marcel, who was after her?”
“She
did not say.”
“What
did you do about it?”
“Me?”
I pictured him shrugging. “It is not my business to do anything, Monsieur.”
“So
you didn’t tell the police?”
“Non.”
I
gritted my teeth. “Okay. So, tell me again what she said about this person who
was after her.”
“She
did not say a lot. She just told me that someone was on her tail. And there was
something about a ring, but I was busy at the time and I did not take much
notice.”
“Hell!
What about the ring?”
“I do
not know.”
“Why
did she tell you all this?”
“Who
knows? Perhaps she was frightened? She sounded frightened.”
“And
you did nothing about it?”
There
was a short silence on the line and I caught a mental image of Marcel shrugging
again, a typical Gallic gesture. It was, after all, none of his business.
“Did
she say it was a man who was tailing her?” I went on. As I spoke I had visions
of the big youth who had attacked her.
“I
cannot be sure… I think she just said someone
was after her.”
“All
right, Marcel. Thanks for your help, anyway.”
“There
is one other thing.”
“Yes?”
“Monsieur Hassim phoned this office
yesterday. He wanted to check that the boat had left St. Malo.”
I
stiffened. “Oh? Why?”
“I do
not know.”
“I
figure you need to ask more questions, Marcel.”
Next I
telephoned Simone at the number she’d given me in England. The truth was that I
needed her, needed her company and her good sense, and yet I had slept with
that young nymphomaniac, Brigitte. I tried to hang tight onto my guilty
feelings and hoped she wouldn’t be fooled.
Uncomfortable
words rattled round inside my head: you went
to bed with a teenager!
But I couldn’t help myself.
A
feeble excuse!
“Henry!
Don’t tell me you’re missing me already?” Simone sounded pleased I had called.
There was a magical tone in her voice and it only added to my problems.
“You
bet I am, sweetheart. I miss you more than you can realize. But, right now, I
need your help.” Before the conversation could stray in the wrong direction, I
briefly outlined what had happened to Viola, adding in the detail of her death
because I knew Simone would believe me.
“Good
God! You’ve certainly got yourself into a right mess, Henry. What do you want
me to do?”
“Find
out what you can about Viola Bracewell. There must be people you can ask. And
see what you can dig up about this man, Ali Hassim. He’s a big noise in banking
so he shouldn’t be difficult to trace.”
“I’ll
do what I can. How will I contact you?”
“You
can’t, Simone. Wait for me to call you again.”
“All
right. You have the numbers of the other hotels.”
“Sure.
And I’ll call you back in a day or two,” I told her.
“Okay,
Henry. But take care.” She sounded really concerned.
“You
bet.” I told her again that I missed her like hell and I said absolutely
nothing about Brigitte L’Orly. She blew me a kiss down the line and I wished it
was for real.
I set
off back towards the canal, but I hadn’t gone more than a few yards along the
highway when a police car pulled up alongside me. I recognized it straight
away.
“Monsieur Bodine. Bonjour.” Inspector Le Fevre leaned from the passenger window. The same
junior cop was at the wheel, but he sat silently staring into space like a
Trappist monk.
“Yes?”
I snapped back.
“You
are still here?”
“Yeah.
That certainly seems to be the case.” I pointedly looked down at myself. “Yep,
I really am still here.”
“Don’t
try to make a fool of me, Monsieur
Bodine. I could make things very difficult for you. If you have any sense you
will get back on your boat and get out of Rennes as quickly as possible. We do
not like troublemakers here.”
“Really?
So I take it you don’t like me too
much?”
“Not
at all, Monsieur. I do not like you
at all. Did you find your missing dead body?”
“No.”
“I
thought not.” He retreated back into the car and stabbed a finger at the road
ahead. The junior cop gunned the car’s engine and it took off in a blaze of
burning tyres and screaming clutch plates.
“And I
don’t care too much for you.” I said to the empty space where Le Fevre had
been.
When I
got back to the boat Brigitte was sitting on the side, dangling her feet in the
water. She was wearing that same swimsuit she had worn the previous day. I got
the impression it might have been her favourite.
She
gave me a sultry look. “Where have you been?”
“Making
a couple of phone calls.”
“I was
going to make you the breakfast, but you left without telling me where you had
gone.”
“Didn’t
think you were in the mood to talk.” I jumped aboard the boat and slipped down
the companionway. “Or to cook my breakfast.”
Brigitte
followed me into the saloon. “I will cook you something now?” She seemed
persistent as if she wanted to make amends. Maybe I had misjudged her.
“No
thanks.” Whatever her motives, I had no stomach for another meal. Neither was I
particularly keen to hang about here any longer, waiting for something to
happen. While walking back to the boat I had made up my mind what to do next,
so I gave the engine its daily check over and prepared to motor on down stream
in the direction of La Roche Bernard. Okay, so maybe I was deserting Viola if
she was hidden somewhere nearby, but the girl was dead anyway, what more could
I do?
Brigitte
went off to her cabin announcing pointedly that she was going to take a shower.
She seemed to be in something of a bad mood. Just because I didn’t fancy her
offer to cook breakfast? No, there was probably more to it that that.
Down
the corridor, the shower cubicle door slammed shut.
Convinced
it was best to forget about Brigitte for the time being, I started the engine.
I was out on the bank untying the forward mooring rope when a heavyweight
figure came bumbling down the path towards me. Heavyweight? This guy was even
bigger than the obnoxious young gorilla. This was hulk of a man bulged in all
directions. He was getting on for two hundred eighty pounds, and he moved with
the lumbering gait of a bull elephant. He wore a sombre grey suit which would
have covered me twice over, and his eyes were hidden behind dark blue shades.
As he came closer he began shouting volubly in French and waving his arms. I
hadn’t a clue what he was saying.
“Either
speak English or go away!” I shouted back. I was in no mood for more trouble.
“Pardon?”
“Oh, clear
off, will you!”
“You… stay…
where… you… are!” This time he replied haltingly in heavily accented English.
“Why?
What do you want?”
“I
must… sp-speak with… Viola… Miss Bracewell.”
“You
can’t.”
He
came to a standstill right in front of me. “Where… is Miss Bracewell?”
“I
don’t know.” I said, playing it cool. Or doing my best to.
“I
have… a car… to wait… at road.” He jerked a stubby thumb. “She… must come… now.”
“Now
look here, big guy,” I was getting a bit peeved by this time. “I don’t know
where she is. So tell me what this is all about.”
“Merde!” His eyebrows shot up and he
lifted his shades to reveal a pair of piercing little pig-like eyes. “She is… here!”
“She’s
not here.” I repeated. “That’s what I
said the first time and that’s what I meant. Who the hell are you anyway?”
“I
will… search the… boat.” He pushed past me and I let him go. Judging by his
size alone, he could have flattened me in an instant.
“You
won’t find anything!” I shouted, but already he was diving down into the
saloon.
I
retied the mooring line, cut the engine and sat down on the canal bank to await
developments. After some minutes I heard him hammering on the door of the
shower cubicle. This, I thought, is going to be interesting. What followed was
the sound of the door opening, followed by the distinctive screech of Brigitte
giving the big guy a piece of her mind. She matched his voluble French word for
word. There was a brief silence and then the shower door slammed shut once
more.
I just
sat and waited. Then, feeling more than a bit cheesed off, I wandered along the
canal bank to see what was going on at the young couple’s yacht. To my
surprise, it was moving off. The mast was stowed and the boat chugged away from
the bank under engine power. The big youth was at the tiller, but I saw no sign
of his companion. Whatever their business here at the canal bank, it seemed to
be concluded.
I
wandered back to the Breton Belle in
time to see hulk’s head came up through the hatch.
He
glared at me. “Where… is she?”
“I
told you,” I said calmly. “I don’t know.”
Despite
his weight, the hulk jumped onto the bank and approached me menacingly. “You
lie! Where is she?”
I
stood my ground and squared up to him. It was all bluff on my part, of course,
but bluff was the only thing I had left. “Look, chum, I don’t know who the hell
you are or what this has got to do with you, but I told you the truth. Viola
Bracewell is not here.”
For
some seconds he just stood there, his mouth open, his eyes glaring at me. Then,
once again, he exclaimed, “Merde!”
“Call
it what you like, big boy, it don’t help any. Now, are you going to tell me
what this is all about?”
In
reply he jammed his dark blue shades back over his eyes and stormed off down
the path. The ground rumbled beneath the pounding of his gargantuan feet.
Brigitte
came out on deck shortly after, again wearing her one-piece swimsuit. She gave
me a sultry look. “What was he doing here?”
“Looking
for Viola. You know him?”
“
Maybe.” She glanced away, a sure sign she was hiding something. “I have seen
him before.”
“Who
is he?”
“A
stupid fool.” She went out onto the foredeck. “Just a stupid fool.”
“What do
you know about him?”
“Nothing.”
That, clearly, was another lie, but I figured it was as much as I was going to
get out of her for the time being. She was in an uncooperative frame of mind
and I hadn’t much idea how to change it.
There
seemed to be nothing else to keep me so I started up the engine once again.
Glad to be away from that place, I quickly cast off and aimed the Breton Belle out into mid-stream.
Brigitte
spread out a towel on the fore-cabin roof, liberally doused herself in sun tan
lotion and lay down on her back. At first she wore her swimsuit, but once we
had passed beyond the populated area of Rennes and were surrounded by open
countryside she pulled down the upper part to allow the sun onto her breasts. From
the steering position I had no choice but to watch her.
Had I
been so wrong to give in to her undoubted charms? History knows that I
certainly wasn’t the first man to be taken by the attractions of a teenager.
Casanova had a covetous eye for young girls. According to his memoirs, he had
sex with twenty two different girls of fifteen years and under. The father of
one of the girls had his daughter locked up in a convent for punishment, which
was probably a good idea for those days. Undeterred, Casanova went to the
convent and had sex with one of the nuns. That was sheer panache without a
doubt. Then there was Chaplin, he loved young girls. Stories abound about his
affairs with teenagers, Mildred Harris and Lita Grey. Some say he started
grooming young Lita for films when she was only twelve and he made her pregnant
when she was only sixteen. According some accounts of his sexual prowess, he
made a veritable second career out of deflowering young virgins. Howard Hughes,
they say, was obsessed with women’s breasts. He is reputed to have kept a large
harem of women in a number of houses specially set up for his seductions and
his favourites were teenage girls with large breasts.
So, if
the rich and famous could have their way with innocent young girls where was
the harm in me lusting over someone so far removed from innocence as Brigitte?
After all, she craved it!
Then I
shook my head as I recalled the sound of Simone blowing me a kiss down the
phone line. Dear, sweet Simone. I had betrayed her. The longer I was away from
her, the more I thought about her and the more I wanted to continue what we had
begun that last night in St. Malo. Maybe, I thought, something special could
develop between us, given the right chance.
We had
been in open, empty countryside for about half an hour when Brigitte rose from
her sunbathing and crawled along the saloon roof towards me. Her mood seemed to
have perked up somewhat since we had left Rennes. She was grinning again and I
should have taken that as a warning.
“You
are thinking,” she purred.
“Thinking
and sinking,” I replied. “Sinking like a ship that’s lost with all hands.”
“Idiot!”
She hopped down onto the deck beside me. “You are thinking about something. You
have a thoughtful expression on your face. Maybe you are thinking of me. Non?” She moved closer and began to
squeeze her body between me and the boat’s controls.
“No,
Brigitte!” I snapped. This time I found it easier to refuse her.
“Non?”
“That’s
what I said.”
“Fool!”
She snorted and went back to sunbathe on the fore-cabin roof.
Farther
on down the River Vilaine, well beyond Rennes, I caught up with the young
couple’s yacht. The big youth was still at the tiller and he glowered at me as
I came up behind and pulled out to pass him. He didn’t seem quite so big after
the visit from the French hulk. The girl was sunbathing in a bikini on the
cabin roof, eyes closed and apparently asleep. The guy swept his gaze from his
bikini-clad girlfriend across to Brigitte and back again. There really was no
contest and he must have known it because his eyes swung once again back to
Brigitte and stayed there. I waved casually to him as we pulled past the yacht.
That
creep gave me the willies.
Shortly
after, as the yacht was fast slipping away behind us, Brigitte went back into
the galley to fetch a can of cola from the ice box. As she strolled by me, she
smiled, brushed against my arm and wiggled her bottom.
“Get
back onto the roof, Brigitte!”
She
laughed seductively.
Around
mid-day I pulled into the riverbank at a quiet spot in the shade of overhanging
trees. Even with a breakfast inside me, I was getting hungry.
“You
want something to eat?” I called out to Brigitte.
She
sat up, studied me thoughtfully, and then said, “I will make the lunch.”
“If
you insist.” I had already decided that she might as well make herself useful.
She could make up for her lack of diligence over breakfast.
I
jumped ashore and moored the boat while Brigitte scampered down the
companionway. When she came back on deck ten minutes later she carried a couple
of plates stacked with sandwiches. I dived down to the galley to fetch a couple
of cold beers stashed away at the back of the ice box. When I got back on deck
my plate sat on its own beside the steering position. Brigitte had gone back to
her towel and resumed her sunbathing. Not too concerned about the girl or her
attitude problem, I sat at the Breton
Belle’s stern and ran my thoughts over the mystery while I ate. Somewhere
there had to be a family who cared about Viola Bracewell: but who and where
were they? I hoped Simone would be able to get hold of their address.
Address!
The
answer hit me smack in the eyes.
Of
course! I jumped up and raced through the boat to the cabin Brigitte had been using.
In one drawer Viola had left a bundle of letters, and letters always carried
return addresses. This time I felt less reticent about opening them. The
initial shock of Viola’s death had worn off. I spread them out on the bunk;
about a dozen of them in all. The first couple of envelopes contained private
messages from Hassim to Viola written on expensive velum paper with ornate
letter heads. Just a few lines at random told me that they were extremely
intimate. I began to wonder at Viola’s assurance that she was still a virgin.
The
third envelope contained a letter from a London diamond merchant and a cheque
for two hundred and fifty thousand pounds sterling. Hell! That was one whole
lot of francs or dollars at even the worst rate of exchange.
I sat
down on the bunk and read the short letter. It was written in pretty formal
language and one sentence stood out like a sore thumb; “…this is the best deal we
were able to effect on your behalf for the sale of your diamond ring…”
The
ring! Marcel had said there was something about a ring. And who else would give
Viola a diamond ring except a fiancé? Ali Hassim. Another memory suddenly
sprang into focus. Viola’s voice that morning, shouting, “It isn’t yours. He
gave it to me!”
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