With all the shutters closed, the only light to disturb the black interior came from the gap she’d just created. Her prey had the advantage of eyes accustomed to the dark so, once she was inside, she leaned against the doors and heaved them as far open as they would go. Now she could see much of the living area. She knew the house well. It was single story but with wings on either side of this large living room. One housed the servant’s quarters and the kitchen with its extensive larder. The other contained the bedrooms and Mrs. Cornfelt’s study.
“Don’t be afraid,” she called, perhaps to herself and took two steps forward. “We aren’t here to harm or punish you. I won’t tell my men to come in from outside. You may take whatever you can carry, but you must leave. This isn’t your house. We’ve promised to look after it for the owners… Do you hear me?” To be sure, she repeated her warning in pidgin French.
She noticed the tremor in her voice. The adrenaline had run out. This had never been a good idea, but it had taken this far to realize just how foolish it was. She edged backward. Her skewer was up in front of her face like the deadly horn of a unicorn. Her senses tingled just a fraction of a second too late. She heard the crash beside her and felt an arm around her throat. A strong hand grabbed her wrist. It shook her weapon loose almost without effort. The intruder’s mouth was against her ear. She could feel the warm breath that spit the French words into her ear.
“If you scream, you’ll be sorry.”
Almost before the phrase was completely out, she let out a shrill, deafening scream.
The guards at the gate of the emperor’s lodge looked at one another, just briefly. There had been something vaguely human about the scream, but this was the jungle. The monkeys and the cockatoos, and the wild pigs spent much of their time impersonating the agony of human suffering. Neither of the two men bothered to mention his doubts to the other for fear of sounding foolish. They’d been caught out too many times by the tricks of the jungle. But both secretly prayed it had been the sound of a monkey, or a bird, or a pig — anything but a concubine.
49.
A high-ranking representative of the French Administration in Saigon named Billotte, the head of the national Gendarmerie, Chief Inspector Lacouture with his assistant, and Mr. Copeland from the United States Embassy arrived on a Westland-Sikorsky S51 military helicopter that put them down directly in front of the Ban Methuot Sureté building. Travel in the monsoons would have been a lot easier if everyone had a helicopter. The sound of the rotor passing overhead was the first indication to Desailly that his message had made it through.
He hurried across town in his truck to greet the delegates. The two senior Frenchmen in the party seemed extremely angry about things and were intent on taking out that anger on anyone in Ban Methuot who had the decency to have remained alive for their visit. Desailly was at the front of the queue when it came to pecking order, but he bore the scars of a life of beak wounds so it mattered little to him. For Inspector Henry, however, it was a completely different matter. He’d reached the stage in his colonial life where he’d been the big mango for a while, and he wasn’t used to having anyone criticize him or his methods. It was extremely degrading therefore when Lacouture announced, almost the second he stepped down from the helicopter, that he would be conducting a private inquiry with his own assistant, beginning immediately. They didn’t even take Henry on their trek but left him bubbling in his own bile at the police station while Sgt. Nga showed them around.
It wasn’t until mid afternoon that the visitors and the locals were able to sit around the meeting table at the Sureté. It was a building that had been white at some stage, but the paint had grayed and the vines had climbed its walls to give it the appearance of some ancient tomb about to crumble. They sat in the open back alcove where rain fell from the overhanging roof like a tinsel curtain. Lacouture called on Desailly for a thorough briefing of everything he knew about the events leading up to the murders. A shorthand stenographer from Saigon took notes. Although he spoke French with an awful accent, Mr. Copeland seemed to grasp most of what was going on.
When the summary was over, Lacouture asked his first question to the table. “Is there any doubt in anyone’s mind that the American and Mme. Dupré were having an affair?”
Henry nominated himself spokesman. “She was naked in his bed. She’d recently been seeded. Of course there’s no way of telling whether the semen was that of Monsieur Rogers. But it must be assumed he was…”
“Exactly,” Lacouture interrupted. “In fact this strikes me as an investigation fraught with assumptions, Monsieur Henry. (Henry was speared through the heart that his superior would use a title other than his rank) Guns fired in the middle of the night and you couldn’t find one witness?”
“This is the Wild West, Superintendent,” said Desailly as a sort of tentative support for the local policeman. “I’m sorry to say gunfire isn’t that unusual. I’m sure everyone just turned over and went back to sleep.”
“I’d very much like to ask about Mr. Rogers, if I may,” said Copeland. After an hour of listening to the French, this was his first interjection, but still it seemed to annoy everyone in the room. “I believe he was very upset about the death of his wife.”
“Of course,” Henry answered.
“And you believe he could have been temporarily insane enough to have committed murder?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t need to think about that?”
“No,” Henry answered quite emphatically. “I’ve often seen the combination of grief and intoxicants turn a man mad. Plus, he’s American. What can I say?”
Far from being insulted, Copeland laughed as if it were the funniest thing he’d heard. “But you have no evidence,” he said at last.
“We have the murder weapon.”
“Which has no fingerprints.”
“It was submerged in the mud beside the body.”
“I see. And how do you explain…?”
The Chief Inspector believed he’d let the American play long enough. “Mr. Copeland. I have to remind you, you were invited as an observer.”
“I’m so terribly sorry. It’s just that one of our respected citizens has been accused of murder, and is not in a position to stand up for himself. Naturally the Embassy is concerned.”
“I appreciate that, just as I hope you appreciate the fact that this is my investigation. If you don’t mind.”
Copeland nodded and Lacouture directed his attention to the local policeman. “Henry, according to your report, you have formulated a hypothesis. It is your opinion that Administrator Dupre arrived unexpectedly at the missionary’s house and that, in a fit of rage, the American shot at him then killed his lover?”
“It is, sir.”
Lacouture read from the report, “Rogers presumably chased Dupre into the garden and fired shots at him. Dupre collapsed onto the stake and drowned. The American then returned to the house and shot his lover before fleeing.”
“Yes, that is one hypothesis.”
“But, unfortunately, the hypothesis you chose to send to various departments in Saigon.”
“Why is that ‘unfortunate’, sir?”
Copeland laughed and interrupted once more, “You can’t honestly believe that, can you, Henry?”
Henry took a deep breath and called on his deepest voice. “That is exactly what I believe.”
“Well, M. Henry, I’m not a policeman…”
“Then you should trust one who is.”
“…I’m not a policeman, but I do know horse shit when I see it.”
Henry squeezed his mouth into a hurt smile and looked to his superior for support. “Sir, I believe we could get through this debriefing a lot faster without civilians in the room. (The Government representative looked up and raised one eyebrow) I mean foreign civilians, naturally M. Billotte. Pardon me.”
“M. Copeland,” Lacouture said calmly. “Henry is right, of course. You have no jurisdiction over this investigation. In fact I
can’t say I actually know what your position is at your embassy. The Ambassador was quite vague on your qualifications. (Henry’s smile widened) But, Henry, whether the gentleman is qualified to assess your report or not, I have to say I agree totally with his appraisal.”
“What?” The smile was gone in a blink.
“It is indeed the shit of a horse, and I’m sorry you sent it to other agencies to read before I had a chance to censor it.”
The air had been punched out of the inspector. “I…I’m sorry you see it like that.”
“So you should be. Your investigation ignored several facts and skirted around evidence that didn’t fit your hypothesis. For example, the Administrator aborts an important trip north, and sneaks back into Ban Methuot in the dead of night, presumably to catch his wife in the act of being unfaithful to him.”
“There’s no evidence to that effect,” said Henry, half to himself.
“Why else would he instruct his driver to park off the road in the rain for the entire afternoon? There they sat in silence until the sun went down and started back in the dark. Dupré was apparently topping himself up with cognac for most of that time.” Lacouture called across to his assistant. “What do we have after that, Jacques?”
The young man read the driver’s quotation from his notebook. “Without any explanation, the Administrator got me to drop him off round back of the jail. We got there around two. He told me to go back to my place and wait there till I heard otherwise. I wasn’t to tell anyone he was back.”
“There,” Lacouture said. “Doesn’t that strike you as just a little strange? Are these not the actions of a jealous husband?”
“Perhaps so, sir,” Henry conceded. “He disturbs his wife in bed with the American who becomes enraged, chases him out of the house and shoots at him.”
“And misses.”
“But causes him to stumble over the submerged fence and impale himself on the stake.”
“And then Rogers returns to shoot the wife?”
“To keep her quiet.”
“The wife who has remained calm and naked on the bed in spite of all this drama that’s taking place in the garden?”
“She…she might have been drunk.”
“As might you, Monsieur Henry. And a drunken administrator probably would need little help in stumbling over a fence and impaling himself. It would appear you have been more intent on preserving the reputation of your administrator and his wife than in actually conducting an investigation. I believe the only way we will be able to solve this mystery is to find the American.”
“Are you discounting him as a suspect, then?” asked Desailly.
“Not at all,” the senior policeman smiled.
“But it does make him an accessory rather than a suspect,” Mr. Copeland put in.
“No, Monsieur,” Lacouture waggled his finger. “He is certainly still a suspect. We are most anxious to locate Mr. Rogers and involve him in our ongoing inquiries. But, Henry, I’m expunging your report from the records. When we do find him, we shall begin with a blank page, but he still has a great deal of explaining to do. In the meantime, if he hasn’t fallen to the enemy, there seems to be only one logical place for Mr. Rogers to be.”
“The Lac villa,” Henry came alive. “It was the first place we looked, obviously.”
“Yes, I believe your men did walk around and bang on the doors. But this time we’ll be taking the keys with us and looking through the building. If nobody has anything else to say, I suggest we get over there before it gets dark. Fortunately, we have a helicopter so the roads won’t present us with any problems.”
50.
Lac Lake
“I confess it threw me out of my stride when you burst into tears,” Hong said, a slight laugh in her voice.
“I only burst into tears because you screamed.” Bodge’s own voice was still fluttering. “You frightened me. I distinctly told you not to scream, didn’t I?”
Bodge and Hong were down by the lake hidden within the folds of an inlet overgrown with thick vegetation. The rain had let up and there was a rare glimpse of blue sky through the clouds. They’d brought down a razor and a pair of scissors from the villa and Hong was slowly removing the werewolf beard from Bodge’s face. He’d tried to do it himself but his hands still had their involuntary shakes and he was afraid of taking off his nose. He’d told her it was just the booze, but he knew there was more to his wobbles than that.
“I’m not the type of woman who does what she’s told,” she said, squinting as she hacked at the rough growth.
“So it seems.”
An hour earlier in the villa, once she’d realized who had hold of her and was over the shock, they’d sat on the rattan couch talking in whispers. Bodge could see no need for secrecy and was certainly not sufficiently in control of his wits to make anything up. So he told her the lot, from Mrs. Rogers’ horrible death, through his rapid emotional decline, to his seduction at the hands of Mme. Dupré. He told her how coming out of the LSD high had made him extremely ill, but that it also snapped him out of his temporary insanity. Everything had suddenly seemed clear.
His subconscious had toyed with the idea of shooting Monique, but fortunately his common sense had returned to stop such a foolish notion. Instead, he left the Lugar on the pillow beside her. It was a symbol intended to frighten her. He hoped she’d get the message. He’d taken the jeep, driven along the hairy mountain trail to the lake and hidden the vehicle in thick bush half a mile from the villa. And here he’d been ever since. People had come, knocked, tested the chains, walked around, but, before Hong, none had been smart enough to work out his way of getting in and out. He’d hidden in the dark through the day and let himself out at night to breathe fresh air and swim in the lake.
It hadn’t occurred to him he might be in any trouble. He’d just wanted privacy. If anything, he was hiding from Mme. Dupré and the curse. It was naturally a shock to hear from Hong that she and he had died back there in Ban Methuot.
“How did you…? Ouch.”
“Sorry.”
“How did you hear all this?” he asked.
“That you were dead?”
“Yup.”
“From Lady Chama, the M’nong leader.
“And how did she find out?”
“The M’nong have an efficient news network.”
“They must have. No telegraph or phones, traveling on foot. Did she give you any details?”
“No, just that you killed your lover and were shot dead yourself.”
“I suppose it could have been a rumor. One of those Chinese whispers that gets the facts muddled up.”
“She seemed quite certain — There, that’ll do. I’m not a professional but there isn’t a lot of blood.”
“There can’t be many men who get a shave and haircut from the royal consort. Thanks. How do I look?”
“Ugly.”
He laughed. “I shouldn’t have asked.”
He went down to the water and washed his face. Hong looked at him. A big buffalo of a man, but gentle. And she, one of the white herons that sit on the buffaloes’ backs and hitch a slow ride through the paddies. She could weigh no more than a few feathers compared to him. There was something about his bulk that gave her a feeling of security. He would hate her for what she planned to do but she was sure it wouldn’t damage him. He was good and solid and unbreakable.
Bodge lingered at the water’s edge. He’d been making schoolboy errors in his French. Before every statement, every question, he’d had to consider his words, be certain he wasn’t about to make a fool of himself. He was trying so hard to impress her he hadn’t once been Bodge, or perhaps he’d been Bodge at the age of eleven. No woman he’d ever met had made him feel like this.
Although Hong had immediately felt an overwhelming surge of relief that he was alive, she was also sad. She was seeing a man who had come to the end of his rope and had all but lost his grip of it. It threw her. In order for things to work, she couldn’t have
any fondness for him, or sympathy, or personal interest.
He turned back from the water to see Hong sitting like a swirl of vanilla ice cream in her white ao dai. She’d released her long hair from its clasp and was using his scissors to trim the ends. He so wished he had an easel, a set of oils, and even a smidgen of ability so he could capture that beautiful sight.
“Mr. Rogers,” she said, concentrating on her ends. “I understand that you’ve been through an awful few days and I’m certain you could benefit from a little rest.”
Bodge sat cross-legged in front of her. “But?”
“But I wonder whether a diversion might help you through all this. If you think it might, perhaps you could help me with something.”
He would have considered dismantling the Royal Palace brick by brick with his bare hands and rebuilding it upside down if she’d asked. “Our Montagnard project?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve learned something new?”
“Yes. Quite a lot, actually. You’ll recall we were mystified at first as to why only married women were going missing. It didn’t seem logical. There’s no market for the trafficking of older women. But it turned out they had one thing in common. Their husbands are all under contract at the plantation of DeWolff.”
“That doesn’t sound like a coincidence.” Bodge bit his lip to keep in any further inanities. Something about the name of DeWolff registered in the depths of his mind.
“According to the agreement between the French and the local Montagnard elders,” Hong continued. “the men can be farmed out to the planters for no longer than two months at a time. If they don’t volunteer for a second tour, the owners are obliged to let them go.”
Bleeding in Black and White Page 24
