Serpentine

by Thomas Thompson

  The first hotel had no such person. Nor had the second. The third, the Hotel Malaysia, did not have Vitali on its guest ledger either. Just as she was about to hang up in despair, Charmayne thought to ask if a message had been left for her. Indeed there was one. Charmayne rushed to the hotel and found that Vitali was staying at the residence of one “A. Gauthier, Gem Dealer.” She must have sighed with both relief and anticipation at reunion with the man she loved.

  Bangkok police believe that Charmayne checked immediately out of her hotel and took a taxi to Kanit House. Her sudden and unexpected intrusion into the grotesque household of Charles Sobhraj must have precipitated concern, for the Dutch couple was ensconced in the guest apartment. It was not, however, to become a major problem. Charmayne was not in residence long. Belle met her briefly, just enough to take note of how nervous the young French girl was, and how much she loved Vitali Hakim, whose whereabouts nobody seemed to know. The question is, thought Belle, how could the portly Turk have entranced such a shy and appealing girl, with a flair for dressing in bright fabrics? The two women spoke of Thai silk, and Belle promised to give Charmayne the name of a shop that sold quality cloth at fair prices.

  There would be no time for Belle to get further acquainted, or to deliver the name of a favored silk merchant. The next day, December 15, Charmayne was gone—as abruptly as she had come. And where, wondered Belle, had the girl taken herself? Monique shook her head. She was growing increasingly jumpy, her eyes rarely meeting Belle’s. She was thin and pale, despite the Thai sun she sat under.

  “I don’t know,” answered Marie-Andrée. “Who can keep track of hippies?”

  The nude body of a young white female was found that very morning sprawled on the bank of a tidal creek near a beach south of Pattaya. The police assumption, as in the case of Jennie Bolliver, was that another tourist had drowned. It would take many months before an investigation was conducted, and an identity made, and an autopsy performed that would reveal Charmayne Carrou had been strangled. The fingers that clamped about her throat were so strong and savage that the neck bones snapped like twigs.

  Incredibly, the very next night, the Dutch couple was evicted from the guest apartment. They were half carried, half dragged down the service stairs and shoved into Charles’ car. He and Ajay Chowdhury drove away after midnight and did not return until it was almost dawn. They were alone. Their trouser legs were wet and muddy. The first thing Charles did when he entered his apartment was to strip off his pants and call for Dominique to have them cleaned. Dominique smelled the odor of gasoline but asked no questions and did as he was ordered.

  The December 18 edition of the Bangkok Post carried a front-page article with a particularly grisly photograph. The account was erroneous, for it reported that a young Australian couple had been found murdered:

  “The partly-burnt bodies of a young Australian man and woman have been found in a ditch alongside a highway 58 kilometers south of Bangkok … An initial autopsy conducted at the Police Hospital … showed that they had died before being set ablaze …”

  Henricus “Henk” Bintanja and his fiancée, Cornelia “Cocky” Hemker, had been strangled. Then she was smashed in the skull with a board. Both were drenched with gasoline and set afire, and in the flames, they writhed and reached out involuntarily for one another.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Belle and Raoul cut short a fortnight’s pre-Christmas holiday on the beaches south of Bangkok. Uncharacteristic winds had spoiled their rest and they returned to the city chilled by a bleak sun. On the night of their homecoming, December 22, a friend called from the diplomatic community to invite them to a holiday party. They accepted with pleasure, and, on their way out, decided to make an impromptu stop on the fifth floor and say hello to Alain and Monique.

  The penthouse apartment was eerily silent when Belle knocked. For so many months there had usually been music and the sounds of a yelping dog and a screeching monkey and rooms crowded with houseguests and customers. Tonight it was hushed, dark, forbidding—like a house long ago abandoned and condemned. Nonetheless, the door finally opened, and standing there was Dominique, the first French youth to become ensnared. He greeted the cook and his vivacious wife with a troubled face.

  Inside, on a sofa, sat Yannick and Jacques, the former French policemen, now looking like nothing more than children lost in a forest. Had some terrible news devastated these young men? When a car stopped downstairs and a door slammed, Yannick jumped up as if jolted by electrical current and ran to the window. He looked down anxiously to the carport and waited until satisfied that no danger was approaching.

  “Where is everybody?” asked Belle cheerfully.

  Everybody is in Katmandu, came the answer. Alain and Monique and Ajay Chowdhury left suddenly. They planned to spend Christmas in Nepal. There was talk about a casino that Alain enjoyed patronizing, and he had “business” to conduct.

  Belle absorbed the surprising news. “I didn’t know they were going,” she said. “Monique never told me about a Christmas vacation.”

  The departure, Yannick said, was abrupt. They packed and left in an hour, leaving the trio of Frenchmen behind to look after things.

  Belle studied their faces. They all looked so worried and agitated that she suspected some new illness had felled them. Motherly, she put her hand over Dominique’s forehead. It was clammy, but Belle’s intuition told her this was the stuff of fear, not disease. “No,” confirmed Dominique. He and his friends were not sick. They felt better physically this night than they had in months, since before their lives collided with Alain Gauthier.

  Then what? Belle’s curiosity swelled. “You two go on to your Christmas party and have fun,” suggested Dominique. “When you get home, maybe we can tell you what’s the matter.”

  Belle would not have it. She refused to take another step until she learned what was troubling these young men. “No,” she insisted, “tell us now.” She sat down with resolution and folded her arms, bending forward like a priest expecting full confession.

  Yannick fidgeted about the room, as if looking in shadowed corners for alien ears. One dim light glowed against the scarlet wall. Then he stopped and suddenly blurted it all out, pouring terrible histoires onto Belle and Raoul, as if by transferring the horror he would no longer be cursed and haunted. Belle would never forget this moment.

  “You know your friend, Alain?” began Yannick. “Well, he’s a thief. And a robber. And … a murderer. He kills people. He’ll probably kill us—and maybe you if he finds out that you know what we’re telling you.”

  Belle was confused. “I don’t understand,” she said. Was this some party game? How was she supposed to respond?

  Yannick shook his head to silence her. He did not let his tale suffer interruption. He hurried on, aided by interjections from Jacques and Dominique, reminding Belle about the sudden disappearance of Jennie, the American girl, and next Vitali Hakim, the Turk, and Charmayne Carrou, who had come looking for her lover. Lastly, there were the Dutch couple—Henk Bintanja and Cocky Hemker. “They found two bodies outside town while you were on holiday,” said Yannick. “Burned and unidentifiable. We’re sure it’s those Dutch kids.” From his pocket he withdrew a clipping and handed it to Belle. She glanced at the photograph of two charred corpses and winced. “But it says they are Australians,” murmured Belle, reading the account.

  “Keep reading,” ordered Dominique. Deep in the body of the story was the fact that the girl was wearing a brassiere that said “Made in Holland.”

  “It’s got to be those Dutch people,” insisted Yannick. He and Dominique then told of seeing Alain and Ajay drag the drugged bodies of Bintanja and Hemker out of the apartment. “They were almost unconscious,” said Dominique. Alain and his shadow were also carrying a piece of pipe, and a strip of garden hose. They did not return until dawn, and both men had muddy trousers.

  Dominique interrupted here. “Alain told me to take his trousers to the cleaners. I did so and I noticed they smelled
of gasoline.”

  Belle swiveled toward her husband. His face was as stunned as hers. Later the chef would contend that he had been suspicious all along. In retrospect, so was Belle, but she had never imagined the extent of what was going on. She was not yet convinced. Where was the proof? Maybe these youthful travelers had just gotten up and left on their own. They were all nomads, drifting by whim. Visitors had been streaming in and out of the apartments for the entire autumn. Surely not all of them were murdered.

  “Perhaps this might convince you,” said Dominique. He handed Belle a passport. His own. For more than a month, Dominique had been badgering Alain for the return of his travel documents, those put in “safekeeping” the morning after he first met his host in Chiang Mai. Always Alain had managed some excuse, but just before leaving for Katmandu he had given it back. “Look at it!” dictated Dominique. Pages were missing. New pages from somebody else’s passport had been added. Crudely drawn entrance and exit visas to Thailand had been entered. Apparently someone else had used it.

  Did Belle require more? Yannick led the shocked Frenchwoman and her husband into the bedroom, where the small safe was kept. Did Belle and Raoul recall that Yannick’s and Jacques’ passports were stolen in Pattaya from the bungalow that Alain Gauthier had rented? Belle nodded. “I went to the French Embassy and after a big hassle was finally issued a new passport,” said Yannick. “I told the embassy that my original one had been stolen. They asked a lot of questions. They wanted to know by whom? I didn’t have an answer. But I know now.”

  Yannick opened the safe, rummaged inside, and found, among a dozen others in a paper sack, the familiar red-bound French passport. His. He threw it at Belle. Pages were missing. False visa stamps were entered. Yannick took a purple felt marker pen and angrily drew slashes across every page. “At least he won’t be able to use it anymore,” he said bitterly.

  There was more to show and tell. In various places around the two apartments were remnants of dead people—pieces of lost lives—luggage, travel books, souvenirs, letters unmailed or half written. The French boys felt there was enough evidence here to build a solid case of multiple murder against Alain Gauthier et al. But one question burned Belle’s senses as she tried to assess the merit of this tale. Monique. Or Marie-Andrée. Whatever her name really was. Did she know? Did she lie there beside the pool with tanning oil on her limbs, mooning about an uncaring lover, when bodies were falling all about her?

  In unison, the three French youths nodded. “She knew,” said Yannick. “She had to. Anybody with eyes and ears could have figured out what was happening in this apartment.” It was pointed out to Belle that Marie-Andrée often played nurse, bringing “medicine” to the ill.

  “Then we must go to the police,” announced Belle. Quickly, Raoul disagreed. The police would probably not believe her. In fact, they might even trump up a conspiracy and accuse us, agreed the Frenchmen. The best policy for a foreigner to follow in any strange country, particularly the East, is to avoid contact with the law. It is too easy to upset the delicate balance and lose a visa.

  Yannick spoke up hesitantly. All he and the two other Frenchmen wanted at this point was to clear out of Thailand immediately and return to France. He reminded Belle that, as he and Jacques were both ex-policemen, they still had contacts in law enforcement. Once in Paris, they could go to Interpol and let more qualified investigators go to work. Belle nodded. The plan sounded good to her. There remained only one problem. The boys lacked $250 needed for their air fare home. Belle’s eyes sought out Raoul’s. He nodded. “We’ll loan it to you,” said Belle. She looked about the apartment, remembering the nights of wine and music, shuddering now, wanting only to run away and never see the crimson wall or feel the ghosts again.

  A flight was not available until the next midnight, but so terrified were the French boys of Alain’s returning unexpectedly that they went to the airport immediately, purchased tickets, and waited amid the safety of crowds for almost twenty hours. The last thing Yannick did before he left the apartment was to mutilate the lock to Charles’ safe so as to make it difficult to insert a key. Then he took the key he had stolen and threw it into a wastebasket at the airport.

  On their way out of Kanit House, the boys stopped by Belle’s to thank her for helping. They promised to go to Interpol immediately upon arrival in Paris. “I can pull strings,” promised Yannick. “It shouldn’t take long to bust this thing wide open.”

  Belle nodded. So many hundreds of questions were tangled in her head that the moment was a blur. Oddly, at this point, she wondered what had happened to the animals. Where was Frankie, the white spitz, that Monique had adored like a child? “Alain gave it to Suzy, his new girl friend,” said one of the youths. And Napoleon, the monkey? Shrugs. Nobody knew.

  Actually someone knew. When the garbage collector removed the lid from one of the communal trash receptables for the apartment building, he saw something revolting. In the trash was the fly-infested corpse of a dead monkey. It was wearing diapers and its throat had been cut.

  One can fly from Delhi to Katmandu in little more than an hour, the last stretch of which is a magnificent dash alongside the Himalayas, lined up on the left side of the plane like castles of the gods. Then a plunge down through clouds of whipped cream into the valley of Katmandu, a protected bowl of variegated greens like all the salads in a garden. Farmers cling stubbornly to terraced patches of earth on precipitous slopes, and below, at the bottom, the Baghmati River sleeps like a hibernating serpent. It seems for a few precious moments as if time stopped centuries ago, when priests painted huge polychromatic eyes on temple towers that stare unblinking at all who come.

  The alternate route is overland, in a bus that fights its way out of Delhi, along a road congested with bullock carts and sacred cattle who gaze at impatient vehicles with imperious aloofness, through flat stretches of villages baked from clay where the holy river Ganges flows out of the Himalayas on its long journey to the Bay of Bengal. Then, a long and clattering climb up and up, rising to the peak of the world, reaching Katmandu after three days on the road.

  It was by bus that thrifty Annabella Tremont chose to venture forth on the last leg of her personal odyssey. In Delhi she had met two Australian girls who persuaded her to join them on a trip to Katmandu and, now that she was on the eternal bus ride, Annabella was glad she had agreed. The ride itself was tedious, the bus fetid with the odors of rural India, but the drivers were nervy and they sat beneath an array of festive posters that represented their individual gods and goddesses. Several other young people were passengers and at every rest stop there was a hash pipe passed around for fortification.

  After one of the rest stops, Annabella found her seat occupied by an unbudgeable Moslem woman, and she had to squeeze in next to a friendly Canadian boy whose lap was overflowing with travel books and photographic equipment. Before the next rest stop was reached, Annabella discovered that fate had dealt her a good card. She liked her new companion very much. He was tall, several inches over six feet, and a mite gangly, and boyish, and shy, with a wispy blond beard, but he had a sweet face of considerable peace, as if he had fought all his demons and conquered them. Annabella guessed he was going on a religious pilgrimage, but she was wrong. He was going to see a mountain.

  Laddie DuParr was twenty-three and his years had been fuller than most, having taken him from the great flat cereal basket of Manitoba, Canada, to what was soon to be in his reach: a trek up Mount Everest as far as he could hike without professional training. In his shoulder bag were photos and maps of Sagarmatha, the Nepalese word for Everest that means “Mother of the Winds.” Every few minutes, once the bus was in sight of the great range, Laddie would run to the driver and ask if Everest was that peak, or the one over there. Always came a negative shake of the head, for Sagarmatha is a modest woman and hides most of the year behind veils of mist and clouds.

  Sir Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Norgay, the Sherpa guide, were Laddie’s idols, and for hundreds of miles
and dozens of hours he told Annabella tales of courage and challenge. Relationships are formed quickly among travelers, particularly with the young off on exotic larks, and by the time the ancient bus wheezed and rattled into Katmandu, Annabella was attached to the sophisticated farm boy whose excitement over a mountain was genuine and refreshing. The two Australian girls, Mattie and Cora, were gigglers, sitting across the aisle and teasing the new couple, though, in truth, they envied Annabella and Laddie. They all laughed and smoked and sang “Oh, Canada” and “Waltzing Matilda” and “California, Here I Come” and tried to teach the lyrics to a group of Buddhist monks who giggled more than the Australian girls and who tapped spoons against their begging bowls to keep time.

  Laddie DuParr was an attractive find for a woman whose emotions were in disrepair. He was a mixture of old-fashioned values and an insatiable curiosity for the unseen and unexperienced that could be contented only by travel—qualities Annabella understood perfectly. One of seven children born to parents who were the descendants of French-Canadian and New England Yankee pioneers, Laddie grew up on a 200-acre farm where his father raised 100,000 Rock Cornish game hens a year. The village nearest the DuParr farm was so minuscule that it was hardly more than a silo and a gas station, and the only paved road around reached a dead end a few miles before the DuParr place, which was accessible only by a dirt road.

  Probably he would have been reasonably content to stay on the farm and become part of his father’s business had it not been for a high school foreign travel program that extricated Laddie from the house just beyond the dead end and deposited him in a French dairy community where he studied and worked for three months. He flew home from Paris, totally fluent in French, and with the need to see more of a world he barely knew existed. His family was happy that he had enjoyed his sojourn abroad, but now it was time for college and settling down and becoming part of the rich dark soil of Manitoba.