Serpentine

by Thomas Thompson

  The “grand chef,” Belle gathered, was a high-ranking police official. Charles hinted broadly that he had paid $15,000 to “weaken his memory.” Later, Bangkok police would denounce this suggestion of bribery in high places. But it was decidedly curious that a suspected multiple killer—soon to be the most wanted man in Asia-would dance so easily out of custody and into flight. This time Charles did not even have to betray his wife, or his half-brother, or dig a tunnel, or break a bottle of perfume and set it afire.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Dark and sour and a horrendous mess, the two apartments leased by Charles at Kanit House were now under police seal. No one had been inside since the day he rose from the police bench and skipped out of the country. Belle learned that the building’s owner was demanding that police release her property so that the rooms could be cleaned and prepared for new tenants. The moment Herman returned from his enforced vacation, Belle passed along the disturbing news.

  “If that happens,” warned Herman, “then a lot of vital evidence will wind up on a garbage dump somewhere.” Despite the ambassadorial scoldings, Herman decided to undertake one more mission. He went to the Thai police and said, in effect: Someday it is going to be revealed that a mass murderer was arrested by you people, but you let him slip through your hands. He’s probably off killing others because he is a homicidal maniac. And you blew the opportunity to stop him.

  Whether the argument was persuasive, or whether some cop simply sighed and realized the only way to get this bulldog of a Dutchman out of his office was to agree, Herman was granted permission to search the two apartments. With two policemen as escorts, remnants of the Action Committee reassembled in April and entered the house of darkest fantasies. When the door was opened, they beheld a disaster, as if a tropical storm had raged within, and rather than clean up the damage, the occupants had simply abandoned the flotsam and jetsam of their lives. Papers were scattered everywhere, clothing was strewn about, chairs and tables lay on their backs with legs pointed to the ceiling, like dead dogs. The blood red wall cast an eerie glow.

  “Once it was nice in here,” remembered Belle. “There was music playing, always music. And there was wine and good food and people laughing. Charles used to sit over there and watch. He was always watching, studying, like an anthropologist. I don’t think he ever had any fun, though. He wouldn’t permit himself.”

  They searched through the rubble for hours, until their hands were black with dirt, poring over the wreckage and feeling the chill of the dead at their necks. In the end, a formidable mass of evidence was accumulated, all of which Thai police had “overlooked” in their initial raid.

  In the bathroom and bedroom, Herman found an astonishing fifteen kilos of various medicines, pills, potions, ampules, suppositories, most of which tested out to be of a sedative or barbiturate nature. Among these was a bottle marked “Kaopectate” that was a potion to increase diarrhea and stomach trouble, rather than diminish them.

  Among other discoveries:

  —A pair of handcuffs that had been used frequently. Herman theorized that the Dutch couple had been handcuffed to the brass slats of the guest bed in their final hours. There were similar metal scratches on both cuffs and slats.

  —A handkerchief still bearing the faint aroma of gasoline.

  —Half-finished letters in Dutch, apparently in the hand of Cornelia Hemker.

  —The leather shoulder bag owned by Miss Hemker, and a fan and poster she purchased in Hong Kong, mentioned in her letter to her family.

  —A plastic cosmetics bag of floral design owned by Jennie Bolliver. It contained such exotica as seaweed toothpaste and had been given to her as a farewell present by her girl friends in Seattle. Also, the book on Buddhist practice that Jennie had been reading on the flight from Seattle to the Far East. Inside, on the flyleaf, was her name.

  —Used hypodermic needles, along with a four-page handwritten document that told how to administer injections, plus a drawing of the human body with the best sites for sticking needles. It was believed that Marie-Andrée wrote the document, and one of the committee members commented, “This will be valuable in case she pleads that she had nothing to do with what was going on in here.”

  —Transactions of gem sales to customers, including prominent names in Bangkok, and several members of the diplomatic community!

  —Hundreds of hotel bills, used airplane tickets, money exchange receipts, and car rental papers. Among them was discovered an automobile insurance paper from Spain and a bank statement both owned by Vitali Hakim. His silver necklace was also found.

  —Driver’s licenses belonging to twenty different people.

  “Why on earth did he keep all this stuff?” wondered Angela Knippenberg as she sifted through the incriminating papers.

  “He thought he was God,” answered Herman, who had formed an accurate picture of the man he had never met. “He thought he could bluff his way out of any predicament.”

  “And indeed he has,” put in Belle.

  “Was he attractive?” wondered Angela. The few pictures that Belle had snapped were of poor quality. Belle chewed on the question. “In a sensuous way, yes,” she said. “He didn’t do anything for me, but I can see how women might be turned on. He was intelligent and quick and mysterious. He had strength. His voice was very soft, romantic, very macho. He always paraded his masculinity as if he were afraid it might go away.”

  Then Angela discovered a cache of photographs amid a box that contained hundreds of paperback mysteries. One showed Charles and Marie-Andrée posing in a bar somewhere—appearing very rich, bored, like celebrities snared by paparazzi. In the foreground, Charles was dominant, dressed in a casual but well-tailored suit, looking a trifle like the French actor Alain Delon. Slightly behind him sat Marie-Andrée, on a barstool, sultry, faking a woman secure in her sexuality, in her hold on this man.

  They also found, among Marie-Andrée’s possessions, a snapshot of Charles in bed, on rumpled sheets. Naked, he stared insolently, a teasing smile on his face. His hand cupped his penis. It was spectacularly erect. “At least,” murmured Belle, “she had this picture every night.”

  But where were they? The assumption was that Charles was hiding out in the Far East, waiting until it was safe to return to Bangkok. Every night Belle tried to sleep, with the thought of Gauthier’s reappearance tormenting her. Then the mail brought a postcard from, of all places, Switzerland. From the man himself, it informed that all was well, that he was conducting business in Europe, that he would see her “soon.”

  Upon reading the postcard, Herman was elated. If he was right, fate was giving them one more opportunity to catch their quarry. Among the storm of papers found in the apartments, Herman had discovered the address of Jean Dhuisme’s family outside Paris, as well as the address of Song, Charles’ mother, still living in Marseilles with her invalid husband. “I’d bet everything I own that they’re headed for France,” said Herman. Belle agreed. Once Charles had told her that France was an easy country to enter without proper documents. The trick was to rent a car in Geneva—from whence the postcard had been mailed—then arrive at the French border after 8 P.M., when traffic is heavy with people going to and from the casino at Divonne les Bains. The douaniers wave everybody through without checking, he had told her.

  But Herman was loath to entrust the notion of Gauthier’s whereabouts to Bangkok police, doubting if it would be cabled to Paris. Fortunately, a Catholic priest whom Belle knew was at that moment preparing a return to France. He agreed to carry a packet containing a summation of the case, and the addresses of Dhuisme’s family and Song. The priest delivered the packet to the Prefecture of Police in Paris with a plea that it required immediate action. But his effort was in vain. The French police did not investigate, nor did they even telephone the places mentioned. What was alleged to have happened half a world away apparently did not whet Gallic interest. Which was too bad, because Herman’s theory was one hundred per cent correct. Charles and Marie-André
e and Jean Dhuisme were indeed in France and passed several unmolested days exactly where Herman had suspected they would.

  “The French behaved very poorly in this matter,” said Herman later. “But then, so did the British, and a lot of other people. They thought we were nuts.”

  Later in 1976, Belle and Raoul left Bangkok and moved home to France. Fear was not the major determinant, although it contributed its share. Belle had reached the position where she could no longer live in a house where so many dreams had died, or in a country that held little reverence for human life. When she arrived in Paris, Belle played one more scene. She had brought with her a book on palmistry that had been found in Charles’ apartment. Once he had mentioned that it was a favorite volume, that it had been purchased in India, that he had memorized most of it, that he had encouraged Marie-Andrée to study it. Belle telephoned a noted Paris psychic and made an appointment. She handed over the book and said, “Please tell me what you feel about the person who owns this book.” She did not give the psychic any further information.

  The psychic examined the book, closed her eyes, meditated, then dropped it suddenly on the floor, as if the pages had become poisoned. On her face were disgust and fear. She ordered Belle to throw the book away, or burn it, or keep it wrapped in black cloth. It was a “porte malheur.”

  “But what do you see?” pressed Belle.

  “Chains,” answered the psychic. “Chains … and prison … and high trees.”

  “What is the future for the person who owns this book?”

  The psychic terminated the appointment and pushed Belle to the door. Just as she shut it, she hissed, “Death.”

  Next Belle went to a respected handwriting expert and presented samples of Charles and Marie-Andrée’s penmanship. Of Charles, the expert said, “He was hurt as a young person. He experienced great trouble. And he wants revenge on the world.”

  And Marie-Andrée? The analyst answered, “This one is easier. It is the hand of a woman. She has no moral sense whatsoever.”

  Now the families began journeys to the East to claim their children, what was left of them. In Istanbul, Leon Hakim was in his clothing shop at the Spice Market when a call from the local police delivered the sorrowful news. Vitali, his son, was believed dead in faraway Thailand.

  When he was unable to learn more from either Turkish police or from maddening transcontinental telephone calls that seemed to drop into a void, the aging and portly merchant flew to the East alone. He had not seen his son for years, not since the one night that Vitali had suddenly appeared at his door with hair longer than a woman and with silver necklaces about his chest. When he reached Bangkok, Leon Hakim wandered frustratingly about the city, knocking on police doors, encountering smiling little men who could not speak his language. One afternoon Leon sat in the lobby of his hotel, his head buried in his hands, weeping. When the concierge asked what was the matter, Leon wept, “It’s my son. I can’t find him. He’s dead—and I can’t even find him.”

  Finally the right police door opened, and Leon was given the particulars of his son’s drugging and death by fire. He had not been told the grisly details, and when he was shown a photograph of the young man whose name meant “life” but whose last image was a blackened body and a face whose tongue protruded grotesquely, Leon Hakim collapsed in a dead faint.

  When he was revived, Leon asked, “May I take my son home?”

  No. The body could not be released until the trial.

  “What trial? Who killed him?”

  The police did not answer. Someday there would be a trial, presumably, when the person who committed this murder was apprehended.

  Not until the following autumn, almost a year after the murder, were the remains of Vitali Hakim mailed home to Turkey. His father put the small container of ashes and bone into a refrigerator at his synagogue and asked the rabbis for permission to bury his son in sanctified ground. Under Jewish law, adequate remains of a corpse must be available to establish positive identification. The rabbis met for three days to study the matter, while Leon and Rachel Hakim waited in agonizing suspense.

  Their decision was favorable, perhaps bending custom in deference to the Hakims’ stature and respect in the community.

  The funeral was held on a hot Sunday in Istanbul’s major synagogue, Neve Shalom, and the family were flattered that the ancient house of worship was full. Istanbul’s affluent Jews usually go away for weekends. The remains were transferred to a coffin that, it was said, cost 100,000 Turkish lira. The funeral was elaborate and comforting to the family.

  “Do not mourn too much,” said Leon to his relatives. “I lost my son a long time ago, even before he was killed.”

  He heard someone murmur the word “hippie” and Leon whirled in modest anger. “If Vitali was a hippie, then God made him a hippie.”

  At the burial in Arnavut-Koy, in the separate section for Sephardic Jews, Leon stood for a long time over his son’s grave. Beside him was Israel, the eldest, more than ever a prosperous and prominent citizen, the antithesis of his kid brother.

  “How sad this is,” mourned Israel. “Vitali was looking for freedom, but he found death.”

  And in Katmandu, Christopher took Francine’s hand and led her delightedly through the crowds of giggling Tibetan women and worshipers spinning prayer wheels beside the Temple of Bouddhanath. They must hurry. The arduous climb to the Kopan Monastery was just ahead. How pleased Jennie would be to see them! Christopher suspected that she knew he was coming, even though the postcard he had mailed from somewhere on the road had been indefinite as to day or even month. If Jennie were standing at the entrance in welcome, he would not be surprised.

  As the couple trudged up the ruts to Kopan, their eyes dazzled by the heavy blankets of rhododendron in bloom, showering the valley with reds and pinks, Christopher wondered what changes had taken place in the young woman he had once loved, and who had once walked beside him on this same path. Surely she had located peace and serenity; surely she would understand that his love for Francine had deepened. Francine had been a good traveling companion, not as adventuresome as Jennie, but usually game for whatever right-hand turn Christopher decided to make. After a few days in Katmandu, it was their intention to return to Seattle. Get married. Settle down. Perhaps open a business. Plants. Spices. Handicrafts. Christopher counted on his fingers; Jennie had been in residence at the monastery for almost half a year. Surely the wounds of their broken love affair were healed by now.

  Near the end of the long climb, Christopher heard the laughter of the Tibetan children from the monastery school. He suspected that Jennie would be found amid them, probably leader of a game of tag. She had always adored the youngsters. Once Jennie told Christopher that upon her death she hoped to be reincarnated as a child who would attend the Kopan school.

  Engulfed by a group of little boys in bright purple robes and red clogs on their feet, Christopher knelt among the monks-to-be and tried to remember the few words of Nepali that he once knew. “Jennie?” he asked, drawing blank looks in response. Then he saw a blackboard propped up against a great pipal tree whose massive trunk contained a lovely shrine to Buddha and which was the heart of the monastery. On it was written “Meditation for Jennie. 4 P.M.” A surge of happiness filled Christopher and he hurried to the main hall, where monks and nuns were emerging from an afternoon study course. Christopher found a Western nun and inquired about Jennie. Would she be coming out soon? Could he visit with her before the meditation began?

  The nun shook her head sadly. “Jennie died in Bangkok last October,” she said. “We’ve only just gotten confirmation.”

  He did not weep until he reached the little hill above Kopan, where once they had pitched their tent and slept beneath the Himalayas. Standing there now, he was unable to summon emotional strength from the teachings of Buddha, from the promise of a renewed life after death. All he could feel at this moment was loss-irrevocable, maddening, incomprehensible loss. Crying, he sat alone on their hilltop, u
ntil the sun fell behind the great mountains and the world turned dark.

  It took a complex and exhausting three weeks for Charles to lead his loyal companions from the bench in the corridor of the Bangkok police building to the boulevards of Paris. By rented car they drove down the long elephant trunk of southern Thailand to where it empties into Malaysia. At the border the car was abandoned and Charles instructed Marie-Andrée and Jean Dhuisme to stroll casually across on foot. Then, using a series of taxis and buses, the suspected killers threaded their way to Pinang, the drowsy colonial city founded by the British East India Company in the eighteenth century. A week passed while they hid in a cheap hotel under false names.

  Marie-Andrée and Jean Dhuisme slept most of the first few days in Pinang, trying to repair nerves shattered by the grueling dash. But in midweek Charles, displaying an astonishing insensitivity, imported Suzy, the Bangkok waitress, to join his group. She turned up looking happy, fresh, lovely, and even younger than her twenty years. It seemed a deliberate act of cruelty toward Marie-Andrée and she exploded in fury. “You’ve dragged me into hell,” she screamed, “and now you bring on my replacement.” She hurled an ultimatum: me or her, take your pick.

  This time Charles was unable to douse the jealous fire with whispers and promises and an insistence that Suzy was present only to help his “business.” He sent the bewildered waitress back home again, although once out of Marie-Andrée’s sight Charles rewarded Suzy with a radio, a camera, a gem, and a promise of reunion. “I still want to marry you,” he insisted, promising to join her in Bangkok in a few days.