“Undoubtedly, something unpleasant occurred.” Mara found it a perverse kind of comfort. “The question is, what? You see, Hanneke Tenhagen aside, where the other women are concerned we have to consider the possibility that
no crimes were committed at all.
Valérie, Mariette, and Julie could have simply left for reasons of their own. Beatrice could have met with an accident—”
“No,” Mara objected. “The camera changes all that. Who-ever found the camera would have also found her body and reported it.”
“Not necessarily, if she dropped the camera first. Picture it. She slips, drops the camera, tumbles off a cliff into the river, her body is never recovered. My point is simply that some or all of these missing women may still be alive.”
“You don’t believe that!” Mara cried.
Loulou tugged meditatively at the fatty wattle beneath his chin. “No,” he said finally. “I don’t. And this leads me to the second possibility and my little theory. Because, you see, if we say that these women, including your sister, are all dead, then we must also consider the possibility that their deaths were not unrelated.”
Mara tensed. “Are you saying that we’re dealing with a serial killer?”
Loulou cocked his head to one side. “It’s something to think about,
n’est-ce pas?
And it leads us to an interesting speculation. Taken all together, the disappearances tell us a little about the person, if it is one person, whom we seek.
Primo,”
—he stuck up a big, flat thumb—“it was certainly a man, and one who chose his victims at random. Why? Because only Beatrice and Hanneke Tenhagen had anything in common. Both were tourists, similar age and build, both hitchhiking. Little Valérie Rules, on the other hand, was a schoolkid, fifteen, no breasts, skinny like a stick. La Charlebois, forty-two, fat, face like a cow pat. Julie Ménard, thirty-five, glamorous in a cheap way, liked the bright lights. So he took them as he found them.
“Secundo,”
—a forefinger shot out to join the thumb—“he probably was, how should we say,
comme il faut
, presentable. Maybe even”—he grinned at Julian—“an orchid amateur like yourself. Oho! You are discomfited. But it’s logical. Who better to attract someone like Mademoiselle Beatrice, who loved orchids and who would be easily approachable by anyone who shared her interest? Tell me, were you in the Dordogne nineteen years ago, monsieur?”
Julian looked aghast. “Was I—? Well, yes, I was.”
“And you undoubtedly heard about
la canadienne disparue?”
“Of course I did,” cried Julian irritably. “It was everywhere on the news. But there was absolutely no mention of orchids at the time.”
“True,” admitted Loulou. “That’s something that has only come to light just now. Always assuming, of course, that the photographs were taken by Mara’s sister.”
“They were,” said Mara doggedly.
“Regardless,” Julian persisted, “you can’t honestly believe—”
“Assez.
Enough,” Loulou chuckled. “Just my little joke. All I say is, whoever it was, his victims must have trusted him. Hanneke Tenhagen was hitching rides, very possibly Mademoiselle Beatrice and Valérie Rules as well. Would any of them have gone willingly with Quasimodo?”
Julian parried, “He could have forced them or taken them by surprise.”
“You mean followed them to a lonely spot and then—
couic!”
Loulou drew his forefinger sharply across his throat.
Mara winced.
The ex-cop shook his head. “It doesn’t fit. Take Mariette Charlebois, fat, asthmatic. Or the Ménard woman. Unlikely that either of them would have been wandering alone in the forest. More probably our predator met them in a more conventional way. Say la Charlebois is sitting disconsolately in a
salon de thé
, dipping a macaroon and thinking about her horrible mama. A stranger befriends her. He is
sympathique
, offers her a ride somewhere. Or Julie Ménard. Picks her up in a bar.
“Tertio
,
no crimes were committed at all.
Valérie, Mariette, and Julie could have simply left for reasons of their own. Beatrice could have met with an accident—”
“No,” Mara objected. “The camera changes all that. Who-ever found the camera would have also found her body and reported it.”
“Not necessarily, if she dropped the camera first. Picture it. She slips, drops the camera, tumbles off a cliff into the river, her body is never recovered. My point is simply that some or all of these missing women may still be alive.”
“You don’t believe that!” Mara cried.
Loulou tugged meditatively at the fatty wattle beneath his chin. “No,” he said finally. “I don’t. And this leads me to the second possibility and my little theory. Because, you see, if we say that these women, including your sister, are all dead, then we must also consider the possibility that their deaths were not unrelated.”
Mara tensed. “Are you saying that we’re dealing with a serial killer?”
Loulou cocked his head to one side. “It’s something to think about,
n’est-ce pas?
And it leads us to an interesting speculation. Taken all together, the disappearances tell us a little about the person, if it is one person, whom we seek.
Primo,”
—he stuck up a big, flat thumb—“it was certainly a man, and one who chose his victims at random. Why? Because only Beatrice and Hanneke Tenhagen had anything in common. Both were tourists, similar age and build, both hitchhiking. Little Valérie Rules, on the other hand, was a schoolkid, fifteen, no breasts, skinny like a stick. La Charlebois, forty-two, fat, face like a cow pat. Julie Ménard, thirty-five, glamorous in a cheap way, liked the bright lights. So he took them as he found them.
“Secundo,”
—a forefinger shot out to join the thumb—“he probably was, how should we say,
comme il faut
, presentable. Maybe even”—he grinned at Julian—“an orchid amateur like yourself. Oho! You are discomfited. But it’s logical. Who better to attract someone like Mademoiselle Beatrice, who loved orchids and who would be easily approachable by anyone who shared her interest? Tell me, were you in the Dordogne nineteen years ago, monsieur?”
Julian looked aghast. “Was I—? Well, yes, I was.”
“And you undoubtedly heard about
la canadienne disparue?”
“Of course I did,” cried Julian irritably. “It was everywhere on the news. But there was absolutely no mention of orchids at the time.”
“True,” admitted Loulou. “That’s something that has only come to light just now. Always assuming, of course, that the photographs were taken by Mara’s sister.”
“They were,” said Mara doggedly.
“Regardless,” Julian persisted, “you can’t honestly believe—”
“Assez.
Enough,” Loulou chuckled. “Just my little joke. All I say is, whoever it was, his victims must have trusted him. Hanneke Tenhagen was hitching rides, very possibly Mademoiselle Beatrice and Valérie Rules as well. Would any of them have gone willingly with Quasimodo?”
Julian parried, “He could have forced them or taken them by surprise.”
“You mean followed them to a lonely spot and then—
couic!”
Loulou drew his forefinger sharply across his throat.
Mara winced.
The ex-cop shook his head. “It doesn’t fit. Take Mariette Charlebois, fat, asthmatic. Or the Ménard woman. Unlikely that either of them would have been wandering alone in the forest. More probably our predator met them in a more conventional way. Say la Charlebois is sitting disconsolately in a
salon de thé
, dipping a macaroon and thinking about her horrible mama. A stranger befriends her. He is
sympathique
, offers her a ride somewhere. Or Julie Ménard. Picks her up in a bar.
“Tertio
,
Similar Books
