Murder in the Raw by C.S. Challinor Page B

rocks. Was too dark to see anyting, but dere wasn’t no body. Next morning I had to stay until da po-lice come.”
    “Who found Mr. Powell’s cell phone?”
    “I did, over by da rocks.”
    “Did you see Pierre on patrol?”
    “We walk a circle in different directions. One goes front of da cabanas, other goes down da beach, an we meet up in da middle an continue. Ev’ry five rounds, we stop for a cigarette an’ rest for a while.”
    “Where do you take your cigarette break?”
    “Back of da Cockatoo, by da kitchens. After ten, we get a meal. I was goin’ over dere when I heard about da missing woman.”
    When Rex spoke to Pierre, who was on guard at the front entrance, the shy youth repeated everything his colleague had said, though less eloquently. He hadn’t understood whom they were looking for until he saw the papers and recognized Mlle. Durand from the resort.
    “Any strange goings-on in the last couple of weeks that you remember?” Rex asked.
    Pierre shook his head, a blank look on his face. Rex thanked him and went inside the main building, where he was pleased to find a message from Thaddeus waiting for him at the front desk. At last. He asked Danielle if he might use the phone in the back office to call London.
    “This could be important,” he said.

“Browne, Quiggley, and Squire,” the young law clerk answered. “Mr. Quiggley’s office.”
    “Thad, ’tis I,” Rex announced.
    “Oh, good, sir. I have quite a bit of information for you.”
    “Thanks for getting to it so fast. What did you find out?”
    “Well, here are the salient facts, Mr. Graves, sir. I’ll fax the entire report as soon as we’re off the phone.”
    Rex heard a preparatory cough. Thaddeus was still a bit wet behind the ears and had a lot to learn, but he was a thorough researcher.
    “Coenraad van Bijhooven, alias Bijou,” the law clerk began, “was born in Amsterdam in 1957. His mother, Alice Frankel, was a high-class call girl who gave up her profession to marry Henrick van Bijhooven, a successful industrialist. Coenraad went to Paris to read international law at the Sorbonne.”
    “Did he now?” Rex asked pensively.
    “Upon his return to Holland, he went into the flesh trade and opened a string of strip clubs in the Amsterdam red light district, which he sold fifteen years ago to set up in real estate on St. Martin. When his father died, he left Coenraad a sum of money which provided capital for some of his more ambitious projects.”
    “Did you manage to link him to the Jewel Murders in Amsterdam?”
    “A couple of witnesses came forward at the time but their silence must have been bought off because they never appeared in court. The girls, who were found sexually assaulted, tortured, and bejeweled, had all worked for Coenraad as either prostitutes or dancers. I did find out an interesting fact.”
    “Go on.”
    “They were all of slender build, with long hair and delicately modeled cheekbones.”
    The description evoked an image of Sabine.
    “The women resembled his mother,” Thaddeus informed him. “There’s a picture in the file.”
    “Is she still alive?”
    “No. A complication arose when she was delivering her second child. Both mother and baby died while Coenraad was in Paris.”
    “Have there been any murders on the island with the same modus operandi as those in Amsterdam?”
    “Two years ago. Both investigations fizzled to nothing. It was widely assumed a tourist was responsible and then left the island. The victims were not found immediately. Their relative states of decomposition showed they were murdered within a couple of weeks of each other.”
    “Who were they?”
    “One worked as an exotic dancer at The Stiletto in Philipsburg.”
    A chill ran down Rex’s spine, alerting him to the fact that he might be on to something. “Owned by Bijou?”
    “Correct. He changed his name legally before he left Holland, and travels on his new passport.”
    “What do we know about the