Montparnasse. Thierry Sagnier
and separated from a hotelier husband who abused her, she too had answered one of Landru’s ads, had been wooed, taken to Vernouillet and poisoned. She was a medium-sized woman with large bones, small breasts and strong hips, and most men would have called her plain. Full, pouty lips rescued her face from complete anonymity. She knew this and, free of her husband, had parlayed her marginal looks into three bad dalliances, one on the heels of the other. Landru—though she knew him as Marcel Veron—promised to change her life and carry her away.
Earlier that week, Landru had returned to Vernouillet and buried the remains of Jeanne-Marie and André Cuchet in a far corner of the local cemetery. The war produced graves daily; mounds of fresh earth in the graveyard were not suspect.
He had promised Thérèse Laborde-Line a lovers’ weekend in his villa, but was silently repulsed by her lack of hygiene. She smelled poorly, and the skin on her neck was gray from lack of soap and water. He did not engage in sex with her, blaming an unexpected bout of colitis. Thérèse bore her disappointment well.
After feeding her a salad and some cold chicken, Landru this time chose strychnine, mixing a generous teaspoon of the chemical in Therese’s evening cocoa. She made a slight face as she drank and complained briefly of the chocolate’s bitterness, but he assured her it was a special mix from Abyssinia, and as she emptied the cup, Thérèse once again thanked the heavens for sending her such a devoted man. Imagine that! Chocolate from Abyssinia! For her!
He was amazed at the effect of the strychnine. Thérèse’s neck seized, the cords and muscles etched in sharp relief to the gray skin. Her face froze into a toothy rictus, eyes wide open, frothed mouth in a distended O. Landru, watching, wondered if the odiferous woman knew what was happening to her. He doubted it.
Her arms flapped as if she were trying to fly, then her legs buckled. She jackknifed at the waist, repeatedly slamming the back of her head into the floor, moaning loudly, and Landru, concerned by the noise, squatted on her chest to hold her down. Her convulsions threw him off. She made a gurgling sound in her throat, arched her back until only her heels and head touched the bedroom rug. She collapsed and rose again once, twice. Her forehead running with sweat, she stared at her murderer with wondering eyes, seeing nothing. Her face turned a pale blue, and she bit her lower lip. The blood flowed down her chin and onto her blouse. In less than eight minutes, she was lifeless.
Landru sat in the leather easy chair that had belonged to Jeanne-Marie Cuchet, took out his pen, glanced at his watch and wrote the hour and minute carefully in the little notebook he always carried. The late Thérèse surprised him by farting once, very long and very loud like a balloon losing its air, and Landru waved the stink from his face. He frowned at the body, said, “Vraiment, Thérèse, ce n’est pas très élégant, ça.”
Later, he dismembered her with a butcher’s saw. He wore a thick canvas apron that covered him from neck to ankle, and he worked methodically and without talent, cutting through muscle and bone and feeding the pieces of her into a large stove. He had overseen the stove’s installation himself, ensuring a good strong draught in the flue, which rose straight through the roof and out the chimney.
Her remains were gone just before sunup, and by the time he cleaned his tools, scrubbed the floor, sink and apron with bleach and water, the morning was full on. He stirred the ashes with a long metal pole and was pleased to see nothing large remained unconsumed by the fire. He was exhausted and slept until late afternoon, then took a cab to the station and returned to Paris on the 7 o’clock train.
Chapter 14
Kiki arrived very early in the morning, banging on James Johnson’s door, earning the ire of Mme. Bertrand, the concierge who moments earlier and with obvious misgivings had let her into the courtyard. When Johnson pulled the curtain aside to see who was making this racket, Kiki opened the rabbit-fur coat she was wearing to show that, save for her shoes, she was naked. Mme. Bertrand’s eyes nearly popped out of her skull. Johnson saved the day by telling the outraged older lady that Kiki was his model, and that models often traveled in deshabillé to avoid getting tell-tale marks from their straps, elastic or garters.
Mme. Bertrand was doubtful. “Vraiment, Monsieur Johnson?”
Johnson nodded. “Vraiment, Mme. Bertrand.”
Mme. Bertrand shook her head. “La jeunesse…Très étrange.”
Johnson agreed. The youth today did behave in strange manners.
Mme. Bertrand spent a long time bitterly sweeping the courtyard, keeping a wary eye on Johnson’s door. M. Lefebvre stopped by to speak to her, then shook his head in obvious consternation. Johnson knew his mores were under scrutiny and that the forgiveness of these two Catholic worthies would be hard to come by. A bottle of American whiskey might be in order.
Kiki thought the entire thing hilarious, mimed the concierge’s dour expression, and put on her best American accent to mock Johnson’s consternation. Then she took off her coat and, naked save for her red patent leather shoes, began wandering about the apartment.
Johnson suspected the model’s visit was a follow-up, an outburst of her inquisitive nature, and, perhaps, a need for revenge.
The night before, he’d gone to the Rotonde hoping for a quick meal and an early night. He had been chilled and feverish, having had trouble falling asleep.
He’d ordered his dinner with a glass of vin ordinaire and had been reading the day’s Tribune when Kiki pulled up a chair and helped herself to the breadbasket. He smiled, she smiled back. Spontaneity was not his strong suit and like M. Lefebvre, Johnson often found himself bouche bée—speechless—when faced with unfamiliar situations.
Kiki ate one piece of bread, then another. She asked the waiter to bring butter and mustard, and when he did, made a butter-and-mustard sandwich that emptied the basket.
She said, “I’m hungry.” Then she said, “Also, I am very angry.” (All this was in French, of course, since she spoke no English save for the unfortunate phrase, ‘I like American soldats. Do you want to fock?’)
Johnson bought Kiki dinner: deviled eggs, Parma ham, pommes frites. She ate with gusto and informed him that her fiancé, Maurice Mendjizky, had been unfaithful to her and had slept with one of his models. Then she asked, “You have a fiancée?”
Johnson shook his head. “No. I did once, but not anymore.”
“You were in the war, yes?”
Johnson nodded, “Ambulances.”
She looked up. “Verdun?”
He nodded.
She said, “Pauvre chéri,” dabbed at her lips with her napkin and reached for his hands across the table. She leaned forward and asked, “You had a bad time, yes? Like many… So, I know you paint. Everyone here paints. It is an affliction. What do you paint?”
Johnson told her he was working on watercolors, that he occasionally did portraits, and that, in fact, he had done hers from memory.
Kiki shrugged. “Everybody paints me. Sometimes they do my entire body. Maurice, my fiancé, did a portrait. Very ugly. I look like a schoolteacher from Auvergne. Long nose, no chin. He did not like me very much that day, I think. What did you make me look like?”
Johnson smiled, felt sly. “Perhaps you should come and see.“
Kiki nodded, shifted her attention to the growing crowd in the room. Suddenly her mouth opened in a small, round ‘o’ which she covered with one hand. Johnson looked up and saw Maurice Mendjizky headed in their direction. Kiki stood, whispered, “Maybe tomorrow I’ll come by,” then ran off to embrace her lover. Mendjizky lanced Johnson with a dark look and took Kiki by the elbow. They walked away, their arms sliding about each other’s waist. Johnson sat at his table, looked at the empty breadbasket and half-eaten eggs. He noted that he was both taller and broader than Mendjizky, who was thin, almost spindly, and did not look like much of a fighter.
Naked in the apartment, Kiki headed straight for the three portraits of herself, stood by them a moment and made a show of offering