“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 girls?”

“Leona Couch was in her twenties. The other victim was a tour guide: Geraldine Linder, early thirties. Both fit descriptions of the women in Amsterdam.”

“What was the connection between Bijou and the tour guide?”

“None was ever established. I’ll fax the report right now. It’s marked for your attention and has CONFIDENTIAL stamped all over it. Stand by.”

Rex had often thought Thaddeus should have gone into the Secret Service, but the studious young man was not exactly the field agent type.

“I’ll wait by the machine. And thank you verra much. Next time I’m in London, I’ll take Quig out to dinner and extol your virtues.”

Quiggley was one of the partners at the firm Thaddeus clerked for, and a longtime friend of Rex’s.

“I’d appreciate that, sir. And good luck with the case. I hope you’ll let me know the outcome.”

“Never fear. Good day to you, lad.”

For a brief moment, Rex whimsically thought how nice it would be to have a son like Thaddeus, whom he could mentor in law, and who spent more time studying and therefore less time chasing women than Campbell.

He exited the office and addressed the desk clerk. “Would you do me a favour and make an appointment for me to see this chiropractor while I wait for a fax?” Handing her the message slip that had been in Vernon’s pigeon-hole, he returned to the fax machine which was just beginning to spurt out the pages of Thad’s report.

“The phone number for the chiropractor in Philipsburg does not exist,” the clerk told him when he came back out of the office, report in hand.

“Are you sure it was taken down correctly?”

“Absoluement, monsieur. I took the number down on several messages.”

“Do you have a directory handy?”

She placed the “Yellow Pages Sint Maarten” for the Dutch side of the island on the desk. Rex scanned the listings for Dr. Sganarelle and found no one by that name. He then checked the local phone book to no avail.

“Thanks,” he said, closing the book.

Entering the store in the building to buy breakfast, he encountered Greg Hastings, the resort manager, who wore a brass badge to that effect. A nattily dressed man with a neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper beard, he greeted Rex effusively and asked how he was enjoying his stay at La Plage d’Azur.

“Verra pleasant.” Rex asked the manager about the two guards.

“The employees are all carefully vetted,” he assured Rex in a northern English accent. “We only take on people we can trust and whom other employees can vouch for. Uh-oh,” he said glancing out the window. “Rain’s coming.”

Rex looked out at the sky, which was dark to the east. Raindrops began to fall.

“It doesn’t usually last long,” Hastings assured him.

“Winston told me he was the one who found the phone belonging to Mr. Powell.”

“That’s right. He gave it to me and I put it in the safe overnight. The gendarmes confiscated it the next morning but returned it a few days later after Mr. Powell made a huge fuss about it having all his clients’ numbers on it and needing it for work.” The manager’s pale face colored slightly.

“Is there something you want to tell me?”

“I’m afraid you’re going to think very badly of me.”

“Not if you come clean now,” Rex encouraged, hoping for a promising confession.

“Well …” Hastings stuck his hands in his jacket pockets. “While I was waiting for Mr. Powell to pick up his phone, I was idly comparing the functions to mine. All right, I admit it, I was curious about what big-shot entertainment clients he might have. But I would never divulge what I found.”

The manager paused, but Rex didn’t do him the favor of asking for names, since he personally had little interest in American stars, except perhaps for Angelina Jolie.

“Anyway,” Hasting continued. “A photo came up on the phone. Most of them were boring sightseeing pics. None of Mr. Powell’s gorgeous wife, it was interesting to note. Just rock formations and such. Vernon likes geology. He’s so stony-faced himself, he probably feels there’s a connection.”

Rex smiled in spite of himself and waited for what the manager had to tell him.

“I downloaded the photo because it looked suspicious. It was the last one taken before the phone was found on the beach, and was dated July 10. Lieutenant Latour never pursued it. I suppose he failed to see the relevance, but I made a photocopy. Wait here a sec.”

Hastings returned with a sheet of paper. “See what you make of this.”

Rex examined the photocopy, which took up a quarter of the sheet of paper. The photo, taken at night, looked at first glance like a grainy blur of indistinct shapes. “I canna tell what it is,” he said.

“Look carefully.”

Rex blinked to refresh his eyes and get a different perspective, as when contemplating one of those trompe l’oeils that can either represent a vase or two facing profiles, depending on how you view it.

“Ah, now I see,” he said. “It’s part of a woman’s face taken from below. I recognize the necklace.”

“It belongs to Mrs. Winslow. I don’t think she meant to be in the photo, not from that angle.”

The digitalized date stamp confirmed the photo was taken the day Sabine Durand disappeared. What was Elizabeth doing on Vernon’s cell phone that same night? “Did Winston say exactly where he found the phone?”

“This side of the promontory, up by the rocks. He noted the location and time in his report: 10:24 p.m. Do you want to keep the photocopy?”

“I don’t think so, but put it somewhere safe for now. You’ve been verra cooperative.”

“If Mrs. Winslow found the phone, why did she leave it on the beach?”

“Good question.”

Pondering this new development, Rex made his purchases at the boutique-cum-grocery. On his way out of the main building, he saw Duke Farley hurrying over from the direction of the racquet ball court, a white towel draped around his squat neck.

“Good work-out?” Rex asked from the top step, just as the rain started in earnest, drumming on the porch roof.

Duke ran up the steps for cover. “You bet. D’you play?”

The curly blond hair on his thick torso glistened with rain and sweat. Rex considered what it must be like running energetically about the court with everything swinging.

“I have no eye-hand coordination.”

“What do you do for exercise?”

“I like to hike. Gives me a chance to nature-watch.”

A leering grin spread over the Texan’s face. “Nature, huh? Well, you sure came to the right place. What ya think of the local talent?”

Rex wondered if he was referring to the band at The Cockatoo, which he couldn’t rate, not having much of an ear for music.

“The babes,” Duke prompted. “If you go down by the bars at the other end of the beach, ya’ll see some that are barely legal.”

Rex failed to understand what a beautiful and intelligent woman like Pam saw in Duke Farley, but apparently he was worth billions in oil and beef. Rex appraised him again with a swift glance. Oil and beef was precisely what he was. He could not help but feel an aversion for the man.

“Yessir, plenty of bathing beauties at La Plage. Now, Sabine, there’s a gal that looked good wet.”

“Excuse me?”

“The true test of beauty. Some women just look good wet.”

“Oh—aye.” The vision of Ursula Andress emerging seductively from the sea, blonde hair slicked back as droplets of water beaded her womanly form, had fueled many a moment of lonely adolescent lust since Rex first saw the James Bond movie.

“What a waste,” Duke said, shaking his large head. “What’ll you do if you find out who the murderer is?”

“Hand him or her over to the authorities.”

Duke snorted. “Like they’ll do anything.”

“My mandate is to unearth the culprit if I can. I canna enforce justice. In any case, this half of the island is part of an overseas department of France and therefore subject to French law.”

“Bad luck for Sabine,” the Texan growled. “Oh, hell, this rain might last a while. See ya around.” Pulling the towel over his head, he ploughed into the deluge.

Bad luck for Sabine, indeed, Rex thought, glumly munching on his croissant while he decided whether to make a run for it too.

How could he get his hands on the elusive Bijou? Where could he get proof of his guilt? Horrible to think the young actress could be another victim in a string of bizarre international killings.