Folie a Deux
It was in a seedy Montmartre apartment that Marie Angelique and Henri had discussed (in a desultory way, at first) the prospect of committing murder. They had been smoking marijuana and drinking wine, the night was uncomfortably humid and their talk was careless, and yet a fire came into Marie Angelique’s eyes.
The Perfect Murder! Was there such a thing?
In a nearby apartment lived a prostitute called Celestine (although it was unlikely that this was her real name).
“Would she not make a perfect victim?” Marie had lightly suggested. Henri had taken a long toke on his joint, thought about it, and nodded.
“But what reason have we to take her life?” he asked.
“None,” Marie replied, “That is what makes it the perfect murder.”
Henri had laughed, but Celestine’s fate was effectively sealed.
The next day they had inspected the attic. Dust covered every inch of space and cobwebs hung from the rafters. The wood was rotting and holed with woodworm, but the stanchions were sturdy enough.
By ten o’clock the rest of the tenants would be out on the street, either plying their trade as prostitutes, trying to score some cocaine or getting drunk in the Paradis Latin night club. The Concierge, of course, would be drunk, so he wouldn’t be any trouble; there were certain advantages to living in a squalid quarter of the city, Henri thought.
That night he prowled the steep, cobbled streets. A year ago, the so-called “Monster of Montmartre” had been put behind bars, so the police were no longer being quite so vigilant in this area.
Perfect.
He found Celestine at her usual spot at the bottom of a flight of steps. Pulling out a fifty-franc note, Henri told her that he was on the look out for a little fun. Celestine accepted the money without a moment of hesitation. There was no need for small talk, after all.
Three days later, Celestine’s body was found floating in the Seine. She appeared to have been strangled–not so easy to explain were the injuries to her feet. Had she tried to escape her killer (or killers) barefoot?
There was little in the way of evidence, so the case was committed to the “unsolved” files. Chances were it would stay there.
There would be several similar deaths over the next few years. Vast improvements would be made in DNA profiling, but the Seine would effectively wash away all traces.
Was this the perfect method of murder?
“I made them dance,” Henri boasted in his cell. “Just tie the rope around their necks and then haul them up on the stanchions. You should have seen them: strung up, but with their feet in contact with the floor. Only on tiptoe, mind, so that they could not find purchase. And how they would struggle, twisting around and around, the rope tightening around their pretty little necks with every turn… tighter and tighter, Monsieur, until they could struggle no more.”
All the while, Henri and Marie Angelique would drink and applaud, and finally make love when the women had ceased their macabre ballet.
Until the day that one of their victims had escaped.
“If we hadn’t been so stoned, we would have seen her freeing her hands,” Henri lamented, some time later.
The girl’s name was Therese Cigrand, and she made her escape when the two lovers had passed out on the floor. Never again would an innocent young girl dance for the twisted pleasure of Henri and Marie Angelique.
In the end, Henri himself had kicked, and jerked, and lashed out with his feet. In his final moments, he had performed his own dance of death once Madame La Guillotine had completed her work.
Wonderful story!
Comment by Bob Eccles — February 5, 2009 @ 12:43 pm