Vince May - Presumed Dead

Ross remembered how he’d been sitting in the dark, smoky club in among the fat German businessmen and their high-class whores, when the lights had gone out. A few seconds later a single spotlight had illuminated a figure on the stage, which had made him sit up and take notice. That had been his first glimpse of Alex. He’d been dressed in an incredible costume that was split right down the middle. One half was male and the other half female. On the male side of his body he’d been wearing a dinner suit and had short dark hair and a moustache. On the female side, he’d been wearing a beautiful blue, full-length satin evening dress with a slit up the side, which hugged his hip and revealed the occasional glimpse of a long, silky leg. The hair on that side was long and blond.

Ross remembered how he had been absolutely captivated by this vision of what, for him, was the ultimate erotic fantasy. He’d watched spellbound as Alex had performed a slow, seductive song in a husky, Marlene Dietrich style voice, and had become more and more aroused as he’d swung from side to side apparently changing sex with every turn. After the performance, barely able to contain his excitement, he’d bribed a waiter to take him backstage to meet Die Engländerin Rose.

Ross smiled as he remembered how they had hit it off immediately. After Alex’s final performance that night, through which Ross had sat absolutely riveted and extremely aroused, they had gone out for supper, then had gone back to Alex’s flat where they discovered that they shared similar and compatible sexual preferences.

It hadn’t been long before Ross had convinced him to leave the club and to come back to London, where they would be able to see much more of each other. Ross had fixed him up in an elegant flat and came to visit several times a week, mostly in the afternoons. Alex had soon found work in a drag club in Soho and their relationship had settled down into a comfortable and regular routine, with each falling more and more in love with the other.

After two years though, they had found that they simply couldn’t bear to be apart for more than a few hours at a time, and Alex had started insisting that Ross should make a choice between himself and Alice. As far as Ross had been concerned, there was no question which of them he preferred from a personal and sexual viewpoint, but there was the question of Alice’s money. If he’d left her and gone to live with Alex full time, he would have effectively been throwing away any chance of getting a share of her inheritance when her old man finally died.

He’d explained the situation to Alex, and after thinking about it, they had hit upon the idea of Alex moving in with him, under the guise of a personal secretary, and to make it perfect, Ross had told Alice that he’d done it for her. He smiled again as he remembered how grateful she’d been and how he and Alex had laughed about it behind her back.

After that, he recalled, things had been almost perfect. Alex had given up performing at the club and they had had the pleasure of seeing each other every day, but also the frustration of having to hide their feelings when other people were around. Initially, he’d kept the flat on so that they had somewhere to go where they could be assured of complete privacy, but then he’d planted the idea in his wife’s mind that she might like to spend more time in the States with her father. When she’d gone, the arrangement was finally perfect, and that’s how things had been up until earlier in the year when Alice had inherited.

He remembered how excited he’d been when he’d heard the news, and how he and Alex had started scheming and plotting, trying to figure out a way to commit the perfect murder. It had been Alex’s idea that he should impersonate Alice, and once they had worked the details out, he’d thrown himself into learning her mannerisms and copying the way she walked.

And now, after all they had been through together, all the time they had waited, all the plans they had made, Alex was dead. Ross was beside himself with grief. He poured himself another large brandy and sat cradling it between his hands as the tears rolled down his face.

Back in Chamonix, Philippe was being shown into Batard’s office. When Batard had heard who was asking to see him, he very nearly refused, but now, looking up as Philippe entered, he sensed a difference in the man.

‘Good afternoon Monsieur Dulac,’ he said courteously, standing to shake hands. ‘What can I do for you today.’

‘I just came to apologize for all the trouble I caused you earlier in the week,’ Philippe said humbly. ‘I realize now that you were right and that you were just doing your job.’

Batard was somewhat taken aback. ‘There is no need to apologize Monsieur.’

‘Thank you,’ Philippe said, looking down at the floor, ‘but I just wanted to make sure that you were still going to keep looking for my wife.’

‘Of course we are,’ Batard assured him. ‘The file is still open and we have a good description of her, but I must be honest, I don’t think we stand much chance of finding her now until the springtime.’

‘Maybe not,’ Philippe sighed, ‘but we must keep on looking. She’s out there somewhere.’ He put his hand out to shake again and said, ‘Well, I must go, thank you for seeing me.’

‘What are you going to do now?’ Batard asked, taking his hand.

That’s the question I was waiting for, Philippe thought. ‘I’m going back up onto the Charpoua of course.’

‘In this weather?’ Batard asked, looking out of the window at the leaden sky and light drizzle.

‘The forecast says it will clear within the next twenty-four hours. I want to be up there ready to start searching again as soon as it is clear.’

‘Take care of yourself,’ Batard said as Philippe left his office, ‘and good luck.’

A few minutes later across town at the Montenvers rack railway station, Philippe parked his car, put his rucksack on then walked to the ticket office. After buying his ticket, he went through the barrier and joined the tourists waiting for the next train to take them up to the Mer de Glace. He could see Alice at the far end of the platform wearing her little walking backpack over the red coat they had borrowed from the Charpoua Hut. She had the hood up for protection from the light rain and was standing in among a group of Japanese tourists who had just been offloaded from a coach.

A bell rang in the distance as the level crossing gates came down over the main road, then the bright red train appeared out of the trees and pulled slowly into the station. After disgorging its passengers onto the opposite platform, the doors opened on Philippe and Alice’s side and there was a mad rush for seats as the Japanese stormed the two small carriages. Unwilling to be caught up in the melee of flying elbows and cameras, Philippe and Alice ended up standing at opposite ends of the train in separate carriages.

The train finally pulled out of the station, across the main road, then started climbing up the steep incline through the dense pine forest that dominated the lower part of the valley. Each time there was a break in the trees that offered a glimpse back down towards Chamonix, now nestling in the distance like a model village, there was a mad rush to the windows and a flurry of camera flashes.

When the train finally pulled into the terminus overlooking the Mer de Glace, the weather was horrendous. There was a strong wind blasting up the valley carrying with it snow and sleet. The Japanese contingent, who were all woefully underdressed for the conditions, made a beeline for the restaurant where there was another skirmish over the seats. Alice let them go then disembarked and walked through the terminus and out onto the concrete viewing platform which overlooked the glacier, now invisible due to the driving snow. Turning right, she followed the path as it started to descend toward the glacier, then when she was well out of sight of the terminus, she stepped off the path and sheltered behind a large boulder to wait for Philippe.