The secret of the Indian pentagram 05
The oppressive humidity had somewhat diminished, and a gentle breeze brought soothing relief. Just a few weeks prior, a fierce cyclone had swept over the coasts of Mauritius, bringing with it copious amounts of rain that had an impact on the high humidity.
The elongated, single-story Abercrombie Police Station bungalow was crowned with a slate-blue hipped roof. Tall, white-framed windows contrasted against the gray brickwork. A portico supported by round wooden columns covered the main entrance. The encompassing wooden gallery on the first floor underscored the architectural style of the 19th century. Behind the historic brick building stood two imposing kapok trees, casting cooling shadows. A Creole man in shorts mopped the front veranda while indulging in the pleasure of a cigarette. Several dark blue squad cars were parked in front of the edifice. Four policemen leaned against one of the vehicles, engaged in animated conversation.
The accompanying officer opened the vehicle door for Maurice, indicating the main entrance. He signaled to the policemen and called out a name. The addressed officer approached them.
"My colleague will now accompany you to Chief Inspector's office, Monsieur Bertram."
"Bonjour, Monsieur! Please, follow me!"
Maurice nodded and followed him into the police building. From an interrogation room, they could hear the scolding cries of a woman. She passionately recounted to the questioning officer what had befallen her two days ago. Whether one wished to or not, her words were so vehement that one could not help but listen. Maurice was asked to take a seat; Chief Inspector Laurent would attend to him in a few minutes.
The door to the interrogation room was ajar, and from his seat, he could observe a Creole woman of about fifty gesturing wildly, her arms swirling as she rained down a torrent of protests upon the officers.
"Do calm down, Mrs. Maroum, and take a seat. You can tell me everything calmly. Start by having a glass of water," he tried to placate her.
"But I don't want to calm down," she screeched vehemently, finally taking a seat on the chair in front of the desk. She lived in Vallée-des-Prêtres, was single, and grateful for any assistance. The street officer who regularly patrolled her neighborhood had always been very helpful.
"Well, I asked him to take a look at my door once. The frame had apparently warped due to the humidity," she said with a self-blaming gaze.
"Two days ago, after his shift, he came by in the evening. I wasn't feeling well that night, but I also didn't want to do without his help!"
Then, Mrs. Maroum became louder and more animated.
"He thought I had high blood pressure. He had taken a first aid course. He asked me to sit on the bed. Then he took my hand and checked my pulse. Suddenly, his hands started kneading my breasts, as he believed he could feel the pulse much better that way. I had no idea what was happening to me!" she screamed.
"And before I knew it, he was standing there in his underwear. I resisted as best I could. I felt used and betrayed. On the veranda, he pulled out his thing and even urinated on my beautiful Yucca palm, the swine!"
The officer stood up and closed the door to the interrogation room.
All rights belong to its author. It was published on e-Stories.org by demand of Jürgen Skupniewski-Fernandez.
Published on e-Stories.org on 08/29/2023.