Authors: Tim Davys
Anna is not listening; she is on her way out the door.
L
arry Bloodhound parked the car on vanilla white Place de la Liberation and stepped out onto the sidewalk. Immediately he noticed the sweet scent of fruit in oil and coconut. The kiosk, located at the intersection of Boulevard St. Rain since the forties, was Mollisan Town’s best if you liked pineapple flambé, and the superintendent could seldom resist the temptation.
He crossed the street and devoted a few minutes to looking at the front pages in the newspaper stand next to the little park. He was living in a crazy time, he decided, so self-absorbed that no one even noticed it anymore.
He bought half a pineapple with extra sprinkles, dialing his cell phone as he ate. He got hold of Falcon Ècu, who sounded nervous and stressed.
“Superintendent,” Falcon said into the receiver. “I beg your pardon, but the address for Jasmine Squirrel was wrong . . . we’ve talked with Squirrel’s uncle, I think, he lives where Squirrel’s parents were listed. He claimed that these days Squirrel is on orange yellow rue d’Oran, number 18. It says ‘Bordeauz’ on the door.”
“D’Oran? Isn’t that—”
“It’s right behind Place de la Liberation,” Ècu pointed out obligingly. “If you want, Superintendent, we could drive over and—”
“That’s not necessary,” Larry Bloodhound decided, shoving the last piece of pineapple into his mouth. “I’m in the vicinity. I’ll go and talk to her myself.”
Brusquely he concluded the call with his inspector and dried his paws on the lining of his jacket.
Number 18 on rue
d’Oran proved to be a lovely, burgundy red building from the late nineties. It was six stories high, with barred windows and a deep, dark entryway guarded by two small stone lions sitting on either side of the door. Bloodhound looked for the name Bordeauz on the directory of tenants next to the entry telephone. While he was looking, a rodent came out of the doorway and Bloodhound slipped in. The directory in the stairwell stated that Bordeauz lived on the third floor. To compensate for the pineapple flambé the superintendent avoided the golden elevator cage, which must have been as old as the building, and took the stairs.
He rang the bell without expectations. At this time of day almost everyone was at work, and the likelihood that Jasmine Squirrel was . . .
“Yes?”
Bloodhound did a double take. The door was opened slightly. The squirrel who stood there was light beige. The superintendent had expected someone darker, browner, and he lost his train of thought. She was pretty without being conspicuous. Quickly he let his gaze drop from her face down to her shoes and back up again. She was dressed in a simple skirt and a yellow blouse. No jewelry, no makeup.
He took out his police badge and held it in the door opening so she could see it.
“Superintendent Larry Bloodhound,” he introduced himself. “Um . . . may I come in? This will be quick, only a few words.”
She studied his identification carefully and seemed extremely hesitant.
“This will be quick,” he repeated. “But I can come back another time.”
He attempted a smile but it turned out more like a grimace. Her bushy tail waved guardedly back and forth behind her back; then she made up her mind, opened the door, and took a few steps into the apartment.
“Five minutes,” she said.
She had a surprisingly husky voice. He thought that perhaps she was a jazz singer. Then he was embarrassed by his clichéd assumption.
“This doesn’t need to take very long,” he growled softly.
She turned and went before him into the apartment. Quickly and carefully she closed a door that stood open to the right in the corridor and showed the superintendent into the living room. He could not help glancing toward the closed door as he went past, and he thought he heard someone coughing from within.
“Did I disturb you?” he asked as she placed herself behind the armchair where she meant for him to sit.
“Five minutes,” she replied. “And, yes, I have a visitor.”
There was something in the way she expressed herself that aroused his curiosity. He wondered who was visiting. But that had nothing to do with him. So he didn’t ask.
Squirrel sat on the couch. Posture erect, and clearly impatient.
“Well?”
There was a scent of perfume in the living room. There were bouquets of red roses in both windows, and the white furniture seemed quite new. The apartment was simply furnished, yet it exuded luxury.
“This is about Oswald Vulture,” Bloodhound began, taking his notepad out of the pocket of his jacket.
Like other police officers, he always had his notepad with him; he even made notes in it sometimes, but he seldom bothered to read what he’d written later. The superintendent leafed through to an empty page, and Jasmine Squirrel answered, “Vulture? I’ve never heard of him.”
Bloodhound froze. Many years of experience rescued him from giving away his reaction. He raised his eyes and scrutinized the squirrel carefully as he slowly said, “Oswald Vulture is dead.”
But Jasmine Squirrel, too, was an experienced animal. Larry could see that she reacted, even if she did her utmost not to let it show. If the information came as a surprise or whether she had known about it in advance was impossible to determine.
“I see,” she was content to say.
“Are you certain that you don’t know who Oswald Vulture is?” Bloodhound asked.
“I meet so many,” she retreated somewhat from her position.
“You are Jasmine Squirrel?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“And you are registered at this address?”
“Yes.”
He made notes about this.
“Employer?”
“I’m between jobs at the moment,” she answered.
“Most recent employer?” he asked.
She thought about it.
“NyLon To Go,” she said at last.
“The fast-food chain?”
“That’s right.”
“What did you do there?”
“Worked at the office. Administration. Papers and numbers.”
Superintendent Bloodhound made yet another note in his pad.
“And how long ago was that?” he asked.
“What do you mean?” she replied.
“Well, I was thinking . . . this is a beautiful apartment at a nice address. And . . . all this . . . must cost a pretty penny.”
“I manage,” she said. “And there isn’t much time left of your five minutes, Superintendent . . .”
“Excuse me,” Bloodhound said. “I’ll tell you exactly why I’m here. You are named in Oswald Vulture’s will. I’m not an attorney, I don’t know exactly how it will work out, but according to the will you are going to be . . . provided for . . . in a generous way.”
He observed her. This was without a doubt something she hadn’t known about. Her eyes widened, the pupils contracted. She struggled not to reveal herself.
“Really?” she answered at last.
“But you’re still certain that you don’t know who Vulture was?” said Bloodhound.
“I . . . maybe I remember him,” she said without appearing embarrassed at having maintained the opposite only a minute ago. “Vulture? Oswald Vulture? Yes, I think I know. He’s dead? And I’m in his will? How unexpected.”
“Why,” the superintendent continued, seemingly unmoved by her lies, “do you think he’s so generous to you?”
“It must be because he liked me,” said Squirrel, with a sneering smile on her lips. “Or what do you think?”
“Well,” Bloodhound replied, smiling back. “Well, that’s often how it goes . . .”
Jasmine Squirrel got up from the couch and looked urgently at Bloodhound.
“Was there anything else, Superintendent?” she asked.
He sat in the armchair with the tip of the pen against the paper of the notebook and thought about it. He had a strong feeling that this would not be the last time he talked with Jasmine Squirrel.
“No. No, I guess not.”
“I’ll see you to the door, Superintendent,” said Jasmine.
She waited while he put the notebook away and got up. Then she followed close behind him to the outside door. He wondered what she would have done if he suddenly stopped and opened the door she had closed in the hall.
“Well,” he said as he stood halfway out in the stairwell. “One more thing. Don’t you wonder how much you’ll be inheriting?”
She held a paw on the door so as to be able to shut it as quickly as possible.
“How much will I inherit?” asked Jasmine Squirrel.
The tail was again waving slowly back and forth behind her.
“Unfortunately, that I can’t say,” answered Superintendent Bloodhound.
She deserved that, he thought.
There was a reason she was lying, he thought. There was always a reason. And they would have to find out what it was.
A
fter more than three hours in front of the computer, Falcon Ècu’s eyes felt tired and his back ached. In this era of economy measures he had not been allowed to order a new office chair; instead he was forced to use a model that the occupational therapists had rejected long ago.
The superintendent had ordered them to conduct a new interview with Cobra, but it wasn’t possible to get hold of her. Falcon had called Nova Park three times during the day and didn’t want to call a fourth time. Cobra was not at work. No one missed her there, and no one cared where she was. Falcon got her home phone, but no one answered at that number.
In the registry of the Ministry of Finance he had found her address, and in addition the addresses for her parents and for a brother—Daniel Python—who was several years younger. Her brother was not home, either, but right after the Afternoon Rain, Falcon got hold of the parents. The mother stated that she had neither seen nor heard from Emanuelle in over a month.
Inspector Ècu returned to his registries and discovered that the brother, Python, worked at Monomart’s central warehouse. He phoned the main line, and sure enough Daniel Python had just gone on his evening shift. Perhaps he knew where his sister was? But Python could not come to the phone.
“Do ya t’ink dis is a hotel, or what?” asked the animal on the line.
If the police wanted something from Python, Ècu would have to drag himself there.
It was a long shot, but the falcon needed a change of scene; he had been sitting in this chair long enough now. So without additional time for reflection he set off into the field.
Because Falcon Ècu lived
alone, he seldom shopped at Monomart. This was a paradise for families, the low-price temple of volume purchases; there was a playroom for the cubs and charge cards that gave discounts to faithful customers. There were a few Monomart stores in every part of town; to Falcon they all looked equally boring. His view was that you saved more money by losing your appetite than on cheap products.
The food chain’s central warehouse was in north Lanceheim, in one of the newly built industrial areas. The warehouse was described as a miracle of logistics, but Ècu still had to wait in reception more than fifteen minutes. The logistics didn’t seem to extend to keeping track of their employees.
Daniel came slithering from a long corridor. He wore the dark blue uniform that everyone seemed to have on. The snake had frost on his seams and what looked like flakes of ice on his head. He apparently worked in the refrigerated rooms.
“Daniel Python?” asked Falcon, holding up his police badge.
“Yes?”
You could always tell from their tone of voice whether the stuffed animal in question was accustomed to visits from the police. Python had apparently not been involved with this before. He stopped at a safe distance, looking at the inspector suspiciously.
“We’re looking for your sister,” Falcon explained, hurrying to add: “She hasn’t done anything. We’re looking for her as a witness.”
“Does this have to do with Vulture?” asked Python.
The stuffed animals in reception perked up their ears. This would be the talk of the evening shift. But Python was not embarrassed.
“So you have spoken with Emanuelle recently,” said Falcon.
“I don’t know where she is.”
“Somewhere she usually goes? A girlfriend’s place?”
Python gave him a few names, shaking his head at the same time.
“If I know my sister right, she’s out on the town. That seems to be her best therapy.”
“This must have been a shock,” said Falcon, taking a step closer to the snake.
Daniel nodded.
“Because she’d worked for Vulture for more than five years, if I understand correctly?”
“Might be right,” Python agreed.
“And she felt happy there from the start?”
“Felt happy?” Python repeated with surprise. “She loathed it. She’s been looking for a new job for years, she’s even been here and asked. Oswald Vulture was . . . well . . . when I heard what she earned . . . and the clothes . . . It’s not exactly easy to find something equivalent.”
“Then why wasn’t she happy?” asked Falcon.
This was a mistake. Daniel Python stiffened noticeably, and his eyes narrowed.
“Say what?”
“Any information you can provide makes our work easier.”
“I don’t know anything. Ask Emanuelle,” said Python. “Was there anything else?”
Falcon had nothing more to ask, and the snake slithered back to the refrigeration rooms.
Falcon Ècu had not
even made it over the city line when the switchboard called, looking for him. He answered his cell phone, less surprised than he ought to have been. It was Emanuelle Cobra calling. Falcon kept his eyes on the road. The sky was still blue and it would be another hour or so before twilight besieged the city. The afternoon traffic picked up, and Falcon considered avoiding bright yellow North Avenue.
“I’m at Monokowski,” said Cobra. “In Amberville. Come here. I’m in the Twilight Salon.”
Falcon could not even answer before the secretary had hung up. The sound of her voice made him remember the rest of her, and he swallowed and blinked. She was tasty. The thought made him blush.
He had never been to Casino Monokowski, but he knew that it was one of Nicholas Dove’s places. In Falcon’s world it was inconceivable that police officers didn’t manage to arrest animals like Dove. Convict them, lock them up, and throw the key in the Hole. And it was even more inconceivable that he couldn’t express this opinion because it would be considered extremely naïve. Where was Mollisan Town heading?
Instead of taking a
few police officers with him in the car, making a raid, and closing Monokowski, Falcon nicely showed his police badge at the door—a container that concealed the casino’s entrance on the inside—and was let in by ironically smiling doormen.
In symbiosis with the Mafia, he thought as he stepped into the sea of blinking slot machines where thousands of greedy stuffed animals drank themselves to intoxication on diluted liquor and were systematically ruined. In symbiosis with evil, that’s what the police have degenerated to. Frustration and indignation rose up through his body, and with bold steps he entered the decadent casino.
Falcon took hold of a waiter who was running past with a tray of champagne glasses.
“Excuse me, but the Twilight Salon . . . ?” he asked without taking the waiter’s furious look seriously.
“By the gold draperies,” the waiter hissed. “And if I’d dropped the champagne, you would have had to pay for it.”
“You didn’t drop it,” Falcon noted meekly.
The Twilight Salon was an inner room where players who weren’t interested in small change divided minor fortunes among themselves. Despite the fact that the room was larger than he could immediately survey, he saw her right away. She was sitting at the bar, and her well-filled latex body glistened just as black and invitingly now as it did at Nova Park last Monday.
He made a roundabout movement, and noticed that all the males in the vicinity were aware of her presence. She was smoking a cigarette in a long, black holder and seemed absorbed by a thought that Falcon would be happy to uncover.
“Miss Cobra?” he said.
She turned around and looked at him with an amused smile.
“ ‘Miss Cobra’? Yes, that’s something new. Mr. Ècu. Police working overtime? Because I don’t suppose it’s for the sake of my eyes that you’ve come, Mr. Ècu?”
Falcon blushed. The pink color on his neck spread quickly up to his cheeks, and he looked away self-consciously.
“You’re blushing,” Cobra commented with surprise. “Lord Magnus, I didn’t think that was possible anymore . . .”
“I’ve come to ask a few questions about Oswald Vulture,” Falcon said formally, paying no attention to the bar in which they were standing. “It’s nothing to worry about, only a routine measure. The better we understand the situation and those involved, the easier time we’ll have in solving the mystery.”
“You’re blushing because I’m teasing you, and at the same time you say you want to understand Oswald Vulture?” Cobra sneered. “Good luck.”
“What do you mean?”
Falcon tried to sound professional, but he could hear that he sounded offended.
“Vulture was an animal who . . .” She hesitated before she continued. “My dear police officer, let me give you an example. On Fridays he would lock us in his office. He kept olive oil on the bookshelf, in a crystal carafe. He poured the oil over me, and then I had to slither up and down his long neck. By the end he was moaning so loud it could be heard out in reception.”
She took a deep puff on her cigarette and continued.
“Don’t look so shocked, little cop. That goat paid for it. There were others he didn’t pay. That he degraded. He was capable of frightful things. Me . . . he had to see me again, after all.”
Falcon took notes, but mostly to have somewhere to direct his gaze.
“Are you buying me a drink?” she asked.
Falcon waved the bartender over, and Cobra ordered.
“Oswald was a swine,” she said, lighting a new cigarette.
“The others,” said Falcon, “do you have names of any of the others that Vulture—”
“No names,” she said firmly. “He was no amateur. He was a happily married and successful business animal. A family animal.”
“But he—”
“You can’t even imagine it,” said Cobra.
And when her drink arrived she told a story about what Vulture had requested of her only a few weeks before he lost his head.
Immediately afterward Falcon left Casino Monokowski without even having talked with Cobra about her alibi. He had become accustomed to violence, but that evening he realized that he knew precious little about evil.
His task was still to bring Vulture’s murderer to justice. But it would no longer happen with the same satisfaction.