Authors: Tim Davys
T
hey gathered in the small conference room where the rotting geraniums still remained. Falcon Ècu brought everyone coffee and Anna Lynx picked up Danish pastry on her way from the day care.
Superintendent Larry Bloodhound grunted with irritation at the Danish pastry, but quickly decided to have one right away instead of agonizing for twenty minutes and then giving in. Crumbs fell in flakes over the white laminated table where there were already brown, half-moon-shaped rings from yesterday’s coffee cups and the remnants of blueberry muffins from the day before that.
“Well,” he growled, “let’s hear it.”
Pedersen cleared his throat. But just as he was about to begin his report, the door opened and Captain Jan Buck came in.
“Good morning, colleagues,” Buck said quickly. “If you don’t mind, Superintendent Bloodhound, I thought I’d sit in on your morning meeting.”
Without waiting for a reply, Buck sat down on one of the uncomfortable, rickety chairs around the conference table. He smiled encouragingly at all those present.
“But the way it looks in here . . .” he commented. “Larry, don’t you ever have it cleaned?”
Bloodhound growled.
Falcon Ècu did not know where he should look. He was suddenly sitting alongside the police station’s highest commander, and this made him nervous. Buck’s commentary made him feel ashamed, besides. It
was
truly filthy in here. The air was bad, crumbs and grit crunched when you walked on the floor—and why hadn’t anyone put curtains up on the windows?
Why was Buck here? Falcon didn’t know.
“You’re always welcome, Jan,” the superintendent forced out.
Anna Lynx discreetly hid a smile. Before the case of the upside-down shoe, Larry Bloodhound had persisted with a collegially patronizing attitude toward his young captain; since then, Bloodhound did not mince words. Of all the ingratiating politicians that had crossed his path, Buck was the worst by a long shot. Thus Bloodhound’s perceptibly pained expression.
“But,” Buck nodded, “don’t let me interrupt. Just continue as you were. Pretend like I’m not here. Or . . . just consider me part of the group.”
He smiled ingratiatingly.
“ ‘Part of the group’?” the superintendent repeated, wisely holding back his comment. “Pedersen, have at it now.”
Pedersen was used to the young captain’s desire to take part in police work; Pedersen had been around so long it no longer concerned him.
“My group and I have gone through the individuals who are named in Oswald Vulture’s will,” Pedersen explained to Buck. “We actually finished yesterday, even though I didn’t think that was possible. Shall I take them one by one, or shall I do a summary?”
“The summary,” the superintendent growled.
“Personally, I would love to hear how you’ve gone about this in more detail,” said Buck.
Pedersen looked questioningly around the room, and Bloodhound shrugged his shoulders.
“Well,” Pedersen began, leafing through his notes, “first there was the chauffeur and the cook. They, uh, live together. They still work for Flamingo, Vulture’s widow, on Mina Road, and we got hold of them there. They were shopping at the indoor market in Amberville on Monday morning when the murder was committed. We checked with . . . I think it was the butcher, the one who’s just to the right of the entrance from Gruba Street?”
“Podovski,” Buck called out. “I buy cutlets from him.”
“The landscaper,” Pedersen continued. “The one who’s getting the bathroom furnishings—”
“What are you saying?” Buck interrupted. “Bathroom furnishings? Is someone inheriting bathroom furnishings?”
“The landscaper is out of town and won’t be home before Sunday. He knew nothing about what had happened, he’s in Hillevie with his wife, he’s been there for ten days and . . . I judge him to be credible.”
Falcon Ècu intensely made notes as if his career depended on it. It was the least he could do to prove he was on the ball in front of Captain Buck.
“Then we have the cook and Raukanomaa,” Pedersen continued, “who is some kind of domestic servant. We got hold of Raukanomaa late in the evening, she goes to, uh, dance meditation class, it goes on half the night. Both she and the cook have Mrs. Flamingo, the widow, as an alibi. All three were at the house on Monday. Either they’ve concocted a story together or else they’re telling the truth. Their accounts agree. Moving on, uh, that pug that Vulture in the will realized would be fired. She was fired last Tuesday. Her alibi is doubtful . . . I think it’s wobbly . . . she changed her story when we pressured her. Sleeping in late suddenly became a shopping trip. But she’s one of the small stuffed animals, really small. To cut the head off of Oswald Vulture she would have needed a ladder. Moving on. The masseuse was working in his office all of Monday, so he’s clean. There’s only the lamb and the llama, who . . . perhaps require more work.”
“The lamb and the llama?” asked Anna.
“The llama was the security guard at Nova Park. The lamb was Vulture’s personal secretary.”
“I thought Cobra was his secretary,” Ècu said.
“He had two, apparently,” Pedersen observed. “One at work—Cobra—and another at home. Daniel Lamb. Lamb alleges that he never went to work until just before the Breeze in the morning, and last Monday he had to do some personal errands first. He came to Mina Road at lunchtime. We only had time to check one of his ‘personal errands,’ and it corresponded. He was at the pharmacy to pick up some thread. But there remains a good deal to check to cover the time of the murder.”
“And Lamb?” asked Ècu.
“That was Lamb,” Pedersen replied.
“I mean Llama,” said Ècu, his cheeks turning bright pink.
“Llama is the same. He says he was in his car the greater part of the morning, on his way out to the workshop in Lanceheim to repair a lawn mower. Then he drove back again, and the errand took until lunch. But we didn’t manage to get that confirmed by the workshop. I’ll try to reach them again this morning.”
Pedersen sat down.
“Thanks,” said Bloodhound.
“Perhaps we should do a summary of the overall situation, for the captain’s sake?” Falcon suggested.
“That’s a good idea,” Anna hurried to agree, simply to rescue her colleague from enduring Bloodhound’s wrath afterward alone.
The superintendent glared bitterly at his inspectors.
“I don’t know if Jan feels any need for a sum—” he began.
“That would be excellent,” Jan Buck anticipated. “Go ahead, Larry.”
“I see.”
Superintendent Larry Bloodhound stuffed the rest of the Danish into his mouth. It had been lying there on the table, waiting for him, and now he suddenly felt a need for sugar. Perhaps he could skip lunch instead? He chewed slowly, with all gazes directed toward him.
“Last Monday,” he said, although he hadn’t swallowed yet, “Oswald Vulture was murdered.”
“Good,” said Buck enthusiastically. “Take it from the beginning.”
“In other words,” Bloodhound growled, “it looked like a classic twister. A room with one door. The deed happens without anyone seeing the murderer go in or out. Then it appears that the secretary, Cobra, who sits outside the door, was actually gone for fifteen minutes. And the time agrees with what the stuck-up Tapir states as the time of the decapitation. The murder weapon is found at the scene of the crime. The head, on the other hand, is still gone, no leads. There are tons of stuffed animals who had reason to cut the head off of Vulture, who apparently was an unsympathetic devil. And rich. The widow will inherit a fortune.”
“Do we believe the widow did it?” asked Buck.
“We don’t
believe
anything about the widow,” Bloodhound replied. “I only state facts. She had the most to gain from his death, and at the same time she thought she was married to a real pile of shit. We ought to question her again, that’s what I believe.”
“Good,” said Falcon, taking notes.
Bloodhound looked at his inspector as if he had a contagious disease.
“Rather quickly suspicion fell upon an inventor, Oleg Earwig, who was the last one to see Vulture alive. He had the motive and the opportunity. He was there. We thought. Then we wasted half a damn week on that repulsive insect, despite the fact that we could simply have dismissed him by double-checking his alibi . . .”
The color on Falcon’s cheeks intensified, but Anna could not keep from smiling. This was Bloodhound’s immediate revenge for Ècu having suggested this idiotic summary.
“And the secretary?” asked Buck.
“Cobra. That she had something to do with the matter is . . . probable. But she’s not our murderer. The oracle at place St.-Fargeau has told us that. And Tapir is intolerable in many ways, but he’s always right. The murderer had arms.”
Anna noticed that Bloodhound chose not to say anything about the tipster and the phone booth. Captain Jan Buck had, anyway, received more information than he could handle.
“And now?”
“We still don’t know how the murderer made his way into the office. There is a rather advanced alarm system. We think that possibly he may have disguised himself as an electrician in order to get in and out. There were repairs going on that morning. We’re still checking the stuffed animals in Vulture’s will. As you heard, Jan, we’ve gone through the majority of the ones who are named, and . . . well . . . I saved a favorite until last. Jasmine Squirrel. Anna did a background check yesterday.”
“Together with Falcon,” said Anna. “Perhaps you’d like to do the honors?”
Falcon Ècu not only wanted to, he was looking forward to it. After the conversation with Cobra he had returned to rue de Cadix and worked until long after midnight. He hadn’t even had time to tell Anna what he had found. He leafed through his papers.
“Perhaps you can relay the background first?” he said loyally.
Anna recounted briefly what they knew about Jasmine Squirrel’s cubdom and youth. This gave Falcon a foundation on which to construct his presentation, and he took over.
“Thus,” he said authoritatively, “there were two matters we could continue working on yesterday evening. One was that Squirrel was not found in any registry, apart from two recorded hospital visits. And, second, that Domaine d’Or Logistics paid her health insurance, despite the fact that she never listed them as an employer in her personal tax returns.”
“Domaine d’Or Logistics?” Bloodhound repeated with surprise.
“Are you familiar with that company, Superintendent?”
“No,” Bloodhound replied, “but in Vulture’s laptop there was a locked folder. It contained accounting for Domaine d’Or Logistics.”
“Did Jasmine Squirrel work for Vulture?” asked Anna.
“She said to me that she worked at that loathsome fast-food chain . . . whatever it’s called,” Bloodhound growled.
“A complete lie,” Ècu dismissed firmly.
“Yet another,” Bloodhound growled.
“And?” Anna reminded.
“This is exciting,” said Falcon, smiling slyly. “I started looking for Domaine d’Or Logistics yesterday. I thought they ought to have information about Squirrel that might lead us further.”
“Otherwise there’s tax cheating going on,” Buck pointed out.
“Captain, it’s better than that. Domaine d’Or Logistics, the company that has paid health insurance for Jasmine Squirrel for eighteen years, does not exist.”
“Doesn’t exist?” Anna exclaimed.
“No. Well, that depends on what you mean. There is no company where tangible goods or services are actually produced, where there are employees and, well, you understand? All that exists are minutes from a corporate meeting held every year that approves a balance sheet that is submitted to the Ministry of Finance. The representative for all shareholders, likewise the CEO of the company and the keeper of the minutes at the annual meeting, is one Alfredo Wasp.”
Falcon Ècu made a stage pause. No one in the room had ever heard of Alfredo Wasp and therefore the pause made no great impression.
“Wasp has a lot of experience with company meetings,” Falcon continued. “He keeps the minutes for Nova Park’s board meetings and shareholder meetings.”
Pedersen whistled.
“So it’s Vulture behind Domaine d’Or, then,” Anna concluded.
“It gets better,” said Falcon.
Bloodhound still looked angry, but he could not conceal the fact that he was interested.
“I took a closer look at that health insurance coverage,” said Ècu. “It seems that Squirrel isn’t the only one who has medical care paid for by Domaine d’Or. There are between four and eight names per year. A total of fifteen individuals. Certain names only appear a couple of years, others recur almost as often as Squirrel. One of the names is . . . Emanuelle Cobra.”
“What?” Buck exclaimed. “The secretary? The one you just said was a suspect but who didn’t do it?”
“The same,” Ècu nodded. “And of the other names—you’re not going to believe this—of the other fifteen names on the list, six of them have been convicted of sex offenses. I checked with GL, and they knew about another three.”
“What are you saying?” asked Anna.
“They’re hookers,” Bloodhound clarified brutally.