Authors: Tim Davys
T
hey drove straight from the interview with Emanuelle Cobra to Jasmine Squirrel, from Vulture’s latest lover to the former. Falcon drove; Anna Lynx sat alongside and concentrated on her . . . what was it she felt? Mostly she wanted to lock both Cobra and Squirrel up in King’s Cross. She didn’t understand why she reacted to these two females so strongly. She had worked as a police officer long enough not to be morally shocked or indignant anymore. She must have brought in a hundred prostitutes, and unfortunately only a fraction as many pimps and brothel owners. Cobra’s and Squirrel’s history was not unique. What set them apart from the crowd?
Falcon was stuck in lunch-hour traffic on North Avenue. It didn’t seem possible to stem the increase in the number of cars in Mollisan Town; the only limitation was the capacity of the Volga factories. Falcon honked. Anna laughed.
“C’mon, what are you thinking?” she asked.
“He pulled right in front of me.”
Falcon pointed at the cars standing, waiting for the traffic to ease up on one of the off-ramps.
“You’re in a police car,” Anna pointed out with a smile. “Either you turn on the sirens and force your way ahead, or else you set a good example and be patient. Sitting in a police car and honking—”
“Can I turn on the siren?” he asked hopefully.
She shook her head.
“No. It’s better that you practice being a good example. We won’t move any faster with the sirens on.”
He mumbled something, she didn’t hear what, and she laughed out loud.
And then it hit her.
The reason for her feelings had nothing to do with Cobra. It was Falcon. It was his servile manner, politeness, and obvious enchantment with the little tart.
Lord Magnus, thought Anna Lynx, I’m jealous. She tittered tipsily.
Field Mouse Pedersen was
sitting in the library where Irina Flamingo had put Superintendent Bloodhound on Tuesday. The Morning Weather’s clear blue sky had just passed lunchtime and the warm breeze was blowing again. Pedersen was in agony. He had a hard time sitting still on the couch. No one had offered him anything to drink, and no one was going to.
The widow was dressed up, had put on several layers of makeup, and was wearing a multiple-strand pearl necklace coiled layer upon layer around her long, slender neck. She had unwillingly asked the police officer to come in, but explained that she was on her way out and didn’t want to be late. After that she answered his questions negatively and a few times outright unpleasantly.
“What do you want to know about Lamb?” Irina Flamingo was now wondering.
“Yes, can you tell us anything about him? Your husband, Mr. Vulture, was a . . . demanding employer. Do you think Lamb experienced it that way?”
“You’ll just have to ask him,” Flamingo hissed.
Flamingo’s heavy, sweet perfume made Pedersen’s nose itch. The aroma was so insistent that the police officer involuntarily started breathing through his mouth.
“We intend to do that, Mrs. Flamingo,” he said patiently. “But now we’re asking you.”
“I have no idea. What Oswald said or did with his employees was not my concern.”
During the morning, Pedersen had managed to get Llama’s alibi confirmed by the garage; now only Lamb remained. At first Pedersen had been properly careful with the widow, but now he was starting to get tired.
“Your husband has been murdered, Mrs. Flamingo,” the field mouse said with a certain emphasis. “It’s in our mutual interest to find out who did it, and why. It can’t be overlooked that you yourself will inherit a fortune. The foundation you indicated that your husband threatened you with . . . it doesn’t exist. You, Mrs. Flamingo, have every reason to want to clear up this case.”
Irina Flamingo neither denied nor confirmed this. She stared at Pedersen as if she could see right through his head and into the bookcase behind.
Pedersen squirmed. He sat drumming one paw against the floor and couldn’t stop. The austerity of the consummate library and Irina Flamingo’s condescending manner were endlessly provocative. Her perfume could only be described as vulgarly intrusive.
“Lamb says the reason he was late on Monday was that he was picking you up outside the Auction House,” he said. “And that you, for some reason, wanted to keep that a secret.”
“I see,” said Flamingo.
But she appeared uncomfortable.
“Is that right?” asked Pedersen. “This is important, Mrs. Flamingo. If you can’t verify Lamb’s testimony, then we have to—”
“Yes, yes, that’s right,” said Flamingo with irritation.
“That’s right?” Pedersen repeated.
“I don’t intend to say what I was doing at the Auction House,” Flamingo hissed, “because that has nothing to do with you.”
Pedersen suppressed a desire to inform Irina Flamingo that, on the contrary, it did have to do with him.
“Thanks,” he said, finally getting the paw to stop. “That was all I needed to know. For now.”
He hoped that sounded sufficiently ominous, and he left the widow in the library.
“What do we do?”
said Falcon.
The traffic was not letting up. They were still stuck in the middle of one of the five northbound lanes on North Avenue. It was more than three miles to the next exit. Stuffed animals caught in the middle of this mess had given up; not even the most hot-tempered was hoping for any quick improvement. Anna refrained from noting how many in the cars around them were picking their noses. Falcon drummed absently on the steering wheel. In the luggage compartment was a brand-new badminton racket, and even though it was expensive, it was worth the money. He’d decided to put his tennis racket on the shelf for good; he won no friends, or matches, at tennis. For that reason he had signed up for the Tourquai police’s badminton series. He’d tried playing last winter, and he was at least no worse than at tennis.
“So what do we do now?” he asked.
“C’mon, what do you mean?” she asked.
“Well . . . should we confront her directly? When she talked with Bloodhound she maintained that she hardly knew who Vulture was. According to Cobra . . . it’s not that way.”
Falcon was holding both wings on the wheel and looking straight ahead, out the windshield, as if any moment now it would be time to drive.
“And Cobra’s telling the truth?” asked Anna, sounding more sarcastic than she intended. “What the beautiful Emanuelle Cobra said is the truth and nothing but?”
“Nothing is true until it can be proved,” Falcon replied, sullen and surprised. “What do you mean? That Domaine d’Or isn’t an escort service? That Jasmine Squirrel isn’t involved?”
“I don’t mean anything,” said Anna. “C’mon, think about it. Assume that Jasmine Squirrel is running an escort service. According to Wasp, it’s an extensive operation. Health insurance and pensions go out to a number of stuffed animals every year. We can only speculate about how much money Squirrel earns.”
“That can probably be figured out—”
“That has nothing to do with this,” Anna Lynx cut him off. “Squirrel is ingenious. It’s not enough that she manages to move her own client over to Cobra and get him to buy escort services at the office five days a week. It also includes extortion, which means that Nova Park pays a long series of fees to Squirrel’s company . . . it sounds like a perfect setup.”
“You’re right. Let’s not underestimate Jasmine Squirrel,” Falcon agreed.
“C’mon, the question,” Anna concluded, “the whole point is this: Why should Jasmine Squirrel want to cut the head off of Oswald Vulture? On the contrary, wouldn’t that be the stupidest thing she could do?”
And with these words the traffic jam broke up in the miraculous manner that is sometimes the case in Mollisan Town.
They agreed to take
Jasmine Squirrel to rue de Cadix before they asked any questions. Rather than give her the upper hand in her own environment, they might gain an advantage simply thanks to the bare-bones, unpleasant interview room.
Rue d’Oran was the only known address they had. True to habit, Falcon parked around the corner, then they walked back. On the way they had called to get the entry code from the building superintendent, under the pretext that they wanted to check fire security in the attic after an alarm from a neighbor. Squirrel lived on the third floor, listed as Bordeauz on the directory in the entry. The police officers took the stairs, and rang the doorbell. The door opened almost instantly.
“I . . . we . . . we’re looking for Jasmine Squirrel,” the falcon stammered to the squirrel in the doorway.
“Yes?” said the squirrel.
Anna came to her uncertain colleague’s rescue, holding out her ID.
“Police,” she said. “We would like to ask a few questions . . .”
“The police were here yesterday and asked a few questions,” Squirrel answered, but her tone of voice was light and not at all aggressive. “I think I’ve said all I—”
“Let’s find that out down at the station,” said Anna.
Jasmine Squirrel observed the lynx for a few intense moments, and then decided with a curt nod.
“Just let me get my purse,” she said.
“Of course,” Falcon Ècu nodded.
They both saw how Squirrel opened the door and vanished into a room to the right in the narrow hall corridor.
A moment later Anna Lynx ran into the apartment. Was there another exit? A kitchen entry? With her pulse pounding in her ears Anna threw open the door to what proved to be a kitchen. At the kitchen table sat a mouse in a white trench coat. He seemed familiar, but Anna couldn’t place him. She assumed he was a “customer.” Jasmine Squirrel stood facing the door, with a purse in her hand.
“Oy,” she commented drily. “Goodness what a hurry you’re in.”
Anna was not embarrassed.
“We’re leaving now,” she said curtly. “After you.”
A
hem,” Larry Bloodhound growled into the microphone on the table, “it’s Saturday, the eighteenth of June, right after the Afternoon Rain, and we are beginning the interview with Jasmine Squirrel. Present are myself, Superintendent Larry Bloodhound, plus Inspector Field Mouse Pedersen. In addition Jasmine Squirrel and her legal counsel, Attorney . . . what was your name?”
“Flounder Finkenstein,” the attorney added.
“ . . . Attorney Flounder Finkenstein,” Bloodhound concluded.
“My client still does not understand why she is sitting here,” Finkenstein complained. “As far as we understand she’s not accused of anything. I firmly demand that she be released immediately.”
Bloodhound sighed. Later he would find out who had let Jasmine Squirrel call a lawyer, but now the damage was done. And this . . . Finkenstein . . . was the very worst type. Far too well dressed and well educated to be sitting in a little interview room at the police station on rue de Cadix.
“Besides,” Attorney Finkenstein added, “I wish to convey a particular greeting from Judge Duchamp. He said he was astounded at this action, bringing stuffed animals in for questioning without informing them of their rights or obligations. He said that he would contact those responsible at the station later.”
“I look forward to that,” Bloodhound growled. “Now perhaps you can shut up, Attorney, so we can start this interview?”
Finkenstein leafed through some papers in order to avoid expressing an opinion on the insult.
They were in the north interview room. Jasmine Squirrel’s perfume was discreet but still hard to ignore. The room was too small for that. It smelled of cinnamon and lavender.
Squirrel sat across from Bloodhound, and Finkenstein across from Pedersen.
“Name?” asked Pedersen.
“My name is Jasmine Squirrel,” Jasmine answered obligingly.
She was dressed in unpretentious jeans, a black blouse, and a lovely white jacket that was certainly as expensive as it looked simple. Her lawyer was wearing a black suit, white shirt, and dark red tie. They were mirror images of each other.
“Age?”
“Age?” she repeated. “Exactly what does that have to do with this?”
“Date of delivery?” Pedersen clarified. “In order to eliminate any chance that we’re talking to the wrong Jasmine Squirrel.”
Squirrel gave him the information.
“Address?”
“I’m living on rue d’Oran for the time being,” said Jasmine.
“But you’re not registered there?” growled Bloodhound.
“No.”
“Where are you registered?”
“That I don’t really know,” said Jasmine with the hint of a smile on her lips. “I think maybe I’m still registered at home with my parents.”
“We would like to talk with you a little about your company, Domaine d’Or Logistics,” Bloodhound growled.
“Domaine d’Or,” Squirrel repeated flatly.
“Now that’s enough,” Finkenstein broke in. “We’re not saying anything more until you explain why we’re sitting here.”
“We’re in the middle of a murder investigation,” Pedersen replied. “This interview is meant to survey the circumstances surrounding Oswald Vulture’s death.”
“Domaine d’Or,” Bloodhound continued, undisturbed. “Do you mean to deny that this is your company? Maybe you’ve forgotten it?”
Jasmine gave the lawyer a look. Finkenstein nodded.
“It’s my company,” Jasmine answered.
“Where you run an escort operation, prostitution?”
“Excuse me?”
Squirrel opened her eyes and looked so wronged that Pedersen was forced to hide a smile. Bloodhound was not amused.
“How dare you!” Finkenstein exclaimed. “Is this what you call a murder investigation? You are accusing my client of procuring? Is that why—”
“Yes, yes, Attorney,” Bloodhound interrupted, turning again to Jasmine. “We’ll forget about that. Tell us instead how you know Emanuelle Cobra.”
Once again Squirrel looked at her attorney. This time he shook his head firmly.
“I don’t know any Cobra,” Squirrel replied.
“In the same way that you alleged you didn’t know Vulture when we met the last time?” Bloodhound asked.
“I was mistaken.”
“And perhaps you’re mistaken now, too?”
“Maybe,” said Jasmine. “But I don’t think so.”
“You called Emanuelle Cobra last Monday morning. You called from your home telephone to her telephone at Nova Park,” Bloodhound maintained.
Squirrel looked him right in the eyes.
“I don’t know any Cobra,” she repeated.
“I want to see documentation that someone used Jasmine Squirrel’s telephone to make such a telephone call,” the attorney interjected. “And I want to know why we are sitting here. Is Jasmine Squirrel suspected of the murder of Oswald Vulture? Is this an arrest?”
“Calm down, Attorney,” said Pedersen.
“We haven’t arrested anyone,” Bloodhound growled. “We are just sitting here, talking. This is really enjoyable.”
“This is a formal interview, Superintendent,” Finkenstein protested, “and I wish to remind you that such interviews must be run in a formally—”
“Cobra, then,” Bloodhound interrupted harshly. “That’s not anyone you know, Squirrel? You realize that it’s easy for us to produce papers on the health insurance payments from Domaine d’Or to Emanuelle Cobra?”
Jasmine turned toward Finkenstein. This was a question.
“We will comment on this matter when you present such documents,” said the attorney.
But there was no worry in his voice. Bloodhound knew why. Proving the relationship between Squirrel and Cobra was one thing; proving that it was about prostitution was something completely different. And, besides, they were sitting here to talk about a murder. Finkenstein had no reason to be worried.
“You get one last chance,” said Bloodhound. “You called Cobra last Monday morning and asked her to leave the office at Nova Park so that the murderer could slip out of the scene of the crime unobserved. Why?”
Jasmine still sat turned toward her attorney, and her facial expression remained unchanged.
“No comment? Oswald Vulture was on Domaine d’Or’s list of customers,” Bloodhound continued. “There was no reason for you to kill him. Yet you made that call. Was Vulture killed on your orders, or were you just carrying out an assignment for someone else?”
“Are you accusing—” Finkenstein began in a loud voice.
The superintendent got up unexpectedly. The attorney fell silent, and Jasmine Squirrel finally turned her head and looked at the police officer.
“Squirrel,” Larry Bloodhound growled, “you’re staying here overnight. And if your attorney is wondering on what grounds I’m holding you, it’s because you’re obstructing a murder investigation. And Mr. Attorney? Up yours.”
And with these words he left the small interview room, the surprised attorney, and the taciturn squirrel.