Authors: Tim Davys
He got up. Where was the forger? He was no longer interested in the neurotic artist; she didn’t supply him with anything he could sell. It was the forger he wanted to meet. Had Hummingbird scared him away? Igor Panda put his paw in his pocket. The box cutter from yesterday was still there.
“When you came,” he asked, “was there anyone here then?”
“No,” she answered. “No one was here.”
“That’s not possible,” said Panda, without concealing the fury in his voice. “There had to be someone here. You must have seen someone?”
“No one,” Hummingbird promised. “There was no one here.”
But she felt afraid. She got up. The panda came slowly toward her, and she started to back away. Suddenly there was something threatening about the scene. They noticed the change at the same time. Panda grasped the box cutter, which was still in his jacket pocket.
He wants to hurt me, thought Hummingbird. He wants to hurt me.
The next moment she turned and ran.
Outside Boathouse 3 the
police had not left anything to chance. Ten police cars stood arranged like a convex wall fifteen feet from the one door, and more than thirty police officers had taken their positions with drawn weapons. Captain Jan Buck had given strict orders. Before he got to the scene himself, no one could so much as sneeze. Igor Panda would be Buck’s trophy, and no one else’s. Now the captain stood with a megaphone in hand, at a safe distance from the door of the boathouse, and raised his arm just as the door was thrown open and Hummingbird Esperanza-Santiago came running out.
Nervous police officers’ trigger fingers twitched, but the artist was so tangibly small and thin that not even the most psychotic police officer—and there were a few of those standing with their rifles steadied on the hoods of the cars—could perceive Hummingbird as a threat.
The next moment Igor Panda came out through the door.
If the situation had not been so intense, it would have been a parody. Panda came rushing out of the boathouse but refused to understand the obvious. He didn’t seem to see the police officers, the cars, the drawn weapons, or hear Captain Buck screaming in his megaphone, either. Igor Panda ran after Esperanza-Santiago: he was chasing his salvation and his dream, he was chasing his last hope.
“STOP, OTHERWISE WE’LL SHOOT!” Buck screamed again.
But Panda continued running inside his own destiny.
J
asmine Squirrel hadn’t taken the bus for years. Now she was sitting on the Route 3, which went between Rosdahl in Lanceheim and Parc Clemeaux in Tourquai. She observed that they had taken away the little buttons you pressed for the next stop; these were replaced with a strip that ran along the windows. She did not recall the turquoise tint of the seats, the gravel on the floor, or the advertising messages on the ceiling, but, as always, she felt nauseous from all the braking and accelerating. Outside, the breeze had just set in and the Evening Weather colored the sky a gentle red. Except for a few bears sitting in front, she was alone on board.
She was still furious.
Monday morning, when Mouse called, her first reaction had been suspicion. What he’d said was impossible to understand, impossible to accept; it was the sort of thing that happened only in melodramatic novels sold at Monomart.
“I’ve cut the head off Oswald Vulture,” he had said. “Jasmine, my darling, I have cut the head off Oswald.”
She’d been sitting on the couch in her cozy living room and didn’t move from the spot. She breathed into the telephone receiver and listened to his breath on the other side. It was not fear or anxiety that made the words get stuck and refuse to cross her lips; when she realized that he was telling the truth, surprise was replaced by fury. She went crazy.
“Where are you?” she finally forced out.
“I’m still here,” he answered. “At Nova Park.”
“Where?”
“Inside Vulture’s office.”
The image immediately entered her mind: the impersonal, lavish, and dark office where Philip Mouse stood perplexed by the desk, where the headless Vulture sat in his pin-striped suit.
It was heinous. It was incomprehensible. It was her fault.
“Mouse, you are one hell of an idiot,” she whispered.
She didn’t know why she lowered her voice.
“Darling, I . . . did it,” he whispered back.
He sounded like a lunatic. He was in a state of shock. But before she let the madness get the upper hand she concentrated on the practical.
“You are one silly, silly idiot,” she repeated slowly. “Listen to me now. When we’re through talking, you put down the receiver, Philip. Go over to the door, peek out through the keyhole, and wait until Cobra leaves her seat. Then you open it and leave.”
He had not answered a word; there was only his breathing on the phone.
“Philip, did you hear what I said?”
With a grunt he confirmed it at last.
Squirrel hung up, picked up the receiver again, and dialed Emanuelle Cobra’s direct extension.
“Emanuelle, it’s me. Don’t ask. Leave there. Leave the office. Take a smoke break. I’ll explain later.”
Without surprise or making any objections, Emanuelle Cobra did as Squirrel said. She got up and left the office. It was not the first time she had obeyed orders, and it would be far from the last. On her way out, in the corridor, she also realized that Squirrel would never explain what was behind the request; their relationship was not like that.
Outside the windows of
the bus, evening was settling carefully over Mollisan Town. It was the street lighting that revealed the darkness: from one moment to the next, Jasmine Squirrel noticed that the neon signs above the display windows demanded attention and the light that fell across the sidewalks from inside the shops suddenly seemed warm and inviting.
The bears sitting at the front of the bus got off at North Avenue, and a hyena with a dark green hoodie got on and took one of their seats. In the large rearview mirror Jasmine caught a glimpse of the bus driver’s stern visage. With the regulation cap pulled down over his forehead, he sat staring straight ahead. He couldn’t be bothered to give her a glance.
Philip Mouse got on at orange-colored rue Leblanc. Jasmine shut her eyes. It pained her to see him. The wrinkled white trench coat, the narrow face, the curious gaze. In conflict with her nature, she felt endlessly sorry for him.
Philip had always chosen not to understand. He had chosen not to see and hear. It was pathetic, but it was his own choice.
Jasmine had already started Domaine d’Or Logistics when she met Philip Mouse the first time. Even if she seldom talked about work, he must have understood. She assumed that; anything else seemed unreasonable.
The main reason the escort operation could go on year after year without involvement from the police or Mafia was because Jasmine never got greedy. She maintained a small stable of clients; she tied her females close to her. Emanuelle Cobra was a perfect example. Cobra had been around a long time, and the last few years she had only a single customer. Oswald Vulture. It was Vulture himself who suggested that Cobra should become his secretary, something that gave Domaine d’Or many advantages. For one thing, Jasmine was paid for Cobra’s services, and besides she could simply blackmail Vulture for extra money when such tactics were required. What she didn’t know today about his business deals wasn’t worth knowing. But she never pushed too much, never too hard. She had a long-term perspective on her operation.
Her telling Philip Mouse about Oswald Vulture a week ago had been a mistake. A gigantic mistake. She had done it without thinking about it; in the context, Vulture had been a natural association, a cheap shot. And when she realized what she’d done . . . it was too late. For the first time Philip had not been content with evasion.
Jasmine had finally told about her life in a way that was close to the truth. A truth that she knew Philip could accept. She depicted herself as a victim, and Vulture as a sadistic lunatic.
But it had been a fatal mistake.
The bus accelerated and
Philip went carefully back and sat in the row ahead of Jasmine.
“He guessed it,” was the first thing Mouse said.
“Who?”
“Bloodhound. He knows. Or, he doesn’t know, but he senses. He knows about you and me.”
“That’s not my fault,” she answered quickly.
Mouse thought about disputing this, but realized that it would only lead to meaningless bickering.
“Bring out his head,” whispered Jasmine. “Philip, for the last time, I’m begging you. Don’t be such a fool.”
“Don’t start—” he begged.
“This is ridiculous!” she burst out. “I spent the night in jail at rue de Cadix. You’re asking me to sit on this damn bus and—”
“I don’t dare see you anywhere else,” he interrupted. “I don’t know what Larry is thinking. Maybe he’s already put out a search for me. I want to stay mobile.”
“The last thing I want to be doing tonight is sitting here,” she repeated. “And the only reason I’m doing it is to convince you. Bring out the head, Philip. I know an ape who can sew on the head without the stitches showing. We can—”
“It can never be undone,” he replied.
The bus careened around a curve, and they were both forced to take hold of the seats to counter the movement.
“I promise,” she whispered loudly as the driver turned and stopped at the bus stop at the corner, “I can convince Vulture not to file charges. I can get him to do anything at all.”
Philip was about to answer when an elderly couple, an ostrich and a llama, got on and sat down a few rows ahead.
“And then everything goes back to how it was,” he whispered.
The bitterness in his voice was not to be mistaken.
“Yes, and is that so bad?” she hissed.
He didn’t answer. They had had this conversation earlier in the week.
“You’re not my guardian angel,” she said.
She was talking too loud. Mouse was certain that the couple sitting ahead of them could hear what she said. With a gesture he tried to quiet her.
“It’s my life you’re destroying,” she said. “My life. Who gave you the right to do that? Who gave you the right to interfere in things that have nothing to do with you?”
He wanted to answer but didn’t dare. She got up and pressed the strip under the window. The bus driver reacted immediately and slowed down. They were already at the next stop.
“Bring out the head, Philip,” she said, and he saw the llama and ostrich turn around. “Until you do, I don’t want to see you again. I mean it. Either you bring out the head or else this is the last time.”
And with these words she left him on the bus, which drove farther into Tourquai’s ever-darker heart.
If Philip Mouse knew
that the Route 3 bus to Parc Clemeaux went via oil black Boulevard de la Villette, he’d forgotten it that evening. He sat staring out through the window as if paralyzed in the vacuum Jasmine created by leaving. When he saw the dark silhouette of Bourg de la Villette towering up against the dramatic twilight sky a few minutes later, it was a surprise.
He decided immediately.
He had to remove the remaining evidence; anything else was impossible.
Nova Park might of course have changed all the codes after everything that had happened, but they might just as well have forgotten to do so for the same reason.
That was why Philip Mouse relived his Sunday night exactly one week later. Many times he had laughed at the assertion that a criminal always returns to the scene of the crime: Who could be so stupid?
Now he had the answer.
He went into Bourg de la Villette’s massive lobby without hesitating, and raised his paw in greeting to the bored guard in reception. The guard hardly looked up from his book. After office hours the elevators, stairwells, and doors were locked and alarmed; only the authorized could make their way into the building.
Philip went up to the elevators and punched in the code. It worked. The doors glided apart and Philip stepped into the elegant, mirrored metal box.
The office was empty and dark, just as empty and dark as a week ago, and just like then Philip punched in the security code on the little box that sat hidden behind the computer in reception.
The black night sky outside generously reflected the illuminated city and, thanks to the large windows, he avoided turning on lights as he went down the corridor toward Cobra’s and Vulture’s offices.
Oswald Vulture’s office had been locked last Sunday, but the lock was an ordinary one and for an experienced private detective with a set of skeleton keys it was no challenge. This evening the door was unlocked. When he opened it and looked over toward the desk, the image of the headless Vulture appeared in his memory. Confused, Philip took a few steps into the room and sat down on the armchair by the sofa, as far from the desk as possible.
What is freedom?
Is it moving through a room unhindered, in any direction you want, fast or slow? Or is it being able to think any thought whatsoever, high or low, without shame or fear? Is freedom being able to openly express your convictions, and then trying to influence others to think the same thing? Or is freedom having the possibility to choose, being able to say no to what you don’t want?
But Mouse, who had been able to and still could do all this, did not think any of these words described what he defined as freedom.
During his entire life he had felt bound by external circumstances. Expectations and obligations. How this mental yoke had developed—and whether it was self-assumed—was the therapist’s business to decide. Mouse experienced what he experienced. Often it felt as if he were behind a wall of compulsion, unable to make his way out to reality.
It was suffocating to carry the hope of being able to reach further, and achieve more, but never finding the way out of the labyrinth of life. Sometimes the frustration created an aggressive energy, which could be positive, but more often over the years he felt a disillusioned melancholy.
Freedom, thought Philip Mouse, would be to outwit the limitations fate had once given him. To break out of the social, intellectual, and emotional framework that the factory and his youth had defined.
Freedom, thought Mouse, was to surprise life by placing yourself above your fate.
What he felt was
not regret. He could not feel regret. He had tried, but it wasn’t possible.
Deep inside he had always known how Jasmine Squirrel lived. But with the years he had begun to doubt. He had established a charade that felt most comfortable. He stopped asking himself where the money came from. He made sure not to surprise her, never demanding details about who she met or what she had done; he pretended he was showing trust.
Why had he forced a confession from her last Sunday? Why hadn’t he—like so many times before—simply let it go? Talked about something else?
He didn’t know.
When she confessed, his anger mostly consisted of shame. Not disappointment, not judgment, only a glowing hatred that he chose to direct at Oswald Vulture, even if it might just as well have been directed inward, toward himself.
When he forced her to give him the codes to the elevator and office, he had not had a plan. He found himself in an almost hallucinatory state; all the years of insinuations and half-truths came rushing toward him, and he understood how easy it would have been to expose her secret earlier. If he had only wanted to.
When he stepped into Oswald Vulture’s office late Sunday night, or rather early Monday morning, he still had no plan. En route from Squirrel to Bourg de la Villette, he had stopped at a number of late-night bars and drank himself into courage and confusion.