Authors: Tim Davys
He had walked around in Vulture’s large office, looked through the contents of the bookshelves, investigated the globe, started the computer on the desk and turned it off again. Time had passed, faster than he thought, and suddenly he’d heard sounds outside the office. He felt panic—he’d almost forgotten why he was there—and he threw himself behind one of the curtains hanging from ceiling to floor.
There he remained standing while Oswald Vulture took possession of his office.
If nothing more had happened after that, maybe everything would be different today. But as Mouse stood sweating behind the curtain for half an hour and almost decided to swallow his pride and leave the vulture to a different fate, Emanuelle Cobra stepped into the room. The private detective didn’t know who Cobra was, he had never met her and did not see her now, either. At a distance of a few feet, though, he heard a scene play out, a scene so perverse, so obscene, that the emotions from the night returned with full force.
He heard Cobra flatter and entice, moan and sigh, and he knew that this might just as well have been Jasmine.
That was when he saw the sword. Only a few inches away. That was how he got the idea.
After fifteen minutes Cobra and Vulture were interrupted by Leonard Earthworm.
Earthworm stepped into the office, and their meeting lasted about an hour. When the earthworm finally left and Philip Mouse was about to part the curtain to seize the knight’s sword, a furious Oleg Earwig made an entrance. For forty minutes the inventor told off the incessantly patronizing and unmoved Vulture.
Mouse stood steadfastly behind his curtain and listened without hearing. The alcohol from the night left his body, he quivered, his head ached, and his anxiety increased. The sounds from the morning’s perverse exercise echoed in his head, but it was his own, beloved squirrel he heard. He imagined her pleading for help, for rehabilitation, for a way out.
Philip Mouse does not remember what happened next. He has no memory of how he takes the sword, how he goes up behind Vulture and, in a single massive stroke, separates the head from the body.
When his memory functions again, he is sitting on the sofa where he now sits, with Vulture’s head in his hands and a sudden, ice-cold clarity about what has happened, what he has done. He realizes that on the other side of the closed door, scarcely two yards away, is the secretary who just opened the door and showed the inventor the way out.
Mouse also realizes that the secretary might be on her way in at any moment with the next visitor.
The idea of getting rid of the head is instinctive. If he doesn’t get rid of the head, all has been in vain. If he takes the head with him, the risk of being found out increases. Philip Mouse is a private detective, he’s seen that sort of carelessness many times; it is suddenly clear that he has to get rid of the head as soon as possible.
It’s like a nightmare, a trapdoor that opens under him and he is falling down into a black hole that seems to have no bottom. His body is starting to shake, he understands that he has to collect himself, but fails. He goes up to the desk, picks up the telephone receiver, and calls Jasmine. There is no intention behind this: he simply needs to hear her voice. When she talks to him, the effect is sobering. She gives him instructions, and he nods and understands.
Philip sneaks up to the door and peeks out through the keyhole in time to see the cobra outside pick up the phone, listen, and then get up and go. Mouse waits a minute or two and then leaves Vulture’s office. He doesn’t know whether anyone sees him on his way out to the street; he never raises his gaze from the ground.
He seems to be functioning again; logical thinking replaces the terror and confusion.
An alibi. This is what he’s concentrating on. He has to give himself an alibi.
How the trains of association interlock with each other is impossible to understand, but Mouse is thinking about Samson Zebra, the old tailor.
Out on the sidewalk Mouse is moving at top speed, running through Tourquai’s business district toward Zebra’s studio. As he crosses blue rue de Montyon he sees the phone booth, and decides not to take any chances. He calls Bloodhound, twice, without getting the superintendent to act. Falcon Ècu on the other hand reacts as expected. By phoning in the tip, Mouse knows that the police will find the vulture at a time when he can document that he’s been in a different place.
Zebra has his boutique around the corner from rue de Montyon, and as usual the old tailor is napping behind the counter. Mouse writes his name on the tailor’s calendar and then goes into one of the fitting rooms. He takes off his trousers and coughs loudly. Zebra wakes up, excuses himself because it has taken so long, and asks what Philip wants. The detective sighs, maintains that they’ve been trying samples and fabrics for over an hour, and Zebra does not protest. It might very well be so. Mouse’s alibi is thereby arranged.
Philip got up from
the armchair. The office was in darkness, but he thought he heard something. A throat clearing? A chair against the floor? Was there someone outside in Cobra’s office?
It was late in the evening, and no one ought to be here. Mouse held his breath. He had to destroy the evidence, he had to burn up the head.
Then he heard it again.
There was someone outside there.
He had to hurry.
W
hat this city really needs is a thorough reorganization of the taxi business. I’m not talking about under-the-table money, cars that lack proper inspection, or the hygiene in the backseat. No, my proposal is that we jointly decide to send the taxi drivers off to some sort of school where they’ll learn some good manners and common sense.
“Rat, stop here up at the corner, please?” I asked amiably.
“I’m a hamster,” my taxi driver answered bitterly. “Not a damn rat.”
As if a taxi driver can take that tone.
“Listen, for me you are and you will remain a little rat,” I pointed out.
The customer is always right. It may take effort, it demands character, but it is a rule that leads to success. I know. Success is something I’m familiar with. I was so bold as to point this out to the taxi driver; it was like taking a tone-deaf animal to the Conservatory of Music.
“Little rat,” I said, “if you ever want to get anywhere, and not spend the rest of your life sitting behind the wheel and driving in circles night after night after night, you might start with your attitude. The customer, you know, is always right.”
“You’re completely off your nut,” the rat/hamster replied.
“I see,” I pointed out nicely. “Yes, then perhaps you can explain why you’re sitting in the front seat in a shabby flannel shirt and driving me around for peanuts, while I’m sitting here in the backseat in a tuxedo, wondering whether I should give you a tip or not?”
“We should have ridden with the gnu,” my wife complained. “It’s always like this when we take a taxi.”
“Do you want to get sick?” I asked. “Well, maybe it doesn’t matter to you, you don’t have anywhere to go during the day. But I don’t have time to lie in bed with a thermometer in my beak for a week. Kai has to get healthy before I get in the car with him.”
“Hypochondriac,” my wife hissed.
I chose not to hear this. Once again—character. In what other way could this miserable marriage have survived? But my wife’s influential family has still not played out its role in my professional life, and therefore I’m going to put up with her damn whining for a few more years. I have character.
“All right, so stop already,” I said sharply. “We’re here!”
Circus Balthazar had put
up its octagonal tent on one of the many fields in Bois de Dalida. This evening, for the great premiere, a forty-stuffed-animal-strong orchestra played outside the entry, searchlights big as wine casks drew patterns straight up against the black sky, and champagne was served on silver trays. Long gowns, real jewelry, white shirt fronts, and expectant giggling. The odor of cigars, butter-drizzled popcorn, and spun sugar. My wife and I walked along the circus wagons where the artists lived, and I nodded graciously at stuffed animals I encountered.
As usual I didn’t recognize anyone, but everyone knew me. That’s the way it should be. Nova Park had been one of the first companies that dared invest in Circus Balthazar; I don’t even need to point out how profitable that investment proved to be. These trapeze artists, clowns, and animal trainers were all in debt to me, and they knew it. The circus director himself was conspicuous in his absence, but I suspect he was running around inside the tent, preparing for the performance. He was an unusually nervous spider of a sort I couldn’t name, and I never thought he had any style. He fits the circus, though.
We took our seats a moment later, and I managed to stay awake for at least twenty minutes. Seeing stuffed animals stumble in shoes that are too big or climb on each other’s shoulders is not really what I understand as culture.
At the intermission I
left my wife’s side to go out and buy refreshments. In the long line to the wagon where wine and beer were sold—here the quantity was more important than the quality; personally I was looking for mineral water—I ran into Superintendent Larry Bloodhound. Unfortunately I discovered him too late and was forced to say hello.
“Superintendent,” I nodded.
“Vulture! Up yours,” the yokel exhorted me elatedly. “You look just like new!”
“I wish I could say the same,” I replied, leading him to the side, away from the beer wagon and all the stuffed animals who stood there listening.
The police superintendent is one of the most slovenly stuffed animals I’ve ever met. He looks like a fat scarecrow, and could very easily have appeared together with the clowns inside.
“I guess it suits you to get the most out of living,” he said.
That was so stupid an observation that I could not even comment on it. Beer foam was stuck in his whiskers.
“It’s appropriate, I’d say,” he continued, “that we should meet here.”
“Perhaps that has something to do with the fact that you received an invitation to the premiere from me?” I pointed out.
“You know what I mean,” he said.
I knew it. He had told the story twice, and I had not been impressed even the first time. The alarm had gone off at Nova Park late on Sunday evening. Someone had used the old security code, just as Bloodhound had thought. The police had arrived on the scene in a few minutes and caught the pitiful private detective inside my office. But my head was still missing. It was Bloodhound who found it on Monday morning. And that was thanks to the posters that Circus Balthazar had put up all over the city. The clown that walked on his hands. With his feet up in the air and his head down toward the ground. Bloodhound boasted about his flash of insight. When he saw the clown on the poster, he remembered the globe that was on the bookshelf in my office. The globe was upside down, with Mollisan Town on the upper half and the forest on the lower. Bloodhound had rushed up to Nova Park and found my head in the globe, which the private detective in his confusion had put together incorrectly. That was, of course, why the pitiful mouse had returned on Sunday evening, to finally get rid of the head. But he ran out of time.
“Truly grand of you not to press charges,” said Bloodhound.
Was he being impudent?
“Time is money,” I answered. “And there’s no money in sitting in court, listening to tiresome pleadings. The pitiful mouse will have to live with what he’s done.”
“That’s big of you,” said Bloodhound.
But I thought I saw a grimace on his lips, a hint of a smile. Was the fat bloodhound having a laugh at my expense?
“I’ve never been much for looking back,” I replied. “Excuse me, you’re spilling—”
Without thinking about it, Bloodhound had turned the mug, and beer was running over his pants. It was not only unpleasant, it was pitiful, to put it bluntly.
“Crapola,” he answered, but didn’t seem to care about it.
I did not file charges against the mouse because Jasmine asked me not to. I am a gentleman. If a beautiful female asks me for something, it’s a matter of honor to fulfill her wish.
I had nothing more to say to the police officer.
“Well, then, perhaps it’s time to return to the tent?”
The superintendent nodded. I made sure to take a different way; he reeked of beer.
I was sitting in
my seat again well before the intermission was over. My wife asked about the mineral water, but I had forgotten it.
“Oswald,” she said, “I think you’ve become more absentminded after that incident with your head.”
That was nonsense, of course; everything was exactly as before, but I nodded compliantly. The lights were dimmed, the orchestra began to play, and it was time for another hour of ridiculous acrobat numbers and droll stumbling.
A
MBERVILLE
L
ANCEHEIM
TOURQUAI.
Copyright © 2011 by Tim Davys Corporation. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
FIRST U.S. EDITION
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN: 978-0-06-179745-3
EPub Edition © 2011 ISBN: 9780062084347
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