Authors: Tim Davys
“Do you agree, Field Mouse?” Anna asked after Falcon had summarized what he had told to that point. “Nothing interesting to report?”
“They work extremely independently and are isolated up there,” said Field Mouse. “Everyone seems to sit in their offices, reading papers and making a call or two . . . No one heard or saw anything.”
“It could possibly be that electrician,” said Falcon.
“What electrician?” asked Anna.
“It was the goat in reception who said there’d been an electrician who came and went several times during the morning,” Falcon clarified. “But I don’t know . . . we have to question the goat again. He didn’t seem exactly reliable.”
“No, he didn’t,” agreed Field Mouse. “Someone has to talk with the goat in reception again.”
“And the head?” asked Anna.
“Don’t know,” Field Mouse Pedersen replied. “But both Hare’s and Tapir’s teams were still there when Falcon and I came here. And one more thing. Everyone described Vulture the same way. As a hard and merciless business executive.”
“That’s right,” Falcon sighed. “I don’t recall who said it, but when I asked who would want to kill Oswald Vulture, someone answered, ‘Who wouldn’t want to kill Oswald Vulture?’ There will be no lack of stuffed animals with a motive.”
T
he yellowish glow of the lanterns revealed salmon pink Avenue Michelle Duboir. The street lay broad and shameless before Emanuelle Cobra. She got off the bus one stop early, simply to have the satisfaction of personally slithering the final blocks. She loved this part of Michelle Duboir, between orange-colored rue Leblanc and yellow North Avenue. Along the sidewalks the city had planted small but proudly blossoming cherry trees. They cast long shadows across cars that had finally found their places for the night. The occasional stuffed animal was en route home after yet another day of seeming significance or obvious meaninglessness; for Emanuelle Cobra, Monday, the third of June, had been bewildering. And it was not over yet. But what remained was the high point of the month, and not even the decapitated Vulture or the embarrassed police inspector who had questioned her that morning could cause Cobra to despair today.
For those who remain, life goes on, she thought. Life goes on, but in new clothes.
She had on a long coat from Carél and a high-heeled red shoe from Dot that was strapped over the tip of her tail. It was obvious that reptiles wore out clothes faster; with all that scraping against the stone and asphalt of the sidewalks it was unavoidable. She knew that the others also appreciated the first Monday of the month, but for Cobra this bonus was considerably more valuable than for stuffed animals who walked on two or four legs.
She reached the gateway on Avenue Michelle Duboir just as she heard the Evening Storm’s first ominous whispering. As usual the gate stood open, and she crawled in through the arch and across the cobblestones of the dark, gloomy inner courtyard. She knocked with her head, waiting for the electronic lock to open, and then pulled open the door. The stairs down to the basement were like one long, winding promise.
She was the first.
“Terrible,” said Jasmine Squirrel, who came to meet her at the door. “Simply terrible.”
“What are you talking about?”
Cobra did not want to converse. She did not even look at Squirrel. The clothes were hanging in long rows on racks in the middle of the floor in the well-lit room. There were two makeshift dressing rooms, little more than curtains hanging over spanned steel wires, but usually no one tried on the clothes anyway.
“No, but . . . Emanuelle, you have to pull yourself together now. I’m talking about your Oswald Vulture.”
“Oh, yes. Sure.”
“What did the police say?” asked Squirrel.
“The police? They . . . asked their questions. Is that a Luigi Barcotta?”
Cobra nodded toward a white dress with ruffles and shoulder straps. It would absolutely not suit her. Jasmine nodded in boredom, and her long, luxuriant tail billowed expectantly behind her.
“Correct. Barcotta. I thought we should try him for a few months. I’ve never been truly converted, but—”
“Vulture was a swine,” Cobra stated. She wanted only to wriggle over to the rack of Barcotta garments before anyone else arrived. “I didn’t even miss him at lunch. There are lots of swine, so I don’t intend to make a big deal out of Vulture, and it’s clear that it was . . . horrid. But life goes on. And if you’re going to cut someone’s head off, Oswald Vulture was not a bad choice.”
“And you said that to the police?” Squirrel mumbled ironically.
“Now I must go over and look,” said Cobra.
Jasmine Squirrel nodded, and Emanuelle was over by the clothes racks in a matter of seconds. Squirrel went back and sat down at a little table where she had her papers. She did not need to give any instructions. Cobra knew the rules. She could get clothes for ten thousand. Not a cent more. Every month they returned, the females who were part of the secretarial pool, and picked out new clothes. The company had tried other limitations: a certain number of garments, a certain number of a certain kind of garment, but all such variations led to arguments and jealousy. Easier to put price tags on everything, and let the females keep track of the amounts themselves. Besides, this had proved to elevate the experience.
Doesn’t she even wonder what will happen now? thought Jasmine Squirrel as she looked over at Cobra, who was completely engrossed by the new Barcotta collection. In principle, thought Squirrel, Cobra has lost her job. Doesn’t she understand that? But there was no worry in the black latex body squeezing into a red sleeveless top and hurrying over to the mirrors to see how she looked.
Carefree, thought Jasmine Squirrel. Or hopeless in the full sense of the word.
S
uperintendent Larry Bloodhound took a short detour past his office. There he threw together a suitable number of papers to stuff into his briefcase, accidentally spilled a half-f can of cola over the keyboard that he never used anyway, and left for the day. Determinedly he made his way to the stairs. He kept his gaze straight in front of him. If he glanced to either side and let himself be drawn into a conversation, it would mean another hour or two at the station. He was well acquainted with all the ongoing investigations, likewise all the underlying conflicts that arose over time among the inspectors. Despite his reputation and his broadly applied harshness, he was an excellent head of WE. He solved problems wherever they arose and he was accessible even when he was busy. Larry had never thought it was hard being a boss; it was a lot harder to be a police superintendent. He dug in his jacket pocket and found a few raisins, which he ate up as he hurried down the stairs. He was on his way to Chez Jacques; he could already taste the cold beer.
The police department in
Mollisan Town was set up according to a simple structure. The police authorities were classified, for budgetary purposes, under the Ministry of Finance. Commander Gaardsmyg was not, however, subordinate to the head of the ministry but instead reported directly to the mayor. There was a certain amount of administrative coordination among the organizations, but for the most part the Ministry of Finance and the police existed side by side. In the free elections that took place in Mollisan Town every fourth year, the stuffed animals had the opportunity to elect a new commander. Partly due to the media’s focus on the mayoral election, which for practical reasons took place the same day, the election of the commander often ended up in the backwater of the debates. Six years ago there had been a couple of strong candidates, but Gaardsmyg won at the finish line. On the other hand, the last election two years ago turned out to be a landslide. Gaardsmyg was not a media animal; he kept a low profile, which distinguished him from his predecessors. It was hard to find anyone who spoke badly of Gaardsmyg, and he was said to have an excellent relationship with Mayor Sara Lion.
Commander Gaardsmyg had four majors under him. They were each responsible for one of the city’s districts—Amberville, Lanceheim, Tourquai, and Yok—and were also heads of the largest police stations in the districts. These animals were not politically appointed, and, at the moment, none of the four had any political ambitions. They were police officers, experienced and hardened, and had come up through the ranks. By keeping careerists away from the major posts, Gaardsmyg minimized the number of potential rivals leading up to the next term of office.
The police chiefs at the smaller stations, like the one on rue de Cadix, were called Captains, and Jan Buck was a typical representative of this position. Though one of the foremost members of his graduating class at the Police Academy, surprisingly police work itself was never something that interested Buck. Larry Bloodhound’s young chief was interested in success, and evidence of success. He had sufficient self-insight to choose a career in the public sector, and he bragged about his short memory as a guarantee for future ruthlessness. Buck was more concerned that the columns in the monthly reports were correctly color-coded than that his superintendents—the heads of the station’s three divisions, WE, GL, and PAS—had sufficient resources.
Buck was not planning to remain at rue de Cadix. This police station was not ranked low, but many were higher up on the list.
“It’ll be better when he’s gone,” one of the inspectors might speculate.
“There’ll be a new Buck,” Larry Bloodhound would reply. “I’ll be damned if they don’t build that sort at the Academy.”
This resulted in laughter and sighs in equal proportion. Because it was true.
All the police stations
in Mollisan Town had their counterpart to Chez Jacques, to which Larry Bloodhound was directing his steps this late Monday. The bar was on the same block as the station, and was a place to wind down after work. The majority of the customers were police officers. This created a special atmosphere, a pleasant feeling of mutual understanding that pervaded the place.
A narrow corridor with an opening to the cloakroom on the right side led to the restaurant. In the room facing rue de Cadix there were fifteen or so small tables and a long counter along the outer wall. Toward the courtyard there was another room, smaller and darker, but it was preferable not to sit there because the stench of sour cigars clung tight to your fabric as soon as you sat down. The old-fashioned fans whirling slowly above swirled the cigarette smoke, and the jukebox all the way back by the toilets was loaded with fifties classics. A saxophone that wailed, a cautious whisk against a large cymbal, fingers clambering up and down the long neck of a bass.
From out on the street Larry Bloodhound saw that Philip Mouse was already sitting at their usual window table, waiting. Bloodhound smiled. Philip Mouse was one of the city’s few private detectives, and the reason he hung out at police bars in the afternoon was obvious. He was fishing for information and maintaining his network. Larry and Philip had found a kind of friendship over the years. True, it started and ended inside Chez Jacques, but those were the rules of the game.
Larry pulled off his jacket but refrained from leaving it in the cloakroom. He draped it over his arm and made his way over to the table where Philip was sitting.
“Mouse,” he growled, nodding.
He set his jacket over Philip’s white trench coat, which was already on the empty, third chair at the table, and sat down.
“Larry,” Philip said. “A rough day? Looks like it. Do you know you’ve spilled something on your shirt?”
Larry looked down at his large-checked shirt and could see that Mouse was completely correct. Could it be the Mammoth chocolate? But then he remembered.
“It’s from yesterday,” he said. “A rat that threw up when we picked him up at the Star.”
“You’re joking? But, Larry, that’s so disgusting that—”
“But it doesn’t smell like anything,” Bloodhound defended himself. “Smell it.”
He held out his stained shirt toward the detective, who turned away with distaste.
“Now you’re joking,” he decided.
A waitress came with the superintendent’s cold dark ale, but Bloodhound shook his head.
“Not for me, Doris,” he said. “This mountain of fat is going to be a package of muscle. This is serious now. Do you have a light beer?”
Doris concealed her smile and went to get Bloodhound’s order.
Mouse lit a cigarette. He brought his paw to the brim of his hat and adjusted it imperceptibly.
“Heard you found a headless vulture,” said Mouse.
Neither of them was big on small talk. Better to sit silently, each with a beer, than to discuss imaginary climate changes. In Mollisan Town the weather was reliable; the rain and the winds drew in over the town with absolute regularity. But in all ages the stuffed animals still discussed the tiny, tiny shifts they thought they could observe.
“Finance vulture,” Larry replied. “The type that not only shits money, it’s a case of diarrhea. Presumably a real swine, otherwise they never get that rich. Going to need a bouncer for the suspects.”
Philip nodded.
“It’s usually that way. There’s a limit on how long the heirs can wait for their money.”
“Hmm. I’m hoping for a fool. It’s always easier then. There are a few possibilities among the vulture’s business acquaintances,” said Larry.
“Certainly a good idea to start there,” Philip nodded.
“Have a feeling it’ll either be solved tomorrow or else it’s going to be like shitting out an iron on an empty stomach,” said Larry, draining his mug.
“Hope for the former,” Mouse replied. “Another?”
He made a gesture toward Larry’s empty glass, and the dog nodded.
Philip got up, took the few steps over to the bar, and ordered two beers. He not only worked as a private detective, he also dressed like one. He wasn’t always comfortable in the hat, suit, and suspenders, but it was a matter of meeting his future clients’ expectations. If you went to a private detective to get help, you didn’t want to find a security guard in a homemade uniform. While Mouse was waiting, he took the opportunity to exchange a few words with the animals from GL who were standing at the bar. Mouse knew everyone.
Larry looked out the window. The light brown street was empty. The sky was still blue, but the sun was on its way down. He suddenly felt that he missed Cordelia, the budgie waiting for him in her large, gilded cage. One more, he decided, then he would go home.
“And you?” he asked when Philip returned. “Are you getting anywhere?”
“Not yet,” Philip replied, unconsciously lowering his voice.
“Got stuck?”
“The walrus is still paying,” said Mouse, shrugging his shoulders. “I’ve been at it long enough to know that success is only about the bank balance.”
“How was it, you were supposed to get hold of some joker who . . . ?”
“I’m not going to find him,” Mouse maintained. “But my very well-known client, unfortunately I can’t utter his name, still believes in me. And so I’m going to send the next invoice, too.”
They drank in silence.
“I was thinking of making it an early one this evening,” said Larry.
“Me, too,” Philip agreed. “Daisy gets furious otherwise.”
Daisy Hippopotamus was Philip’s patient assistant, his secretary, and partner in one. The reason that she put up with inconvenient work hours, a fluctuating monthly salary, and not always pleasant treatment was a mystery.
“By the way, did you hear that Surayid, that pile of shit, was arrested tonight?” said Larry, changing the subject.
Philip nodded.
“Caught red-handed, if I understand correctly?”
“With his claws in the jelly jar. In front of witnesses. A fool.”
“A pro disguised as an amateur?”
“So chock-f of shit and pills, it was a marvel he could even move.”
“What the hell . . .”
“They should have brought him in months ago.”
“There’s no prosecutor in Mollisan Town who would—”
“I know, I know,” Larry growled. “That’s just shit. They tiptoe around a hundred rotten stuffed animals up here in Tourquai that they really ought to just pound the shit out of—”
“Maybe not a
hundred
,” Philip objected.
“Up yours!” Larry barked. “At
least
a hundred! And instead of picking them up and driving them right out to King’s Cross, they set traps for them. Gather evidence. It’s pathetic.”
“I know you think that,” said Philip diplomatically.
“What the hell,” Larry repeated.
He raised the mug and emptied it. Set it down on the table with a thud and got up. Took his jacket, used it to dry his mouth before he put it on, and raised his paw in farewell.
“Now I’m leaving,” he said. “Otherwise I’ll stay too long.”
The superintendent left Chez
Jacques well before the Evening Storm and decided to walk home. He didn’t live very far away, on licorice black Impasse Laisse. He knew he shouldn’t, but couldn’t restrain himself, and urinated against the entryway to the abandoned building on turquoise rue de Gobelins. If a patrol car came past, they would stop him. But maybe, thought Larry, it was no catastrophe anyway. Maybe pissing on the sidewalk was just what his colleagues expected of him?
“Yoohoo, I’m home!” he
called as he stepped inside the door.
It was ridiculous. Cordelia was a budgie who could neither talk nor think. Although she ate, slept, and sang for him, she was not a stuffed animal; she used her wings to fly. She shared his solitude and his anxiety, and she was his best friend. That was without a doubt worth a few friendly words.
The superintendent wriggled out of his jacket, which fell down on the pile of old mail and foul-smelling shoes and socks, and with a few long strides he was in the living room and up at her golden cage. On her perch sat the very small, green bird. She was chirping merrily.
“And I’m happy to see you, too,” Bloodhound replied.
He sat down on the couch alongside the cage. Late one night Larry had carried the armchair that was on the other side of the table into the bathroom and placed it in front of the drying cabinet. Then he sat in front of the open door to dry off. There had never been any reason to carry the armchair back in.
Larry’s living area was sixty square feet, which meant that almost everything was within reach. The kitchen nook stood unused—food could be bought already prepared—but he counted the refrigerator as his most important piece of furniture. The bed was a mattress lying right on the floor. Often he moved it as close to Cordelia’s cage as possible at night.
From the inside pocket of his jacket the superintendent now took out a small mirror, no larger than a playing card. Then he took the pistol out of the holster and set it next to him on the couch. From the holster he fished out a carefully folded-up envelope. He opened it and methodically sprinkled the cocaine on the small mirror. With the envelope he made sure the edges of the white stripe were straight, and with a slender straw that he stored in the same pocket as the mirror he snorted the powder through his nose.