Tourquai_ A Novel Part 14

All three of them saw it.

The veranda doors facing the courtyard were open. Anna went quickly through the room and out into the back, but Panda had gotten away. She came back into the office.

"He's gone," she stated.

She stood, slightly perplexed, looking at the two males. Falcon reacted first.

"Can you please ask Igor Panda to call us?" he said, giving Rhinoceros his card. "We have tragic news to convey to him."

Rhinoceros nodded.

Disappointed, the inspectors left the gallery.

4.4.

Anna drove. They had stopped by the station to get a new car after their visit to Gallery Panda; she refused to drive another mile in the one they'd had in the morning. The unmarked police cars were bewilderingly alike to an untrained eye. All were neutral gray with black leather seats and air-conditioning that didn't work. But there were differences. Certain engines were more robust than others, and in many cars it was impossible to remove the vestiges of panic and anxiety, vomit and blood. Now she had requisitioned one of her favorites. The Volga reacted sensitively to her commands, and the pinecone-scented disinfectant that the cleaners used lingered in the car.

They drove through north Tourquai in neighborhoods more reminiscent of small, self-sustaining villages than parts of a big city. Parks and cafes, bakeries and the kind of old-fashioned textile shops that had almost disappeared with factory production of clothing. Certain parts of north Tourquai reminded Anna of Lanceheim, where she had grown up and where her parents still lived. Stuffed animals sat on benches with their eyes closed in the sunshine or stood on street corners conversing; there was a calm and a coziness that felt timeless in some way.

"I wouldn't have anything against living here," she said.

Then the street scene changed. Traffic got heavier, one lane was added to another, and the sidewalks were as deserted as they were wide. The compact brick apartment buildings grew to ma.s.sive monuments of gla.s.s and steel, and they were again in the heart of the district where they worked.

Anna had an impulse and turned right on emerald green rue Primatice. Falcon did not react. When Anna drove, he relied completely on her taking them to the right place in the shortest possible time. Not even when Anna turned left a few minutes later onto blue rue de Montyon did he realize where she was heading. In his thoughts he was on the tennis court, up at the net, and he was just making a distinct backhand volley that decided both game and set when they unexpectedly pulled up next to the sidewalk.

"There," she said, nodding across the street.

It took a few moments before Falcon understood.

"The tipster's phone booth?" he asked.

Anna nodded.

"And there's Siamese's doorway," she said.

The windows of the car were fogging up again, and she rolled down the window.

"Forgive me for asking, but why are we stopping here?"

"Claude Siamese lives in that building," Anna repeated. "Get it? Siamese. And it's from that phone booth right next to it that someone calls you with a tip about Vulture."

"Anna, for one thing, Siamese is part of Tourquai's drug syndicate. I'm sorry, but you'll have to find the connection in order to get me interested. Was there anything in Vulture's or Nova Park's business deals that may have had a bearing on the drug trade up here?"

"Good," said Anna. "Now you're thinking constructively."

"And we haven't found anything that even suggests that," Falcon continued.

"But no one has looked for the drug connection," Anna objected.

"True."

"Then we have something to do this evening, too."

"This evening it's tennis," ecu protested. "Tomorrow, you mean. Tomorrow we can have a go at it."

She got out of the car. Falcon followed. Together they made a pa.s.s around the phone booth. They didn't know what they were looking for and didn't find anything, either. The lynx could not refrain from glancing toward the doorway to number 42. It was strange that Claude Siamese lived so modestly, she thought. She had never met him, but the stories were many and she imagined a cunning stuffed animal, arrogant and dangerous. Apparently, however, he was wise enough to live a low-key life. She noted that the paint was flaking on the entry to the building.

"No," she said out loud, "we won't get any wiser here. Let's go get Earwig."

Honey yellow Carrer de Carrera was abandoned and quiet, just like on Tuesday. This time Anna parked outside the building; there was no longer any reason to be discreet. Carrera was abandoned and quiet, just like on Tuesday. This time Anna parked outside the building; there was no longer any reason to be discreet.

They got out of the car. Falcon quickly confirmed that the cuffs were hanging on his belt. He had misgivings about Earwig.

"This is going to go fine," said Anna to calm him, as if she had read his thoughts.

If anyone else had spoken to him that way, he would never have taken the concern seriously. Now he nodded. But he noted that Anna unconsciously felt to see if her pistol was resting securely in its holster.

They rounded the edge of the building. Due to the Afternoon Weather the air seemed to be holding its breath. The back courtyard was in shadow; through the windows of the building they tried to catch sight of the inventor, but he didn't appear to be inside. The large machine was working at full steam; it was puffing and groaning in the same ear-splitting manner as last time.

The door was unlocked. Anna took one step into the place and called out, but it was doubtful whether she made herself heard over the din.

"Oleg Earwig!" she shouted. "It's the police!"

No one answered. No one was visible. The inspectors walked beside each other, slowly and carefully. Due to the noise it was hard to communicate. With a nod she directed Falcon straight ahead, along the windows, while she turned left, into the premises.

Suddenly he was standing there. Dressed in his white coat and with arms and legs sticking out in all directions. He had appeared from behind the clattering machine, only a few yards away.

"The police!" he exclaimed.

He sounded furious.

"Oleg Earwig," Anna called in her most formal voice, "we hereby arrest you for the murder of Oswald Vulture."

"An arrest?" The earwig did not sound the least bit surprised, only angrier.

"Come along voluntarily and we'll make it easy for you," Falcon shouted threateningly.

But Falcon's authority was unclear, and Oleg stared at the bird.

"Fools!" the inventor screamed. "Fools! Haven't I said that I didn't do it? Haven't I said that? Haven't I said that I can prove that I didn't do it? Haven't I said that?"

"Oleg Earwig," Anna repeated in a loud voice, remaining calm. "I must ask you to-"

But Oleg Earwig did not intend to wait to hear what she had to say. He turned and fled in among his machines and sc.r.a.p metal. Falcon ran after, Anna drew her gun.

"Stop!" she shouted.

She could not see either Earwig or Falcon, nor could she hear them. She squeezed the trigger, firing a shot up at the ceiling.

"Stop," she called again.

The shot had the intended effect. Only seconds later the inventor was standing in front of her again.

"Are you going to kill me?" he asked.

He was shaken.

"Stand still!" Falcon called.

He came running, his gun aimed right at Earwig's head.

"You're out of your minds!" the inventor shouted. "You're out of your minds! I haven't done a d.a.m.n thing!"

But he did not budge from the spot. His respect for Falcon's pistol was greater than his respect for Falcon.

"You are under arrest for the murder of Oswald Vulture," Anna repeated.

She had a hard time keeping her voice steady. The adrenaline caused her pulse to race, and it was not settling down, even though the situation was under control. When she saw all of Earwig's arms and legs, she realized that the handcuffs would not do the job.

"Follow me," she said, adding, to Falcon, "and follow him. Don't let him out of your sight."

The last was mostly so that Earwig would understand that this was serious.

"But you only need to talk with Balder Toad!" Earwig whimpered. "He's going to vouch for me."

"Shut up," Falcon roared. "And follow Detective Lynx."

4.5.

Larry Bloodhound stayed behind in his office when ecu and Lynx set off to arrest Oleg Earwig. He was sitting with the door closed. Someone had pulled up the blinds facing the parking lot while he was out at lunch. Probably the same animal that emptied the wastebasket, he thought with a grimace. With a groan he got up, took the step over to the window, and pulled down the blinds again. This office felt better in darkness.

He looked out over the mess and recalled that yesterday morning he had tossed half a croissant in the upper-right-hand desk drawer. But for now he let that be-he was resolute, thinking about his weight and feeling like a better stuffed animal as he turned to his work.

Larry Bloodhound really did have a lot to do but couldn't decide where to begin. When the phone rang and Larry saw on the display that it was Derek Hare from tech, he tossed aside pen and paper, opened the drawer with the croissant, and stuffed it in his mouth as he picked up the receiver.

"Bloodhound," he growled. "I'm listening."

"It's Derek," said Hare. "I just wanted to tell you that we were able to open the folder in Vulture's laptop."

"And?"

"Well, that's just it. It's bookkeeping for a company, Domaine d'Or Logistics. Debit and credit. You know, expenditures and deposits."

"And?" the superintendent growled.

"Nothing else," said Derek. "Seems completely uninteresting. Thought I should just mention it. Maybe you'll find out where it fits in. If we find any code or key in the big box that explains what this is about, I'll call again."

Bloodhound hung up. He leaned back and closed his eyes. Tried to concentrate. Oswald Vulture's head was not the only one missing in Mollisan Town at the moment. In a warehouse connected to the Lucretzia Hospital in southwest Tourquai there was a large hall no normally functioning stuffed animal went to without good reason. The living dead were there, stuffed animals that in one way or another had lost their heads but had not yet been taken to the next life by the Chauffeurs. A constant temperature was maintained in the warehouse. The cloth bodies lay on rolling stretchers inside closed cabinets; there were long corridors with drawers of stuffed animals in endless rows. There were stuffed animals whose skulls had burned up or been damaged by mistake. And there were others who had been subjected to a.s.sault. Bloodhound had heard someone mention that no more then five percent of all bodies were brought back to life, and this possibility appeared in some way even more unpleasant. Like rising from the dead.

In the mess on the superintendent's desk were folders dealing with at least three of the bodies in Lucretzia's warehouse at the moment.

"What the h.e.l.l," Bloodhound growled to himself.

Secretary Cobra was lying, he had a hunch. The question was why. Oleg Earwig was lying, he thought. The question was whether it was for the same reason. No one else seems conceivable, Bloodhound decided.

But he had a vague feeling that there was something he was missing, and the uneasiness caused him to get up and leave the enclosed office. He walked quickly through the department. Here and there police officers were sitting, working. A few looked up and greeted him as he went past, others didn't bother. He went to the men's restroom over by the elevators.

Why one of the light fixtures was always broken, why the simple locks on the stalls were hanging to one side, and the reason for the scratches in the stainless-steel sinks were things Larry Bloodhound had never been able to figure out. Nor could he explain why the cleaners put lavender-scented soap in the men's restroom.

Larry met his gaze in the mirror. With all the dark brown, wrinkled, hanging cloth in his face, his expression completed an image of great fatigue.

"Now I'm going to forget about this for today. I've earned a beer, since I didn't eat the croissant," he said to his mirror image.

He knew he'd eaten the croissant. But maybe his mirror image didn't know it.

At Chez Jacques it was unusually smoky. This happened sometimes, even though the smoke level shouldn't vary much since it was usually the same stuffed animals who met there every day. Outside, twilight besieged the sky, casting Mollisan Town's streets and squares in warm, gentle colors. The smoke and the thin curtains hanging at the windows created a muted, restful light inside Chez Jacques. was unusually smoky. This happened sometimes, even though the smoke level shouldn't vary much since it was usually the same stuffed animals who met there every day. Outside, twilight besieged the sky, casting Mollisan Town's streets and squares in warm, gentle colors. The smoke and the thin curtains hanging at the windows created a muted, restful light inside Chez Jacques.

Private detective Philip Mouse was waiting as usual at the table by the window. Larry nodded at the familiar faces on his way there, ordered and got a beer at the bar, and then sat down across from the mouse.

"No light today?" Philip asked, raising his hat an inch or so on his forehead.

Larry shrugged his shoulders.

"I hear you've made some progress in the Vulture case."

Larry nodded.

"No thanks to me," the superintendent growled.

"That's never stopped you from taking credit for it." The mouse smiled.

"I don't know," Larry growled, ignoring the slight. "An inventor, the last one to see Vulture alive, has every reason in the world to kill him. A real crazy, apparently. Lies about his alibi, but I don't know ..."

At the next table two gnus left a half-eaten bowl of chips, and Bloodhound managed to grab it before the waitress noticed and took it away.

"An inventor? Do you think it has something to do with Vulture's investments?"

"I don't think anything," Larry maintained, putting a pawful of chips into his mouth.

"Always the wisest," Mouse agreed. "But too wise to be true. Deep inside we always have a feeling."

"There are too many with reasons," Bloodhound said. "A whole will full of possibilities. By the way, have you ever heard of a Jasmine Squirrel?"

Mouse shook his head.