Tourquai_ A Novel Part 24

He heard Golden Retriever and the forger walk away from the boathouse.

What should he do?

The harbor captain's office was almost all the way out on the northernmost pier. Igor stepped out and saw at a distance how the door slammed shut behind the dog. There was an odor of cold sea from the water lapping below, mixed with the smoke from the cigarettes. A gull sleeping on a post flapped in fear over to the next pier as the panda started walking quickly. He had to follow Jake Golden Retriever and the great forger.

He saw it after five seconds. It glistened in the rays of the sun that reached all the way to the pier.

Jake's lighter.

It was on the folding chair where the retriever had just been sitting. Igor Panda continued walking, but the anxiety retreated through his body and was replaced by certainty.

Jake Golden Retriever would return.

It took five minutes.

Then Jake Golden Retriever came back into the boathouse. He was stressed, and immediately found the lighter on the chair.

Igor Panda was standing behind the door. In his left paw he held the box cutter. He walked soundlessly up to Jake from behind. With his right arm he locked the retriever's upper arms from behind, and with his left paw he cut along the dog's neck with the box cutter.

From one side to the other.

Jake did not have time to react. When he did, it was too late. He twirled around, but his head was already hanging to one side. Before he realized what had happened he was on his knees in front of the panda, gasping for air.

Panda screamed. Panic welled up out of his throat. He regretted what he had done even as he was doing it. And with a howl of desperation he severed what remained of the dog's neck.

With Jake Golden Retriever's head under his arm, Panda left the boathouse. Outside was Jake's car. The painting was already loaded, the car keys in the ignition.

Panda saw no trace of the forger.

He threw the head down on the pa.s.senger seat in Jake's car and turned the key.

Tomorrow at the same time Panda would return to Boathouse 3 and settle accounts with the forger, without Golden Retriever. And hopefully by then he would have already paid his debt to the vipers.

Day Seven

7.1.

The haze lay damp and heavy over the city. The sky was milky white and the sun still no more than a pale, yellowish ball of light just over the horizon.

Igor Panda was freezing. He was sleeping under the open sky, wrapped up in a dark blue wool blanket with yellow embroidery he had found in Golden Retriever's car. During the night, the blanket had absorbed the dampness of the forest and no longer provided any warmth. Panda shivered.

There was a simple explanation for why he had made his way to the narrow ravine in the mountain in the Bois de Dalida. As far as Panda knew, only he and Jake Golden Retriever knew about the ravine.

En route through the forest toward the mountain yesterday evening, Panda buried Golden Retriever's head in the soft earth next to a copse of wild raspberry. He had not chosen the place with any particular care; it was yet another of the impulsive decisions of the last few days. He had dug with only his paws, and despite his powerful claws the work had been hard. This grave would not do in the long run; he would have to get rid of the head. But that was a problem for later.

Igor squirmed restlessly in his sleep. His arms hurt, his shoulders, his entire upper body. And at last it was sore muscles that caused him to waken.

He opened his eyes.

It was Sunday, the ninth of June, and he was alive.

That was his first thought.

The second thought was about the vipers. There had been occasions when Panda himself had been drawn into the vipers' surveillance work, when he had given them information in exchange for services; he knew how they functioned. His deadline had expired at midnight, now an example would have to be made; that was a prerequisite for VolgaBet's operation.

Igor sat up with a jerk. He threw off the blanket, feeling the outside of his jacket.

The bundle of currency was still in the inside pocket.

He breathed out, his shoulders lowered.

He had thought about asking his mom. When he left yesterday with the painting in the backseat and the dog's head on the floor on the pa.s.senger side, that had been his first thought. asking his mom. When he left yesterday with the painting in the backseat and the dog's head on the floor on the pa.s.senger side, that had been his first thought.

Mom.

It was a lovely forgery. The painting was a.s.sociated with Hummingbird Esperanza-Santiago's earliest period, which had been a surprise. The forgeries that Panda had sold during the past year had been more reminiscent of the artist's later works.

A canvas that size could mean a price tag of between three and four million. That would be enough to pay the gambling debt; it would go further than that. He was certain that Dad had money at home in the safe under the open fireplace in the bedroom.

With a gnawing feeling of doubt, Panda drove down toward Amberville. The thought of his parents had been instinctive. The secure, prosperous parental home was imagination's natural refuge in a desperate situation like this. But the longer Panda drove, the more time he had to reflect.

With only a few miles left until he reached his childhood home in Le Vezinot, he changed his mind. He could not draw Mom and Dad into this. On the contrary, he had to keep them as far away as possible. There was a life on the other side of all this misery, and Panda had to try to preserve that, too.

He turned off of oxblood red Mina Road into the neighborhood by Swarwick Park, parked outside a cafe, and went in. He ordered a latte, asked them to sprinkle the milk with cardamom, and sat down on a high bar stool next to the window so that he could see the car-and the painting-from his seat.

There were a handful of buyers who would bite. But there were only one or two who had that kind of money available the same day.

Igor Panda finished his coffee and returned to the car. From there he called Rodrigo Buffalo.

"Rodrigo?" said Panda, trying to sound casual. "Am I calling at a bad time?"

"Not a problem," Buffalo sighed. "Not a problem."

Panda had been up in Buffalo's office six months earlier. Now he pictured the dark room with the gigantic plasma screen hanging on the wall across from the desk and showing sports around the clock. Rodrigo Buffalo's primary occupation was looking for investments for his family's money.

"I thought about making it into an auction," Panda said into the telephone. "But ... the truth is I'm in a hurry. This is something outside the ordinary. It's an Esperanza-Santiago. It's been in private hands for over twenty years, and now it's on the market. You'll make at least ten percent on the investment in six months. At least."

Outside the car window in Swarwick Park, life went on as usual. The dark-tinted windows on Igor Panda's Volga Deluxe allowed him to sit in the midst of reality, but still screened off. None of the stuffed animals walking past could imagine the circ.u.mstances around the negotiations going on in the black car.

"Ten percent in six months, you say," Buffalo repeated and Panda could hear how he took a gulp of something, maybe coffee. "And you can guarantee that?"

"We know each other," said Panda, impatient about having to listen to the rich buffalo's attempt to demand guarantees they both knew were impossible to give. "We know one another, you give me half now and half when you sell."

"How much is half?" asked Rodrigo Buffalo.

In the background the cheering of a wild sports crowd could clearly be heard. Buffalo was probably watching reruns of last year's championship matches. They always showed that kind of thing in the afternoon.

"One and a half million," said Panda, trying to make it sound like a trifle.

"Lot of money," Buffalo sighed. "Lot of money. And ten percent you say?"

"In six months," Panda repeated without conviction.

Involuntarily Panda's gaze fell on the plastic bag on the floor in front of the pa.s.senger seat. For a dizzying moment he imagined that what he'd done was not yet done.

The thought made him nauseous.

"When do you need the money?" Buffalo asked at last.

Igor Panda was hungry. His body heavy from dampness and aching, he slowly climbed up the edge of the low ravine and sat down to wait for the sun on the cliff. He did not recall when he'd last eaten, and now his belly was screaming. The haze was about to disperse, and morning would come, warm and clear as always. But Panda knew that for him the sun would never look the same again. His body heavy from dampness and aching, he slowly climbed up the edge of the low ravine and sat down to wait for the sun on the cliff. He did not recall when he'd last eaten, and now his belly was screaming. The haze was about to disperse, and morning would come, warm and clear as always. But Panda knew that for him the sun would never look the same again.

He weighed his options. Probably it was wisest to remain in Lanceheim. In Yok he would attract attention and, besides, that part of the city was full of the vipers' informers. In Tourquai everyone had a purpose, on their way to or from a meeting, and his lack of that would expose him. And in Amberville he might very well run into an acquaintance or customer.

Yesterday he had been hiding from the police. Today he had the vipers to think about as well. But he had the money. Even if the deadline had pa.s.sed, he had the money. It was a matter of a few hours, no more; that ought to make a slight difference. If he only gave VolgaBet an opportunity to get out with their honor intact, it would work out for him.

He decided to remain sitting on the cliff in Bois de Dalida until the sun had dried him off. Slowly the haze dissolved across the sky. Panda twisted his head and looked northward, toward the forests that surrounded Mollisan Town. He was sitting so high that he could see the ma.s.sive crowns of the trees disappear toward the horizon in what appeared to be an immeasurable infinity.

A feeling of insignificance filled him, just as strong as it had when he was little. Only the fact, he thought, that the short life span of stuffed animals seemed to be measured out even from the start, made all conflicts and intrigues ridiculous. It was like living in a closed room where you run into the walls over and over again while pretending not to. At the same time, Panda thought, within the narrow framework of our lives, freedom was endless. In the closed room you not only could-you had to live. Igor Panda knew it was this freedom that had finally crushed him.

He turned his head in the other direction and closed his eyes. The sun warmed his face.

Life was best when it was simplest.

Panda had parked his black Volga Deluxe in an abandoned stable in one of the least accessible areas in Bois de Dalida. He didn't dare keep driving Jake's car; he had no idea whether anyone missed the dog and was searching for him at this point. It took him almost half an hour to walk to the stable from the ravine, and during the last ten minutes the Morning Rain started to fall. In a trash can along the path he found an old newspaper that he folded and held over his head, but as he came to the stable he was just as damp as he'd been when he woke up an hour earlier. black Volga Deluxe in an abandoned stable in one of the least accessible areas in Bois de Dalida. He didn't dare keep driving Jake's car; he had no idea whether anyone missed the dog and was searching for him at this point. It took him almost half an hour to walk to the stable from the ravine, and during the last ten minutes the Morning Rain started to fall. In a trash can along the path he found an old newspaper that he folded and held over his head, but as he came to the stable he was just as damp as he'd been when he woke up an hour earlier.

During the walk there, he had made a plan. It made him feel stronger and better. First he would return to the pier and there expose the forger. An established art dealer and an ingenious forger could accomplish great things together. Whatever happened in the future, Panda knew this: his need for money would not diminish.

Only after that would he look up the animals behind VolgaBet and pay the loan. With interest.

Panda stepped into the decaying stable where the rain seeped down through the roofing. The chrome on the black car shone in the daylight; there was something inappropriate about the contrast between the luxurious vehicle and the simple building. Panda knew the car was conspicuous, and he hesitated: Should he leave it there? But to make it down to the boathouse by the Dondau in time he was more or less forced to drive. A taxi was not an option; the city's taxi drivers had always been the vipers' deepest, richest source of information. decaying stable where the rain seeped down through the roofing. The chrome on the black car shone in the daylight; there was something inappropriate about the contrast between the luxurious vehicle and the simple building. Panda knew the car was conspicuous, and he hesitated: Should he leave it there? But to make it down to the boathouse by the Dondau in time he was more or less forced to drive. A taxi was not an option; the city's taxi drivers had always been the vipers' deepest, richest source of information.

Igor Panda turned the ignition key and backed out.

After ten minutes on a double-rutted forest path that tested the shock absorbers beyond any reasonable limit, he turned onto North Avenue. Panda saw a couple of police cars parked by the sidewalk in the crossing at gray Friedrichstra.s.se and he smiled to himself. The police were standing outside the refreshment stand at the corner. All on their own, the cops sustained the city's sales of pineapple flambe.

Panda accelerated. It would work out. He felt it.

7.2.

The photograph was the first thing Larry Bloodhound saw when he opened the door to the office. Bloodhound always worked on a Sunday; he got more done on Sunday than during the rest of the week, and Cordelia had no objections. Every week built up toward the crescendo that was Sat.u.r.day night, and then, the stillness of Sunday morning. The deserted department up on the fourth floor on rue de Cadix was never more grandly dramatic than in solitary semidarkness.

It might seem strange that he saw the photograph immediately; the piles of old junk scattered across the desk and on the shelves in Larry Bloodhound's office-both organic and electronic waste could be glimpsed between the drifts of binders and papers-were not comprehensible to just anyone. Nonetheless, the superintendent immediately discovered the photograph. It stuck out, like a grease stain on a wire-brushed drying cabinet or fridge. Someone had been in the office without his knowledge.

The superintendent remained standing, staring at his desk. Had anything else been moved? But no paper towers had toppled, no inability to let things alone had upset the disorder, and the pleasant odor of old bacon was intact.

Larry Bloodhound went up to the desk and picked up the picture. The black-and-white graininess immediately revealed that it was taken by a surveillance camera, and Bloodhound recognized the portable grandstand that had become something of a trademark for VolgaBet. On the other hand, he did not recognize the mournful bear that was circled with a marker. It took him a moment to turn the picture over, so that he discovered the text on the back: "Igor Panda at VolgaBet."

The superintendent's expression changed. It was difficult to say whether the grimace was an attempt at smiling.

"Up yours," he muttered to himself, picking up the phone.

He called in his team, even though it was Sunday.

ecu and Lynx were on the scene thirty minutes later. While waiting for the inspectors, Larry had emptied the vending machine by the elevators of all the mint chocolate pigs by fiddling with the opening with a small chisel that by chance he had discovered worked as a skeleton key when he was trying to fix the vending machine six months ago. on the scene thirty minutes later. While waiting for the inspectors, Larry had emptied the vending machine by the elevators of all the mint chocolate pigs by fiddling with the opening with a small chisel that by chance he had discovered worked as a skeleton key when he was trying to fix the vending machine six months ago.

With his mouth full of chocolate, he showed the police officers into his office, letting them sit down in front of the desk while he went to the other side.

"Here," he said, picking up the picture and letting it nonchalantly float through the air.

Anna still had her coat on. She had left Todd with Mom and taken the direct route to work without asking Larry for an explanation. She had heard it in his voice; it was urgent. The picture landed upside down on her lap, which is why she first read the text on the back and then turned to the picture. ecu had also seen what it said.

"This is ... the heir," Falcon observed.

He had been in the middle of cleaning the stove and oven, and his wings still smelled of the strong detergent.

"And the surveillance camera has dated the occasion for us," Anna observed.

In the top-right-hand corner of the picture was the date-a little more than a week ago-and the time: a couple of hours and some minutes after midnight.

"But," ecu said excitedly, "this is ... all we need, isn't it? The heir, the son: Igor Panda is the one who gains the most from his father's death. And he plays VolgaBet! This is too good! For heaven's sake, everyone who gambles is in debt to that organization. And if you're used to dealing with lots of money ... his debts must be gigantic."

"The tipster strikes again," Anna muttered, moderately enthusiastic.

Falcon directed his wide-open gaze from the superintendent to Lynx and back to the superintendent again.

"But, this is just ... too good to be true!" he said. "Do you want me to check on it? It's not hard to find out whether Panda is mired in debt."

Anna did not reply. She set the picture back on the superintendent's desk, almost putting her hand in a sticky stain she had discovered several days ago, which she believed was traces of an overturned chocolate milkshake.

"Tipster or not," ecu continued, raising his voice in a way unusual for him, "this is a good deal better than Jasmine Squirrel! This is someone who actually gains from Vulture's death."

"Calm down, cloth-bird," Bloodhound growled. "To start with, I want you to find out who came into my office yesterday evening, or during the night," Bloodhound growled.

"The picture?" asked Anna.

"Didn't come in the mail," the superintendent confirmed. "It was lying here when I arrived this morning."

"And why take the risk of putting it in your office instead of sending it in a letter?"

"Haste," the superintendent answered with certainty.