Tourquai Page 10

Falcon thought about that.

  “Yes, if you ask straight out like that . . . I don’t know, of course, but . . . one of the animals that hated Vulture hired a hit man from Siamese? When the hit man carried out the deed, he calls Siamese, who in turn tips off the police,” Falcon proposed.

  “Okay,” laughed Anna. “And why would Claude Siamese tip off the police?”

  “I don’t know, of course, but it may have something to do with the alibi,” Falcon continued freely out of his imagination. “Siamese wants the police to find the body as quickly as possible, because the hit man has an alibi for just that point in time . . .”

  Anna remained sitting, serious and silent. She was staring at Falcon. There was a glimmer of respect in her eyes. He saw that.

  “Excuse me, but you don’t believe it’s like that, do you?” he asked in surprise.

  “No,” she said, “that was just bullshit. I have no idea where Siamese comes into the picture. But that other thing . . . that actually doesn’t sound too bad. That the reason someone calls several times, that someone is so urgent, is because they have an alibi for just that time of the morning.”

  They did not leave until the Morning Breeze. They had located the Balder Toad that Oleg Earwig provided as his alibi at a junkyard up in north Tourquai, and they were on their way there. It was Falcon again who drove, and he parked outside the gates of the junkyard a few minutes before the breeze intensified.

  “Have you been here before?” he asked.

  “Never,” Anna replied.

  They got out of the car and went up to the wrought-iron gates, which were open.

  “I guess we can just go in,” said Falcon.

  The wrecks of scrapped cars towered over them on both sides. It was not a big junkyard, but the pathways between the piles of metal skeletons were many and narrow. On the other side they could see the forest; large trees protectively held out their leafy branches over the dead cars. The police officers could see no building or any animals, so they continued farther into the area. The breeze after the rain caused towers of precariously balanced cowcatchers and hubcaps to screech from friction.

  “Hello!” Falcon called.

  His outburst gave Anna a start. She was about to say something about his carelessness when they heard someone answer. The police officers rounded a pair of burned-out truck cabs and saw a small, dilapidated wooden shed standing next to a thick tree trunk.

  “Stop!” a voice was heard at a distance.

  Falcon and Anna stopped.

  “Who are you?” called the voice.

  “We’re from the police,” Falcon answered in a loud voice. “The inventor Oleg Earwig suggested that we should meet you.”

  There was silence from the shed. The police officers stood quietly, waiting for something to happen. When no invitation came, Anna took a step forward.

  The explosion was unexpected. An old-style shotgun was fired, and a sheaf of buckshot struck the sheet metal a few yards to the right of Falcon.

  The police officers threw themselves to the ground—just as the next salvo was fired.

  3.3

  The weather was just after lunch when Field Mouse Pedersen arrived at the police station with Goat Croix-Valmer in tow. The choice had been between questioning the receptionist at Nova Park or going down and ordering a pizza with pineapple and honey. The interview took priority.

  Bloodhound had never thought that Emanuelle Cobra did it. Instinct, experience, gut feeling, call it what you will: whether she was involved or not he left unsaid—she might be—but she was not the one who cut off the vulture’s head. Which Tapir had established this morning.

  Earwig remained, and because Bloodhound had not met the inventor in question the superintendent had no perception other than that he hoped it was Earwig who was guilty. Because if it wasn’t Earwig . . . this investigation would drag on. While waiting for Anna and Falcon, whom he had sent off to check the inventor’s alibi, Bloodhound had no desire to start anything new. So he sent Pedersen out after Croix-Valmer. The investigation called for an additional interview with the little goat, and if Bloodhound did it over lunch he would avoid stuffing himself with more unhealthy things.

  “This is my lunchtime!” Goat Croix-Valmer protested as Pedersen pushed him down onto the empty chair beside Bloodhound’s desk.

  He was dressed in a pair of bright yellow slacks that took attention away from his shoes and shirt.

  “Shut up,” Bloodhound growled. “And think of all the calories I’m saving you.”

  “Calories?” Goat repeated. “That’s not my problem. If you feel fat you shouldn’t think that—”

  “Fat!” roared Bloodhound. “Listen up, you cross-stitched little mama’s boy, now you shut up and think. I’m a cop. I can lock you up in King’s Cross for the rest of your life. I’m the one you want to stay friends with.”

  Croix-Valmer glared angrily at the superintendent but said nothing. Pedersen cleared his throat.

  “Perhaps you’d like me to record the interview, Superintendent?” he asked.

  “Thanks, Pedersen, but I think it’s better if you leave us. If I have to rough up this poor goat I’d prefer not to have any witnesses.”

  Goat did not see Field Mouse Pedersen’s sly smile before he left Bloodhound’s office, and thus the comment had the desired effect. Croix-Valmer decided to cooperate.

  “Well, we might as well start at the beginning,” said Bloodhound, taking out his writing implements. “And see if this degenerates or whether you can manage a little common courtesy. When did you start at Nova Park?”

  “Almost two years ago,” Croix-Valmer replied. “It will be two years in July.”

  “And before that?”

  “I was a receptionist at Incubator. And before that I worked at Banque Mollisan. But only a little while, right after school.”

  Croix-Valmer answered rapidly and honestly. He wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible.

  “And how do you get along at Nova Park?” Bloodhound asked, picking his nose with one of his long, black claws. “Compared with your previous experiences?”

  “It’s the best,” the goat replied with emphasis. “Like, ten animals total, good pay, no one gets upset if you arrive a little late or leave a little early . . .”

  “And the reason why you quit your previous job . . . at Incubator?”

  “They fired me,” the goat said in a lower voice. “I don’t know any more than that. You’ll have to ask them.”

  Bloodhound made a notation. Pedersen would have to make that call.

  “I want to ask you about Monday morning,” Bloodhound growled.

  “Super-hectic!” Croix-Valmer exclaimed, throwing out his hooves. “They were going to repair the server in Anastasia’s office and kept running back and forth several times. And then the police officers who came . . .”

  “I was the police officer who came,” Bloodhound commented. “Repair the server?”

  “An electrician,” Croix-Valmer confirmed, nodding. “I made him show his identification every time he went past. Two times. Or three times. I don’t know . . .”

  “And otherwise?”

  “Otherwise I guess it was as usual, more or less. Quiet.”

  “Any visitors?”

  “No visitors. Not many calls. A few deliveries.”

  “Deliveries? Were there deliveries to reception Monday morning?”

  “No. No, there weren’t any deliveries on Monday. I meant that normally there are deliveries. Sometimes.”

  “There weren’t any visitors?” Bloodhound asked. “None at all?”

  “Well . . .” Croix-Valmer hesitated. “Well, there must have been a few.”

  “Who?”

  “Well, now I’m not sure. Were there any? Not many, anyway.”

  For someone who worked at a reception desk, the goat was inconceivably vague. Pedersen probably didn’t need to make that call; it seemed obvious why Goat had been fired from Incubator.

  “Oleg Earwig?
” asked Bloodhound.

  “That’s right!” Goat exclaimed, relieved. “Exactly. I’m sure that unpleasant earwig came and went.”

  “Was he carrying anything when he left?”

  “Like, a suitcase, or something?”

  “Did he have a suitcase?”

  “No. Nothing. I think. But there were so many arms and legs sticking out, it’s hard to say. I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  “When did he leave?”

  “Don’t know exactly. A few minutes before Emanuelle.”

  “Emanuelle Cobra?”

  “Are there any other Emanuelles?”

  “Did Cobra leave the office during the morning?”

  “She went out for a smoke. It was right after the earwig left. Smoking is prohibited at Nova Park. The smokers are forced to go all the way down to the street. Emanuelle’s trying to quit. Personally . . . I’ve never started.”

  “Did Cobra leave the office several times during the morning?” Bloodhound asked, trying to sound neutral.

  “No,” the goat answered firmly. “Once in the morning and once in the afternoon. No more. No more than that.”

  “So she left right after Earwig,” Bloodhound repeated in order to give the goat a chance to change his mind. “And then she came back?”

  “She was out for ten minutes, maybe fifteen. Then the police arrived, but that was a while later . . .”

  “And when Cobra was down on the street, smoking,” Bloodhound asked, speaking very slowly, “did anyone else go past reception then?”

  “Like I said, I don’t know,” Croix-Valmer replied unhappily. “I don’t know. The electrician, I think. Maybe.”

  “Think about it,” Bloodhound growled.

  “I don’t know. The electrician? I don’t know.”

  “You lousy little woolen mitten,” the superintendent clarified, “this is important. I get it that thinking isn’t your best subject. But surprise me. Did anyone go past your reception counter while Cobra was down on the street, smoking?”

  Goat Croix-Valmer nodded, looking Bloodhound in the eyes, as if he could thereby produce an answer. But not a word passed his lips, and finally the superintendent realized that the only thing to do was give up. For this fool of a receptionist, the pressure was paralyzing.

  “Think it over,” the superintendent said. “I’m going to repeat the question another time and it would be excellent if you had an answer.”

  Goat Croix-Valmer nodded again, but Bloodhound doubted that there was capacity for reflection in the goat’s confused brain.

  3.4

  Anna Lynx’s pulse was pounding so hard she couldn’t hear what she was thinking. She was lying stretched out behind three heaps of worn tires, holding her service pistol in her right paw.

  “Excuse me, Anna, but what do we do now?” Falcon Ècu shouted.

  He had landed a little farther away, in the driver’s seat of a worn-out tractor. Anna could see him fumbling with the buttons on his holster, but before he got his weapon out Balder Toad had fired off the next swarm of buckshot.

  The police officers crouched; Falcon dove under the steering wheel of the tractor.

  The sound of ricochets cut through the air, after which silence spread over the junkyard.

  Anna peered out from behind the tires. She saw the barrel of a shotgun sticking out through the only window in the decrepit shed. She called, “We’ve only come to—”

  She didn’t get further than that.

  “Go away!” Toad screamed, firing a third salvo.

  This time it was in earnest. The windows of the tractor’s cab rained down over Falcon in small, sharp pieces. There was no room for negotiations.

  Anna Lynx released the safety on her weapon and called, “On three.”

  She hoped Ècu was experienced enough to understand what she meant, and then she counted down.

  “Three,” she shouted, “two, one!”

  Without waiting for her colleague, she threw herself out to the side of the heap of tires and fired six shots in quick succession into the shed. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Falcon standing with legs wide apart in the approved shooting position a few yards away, firing his gun at the same time. She managed to see that the door to the shed was torn apart by the bullets, then she threw herself back behind the tires.

  “Help!” was heard from the shed. “Help! Don’t shoot! Stop!”

  “Come out with your arms above your head!” Falcon shouted.

  A good deal of rattling was heard. Anna peeped up over the edge of her rubber barricade. Toad had come out and positioned himself—on quivering legs—in front of the damaged door, with his arms in the air. He was a thin, green stuffed animal with a white belly and slender, long limbs.

  Falcon ran toward him.

  “Assaulting an officer,” the inspector shouted.

  He held his gun aimed at the toad.

  “Attacking police officers on duty, this is going to cost you dearly!”

  “Police?” Toad answered, looking confused. “Didn’t you say Earwig sent you?”

  Falcon stopped a few yards away.

  “We said that . . .” said Falcon, slowing his speed. “We said that . . . true, we did say that Earwig had—but we identified ourselves. We said we were police officers.”

  “Police officers,” Toad repeated in confusion. “Police officers. Lord Magnus. I didn’t know . . . I thought you came from Earwig . . .”

  He stood quietly with his arms above his head. Falcon lowered his weapon, Anna was right behind, and together the police officers led the contrite toad into the shed, the door to which they had just shredded with gunfire.

  They sat down at a small kitchen table where there were freshly picked wood anemones in an eggcup. The sink was full of filthy plates, but Anna Lynx found a somewhat clean glass. She poured cold water and set the glass in front of the toad. He was so nervous he could hardly swallow.

  Balder Toad tried to explain himself. He had seen two strangers and heard them shout Oleg Earwig’s name. Toad had never used the gun before. He bought it a few years ago, to keep for self-defense. At that time unpleasant characters were wandering around the junkyard at night. The name Earwig now caused him to bring out the gun and fire it.

  He begged pardon once again.

  He realized, said Balder Toad, that they were going to arrest him.

  “We’ll just have to see. It depends on how well you cooperate,” Falcon replied. “Tell us about Earwig. Why should he send animals here who . . . who want to harm you, Toad?”

  Balder Toad took another gulp of water, stared right into Falcon’s hard little eyes, and answered slowly: “I hate him.”

  Falcon Ècu did not reply.

  “A month ago,” Toad continued, “I’d never met Earwig. I didn’t know he existed. I don’t have any . . . vacuum-cleaning walls . . .”

  “Tell your story, Toad,” Anna coaxed.

  It had been a day like any other when Oleg Earwig showed up a month ago at Balder Toad’s junkyard. As far as he could recall, Balder had been struggling with a warped car hood when the black stuffed animal arrived on foot. He had introduced himself as one of the “greatest geniuses of our time” and excitedly gestured toward the car cemetery with his many arms and legs.

  “This,” he had said, “may soon be history. History!”

  Toad had, in his hospitable manner—because he was basically a hospitable animal, even if he realized that the police thought differently—invited Earwig in for coffee.

  “We sat here,” said Balder Toad to Anna, pointing at the table. “Right at this table.”

  Earwig told about himself. Toad realized that the earwig was boasting, knowing that anyone who considered himself to be the greatest genius of the present day could not possibly be the greatest genius of the present day. But after a while, Earwig nonetheless succeeded in convincing Toad that there was something to what he was saying.

  “And I checked him out later. He really did make that wall, didn�
��t he?”

  Anna nodded.

  Earwig had described a new invention he was working on. It was sensational, it would make everything he’d done up until then pale in comparison.

  He had asked for paper and pen and then shown formulas and processes that were behind what he was calling his Matter Processor. He pointed, calculated, and explained. The energy that went into these pedagogical attempts was almost inspiring. Toad put on a good face, even though he didn’t understand a thing. Earwig seemed more and more content as time went by.

  “I still have all the formulas,” said Toad. “I saved them, everything he wrote. I thought they might be valuable someday.”

  “I have chosen you, Toad!” Earwig said finally. “Of all the stuffed animals in Mollisan Town, of all the animals that could have helped, I have chosen you. You.”

  It had to do with the cars at the junkyard.

  “I’m a humble animal,” Toad explained to Falcon and Anna. “I knew it wasn’t on my account that Earwig had come.”

  According to the inventor, the car was the object best suited to getting the city’s stuffed animals to understand in one stroke what the Matter Processor was capable of. A car was not simply a means of transportation and a status object; for the hoi polloi, cars represented the mystery and perfection of technology.

  “I need your help, Toad,” Oleg Earwig had said that morning a month before. “I need your help. And as thanks, as payment, you’ll get a Matter Processor. You’ll get it so cheap that I’m almost ashamed. I’m almost ashamed. With a Matter Processor here at the junkyard, your work will be transformed forever. Now and forever. It’s going to be so much simpler. So much more efficient. So much cheaper. You’re going to be a rich toad, Toad. Thanks to the Matter Processor.”

  First Earwig described in detail how the Matter Processor looked. Toad was imagining a sort of advanced cannon, some sort of artillery piece. The rays that came out of the weapon were invisible, but had the ability to reduce or enlarge the matter that was “shot at.”

  In other words, Earwig explained, as if the toad were a little cub, with a Matter Processor at the junkyard, Toad could shrink all newly arrived wrecked cars. He could sort them on shelves or compartments instead of in these enormous heaps of metal. When he needed a particular spare part, it was only a matter of enlarging it.