Tourquai Page 12

  “I met a duck on the way in,” he began.

  Hummingbird was in search of a saucepan in the cupboard and hummed an acknowledgment. Through the window above the kitchen counter the daylight fell in and the transom painted a shadow cross over the little bird body.

  “I thought we’d talked about that,” Igor continued. “The energy you can devote to painting you should prioritize for your own work.”

  “Oh, I’m working,” the hummingbird informed him.

  She had found a chipped saucepan, and she filled it with water that she ladled up from a bucket standing next to the stove. Was it rainwater? Hummingbird sometimes complained that the well had gone dry. Whatever, thought Panda, if she boils the water there shouldn’t be any danger.

  “I know you don’t like me taking in pupils,” Hummingbird continued in a gentle tone, “but I have to answer to someone who is even more important than you, Igor.”

  Hummingbird Esperanza-Santiago was talking about Magnus, our Lord. The artist was deeply religious, and her relationship to the spiritual world in general, and Magnus in particular, was complicated, as well as deeply anxiety-ridden.

  “You’re not going to be able to do much for your pupils if you don’t have food on the table for yourself,” Igor answered quietly. “You have to develop yourself to be able to develop someone else.”

  “It’s nice of you to want to help,” said Hummingbird.

  The water was starting to boil and she put in the coffee.

  “My friend,” Igor continued, somewhat more insistently, “it’s more than three years since you completed anything. You have to stop . . . it’s not the case that your creations are less . . . magnificent now, yet . . . it’s about fundamental . . . we’re talking about survival.”

  “Yours or mine?” asked Hummingbird, but immediately regretted it. “Igor, forgive me. I know you wish me well. I have nothing to complain about. I have my pupils. They bring food along and . . . the things I need. You’re friendly and pay my bills down at the store. And I’m . . . working. Even if it’s . . . hard.”

  As far as Igor knew, Hummingbird had not been in Mollisan Town for many years. She lived on her little plot, calling down to the store to order food and necessities, which they drove up to the house once a week. And she agonized in front of her easel. Sometimes she would show him the canvases she was working on. There were a number of pieces, all of which were magnificent, amazing, at least as good if not better than anything she had shown before.

  Still, she was dissatisfied.

  “There are critics who are harder to convince than you, Igor, my friend,” she would say.

  He knew that once again she was referring to our Lord Magnus. He knew that Hummingbird devoted endless amounts of time at night—and for that matter during the day as well—to discussing her artistic creations with Magnus. On a few occasions Panda had unintentionally been a witness to one of Hummingbird’s long, complaining monologues, and thereby gained an unexpected key to the artist’s spiritual life. She was so filled with guilt, so filled with shame, that Panda, who could tolerate most things, could hardly bear to keep listening.

  Still, he did.

  It was clear that the hummingbird did not feel she deserved either success or talent. She painted for His sake, but satisfying Him was nearly impossible. If she exerted herself to the breaking point in the form of technique and expectations, she was putting on airs. If she held back her ambitions and instead tried to find the simplest possible expression, it was unworthy.

  Igor Panda, who had dealt with many artists over the years, realized that as long as Hummingbird Esperanza-Santiago continued to “fail,” this granted her a certain satisfaction. For a guilt-ridden stuffed animal of Esperanza-Santiago’s type, defeat was one of the few bright spots in existence. It also explained why she chose to live the way she did, why she refused herself comforts or a social life, and why she was not interested in the money that was within reach if she would be more productive.

  “But it’s not time there’s a shortage of, Igor,” she would say. “It’s talent.”

  And she devoted hours to trying to prove the opposite.

  They drank their coffee in darkness at the kitchen table. They talked about the sorts of things that have nothing to do with art. Panda tried to keep the conversation light and flowing. It was impossible to pressure her. No threat was worse than the inner demands that constantly threatened to blow her apart.

  Jake Golden Retriever had shown up a few years ago when the situation was about to degenerate. Igor Panda had been six months behind on rent for the gallery and owed money to all the city’s banks and loan sharks. The golden retriever seemed to be a stuffed animal without background or context, but his forgeries were brilliant. Suddenly Hummingbird’s eccentricities became fruitful.

  As long as she persisted in rejecting honor and gallantry—and society in general—there was no risk that she would ever discover what was happening in Mollisan Town. Suddenly many of the more established collectors could boast about an Esperanza-Santiago in their collections—canvases that had never been subjected to the artist’s scrutinizing gaze, had never stood in any relationship to Magnus, and hence equaled easy money for Igor Panda.

  “I’ll see you in a few weeks, okay?” said Panda as usual when he finally left her.

  She nodded and waved to him through the kitchen window.

  Day Four

  4.1

  Derek Hare thought it over.

  “It’s not impossible,” he said at last.

  “I’m only a beginner, of course,” said Falcon, “so I don’t quite understand. Are you saying it’s not likely?”

  They were sitting on the second floor at the rue de Cadix police station, where the Tech Department was located. If on the fourth floor up at WE you found yourself in a dark, hostile, steel forest, two floors down you were a tourist in a white, sterile futuristic landscape. They were in Derek Hare’s office. Outside, the dark clouds had not even moved in for the Morning Rain; dawn was still a memory on the horizon. Hare hated speculation about what was reasonable and unreasonable, and he squirmed uncomfortably in his seat.

  “I can’t judge whether it’s likely,” he said at last. “All I can say is that nowhere in Oswald Vulture’s office is there a trace indicating that the head might have been destroyed or cut into smaller pieces.”

  “So the murderer carried the head out of Nova Park in one piece?” asked Falcon.

  Not least for his own sake, he wanted to understand where the hare’s conclusion was leading.

  “The windows can’t be opened. A stuffed animal’s head is too large to flush down the toilet. And, once again, neither in the bathroom nor in the office are there any traces of the head being deconstructed. But . . . a careful animal with insight into how we work can always remove traces after himself.”

  The technical investigation of the murder scene had been concluded during the night, and Hare had been summoned to an emergency meeting. It was believed that the murder weapon—a sword—had been found, and tests during the early morning hours had shown this assumption to be correct.

  Along with a clearly sleepy Superintendent Larry Bloodhound, who did not cover his mouth when he yawned, Falcon Ècu sat taking careful notes. Falcon was wearing a pink checked shirt under a dark red striped sweater, and the day’s socks were blue with a red shaft. Not that anyone would notice them, thought Falcon, feeling both bitter and relieved at this. Hare reported his conclusions in his inimitable, boring manner; this cop was no entertainer.

  “And the surveillance cameras in reception?” asked Falcon. “We must at least be able to see if there’s anyone carrying anything onto the elevators.”

  “Haven’t you told him?” asked Hare.

  “I didn’t have time,” Bloodhound mumbled, shrugging his shoulders.

  “The cameras were broken,” Hare reported. “That’s what the electrician running around up there was supposed to fix. The hard drive was inside one of the offices. If I unde
rstand correctly it’s all working now?”

  “Broken?” Falcon repeated.

  “He’s quick, that bird,” said Bloodhound.

  Falcon had tried to get hold of Lynx and Pedersen, but without success. It was understandable that Anna had Todd to think about, but Field Mouse Pedersen had not answered his phone at this early hour, either. This upset Falcon; according to regulations, an inspector should always be accessible. The superintendent, however, had only growled in a manner that was impossible to interpret. The same indefinable growling had been Bloodhound’s reaction when Falcon told him about Toad at the junkyard. Obviously the many-armed inventor had no alibi.

  “Back to the sword,” said Bloodhound. “I didn’t understand a thing. Was only one of the swords real?”

  Derek Hare looked down at his papers. He leafed through the pages and got stuck somewhere. Read, then looked up.

  “Yes. Only the one, the one on the right. The sword with the suit of armor on the left you couldn’t even slice a banana with. Both suits of armor are copies. A little surprising, almost, in a place like Nova Park. You’d think they’d have the money for real antiques. We asked around. Nobody at the office knew the sword was razor sharp, and nobody could say whether it had been that way the whole time.”

  “So the murderer may have placed the murder weapon there in advance?” Falcon concluded.

  “Or else it was just a long shot,” Bloodhound growled. “A damn impulse.”

  “Theoretically both scenarios are possible,” Hare confirmed, looking unhappy. “But I won’t get involved in that. On the other hand, I am one hundred percent certain that the sword was used to cut the head off of Vulture. Rather smart, actually. Putting it back.”

  “Smart?” Bloodhound growled. “You discovered that right away.”

  “But I found no other traces. Neither on the handle of the sword nor on the armor,” Hare replied. “Whoever swung that sword was clever about covering his tracks.”

  “Which brings us back to the vanished head,” Falcon commented.

  “As I said,” Hare repeated, “I don’t deal in speculations. There is no trace of the head.”

  “There are damn few leads in general,” Bloodhound grunted.

  The Tech Department’s search confirmed that Oswald Vulture’s office had been almost clinically free of personal effects. In one of the desk drawers they found a business card from a dry cleaners; but otherwise, nothing.

  There were two computers on the desk. In the larger desktop computer only work-related documents had been found. In the smaller laptop, there was only a single folder. The folder was locked with a password, and the police had not yet deciphered it, but there was hope that they would find something that would lead them forward.

  “A paranoid individual, if you ask me,” said Derek Hare. “Without a doubt Vulture had something to conceal. No desk drawers can be that empty, no corporate manager is so lacking in calendars, binders, phone books, and memos. But whatever Vulture was hiding, he did it well. ’Cause I have no idea.”

  Hare sighed, shuffling together some papers he had placed on the table.

  “I figured you’d want to know about the sword as soon as possible. I’ll get back to you as soon as we can read the folder in the laptop.”

  Superintendent Bloodhound growled something that was meant as a “thanks” and got up. With Ècu in his wake, he left Hare’s office.

  As soon as they came out into the sterile corridor and began walking toward the stairs, the falcon hurried to catch up with the tired dog.

  “Excuse me, Superintendent, but I had an idea. Perhaps this is just their corporate culture. I mean, I didn’t see any personal things in the other offices, either. And I was actually thinking about how empty the desks were. I said something about that, I don’t recall to whom, and was told that in their industry the competition is so keen, discretion is imperative.”

  “Hmm,” Bloodhound growled. “Could be.”

  They were in the west part of the police station, so they took the stairs down to the main entrance, only to take the elevator from there up to the fourth floor. As they were passing reception, the police officer on duty called to Ècu from behind the counter, “A message has arrived, Falcon.”

  The tone was condescending, the voice a whisper, almost as if the police officer hoped that Falcon Ècu would not hear. Bloodhound reacted but said nothing. Falcon ought to comment on this. He ought to indicate that you don’t address an inspector that way. But Falcon said nothing. He went over to the reception counter, nodded, and reached for the envelope that was extended. The police officer behind the counter, with a rude smile, pulled back the envelope at the last moment. Falcon remained standing with his wing outstretched.

  “What the hell?” growled Bloodhound.

  In a second the superintendent was at the reception counter. The police officer with the envelope froze. Bloodhound did not stop in front of the counter but instead went around and placed himself so close to the officer that Larry’s smoked-sausage breath went straight up the officer’s nose.

  “I get it that those ugly little pieces of glass for pig eyes make it hard to see,” the superintendent growled, “but are you too nearsighted to take deliveries?”

  “Er, I, uh . . .” stammered the desk officer, whose smile suddenly seemed far away.

  “Ècu works for me at WE. You know that, don’t you?”

  “I . . . I . . . sure . . .”

  “And if I hear you addressing any of my inspectors that way again, you can’t even count on a job at a lousy security company tomorrow.”

  “I’m sorry, Superintendent, but—”

  “Shut up,” said Bloodhound, turning his back to him and going over to the elevators.

  Falcon snatched up the envelope still lying on the counter and hurried after the superintendent. The inspector did not know what he should say. Embarrassed at having been exposed to ridicule, even more embarrassed at having been helped, he cleared his throat in an attempt to regain his professional status.

  “What’s in the envelope?” the superintendent asked.

  “I’ve requisitioned a will. Vulture’s will,” Falcon explained. “I was thinking—”

  “Well done,” Bloodhound interrupted, seizing the envelope. “And, Falcon, next time someone messes with you, don’t be such a soggy little amoeba.”

  4.2

  Anna Lynx threw her coat across the chair and ran over to the ladies’ dressing room without even saying hello to Ècu. Once again she hadn’t made it to day care on time, or to work before the Morning Rain. Falcon understood her hurried entrance; the coat smelled of damp wool. When Anna returned, after ten minutes in the warm drying cabinet, her tufted ears were again standing up the way they’d been made.

  “Whew,” she said, sitting down on her chair. “You always forget how late it can get. Nice shirt, Ècu. What did Larry say about Balder Toad?”

  Falcon laughed awkwardly and unconsciously adjusted his pink cuff. The office felt lifeless somehow; in the ceiling the drainage pipes were rattling aggressively as they always did in the morning, and the few police officers at their desks hardly seemed awake. Ècu explained that Bloodhound had no reaction at all to the fact that Earwig did not seem to have an alibi.

  “Forget it, it’s too early in the morning for Larry,” Anna giggled. “He heard what you said. We’ll talk with him a little later.”

  Then Ècu briefly reported on the morning meeting with Hare, and about the sword that had served as a murder weapon.

  “Then it must have been planned! The fact that someone, just like that, takes a sword from an antique suit of armor and cuts the head off Vulture seems . . . too much.”

  But before Falcon could comment on this, they both heard a loud bark from inside the superintendent’s office.

  “In here! Both of you. Bring something to eat!”

  “Eat?” Falcon asked, looking unhappy.

  Anna shrugged her shoulders to relay that she didn’t have anything edible
with her.

  “Not tomorrow,” Bloodhound shouted. “Now!”

  They got up and took the few steps into the superintendent’s office. Falcon closed the door.

  “I’m extremely sorry, Superintendent,” said Falcon, “but I didn’t know you wanted something to eat. If I’d known, of course I would have—”

  “Shut up, Ècu!” the dog ordered, holding up a couple of densely covered pages with one paw. “This, you understand, this is damned interesting.”

  Anna shook her head inquisitively while Falcon nodded in understanding.

  “Vulture’s will,” said Bloodhound, waving the papers in the air. “Not a foundation as far as the eye can see. The widow can exhale, even if she won’t get all of the pie.”

  “I thought that perhaps it might be—” Falcon began.

  “A will?” asked Anna. “Vulture’s? Listen . . . isn’t that suspicious? That there’s a will at all? I mean, Vulture was neither old nor sickly.”

  “Forgive me for pointing this out,” said Falcon, “but Vulture was rich. Rich enough to be convinced by lawyers, who charge by the hour, to be safe rather than sorry.”

  “Falcon may be as freshly hatched as I am wrinkled,” Bloodhound barked, “but he’s right. Nothing strange about a will in Vulture’s circles. Not when money is gushing from the estate.”

  “Okay,” said Anna. “What does it say?”

  “The wife and son get most of it,” said Bloodhound.

  “I am of course shockingly inexperienced,” said Falcon, “but I actually forgot to ask. What did the son say, Superintendent?” Falcon asked.

  Bloodhound was embarrassed. He hadn’t managed to reach Oswald Vulture’s son, even though he had left several messages on the answering machine. The moment he dismissed the widow, the rich Flamingo, he had also lowered the priority of her son. He had a recollection of having delegated the matter to Pedersen, but perhaps he’d forgotten to ask?

  “You two will have to look up the son immediately, get his alibi, and give him the bad news. I don’t think he has any contact with his parents,” said Bloodhound. “Do that during the day. And it’s not just bad news . . .” The superintendent nodded at the papers and said, bitterly, “There’s more money than you think.”