Tourquai Page 13

  “And it all goes to the wife and son?” asked Anna.

  “No. No, Vulture was no doubt a cunning devil . . . I don’t know . . . Well, read it yourself.”

  Bloodhound pushed the will over to the inspectors.

  “It’s only formalities at the beginning. Start on page three.”

  Anna leafed through to page three, leaving the papers on the table so Falcon could read too:

  . . . and to my chauffeur Kai Gnu I leave both my black Volga Deluxe and the red Volga Kombi that my wife uses. To Fritz Burma, who clipped my hedges for so many years and fertilized my flower beds, I leave the bathroom furnishings at Mina Road. He may take the fixtures he finds valuable (he will have to disassemble them himself, and this applies both to the gold faucets in the guest bathroom as well as to the diamond-studded mirror on the top floor). Ellen Spider, my reliable cook, is awarded two million and Chameleon Raukanomaa, who ironed my shirts and underwear, is awarded one million: the money shall be deposited into their respective bank accounts no later than two months after my demise. To Jasmine Squirrel shall go a monthly payment of fifty thousand as long as she lives. The doorman at Nova Park and likewise my personal factotum George Llama shall be guaranteed a workshop of no less but possibly larger than two thousand square feet in Bourg Villette, to be furnished and equipped according to Llama’s instructions. To Daniel Lamb, my faithful assistant, a sum of fifty million shall be paid, in installments of ten million on the fifteenth of January for five years. Pugdog Owen, in the event she loses her job as domestic servant at Mina Road, shall be compensated with the equivalent of the monthly salary she had at the time of her termination until she reaches the age of seventy. My masseuse Cow Bonvie is awarded my collection of antique cuff links.

  “Several suspects,” said Falcon Ècu when he was finished. “In any event, several who have a motive.”

  “Too many to worry about now,” Bloodhound growled. “But there is something else remarkable about this will.”

  “Excuse me, but now I don’t really know what you mean, Superintendent,” Falcon asked.

  “Think about it,” Bloodhound growled.

  Falcon thought.

  “Injustice, possibly,” he said at last. “That . . . the masseuse . . . gets nothing more than a collection of cuff links. Can anyone have known about the will in advance, and felt provoked?”

  Anna Lynx was squirming in her seat.

  “Cuff links must cost a pretty penny,” she said. “We’re talking about someone who has gold bathtub faucets, apparently. No, I see what you’re getting at, Larry. It’s Squirrel.”

  “Exactly,” Bloodhound confirmed.

  “The squirrel?”

  Falcon wasn’t following. Bloodhound explained.

  “Everywhere in the will Vulture is careful to describe the details. Who’s done what, and why. Nothing is left to chance here. But this . . .”

  Bloodhound picked up the papers and read to himself.

  “ ‘Jasmine Squirrel’—who is she?”

  “No idea,” said Falcon.

  “That was a so-called rhetorical question,” the superintendent growled.

  “Excuse me, Superintendent.”

  On the other side of the blinds the sky had cleared, and the wind was as absent as Falcon’s sense of humor. Bloodhound sighed.

  “I don’t know if any prosecutor is going to request it, but we’ll probably have to check up on every poor pile of shit mentioned in the will. Where they were at the time of the murder, how their relationship to Vulture appeared . . . you know,” he said.

  “C’mon, can’t we ask Pedersen?” Anna asked.

  “It sounds like Pedersen’s type of assignment,” Bloodhound nodded. “I’ll let him know. His group can check everyone who’s mentioned in the will.”

  “Perfect,” Anna nodded.

  “Except Squirrel,” said Bloodhound. “First I want a little background on Squirrel, Ècu. And you’ll also have to take care of the son, if Pedersen’s going to have time for the rest.”

  “Excuse me, but what’s the son’s name?” asked Falcon, ready with his notepad.

  Superintendent Bloodhound eyeballed the file again to refresh his memory.

  “Igor Panda,” he said. “Oswald Vulture and Irina Flamingo have a son whose name is Igor Panda, and even though he doesn’t know it himself yet, he has become exceedingly rich.”

  Falcon and Anna got up, and as they were on their way out of the superintendent’s office, Bloodhound added, “And bring in that inventor, too. We’ll let him spend the night down in the jail, then I’ll get to him early tomorrow. How stupid can he be? Did he really think you wouldn’t check up on Toad?”

  4.3

  I don’t want to put on airs,” said Falcon Ècu, adjusting his blue scarf, which matched his socks, and which he had put on when they left rue de Cadix in an unmarked police car, “but wasn’t it you who taught me that chance is a method for mystery authors and not for real police officers?”

  They were standing at an espresso bar across from Gallery Panda. The place was no more than a hole in the wall, a long, narrow bar that cut through the building like the core through a pineapple. Six small, high tables were attached to the wall across from the bar, and the passage between the tables and bar was cramped. A lizard in a white apron had set down a double espresso for each of them, and the detectives sipped the strong coffee from small white cups. The place was packed with animals; it was crowded and smoky and full of energy: before lunch no one had time for more than a quick cup of coffee.

  “C’mon, it’s not chance that’s important,” Anna Lynx hissed, irritated for once. “The call came from a phone booth right across from Claude Siamese’s building. That’s a fact.”

  “That is a fact. But with all due respect, Anna, the next thought, whatever it is, is speculation, based on chance. Nothing else.”

  “There’s chance, and then there’s chance,” Anna maintained. “And this is the latter.”

  Falcon laughed curtly, shaking his wings slightly. It was Thursday, and he had another match this evening. After the humiliating loss to Pedersen on Monday, he’d been pondering his failures on the court. He realized that a lack of match training was hampering him, that he let himself be driven back and forth along the baseline because he was more concerned about saving the ball than winning it. Volley and half-volley had always been natural strokes for him; this evening he would show them.

  “I don’t know,” he sighed, trying to return to the matter at hand. “There’s an explanation, of course. But unfortunately I think we’re far from it.”

  “C’mon, there must be a connection,” Anna insisted, “between Siamese and the Oswald Vulture case. The tipster called looking for you and Larry because he knew who you were. Have you had anything to do with Siamese, Falcon?”

  “Never,” said Falcon.

  “But Larry must have had something to do with that criminal cat at some point over the years.”

  “Anna, forgive me for pointing this out, but you’ve taught me that discernible connections are everywhere. Two red cars drive past. The same day you meet two cats who both comment on the weather. Thousands of such events occur every day. And interpreting them as intentional is simply absurd. Those are your own words.”

  Anna’s face darkened. There was something dishonorable in refuting her theories with her own objections. She was about to answer, but someone bumped into her and she almost dropped the little espresso cup. She stared angrily at the back of a suit that had already hurried out onto salt and pepper Bardowicker Strasse.

  She was standing so that she had a view of the gallery across the street. A rhinoceros in reception had informed them that the dealer himself, Igor Panda, was at a meeting but was expected back in fifteen minutes. That was half an hour ago, but no Panda had arrived yet.

  “It would be good if we got out of here before the Breeze,” said Falcon, showing an unusual sign of impatience. “I don’t want to eat too late. My body feels heavy until the a
fternoon. My backhand doesn’t seem to function like it should if I haven’t had time to digest my food.”

  He leaned over and looked out through the narrow windows toward the street. It looked as if someone was about to enter the gallery, but the animal in question changed its mind at the last moment and continued walking.

  “I still think the tipster is decisive,” Anna nagged. “But Larry seems to be turning a deaf ear to that. And yet he has such long ears . . .”

  “Really?”

  “Have you heard him utter a word about it?” asked Anna. “Nope. Nothing. It’s, like, ‘Tipster, what tipster?’ But at the same time I haven’t said anything about Siamese. And you aren’t allowed to either, Falcon. I know Larry. If I don’t have anything concrete to show, he’ll just get angry.”

  “And perhaps the very fact that you don’t have anything to show has an explanation?” Falcon hinted. “Namely that perhaps there isn’t one?”

  “Listen . . .” Anna started, but stopped herself and nodded toward the window. “We’ll have to discuss this later. Now it’s time to meet Panda.”

  Falcon could see for himself how a panda was getting out of a big, black Volga Deluxe that had just parked outside the gallery. With rapid steps the panda crossed the sidewalk.

  “Judging by the car, he doesn’t appear to need an inheritance,” Falcon noted.

  “Nice. We don’t need more animals with motives.”

  Anna left payment on the counter and, without waiting for the barista, forced her way toward the exit.

  “We’re looking for Igor Panda,” said Anna Lynx.

  Arthur Rhinoceros was sitting behind the reception counter inside the gallery, staring at the police officers. They had been there half an hour ago and identified themselves. What was it about police officers that made him react defensively?

  “I don’t know if that will work,” he replied.

  “Excuse me?”

  Arthur scratched his horn nervously and continued.

  “Mr. Panda has just been in a meeting with the directors of the Modern Museum. It’s about a very valuable painting of Hummingbird Esperanza-Santiago that will be loaned out for a retrospective exhibition. I—”

  “Esperanza-Santiago?” exclaimed Falcon Ècu. “I knew I’d heard that name before!”

  “Esperanza-Santiago?” said Anna.

  “No, no. Gallery Panda. I knew I’d heard Igor Panda’s name before, but I couldn’t remember where. Panda, of course, is Esperanza-Santiago’s dealer!”

  “That’s right,” said Arthur overbearingly, and more than a little proud.

  “Fantastic!” said Falcon. “And you were speaking of a retrospective exhibition at the Modern?”

  “Still only in the planning stages.”

  “That’s unbelievable.” Falcon turned to Anna. “This has never happened before. Esperanza-Santiago’s works have been shown at openings, it must have been at this gallery? But that was many, many years ago. An exhibition—to see her collected works—this is going to be an experience.”

  This unexpected outburst surprised the sullen Arthur Rhinoceros, who forgot that he was trying to make the officers leave. Anna was surprised, too. She had certainly heard of Hummingbird Esperanza-Santiago, but that Falcon Ècu appeared to be an art lover came as a surprise.

  “In any event, we would appreciate having a few words with Panda,” she repeated.

  Rhinoceros nodded.

  “I’ll go see . . .”

  He left the reception and walked down the corridor toward Panda’s office. Anna and Falcon followed. When Rhinoceros knocked, there was no answer. He knocked a second time, but instead of waiting for a reaction Anna forced her way past him and opened the door. The office was empty.

  Anna stared at the rhinoceros.

  “Are you joking with us?” she asked sternly.

  “No, no, I . . .” Arthur began, confused, but then he saw.

  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 cafés, 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 massive monuments of glass 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,” Ècu protested. “Tomorrow, you mean. Tomorrow we can have a go at it.”

  She got out of the car. Falcon followed. Together they made a pass 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 stran
ge 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.

  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.