Tourquai Page 14

  “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 scrap 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 damn 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 Ècu 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 assault. 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 hell,” 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.

  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 reason
s,” Bloodhound said. “A whole will full of possibilities. By the way, have you ever heard of a Jasmine Squirrel?”

  Mouse shook his head.

  “What about her?”

  Larry growled something, but it was unclear what he meant. Chez Jacques was rumbling this evening. The sound from all the police officers who had just got off or would soon go on their shifts—laughter and quarreling, shy confessions and blustering boasts—seemed to settle like a thick, dark brown rug over the black wooden tiles. Philip and Larry were sitting in the midst of a sound porridge, bubbling and boiling on rue de Cadix.

  “I guess it is what it is,” said Mouse. “Isn’t that what you always say? That fate rules us all?”

  “That’s bullshit,” Bloodhound growled. “Don’t make yourself ridiculous. Believe in fate. I’ve never said that. What I have said is—”

  “I know,” Mouse interrupted. “Larry, I know what you’ve said. Because you’ve said it so many times. But if you were to be right, it would mean that the future is exactly like history. That everything has already happened, both forward and backward in time.”

  “I have to think about that,” Bloodhound said, digging for the last crushed chips in the bowl.

  “Should we get more chips?”

  “No way,” said Bloodhound. “I’m trying to cut back, you know.”

  “But that was how you described it,” Mouse continued, lighting a cigarette. “Didn’t you say that fate is like a train track? We have a certain number of cars to move between. There, in the cars, we can do what we want, and succeed and fail and meet and separate and everything. But the train is moving in the direction that fate determines.”

  “Yes, yes, just like that,” Bloodhound growled. “Smart mouse—excuse me, could we please get a bowl of chips here?”

  Stuffed animals came and went, the crowding at the bar waxed and waned. Larry and Philip were sitting half-turned toward the window, so that most of it went on behind their backs. An occasional loud volley of laughter rose up from the spoken Muzak.

  “This is what I mean,” the private detective said, taking a deep puff on his cigarette. “The consequences of what you’re saying are just that everything has already happened.”

  “You’re too smart for me,” Bloodhound growled.

  He felt tired. He had no desire to listen to Mouse’s philosophical digressions. When the waitress came with the chips he ordered another beer, but a light one this time. He longed for Cordelia.

  “Imagine a journey in time,” Philip said, putting out the cigarette. “If we go back in time we end up in historic events. Carl the Horse’s war, and a hundred years later the resistance movement of Shrew-Mouse, or in the twenties what led up to Goldstein’s theories . . . But the same thing if we travel forward in time, to our grandchildren. There, the same sort of events are waiting. If fate has set the rails through the future, we’re going to end up in what has already happened, despite the fact that our lives have not yet taken us there. Do you understand? I think of it as a long train, and each car is a tableau, whether or not there is an audience; ‘theater cars’ in a marketplace that line the road into the future.”

  “Sounds really strange,” said Larry, who hadn’t been following his reasoning.

  “It’s your idea, not mine. I don’t even believe in it. But it undeniably raises questions about infinity. Reasonably there must be an end to all these theater cars, no? Your train tracks have to end somewhere. Because you believe in a fate that is waiting for us in the future, you must also believe in a mountain of time, or a sea of time, where everything ends, right?”

  “Bullshit. It doesn’t end,” Bloodhound growled. “That’s the whole point of eternity. That it feels hopeless to imagine. I’ve got to piss.”

  Whereupon the superintendent got up and waded through the noise over to the toilets. When he came back, Philip Mouse had taken off his hat and set it on the table. But the detective was still talkative and attacked the superintendent as soon as he sat down.

  “And love?” asked Mouse.

  “Love?”

  “Is that fate? Or do you believe it’s just something you find on board your train?”

  Larry Bloodhound did not answer. He couldn’t help that it was the little green budgie waiting for him at home that showed up in his thoughts as soon as Mouse mentioned the word “love.” He felt pathetic, which made him angry.

  “Love,” sighed Bloodhound, “is going around constipated and unsatisfied your whole life. Neither more nor less.”

  The private detective nodded.

  “Unsatisfied? Not bad, Superintendent. For every step you take toward her,” the mouse said in a lingering tone of voice, “she takes two steps back. For every word you utter, every word you think builds a bridge, she sinks deeper into herself. It’s like a kind of artful labyrinth that leads you farther away, even though you’ve figured out in advance how you should move ahead.”

  Private detective Philip Mouse was an animal who lived in his irony; distance was not just in his words but part of his personality. Hearing him talk about love came as a surprise.

  “I’ll be damned,” said Bloodhound. “Superb, Mouse. And insightful.”

  Mouse blushed.

  “Everyone has some kind of hub, right? Another animal, a feeling or an idea that is immovable as an anchor at the base of the soul and means that we never manage to tear ourselves loose. Foolishly we paddle around in more or less wide circles, in our own little sea . . .”

  Philip’s voice died away. Mumbling, he finished the sentence to himself. Larry sat quietly and observed the private detective with renewed interest.

  “I’ll be damned, Mouse,” he repeated.

  Like everyone else, Bloodhound felt comfortable with the predictable, but in reality Larry Bloodhound had always known that it was the surprises that brightened up life. And hearing Mouse reveal his personal thoughts was refreshing.

  At the same time, all the talk about love made the superintendent impatient. He wanted to go home, and he got up.

  “Will you get the check, Detective?”

  Mouse nodded.

  “You can pay in the next life,” he replied.

  4.6

  Darkness sat like a hat on top of Mollisan Town, with stars sparkling in a clear sky. On rue de Montyon in north Tourquai the streetlights lit up the deserted sidewalks, shadows of light fell soft as cotton across the blue asphalt. The weather had long since passed midnight, and the low apartment buildings that lined the street stood dark and silent.

  The exception was the fourth and topmost floor at 42 rue de Montyon.

  From there a warm yellow light flowed out through the windows, suggesting that the entire top floor was a single apartment with a single resident. The music, too, penetrated out onto the street, or parts of the rhythm at least: a bass drum that kept an insistent and unsophisticated tempo, and a wailing voice that stumbled around a familiar melody.

  Claude Siamese’s apartment was somewhat out of the ordinary. It had room upon room upon room in a row in line with the street, and a wood floor laid so that it was impossible to detect the joints: fifty feet of beautiful, wide oak planks, as if the trees were felled by giants. It was sparsely furnished, but here and there was a lounge chair. On the floor piles of pillows were strewn; they could be used as seats, tables, or beds. The lighting shifted in various colors; for an animal going from one side of the apartment to the other, it was like walking through a rainbow.

  Out in the kitchen stood a cat, Claude Siamese himself, dressed only in a pair of leopard-spotted leather trousers, alongside him a pretty little rat in a red polka-dot bikini top and jeans, and right behind her a gazelle in a blue jacket. One of the gazelle’s horns seemed to have broken off in the middle. Each of the three was holding a knife and cutting open with concentration some small cans of tuna on the counter.

  The apartment was crammed with hi-fi speakers; it was not possible to escape the music anywhere, and the rat and gazelle were singing along.


  “But concentrate!” Siamese shouted to be heard above the noise.

  The pretty rat only laughed and continued cutting and singing. The gazelle didn’t seem to hear anything at all; he was hacking at his can as if in a trance.

  “Focus!” Claude screamed. “We have to SUCCEED! My life depends on it!”

  The rat laughed louder and made a few halfhearted attempts to actually hit the little can with her massive knife. The kitchen counter was cut to pieces. When Claude Siamese awoke early the next morning, he would have to make a few calls and have the counter replaced with a new one.

  At about this time of day Siamese always felt an uncontrollable urge for tuna fish. He knew there was a can opener somewhere, but he couldn’t think where. Along with the rat and gazelle he had already turned all the drawers in the kitchen inside out. Silverware and cutting boards, saucepans and place mats, tablecloths and napkins were in piles on the floor around them.

  But the can opener was nowhere to be found.

  Then he thought of it.

  “Wait!” he shouted.

  The gazelle and rat both stopped in mid-cut, startled by his tone.

  “I KNOW! In the sauna!”

  He threw his knife in the sink, the rat did the same, and they ran, paw in paw, out to the corridor. The gazelle followed close behind.

  The room outside the kitchen was flooded in orange light. Ten or so animals were lying there in piles across an elegant, austere sofa. In the middle was a large coffee table, full of overturned glasses and liquor bottles, newspapers and pieces of clothing. Around the couch there were still more clothes. A pair of pants, a few bras, and a beige jacket that appeared to have gone through a paper shredder. Claude’s candy dishes—small turquoise porcelain bowls with white glass borders where there was always cocaine—were empty.

  “Who are all these stuffed animals?” asked Claude Siamese, making a gesture toward the crowd.

  The animals on the couches moved; they were conscious.