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  “You ought to know, right?” the rat giggled.

  “But I don’t know.”

  “You invited them, didn’t you?” she giggled even more hysterically.

  “May I kick them out?” he asked.

  She was laughing so that she couldn’t answer, but she nodded enthusiastically. The gazelle nodded, too, less positively, however.

  Claude Siamese adjusted the lining on his leopard-skin trousers, took a deep breath, and went over to the sofa with dignified steps. He remained standing for a few moments, uncertain about how he should go about the task. Then he raised his voice and screamed, “I am Claude Siamese. Vanish. Otherwise you’ll vanish forever!”

  Four stuffed animals flew up from the sofa and ran as fast as they could toward the hall and the outside door. Three animals tried to follow, but stumbled and tripped and did not appear to be getting anywhere. A few animals still lay sleeping, unaware of what had happened.

  The rat laughed. The gazelle laughed. Siamese smiled, but then he remembered.

  “The tuna fish.”

  And they resumed their search for the can opener, hurrying on through the rooms on the way to the sauna.

  The sauna was large and lovely, and adjacent to Claude Siamese’s bedroom. The can opener was on the upper platform.

  “Bring the cans here,” said Claude Siamese.

  “I thought you were bringing them,” the rat replied, turning to the gazelle.

  “Darling,” said the gazelle, “you’re talking about canned goods all the time, but I still don’t know what you mean.”

  A moment of uncomfortable silence, then Siamese laughed. The rat laughed, too, it was liberating; the gazelle smiled wryly. And they ran back through rooms where stuffed animals were still busy abusing Siamese’s hospitality.

  At first they didn’t hear the doorbell.

  Siamese, the rat, and the gazelle were back in the kitchen, opening cans. The apartment door was unlocked, and sooner or later most tried the handle. But the visitor continued ringing, and the signal cut through the music. The only ones who behaved like that were the neighbors.

  “Shit,” Siamese swore.

  He gave the can opener to the gazelle and instructed him to open the cans. Then he ran out to the hall and opened the front door.

  Outside stood Superintendent Bloodhound.

  “Larry!” Claude Siamese exclaimed in surprise.

  “May I come in?”

  Claude took a step to one side, and the police officer entered the apartment.

  Siamese ate tuna fish right out of the can while he listened to Superintendent Bloodhound.

  “Well, well,” said the cat. “That’s no problem. It’s really no problem. But I’m FURIOUS!”

  Bloodhound fell silent. They were sitting in Siamese’s office in a part of the apartment where the after-party never made it, the dog on the austere, black leather couch and the cat on one of the soft white armchairs.

  “FURIOUS!” Siamese repeated.

  He stopped talking and ate. Bloodhound had never heard the cat raise his voice. A single lamp shone on the table, but the glow barely reached the cat and dog.

  “You promised,” Claude Siamese continued after a few quick bites, “and Magnus knows I’ve paid you to keep promises. And yet I saw a police car turn in and park on the other side of the street.”

  Larry shook his head with irritation.

  “And?” he asked.

  “And it’s obvious,” Siamese complained. “Despite all you’ve said, you’re after me again!” said Claude. “That makes me FURIOUS!”

  Larry was about to raise his voice and put the little fop in his place when Siamese added, “And when I am FURIOUS I’m not going to remember the combination to the cabinet, and your powder is in the cabinet.”

  It was a simple threat that normally would have provoked Bloodhound. Now his self-esteem was faltering.

  “A car that stops across . . .” he growled quietly. “You’re paranoid. It may have been a couple of lousy traffic cops out after illegal parking, what do I know?”

  “NEVER!” Siamese screamed. “They got out of the car, they were plainclothes detectives, not regular patrol officers, and they were snooping around the phone booth across the way for several minutes.”

  “Shit your pants. I never promised that I can take responsibility for what GL is up to,” Bloodhound answered morosely.

  “THAT is not what I want to HEAR!” Siamese shouted crossly.

  Bloodhound’s legs were shaking. He was thinking about his hiding place at home in the kitchen cabinet. It wouldn’t last long. Self-contempt tormented him; why had he put himself in this situation? The question was a form of self-pity from which it was impossible to gather strength.

  “If I see anything that—” he began but was interrupted.

  “See to it that they DISAPPEAR!” said Siamese.

  “I can’t do more than—”

  “DISAPPEAR!” Siamese repeated.

  “I’m a superintendent at WE,” Larry Bloodhound reminded him. “I have a certain influence over the other departments, but I can’t stop ongoing investigations. I deal with assaults, with murders.”

  Siamese got up, took the two steps over to the couch, and sat down so close that his unpleasant eyes ended up an inch or so from Bloodhound’s face.”

  “What if I KILL them,” whispered Siamese. “What if I found out who they were and KILL them?”

  Later that night Bloodhound was unsure what the exact words had been. What his exact words had been. He weighed the bag of cocaine in his paw and knew it wasn’t worth it.

  Yet.

  4.7

  Anna Lynx lied about Todd’s age, and they accepted her, it was really no problem; anyone who wanted could be involved. But she soon realized that all of the other Parents In Town had cubs that were teenagers. Yet she wanted to make a contribution; it was important to keep cubs off the streets, and as a police officer she knew how severely constrained resources were at the department. Besides, Todd, too, would be a teenager one day, so it was important to understand a few things.

  She went with a group from the neighborhood a few times a week. Compared to her job, the nighttime walks were mostly pleasant and social. You gossiped a little about and with each other, and if you encountered some overimbibing cubs you made them listen to reason in a friendly way. Most often no more than that was required. Sometimes there would be a passed-out drunk cub on the ground feeling nauseous who seriously horrified everyone, and Anna was often the animal who led the cub home. When Parents In Town encountered someone who was high on harder drugs and behaving aggressively in the way that Anna came in contact with daily on the job, the night patrol hurried away to call for reinforcements. It was simply not the idea that Parents In Town would do anything other than strengthen neighborhood unity, and at the same time get a little fresh night air.

  This evening Anna was walking together with a chameleon who worked as an accountant and lived in the same building as she did, although on the seventh floor, and a semifamous cricket player named Godot who always lagged a few steps behind. She was having a nice time with the accountant, who proved to be a passionate expert on Styrofoam balls, and who had a private collection that included hundreds of colors and forms.

  The half-moon was on its way to becoming full, and the air was cool but not yet chilly. Before she left home, she’d had a few glasses of wine with her mom, who always slept with Todd the night that Anna patrolled. Anna also called Falcon to hear how his match had gone, but that was less successful. He sounded defeated in a way that caused her heart to ache, and she hadn’t been able to provide any consolation. For that reason, at least, it was nice to walk along the deserted, dark sidewalks and listen to the chameleon expound on the acquisition of Styrofoam balls. She did not give a thought to the fact that they were suddenly walking south on blue rue de Montyon.

  The silence was restful. Not dense or frightening. They conversed quietly, not needing to drown out the constant dro
ne from the cars on North Avenue. But when a doorway opened ten or so yards away, the sound cut straight into the stillness, and all three of them stopped, Godot a few steps behind Anna and the chameleon.

  From out of the doorway came a sizable stuffed animal in a thick jacket. Anna knew immediately that she recognized him, but it took a few seconds before she could place the figure. He walked out quickly, then paused a few moments on the sidewalk outside the doorway. He looked around, discovered the three night patrollers as they stood in the shadow of a lantern post, and then walked in the opposite direction.

  As he turned toward them, Anna Lynx had seen who it was. And a few seconds later, as she herself passed the doorway out of which he had come, there was no longer any doubt.

  Larry Bloodhound had come out of the doorway of Claude Siamese’s building. The superintendent had been standing a few yards from the phone booth where the tip about Oswald Vulture had been called in. Called in to this same Superintendent Bloodhound.

  Anna excused herself and quickly left Godot and the accountant alone in the night. Thoughts were swirling in her head, but so far they were incomprehensible.

  Igor Panda 4

  In his paw he weighed his chips—only black counters—with an inward smile that no one could see.

  A fortune is no heavier than this, he thought.

  My life is no heavier than this, he thought.

  Yesterday evening he had decided how he would bet, and since then, he had waited for this moment. He got up, excused himself to Raven, who was sitting next to him, and squeezed his way to the short staircase. Down on the cold cement floor in front of the screen he put his counters in the green tube. A murmur was heard from the animals in the grandstand. Everyone was there for the same reason, everyone was used to high stakes, but even so this was something out of the ordinary. Igor Panda himself felt a drop of sweat run down his temple as he returned to his place.

  There was perhaps five minutes left until it was time.

  During those five minutes, Panda lived more intensely than in several weeks at the gallery. This was his drug, the adrenaline was pumping out into his system, and he experienced the familiar feeling of becoming light as a feather. It was a kind of delirium, but a pleasant one.

  “I’ll be damned,” said the raven as Igor sat down again.

  But Igor didn’t hear a thing.

  There was a stuffy odor of dampness and cold. They were seven stories below street level in one of the many parking garages that had been blasted out under Tourquai’s city center. The grandstands were set up across from each other and could be assembled in less than ten minutes; six rows held a hundred animals each. The operation was illegal, moving from garage to garage, and where it would turn up next week only the initiated knew. New players were seldom accepted and, when that did happen, it was only after extensive background checks.

  “Green, is it?” said the raven in a fresh attempt at conversation.

  They all handled the nervousness differently. The raven was obviously the talkative type, the kind who thought the grandstand seats were hard and who feared the moment when the wheel would stop.

  It was the opposite with Igor Panda. He enjoyed it. He concentrated on the tension, letting nothing disturb him.

  That’s why he remained silent.

  The raven continued to babble, not caring that the panda didn’t answer, and he fell silent only when the Master of Ceremonies appeared.

  As usual he arrived without anyone seeing him; suddenly he was simply standing there. Quickly the grandstands became silent. The Master of Ceremonies was wearing a long red mantle and large dark sunglasses. He walked slowly up to the wheel, which was placed on a small stage across from the grandstands, and raised his arms dramatically.

  The wheel resembled a shrunken tombola wheel. It lay flat on a table and twirled at great speed. On a large screen hanging on the garage wall, images flickered past. They were replaced at the same rate as the wheel was twirling; it went so fast it was impossible to comprehend what they depicted. But tonight there were no novices in the grandstand; everyone knew what this was about.

  Below the screen, six hollow Plexiglas tubes stood on the floor: one black, one red, one blue, one green, one yellow, and one gray. They were all filled with counters. Prior to Panda’s bet, red had been the night’s most popular color.

  “One minute,” the Master of Ceremonies announced.

  The most indecisive now shuffled down from the grandstand to place their bets in the respective tube. It was always the same animals who waited until last, the tacticians who wanted to be sure they knew what they were betting on. It seldom happened that a single animal could affect the odds, but tonight Igor Panda’s enormous bet had exactly this effect. It created a different type of behavior at the tubes; it was necessary to react to the fortune that had been bet on green.

  “Half a minute,” the Master of Ceremonies called out.

  The seconds ticked slowly by, then it was over. The tubes were sealed by the emcee’s assistant, and then all the bettors returned to their places in the grandstand.

  Finally the Master of Ceremonies lowered his arms, and at the same moment a sharp signal was heard. The wheel slowed down. All attention was directed at the screen on the wall.

  Live footage from streets around Mollisan Town were being shown. The rate was still so high that they looked like still photographs.

  The wheel’s way of reducing speed was clever. It would take a few minutes before it stopped: an endless time, it seemed. The images on the screen lingered longer and longer, and at a given moment you suddenly saw that there was movement, a pedestrian, a car driving past.

  It was called VolgaBet.

  Who organized and ran the game remained unclear. No one dared investigate it. Before every game night a number of videocameras—some said there were ten while others maintained there were at least fifty—were placed in different parts of the city. They were positioned on building exteriors, on balconies and roofs, keeping their watchful lens eyes on the deserted streets below. Just as often as the gaming location was moved between garages in Tourquai, the cameras were relocated to different streets in Mollisan Town.

  The slower the wheel twirled in front of the Master of Ceremonies, the longer the animals in the grandstand were able to observe the same street.

  When the wheel finally stopped, the street for the night was chosen.

  Once again a murmur passed through the audience.

  Now it was only a matter of waiting. In the sealed plastic tubes were the bets. Igor Panda had bet his money that the first car that showed up on the screen tonight would be green. This was more than an impulse. It was the result of a careful strategy in combination with a calculation of the odds based on a statistically significant investigation Panda himself had made of the streets of the city. Green was an absolutely sure card on a night like this.

  But it was also an intuitive feeling that it was time at last to win really big.

  It took a while.

  Sitting and intently staring at the screen where nothing happened was the part of the game that strained the nerves most. Sometimes it could take hours before a car drove by, depending of course on where in the city chance had chosen a camera.

  Tonight Panda seemed to recognize the street. But he wasn’t sure, and he disliked players who always claimed to know where the camera was located. The sort who thought they could predict the locations and manipulate fate. Panda didn’t care to guess. That’s not what this was about.

  Then.

  At a distance they saw the car approaching. A muted murmur was heard in the grandstand.

  It was still so far away that the color could not be discerned, but soon someone called “Red!” right out into the air, whereupon someone else called “Black!” at the next moment, and then the speculations were under way as the car quickly approached the camera.

  They saw it at almost the same time.

  More than half of the players fell silent, while a few cont
inued to scream hysterically.

  The car was red.

  Igor Panda made his way down from the grandstand as the Master of Ceremonies started the wheel going again. Panda heard the noise from the stuffed animals preparing to bet again, but he didn’t care about that. With heavy steps he walked on the cold, damp cement floor, away from the grandstands and into the shadows in the deserted garage.

  The car was parked at a safe distance as usual. A reminder, but a reminder that was not overly insistent. The dark window in the backseat glided down even before Panda had approached.

  “Stop right there,” came the order from inside the car.

  Panda stopped a few yards away.

  “I need credit,” he said.

  “We need payment,” someone answered from the backseat.

  Panda had never seen the face of the one sitting in the car, but he thought it was the same animal week after week; he thought he recognized the voice.

  “You got almost all of it back this evening,” Panda replied. “Now I need another small loan.”

  “You lost exactly everything you just borrowed.”

  “That’s why I need another loan,” said Panda, irritated.

  “Not tonight, Igor,” the voice replied. “You made a repayment, but it was too little. We want five hundred thousand. Six hundred thousand in three days. Seven hundred thousand in six days.”

  Igor nodded. He’d been through this process so many times he didn’t even have the energy to argue about the unreasonable interest rate.

  He turned around and went toward the ramp that, like a slithering snake, led up to the street. On the third level he could get reception. He called Jake Golden Retriever. After the fifth ring Jake answered. It was obvious that he’d been sleeping.

  “I need another painting,” said Igor Panda. “Now. I’m coming by right now to get it.”

  “I don’t have any paintings,” the barely awake dog slurred.

  “Don’t play the fool, dog-devil,” Panda bellowed. “I know where you live. I’m coming now.”