Tourquai Page 16

  It was a lie. Panda had no idea where Golden Retriever lived, but it couldn’t be very hard to find out.

  “I don’t have any paintings,” Jake said again.

  “Then you’ll have to scribble one together. Now.”

  “I don’t paint myself, you stupid panda. I’m only the one who makes sure you have paintings to sell.”

  Igor stopped. Perplexed. Was Golden Retriever only a go-between? A pimp?

  “I don’t care which,” he screamed after a moment’s pause. “I want a new painting. NOW!”

  Day Five

  5.1

  Screams and shouts were heard from far off, and Bloodhound quickened his pace along light brown rue de Cadix. The fog had just given way to the faint breeze, and the sky darkened gradually before the coming Morning Rain. Outside his own doorway the superintendent had stepped in something sticky and foul-smelling that he wasn’t able to scrape off his shoe, and the stench irritated him. He was not sure how many hours—or minutes—he had slept that night, and the anxiety over having left Cordelia alone far too long gnawed in his chest.

  “One day,” he mumbled to himself, “I have to resolve all this with that monstrosity of a Siamese cat.”

  But not today. And the one positive thing about the night’s cocaine rush was that the superintendent was certain that he had burned more calories than he had taken in.

  Barely a block away from his office he heard a commotion.

  At the top of the stone stairs just outside the entry to the police station there was some kind of disturbance going on. There were four or five uniformed police and two plainclothes officers. Arms were gesticulating, threats were hurled—Bloodhound could only make out fragments. But when he saw that one of the stuffed animals in the middle of the small group was Oleg Earwig, the superintendent jogged the final yards up to the stairs.

  “What the hell is this all about?” he barked with his harsh, commanding voice.

  The police fell silent, settled down, and waited. Even Earwig and his cohort turned their attention to Bloodhound.

  “I’m only ensuring that my client gets out of here,” the cohort yelled, a well-dressed antelope Larry thought he recognized.

  “This is a farce!” Earwig shouted. “A farce! This is going to cost you dearly. Dearly!”

  The police officers waited. Bloodhound was up on the stairs, placing his broad, heavy body in front of the earwig.

  “And what’s going to cost me dearly, you multilimbed laughingstock?”

  “We have witnesses,” the antelope explained, turning toward the superintendent with a superior smile. “We have hundreds of witnesses. At the same time as your murder was committed, Oleg Earwig was standing on a stage at Marktplatz in Lanceheim, demonstrating an . . . an invention.”

  “The Matter Processor,” Earwig clarified. “Balder Toad and I. In front of hundreds of admiring animals, who sensed that their lives would be changed forever!”

  The police officers involuntarily took a step back. They realized where the conversation was heading.

  “That invalidates the grounds for the arrest,” the antelope said. “The assertion that there is no alibi does not hold up. You have held my client overnight for no reason. And you know that! Don’t be surprised if this has legal consequences! Come, Oleg.”

  Bloodhound didn’t move from the spot, and the antelope was forced to go around the considerable superintendent. Earwig followed his lawyer, and just as he was passing Larry he whispered in the dog’s ear, “This is going to cost you dearly . . .”

  Larry closed his eyes. Self-control. He took a few deep breaths. None of the police officers around dared say a thing. When Bloodhound opened his eyes again, Earwig was gone. His unpleasant attorney likewise.

  “Swine from hell,” the superintendent growled.

  With these words he left the police out on the stairs and went into the station. He was boiling with rage. Lynx and Ècu had not done their homework. He didn’t know what had happened, but that much he understood. No one would have dared release Earwig if there wasn’t good reason for it. And it was him, the head of WE, who looked the fool, while the unpleasant insect was triumphant.

  Bloodhound stationed himself by the elevators but didn’t have the patience to wait. Instead he jogged up the stairs to the fourth floor, but overestimated his physical condition and was forced to drag himself up the last stretch with the help of the railing. Before he entered WE, he caught his breath a few minutes, then felt extremely disappointed when he saw that Lynx’s and Ècu’s desks were empty. It was too early in the morning, and they hadn’t come in yet.

  Panting and angry, he marched through the almost deserted morning office.

  “When they get here,” he growled to Pedersen, who was at his place a few desks over, “send them in to see me. Right away!”

  Pedersen nodded. He recognized the tone of voice.

  Larry Bloodhound continued into his office, slamming the door shut behind him.

  “Damnation!” he swore out loud.

  He wriggled out of his jacket and threw it in a corner on the floor.

  It would be another hour or two before the falcon and lynx came in, but by then Field Mouse Pedersen had already been down to the jail and gathered enough information that he could tell Bloodhound what had happened.

  Balder Toad had told the police the truth. On the other hand, he had omitted a significant detail. The demonstration at Marktplatz had happened last Monday. In the morning. The short visit that Oleg Earwig made to Oswald Vulture had been a final attempt to get Vulture interested in investing in the Matter Processor.

  Earwig’s attorney had known the exact point in time when Vulture lost his head, and thus he had been able to prove Earwig’s innocence. No one could answer the question of how the attorney had access to the sensitive information from the technical investigation. Someone had leaked. It could be someone at rue de Cadix, but Bloodhound considered that unlikely. It was more likely one of the civilians in the laboratory at place St.-Fargeau.

  While Field Mouse Pedersen expounded on the context of how he interpreted the situation that morning down in the jail, Bloodhound realized at last the lay of the land. Yes, it could probably be proved that Earwig was standing on a stage in front of hundreds of stuffed animals at the moment when Vulture lost his head. True, along with several dozen others, the inventor did have a motive to cut off the head of the capitalist, but that wasn’t enough to keep him in jail.

  “I guess we have to realize that it wasn’t Earwig who did it,” Pedersen sighed dejectedly. “Was there anything else, Superintendent?”

  “No, no, that’s fine,” Bloodhound growled.

  “Then I’ll get back to the will,” Pedersen replied, leaving the room.

  “Damnation,” Bloodhound sighed. “Damnation, damnation, damnation.”

  Less than an hour later Anna Lynx cracked open the superintendent’s door and stuck her head in. Outside, the Morning Rain had ceased, and on the fourth floor at rue de Cadix the large iron pillars cast their sharp shadows across the stuffed animal police working the day shift.

  “You were looking for us, I heard,” she said.

  Bloodhound looked up. At first he didn’t seem to recognize her, then he waved her in. Anna took a hesitant step across the threshold. Falcon Ècu, standing behind her, followed right after. They both thought they knew what was waiting; their colleagues had gossiped about the superintendent’s mood.

  “I’d just like to beg your pardon,” Lynx begins.

  “We’re so sorry,” Ècu says. “We’re so sorry. Superintendent, from the bottom of my heart I want to say that—”

  “Bah, shut up now,” Bloodhound growls, waving his paw as if he were waving away cigarette smoke. “Let’s just turn the page.”

  Anna and Falcon were shocked into silence.

  “This investigation is shit,” the superintendent notes sourly. “We’re back to Cobra. And Squirrel. Did you get hold of the son, Panda, yesterday?”

 
“No, we . . . but we intend to make a new attempt this morning,” Anna says.

  She realizes that she finds it hard to look Larry in the eye. It’s as if she is ashamed about having seen him come out of Siamese’s building last night. She tries to shake off the unpleasantness.

  “This morning,” Bloodhound rumbles from his desk, “there’s a lot of shit I have to do. Organizational administration. Or vice versa. It’s pointless. Captain Buck has read some management literature and decided we should have ‘team building.’ I can’t ignore it again. When I come back—it will take a few hours at most—I want a folder on Squirrel. Do you understand? I want her background. Complete and exhaustive. I’m going to talk to her myself. After you’re finished with Squirrel’s background, I want you to find Cobra. And this time you don’t have to be nice to her.”

  Falcon and Lynx nod in agreement and return in silence to their workstations. Anna has decided not to say anything to Falcon about Bloodhound’s nighttime visit to Siamese. She may sympathize with the pedantic, vain bird who can’t play tennis, but she knows where her loyalties lie. She has worked with Bloodhound so long that the only thing she can do is ask him flat out. What was he doing with Siamese? But it’s important to choose the right moment. And she knows for sure that now is not the time. She understood the frustration in her boss’s voice. He asked for a report, and it must be delivered. Sometimes the situation is critical, and this is one of those occasions. The leads are getting cold; Anna realizes that the urgency can’t be questioned.

  The office up at WE is, as usual, only half-staffed; the day shift is already out on the streets again. Where police officers belong. A kind of expectant fatigue has settled over the department, as if everything is in the balance but has not yet decided in which direction it will tip. Over by the elevators Pedersen sits, talking on the phone. Anna doesn’t hear what he’s saying. She looks out the windows and lets out a deep sigh. She brought her own car to work today, to make it on time to her talk at the Crisis Center seminar in the afternoon. Females from all over Tourquai will be there to hear her. Anna has been working on the lecture for months, and she feels content. “If Gender Meant As Little As Biology” she calls it. A biting satire of how Mollisan Town would appear if the physical differences between a snake and a brown bear were to create the same chasm between species as the normative attitude creates between females and males.

  When Falcon asks how it’s going, Anna tells him. She feels pressured by the upcoming lecture. Falcon immediately offers to look up Emanuelle Cobra on his own. Anna knows this is not a good idea, but intends to let him do it anyway. Certain obligations simply must be fulfilled, and she can’t say no to the Crisis Center.

  During the hours that pass, the inspectors sit in front of their computer screens, working diligently. When one of them produces substantial information they briefly pass this on, and slowly a picture of Jasmine Squirrel develops between the desks.

  The parents, Hubert and Nicola, get their cub late in life. Hubert is a deacon in one of Amberville’s smaller parishes, Nicola works at the large library in Yok. The new mother quits her job in connection with the delivery of Jasmine and never returns to professional life. To all appearances, Squirrel has a secure upbringing in Tourquai, to which the family moves when Jasmine is five years old.

  In one of the Ministry of Finance’s many digital archives Falcon Ècu finds a lengthy medical record prepared in connection with Jasmine’s whooping cough. The doctor reflects on growing up in a clerical home—“never uncomplicated, an enormous need for liberation is built up which in the worst case explodes in puberty”—and about Nicola’s maternal concerns: “Seldom does one see the devotion that is found in Mrs. Hubert, and which with all certainty will give the young Jasmine the self-esteem in which to stand strong.”

  “What kind of doctor is that?” Anna asks with surprise.

  Falcon Ècu shrugs his wings and summarizes his impressions of the medical record.

  “It seems as if the young Jasmine Squirrel has had all the usual childhood illnesses by the age of eleven, her schooling flows along without problems, and she dreams of becoming a surgeon.”

  In the registry from the Ministry of Culture’s education division, Anna Lynx finds Jasmine Squirrel’s transcripts, which support the thesis of a goal-oriented stuffed animal on her way into the world of the natural sciences. Anna also finds confirmation, in another registry from the same agency, of Jasmine Squirrel’s admission to the Teachers College, indicating that Jasmine, if nothing else, has shown evidence of academic talent.

  Then it gets harder.

  The inspectors sit quietly in front of their computers and attack the keyboards, only to see one computer image after another flutter past without Jasmine Squirrel’s name showing up. There are no transcripts from the Teachers College, or from any other college, either; there is no income information included in the annual tax declarations. Neither Banque Mollisan nor the Savings Banks’ Bank has any entries on a Jasmine Squirrel. According to the tax forms, she is still living at her parents’ home.

  They find Squirrel again in the data registries’ vast world of ones and zeros about ten years later, after a doctor’s visit at a health clinic in Lanceheim. A similar visit to an emergency room in Tourquai is registered thirteen months after that, only two years ago. In neither case is it possible to produce the reasons why Squirrel sought help; the records are confidential. Not even a warrant will help.

  However, Falcon notes out loud, the costs of the medical treatments in both cases are paid by a health insurance policy taken out by a company, Domaine d’Or Logistics.

  “I have to go now,” says Anna Lynx.

  She’s forgotten the time and is suddenly in a hurry. She logs off her terminal.

  “According to Squirrel’s tax return from the same year, she gets no salary from Domaine d’Or Logistics,” says Falcon without even seeing Lynx get herself ready.

  Anna is not listening; she is on her way out the door.

  5.2

  Larry Bloodhound parked the car on vanilla white Place de la Liberation and stepped out onto the sidewalk. Immediately he noticed the sweet scent of fruit in oil and coconut. The kiosk, located at the intersection of Boulevard St. Rain since the forties, was Mollisan Town’s best if you liked pineapple flambé, and the superintendent could seldom resist the temptation.

  He crossed the street and devoted a few minutes to looking at the front pages in the newspaper stand next to the little park. He was living in a crazy time, he decided, so self-absorbed that no one even noticed it anymore.

  He bought half a pineapple with extra sprinkles, dialing his cell phone as he ate. He got hold of Falcon Ècu, who sounded nervous and stressed.

  “Superintendent,” Falcon said into the receiver. “I beg your pardon, but the address for Jasmine Squirrel was wrong . . . we’ve talked with Squirrel’s uncle, I think, he lives where Squirrel’s parents were listed. He claimed that these days Squirrel is on orange yellow rue d’Oran, number 18. It says ‘Bordeauz’ on the door.”

  “D’Oran? Isn’t that—”

  “It’s right behind Place de la Liberation,” Ècu pointed out obligingly. “If you want, Superintendent, we could drive over and—”

  “That’s not necessary,” Larry Bloodhound decided, shoving the last piece of pineapple into his mouth. “I’m in the vicinity. I’ll go and talk to her myself.”

  Brusquely he concluded the call with his inspector and dried his paws on the lining of his jacket.

  Number 18 on rue d’Oran proved to be a lovely, burgundy red building from the late nineties. It was six stories high, with barred windows and a deep, dark entryway guarded by two small stone lions sitting on either side of the door. Bloodhound looked for the name Bordeauz on the directory of tenants next to the entry telephone. While he was looking, a rodent came out of the doorway and Bloodhound slipped in. The directory in the stairwell stated that Bordeauz lived on the third floor. To compensate for the pineapple flambé the superi
ntendent avoided the golden elevator cage, which must have been as old as the building, and took the stairs.

  He rang the bell without expectations. At this time of day almost everyone was at work, and the likelihood that Jasmine Squirrel was . . .

  “Yes?”

  Bloodhound did a double take. The door was opened slightly. The squirrel who stood there was light beige. The superintendent had expected someone darker, browner, and he lost his train of thought. She was pretty without being conspicuous. Quickly he let his gaze drop from her face down to her shoes and back up again. She was dressed in a simple skirt and a yellow blouse. No jewelry, no makeup.

  He took out his police badge and held it in the door opening so she could see it.

  “Superintendent Larry Bloodhound,” he introduced himself. “Um . . . may I come in? This will be quick, only a few words.”

  She studied his identification carefully and seemed extremely hesitant.

  “This will be quick,” he repeated. “But I can come back another time.”

  He attempted a smile but it turned out more like a grimace. Her bushy tail waved guardedly back and forth behind her back; then she made up her mind, opened the door, and took a few steps into the apartment.

  “Five minutes,” she said.

  She had a surprisingly husky voice. He thought that perhaps she was a jazz singer. Then he was embarrassed by his clichéd assumption.

  “This doesn’t need to take very long,” he growled softly.

  She turned and went before him into the apartment. Quickly and carefully she closed a door that stood open to the right in the corridor and showed the superintendent into the living room. He could not help glancing toward the closed door as he went past, and he thought he heard someone coughing from within.

  “Did I disturb you?” he asked as she placed herself behind the armchair where she meant for him to sit.

  “Five minutes,” she replied. “And, yes, I have a visitor.”