Tourquai Read online

  Charlie promised to get back to her as soon as he had something.

  With screeching tires a few minutes later Anna stopped outside Todd’s day care. The rain was already falling from the dark sky, and she would be forced to run across the street into the entry with Todd in her arms. The teachers abhorred wet cubs in the morning, but what could she do? It was not the first time she had brought him late, and it wouldn’t be the last.

  2.2

  The meeting had already begun when Anna Lynx threw open the door and burst into the room. She was still feeling stressed after having been scolded by the preschool teachers and leaving a crying Todd with the other cubs in the pillow room. In her frayed state of mind she was completely unprepared for the calm that prevailed up at WE. A kind of half-light rested over the deserted office landscape, and the broad iron pillars cast long shadows across the empty workstations; in the mornings, staffing was always at its lowest.

  Larry Bloodhound and Field Mouse Pedersen were sitting in the larger of the two conference rooms in the department. Theodore Tapir had come from the station at place St.-Fargeau. Of Tourquai’s four police precincts, only the largest station, at place St.-Fargeau, had a well-equipped forensics laboratory. Tapir had come to give the brief run-through that Bloodhound asked for yesterday, and would leave again as soon as he was finished. Derek Hare from the Technical Department was there to listen. He was more sprawled than seated in his chair and looked like he wished he were back in bed. His personnel had barely had time to start their examination of the components of the crime scene. Falcon Ècu stood in front of the whiteboard on the opposite side of the room. He had a pink scarf around his neck and was wearing a powder-blue jacket over a white shirt. Compared with how the others were dressed, Falcon seemed out of place. Anna did not interrupt anything when she barged in; the run-through had not begun.

  “Super-sorry,” she panted.

  Except for a large, severely worn conference table on which coffee cups, cigarette butts, and keys or knives had left ineradicable traces, there was no room for much else. A row of lightbulbs hung above the table, the seats of the chairs smelled of damp wool. In the window boxes were two potted plants that had died from oxygen deficiency. They’d been there for weeks. Why didn’t anyone remove them? Bloodhound asked himself. Through the windows you could look down over the parking lot opposite. On the roof of the lower neighboring building on the other side of the street was a strikingly large, complicated ventilation system; it might have been a modern sculpture of gleaming steel.

  “Not that I have much to tell,” said Falcon Ècu, “but may I start, if you will?”

  Bloodhound nodded tiredly. He had eaten only half a grapefruit that morning and was now regretting that he hadn’t had anything else.

  “Nova Park is solely owned by Oswald Vulture,” said Ècu, who had been at work since dawn, engaged in digging deeper into the company, its owners and history.

  “Was owned,” Bloodhound growled.

  “What?”

  Falcon cleared his throat nervously.

  “Are your ears plugged up? Was owned, I said,” the superintendent repeated.

  “Was owned? Excuse me, but now I don’t think I understand—”

  “Vulture is missing a head,” explained Derek Hare, who had no patience for games. “The unkind Superintendent Bloodhound means that Vulture does not own, but rather did own, his company.”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” said Falcon, relieved. “Clearly. Excuse me, Superintendent. So stupid of me, Vulture owned Nova Park. He built the company from the ground up . . . starting with nothing, he made his first million before age twenty-five. Rather impressive is what he succeeded in creating in a little less than ten years—a successful venture-capital firm. Vulture invested money in ideas he believed in, and got the investment back with interest, if things went well. Most often it must have gone well. Unbelievably well. Bourg Villette, where Nova Park had its offices, is—”

  “Has!” barked Bloodhound.

  “Excuse me, where Nova Park has its offices,” Falcon corrected, adjusting his pink scarf and trying to sound unperturbed, “is owned by Nova Park. Bourg Villette is owned by Nova Park.”

  There was whistling in the room.

  “Mm,” Falcon nodded, “it’s at that level.”

  “And Vulture was someone everyone liked?” Anna asked.

  “He was respected,” Falcon replied. “That’s the image you get. I spoke with almost everyone at the office yesterday, and got hold of a couple of the directors on Vulture’s board this morning. They’re shocked, of course. Everyone says roughly the same thing. Hard as flint, but not dishonorable—”

  “He wasn’t hard as flint,” Theodore Tapir interjected.

  Field Mouse Pedersen laughed curtly, but no one else cracked a smile at the tired joke.

  “No one up at Nova Park has anything in particular to tell about what happened yesterday,” Falcon continued. “We have to double-check with the receptionist about an electrician who apparently came and went, and of course take another turn with the secretary, Emanuelle Cobra, who doesn’t seem to have seen anyone either enter or leave Vulture’s office . . .”

  During the course of the briefing Derek Hare had been sinking farther and farther down in his chair, and now with effort he brought himself back to a sitting position so as not to fall down under the table.

  “Going to be hard to get a judge to believe in ghosts,” Derek interjected. “But if neither the receptionist, who sits right across from the elevators, nor the secretary, who sits outside Vulture’s office, has seen anyone come or go—”

  “Excuse me, Derek, but that’s not really the whole story,” Falcon resumed, blushing at the same time over having interrupted the experienced Hare. “We have the inventor, Oleg Earwig, who was the last one to see Vulture alive. Earwig and Vulture have worked together for a few years. It started with the vacuum-cleaning wall . . .”

  “I have one of those walls,” forensic physician Theodore Tapir admitted.

  “Well then, shit on you! Does it make you happy?” Bloodhound was seldom sarcastic, but when he was, it hurt.

  “All new houses have vacuum-cleaning walls,” Falcon clarified. “The wall was a great success. Earwig became the hottest inventor in Mollisan Town, and he formed a company with Nova Park and Vulture. They called it earWall Inc. There were a few more patents, not equally successful, but . . . in recent years his ideas have been meager, and a few months ago Vulture broke off his arrangement with the inventor.”

  “Just like that?” asked Anna.

  “In the most recent reissue—”

  “Reissue?” asked Tapir. “Explain so a medical doctor can understand.”

  “You issue new shares and sell them on the market to bring in capital. Despite the fact that Vulture was the largest shareholder, he didn’t take part in the reissue. And then of course no one else dared to buy, either. EarWall Inc. was out of cash, and Nova Park made a bid for the inventor’s shares. They said they would consider taking them over without paying anything, or else the company would go bankrupt and Earwig would be stuck with the debts.”

  “Can you do that?” asked Tapir.

  “Vulture would never do anything that was in violation of the stock exchange rules. Or of any other rules, if I’ve understood who he is.”

  “But you’re saying that ethically the issue is debatable?” said Tapir.

  “That must have been what Oleg Earwig said during their meeting that morning,” Falcon noted drily.

  “Go to hell,” Bloodhound barked. “You look like a little pansy, Ècu, but this shows that you shouldn’t judge everyone by their clothes.”

  There was giggling. Falcon nodded. He had never been praised by Bloodhound before, and it made him confused and proud. He sat down.

  “Theodore?” barked the superintendent.

  “Yes, well,” Theodore Tapir began, as he stiffly positioned himself so that everyone could see him, “it seems like everything is pointing in
the same direction. Cobra or Earwig. Anything else doesn’t seem possible. But when things are too obvious, I become wary. As far as the forensics report is concerned, I will return tomorrow with a more complete description. But so far, I’ll start with the cut. The one who separated Oswald Vulture’s head from his neck knew what he was doing. A single cut, from side to side, with a sword or a long knife. More conviction than force. If the edge is sharp and the angle correct, the stroke is like a good golf swing. It’s not the strength in the arm, it’s . . . the zing in the swing. The murderer stood behind Vulture, either accustomed to the movement or with plenty of time.”

  “Excuse me, but do you mean that someone sneaked up on him? Or that it was someone he knew well and turned his back on?” asked Falcon.

  “My friend with the pink scarf, I don’t know who you are,” said Tapir, “but that was a stupid question. How would I know that?”

  Falcon stared intensely down at the conference table and decided not to say anything else.

  “On the other hand what I would ask myself,” said Tapir, “was how the murderer concealed his weapon from the victim when he or she entered the room. It must have been a rather bulky object.”

  “And there was an attack alarm in the desk,” Derek Hare pointed out. “If Vulture had sensed trouble he could have easily called for help.”

  “A brand-new invention?” Anna proposed. “C’mon, Earwig could have possibly pretended he was carrying around some contraption that was a new patent.”

  Tapir shrugged his shoulders to show that he was not convinced.

  “The curtains,” said Anna, changing tracks, “are another idea. The crazed animal could have hidden himself behind the curtains already the day before.”

  “Shut up now,” Bloodhound asked. “The question is when did the murder occur?”

  “Ah, but that’s more difficult,” said Tapir. “I prefer to wait for the autopsy before I give any definitive statements.”

  “If Cobra is telling the truth,” said Anna Lynx, “there’s not much to talk about. Earwig left, we came, in between someone trimmed the head.”

  “That doesn’t need to be wrong,” nodded Tapir. “That was actually what I wanted to say. That doesn’t need to be wrong at all.”

  Tapir never took any risks, and Bloodhound knew that the doctor wouldn’t say even this much without being fairly certain.

  “Thanks,” said the superintendent. “You can go now if you want to, Tapir.”

  “I do,” said Tapir.

  The elderly doctor left the room.

  “For any of you who think that as usual it’s the widow who’s guilty, you can get that thought out of your head,” the superintendent stated. “Apart from the fact that she was genuinely surprised, suitably dense, and generally incapable of action, she thinks the vulture has swindled her out of all the cash. Rambled on that he was going to donate the fortune to some foundation. Still remains to be seen whether that’s true, I assume, but the point is this: she assumes she has less money now than when he was alive.”

  “But that isn’t—” Anna began, but was brusquely interrupted by the superintendent.

  “For a hag like Flamingo, I can promise you, money is everything.”

  Hare squirmed impatiently in his chair.

  “Was there anything else?”

  “In a hurry, Derek?” asked Bloodhound. “Have you promised some little female she could play with all your fine toys down there?”

  “Just tired of you, Larry,” Hare replied.

  “Children,” said Anna, “you’d be happy in day care. In the pillow room. Tell us about Vulture’s office, Derek. I know you haven’t started your full analysis, but your impressions? Feelings?”

  “The office was completely void of personality,” said Hare. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Nothing. The only thing that fell outside the frame was the small laptop computer on the desk. His business correspondence was in the desktop computer. But there were no personal folders or documents. We haven’t got into the small machine yet. No, the vulture seems to have had gloves and a face mask on at work. What I think is strange is that the murderer seems to have been equally meticulous. Maybe we’ll find something today, but up to now we haven’t seen a single trace of the head. I mean, even if the murderer is a ghost, someone must have seen the vulture’s head being carried out of there.”

  Falcon nodded. Now that Tapir had left the room, Inspector Ècu regained some of his courage.

  “You’ve already thought about this, I’m sure, but it struck me that even if we do find the head, it’s not a certainty that Vulture can tell us who did it,” he pointed out. “Tapir said the stroke did come from behind.”

  The stuffed animals in the room pondered this truth in silence.

  “Surveillance cameras?” asked Anna. “Shouldn’t there be some?”

  “In the reception area,” Hare replied. “I’ve asked for all recorded material since before the weekend. Perhaps the murderer’s been caught on tape. We’ll soon see.”

  Bloodhound got up.

  “Well, we can’t sit here fiddling with our belly buttons any longer,” Superintendent Bloodhound said. “This is actually a classic case. A murder has been committed in a room with only one entrance. And the murderer does not seem to have either gone out or come in. Two suspects. We’ll question them right away. I’m going back to Nova Park to have another chat with Cobra. Anna, you take the newcomer with you and have a visit with that inventor . . .”

  Derek Hare stood up leisurely.

  “Does this mean I can go now?”

  “Get out of here,” Bloodhound barked.

  2.3

  This will only take a sec,” said Anna Lynx less than an hour later.

  “Not when—”

  “No, come on now, I just didn’t have time,” she nagged.

  “But we’re on our way to—”

  “C’mon—please?”

  Falcon Ècu sighed theatrically and parked. Anna hurried. She threw open the car door and ran the few steps across the sidewalk into Springergaast. When she returned a few minutes later, she smelled like fresh-brewed coffee and blueberry muffins. She handed a croissant dripping with butter to Falcon in a conciliatory gesture.

  “My morning was a circus,” she said. “But you’ll see. One fine day you’ll have cubs.”

  “Right now I’m prioritizing my work,” Falcon mumbled.

  “That’s ridiculous,” Anna laughed. “Don’t become one of those bitter old guys at the station who think they made a choice at some point. They never chose.”

  Falcon had rolled down the window on his side, and the scent of the city filled the inside of the car once they were on the road again. The mild breeze had just blown in through the city. They took the route along orange-colored rue Leblanc, one of the quickest shortcuts through Tourquai if you wanted to avoid the main streets and avenues. The neighborhood was empty and silent; at this time of day the stuffed animals had already gone to work.

  “We’re just at different stages in our lives,” Falcon attempted.

  “What’s that my ears are hearing? That I’m ancient?”

  “No, no, but . . . I mean, I don’t even have a . . . friend.”

  “They’re not going to throw themselves into your arms automatically, if that’s what you think. You have to try a little, Falcon,” Anna replied.

  She knew that her advice could get a bit personal, but she was looking after him.

  Anna’s mother was a light green Shetland pony and one of the most intelligent animals that ever lived in Mollisan Town. And not just according to Anna. She was the youngest ever to graduate from Lanceheim’s medical school, and she had registered two patents for the treatment of Triklin’s disease before she was twenty-four. For the past twelve years, however, she had remained secluded in her two-room apartment in south Tourquai, sedated but bitter. She never went out, she had lost all interest in the world around her, and she barely recognized her daughter on her rare visits. Instead of runni
ng with her talent and opportunities, she had fallen in love with a macho firefly who demanded she stay at home. He was going to take care of her, he was the master of the house; she would be his spoiled princess. And the hardworking scholar, the highly promising research scientist, accepted the idea. Because that is, sometimes, what love does to us.

  The subtle terror already began when Anna was delivered. And year by year, Anna’s brilliant mother turned into a pill-eating wreck, deprived of a will of her own. Without even trying—or trying because of that—the firefly closed the door on the Shetland pony’s life, inch by inch. He spoiled her, and she grew accustomed to it. When he finally left her, she was already an addict. Years before that Anna had stopped calling him “father.” She swore that what happened to her mom would never happen to her. Perhaps the idea of joining the police force was rooted there, in her mother’s tragedy.

  Falcon had found out that Earwig was a denizen of honey yellow Carrer de Carrera in north Yok. Rue Leblanc led down to Western Avenue; after that it was only a matter of driving through the Star and into the southeast part of the city.

  “I did a little research this morning,” he said as he stopped at a red light. “Nothing to speak of, but I thought it would be good to be prepared. Oleg Earwig is thirty-eight years old. He has no criminal history, has never been arrested, and, apart from a few parking tickets many years ago, the authorities have never been interested in him. According to his tax returns, the last few years have been meager. Even a police officer earns more. Earwig owns shares in the company he has with Nova Park, but they’re almost worthless.”

  “Hard to be an inventor,” Anna commented, taking a drink from her still-hot coffee as Falcon put the car in first and accelerated.

  At the next red light Anna took the opportunity to drink up before she spilled. In the car alongside sat a peacock, looking straight ahead and putting on his seat belt without letting on that he was doing so. The sight of a police car instilled guilt in most. The peacock hesitated when the light turned green.