Tourquai (7 page)

Earwig fell silent and considered this. Then he nodded in agreement with himself.

“It sounds . . .” Falcon began, uncertain of how it sounded.

“But that SWINE pulled out. That SWINE! He betrayed me. Betrayed me. Pulled the rug out. I was there yesterday morning and talked with him. I’m sure you know that. He let me fall. I fell. I’m falling. But now . . . now I’m falling with a smile!”

“And your . . . alibi?” asked Anna. “You may have been the last person to see him alive. As you know, it’s hard to determine exact times during the latter half of the Morning Weather. Can you account for your whereabouts yesterday morning?”

Oleg Earwig stood up.

“Of course I can. Foolishness. Now I have to get back to my cardan filibrator,” he explained. “I don’t have time for this. Arrest me, if you want!”

He held out a pair of his arms theatrically. Anna shook her head.

“No, exactly,” said Earwig triumphantly. “I didn’t think so. I refuse to disclose what I was doing yesterday after the meeting with the cursed Vulture. I have personal reasons. Personal! But Balder Toad will vouch for me. I spent the rest of the morning together with Toad. For personal reasons I’m not saying more. But that should be enough. Toad is my guarantor.”

Falcon recorded the toad’s name in his notebook.

“You’ve put me in a very good mood, little cat!” Earwig said to Anna. “This may turn out to be a good day!”

And he disappeared behind the scrap iron. Soon the racket of the big machine was heard again, and Ècu and Lynx left the inventor’s peculiar world on Carrer de Carrera.

2.4

S
uperintendent Larry Bloodhound went straight back to his office after the morning meeting with Tapir, Hare, Ècu, and Lynx. He shut the door to the office area; the shades on the window were already lowered; it was mid-morning but it could have been any time of day. He sat down behind his desk, belched audibly, and looked around. The office was claustrophobic. The thought of how many hours of his life he had spent in there overwhelmed him. All those papers. Carelessly spread out, piled in collapsing heaps, wadded up in little balls, or stuck into coffee-stained plastic folders. On the cheap bookshelves behind him were white, gray, and black binders he had inherited from whoever had been in the office before him. The bloodhound’s own contributions to the bookshelf were of a different type. Half-consumed mugs of coffee. Concealed, half-eaten lunches so moldy they no longer smelled, and too disgusting for the cleaning people to dispose of. A novel or two testified to cultural ambitions; heaps of crossword-puzzle magazines suggested melancholy. On the only empty wall in the office hung a large, framed piece of art: a blurry charcoal drawing possibly depicting a barn, which he’d won when he was a member of the station’s art club. The musty odor in the room—Larry’s aftershave mixed with bacon and stale beer—had forever settled into the black-and-white-striped carpet.

He took out paper and pen and decided to calculate how many carbohydrates he had put away yesterday—to figure out what he could allow himself today. But before he could even begin, he remembered the piece of chocolate he’d eaten en route to the widow Flamingo. He put the pen aside. His thoughts went to yesterday evening and the cocaine that kept him from drinking up the cream in the fridge. If it hadn’t been for the struggle against weight, he would never have started using the drug. Besides, the first few months had been successful. He’d lost a lot of weight, and the urge for sugar disappeared. But then, after about a year, the desire for food slowly returned. Despite coke in the evenings—and sometimes at lunch—he again started fantasizing about warm syrup, caramel sauces, and meringues. It was inexplicable, but true nonetheless.

Perhaps a different strategy. Phasing out. Instead of counting carbohydrates, would it perhaps be enough to simply eat less today than yesterday? Start a slower but perhaps more realistic journey toward the perfect body? In the lower right-hand desk drawer he expected to find the remnants of a honey-glazed pineapple, but the drawer was empty. Larry sighed and got up. Might as well head out to Nova Park and have a serious talk with the cobra. Maybe he could stop on the way and pick up a little something?

In Bourg Villette’s entry
hall the frog recognized the superintendent. After an astoundingly rapid elevator ride sixty-one floors up through the building’s incomprehensible metal body, Bloodhound got out at Nova Park’s office. He went up to the young goat in reception, smiling broadly.

“You remember me, right?”

“Quite frankly . . . ,” the goat replied, looking embarrassed, “I believe so . . . Don’t say a word. I’ll think of it—”

The superintendent took out his identification. “Magnus gives to some and takes from others,” he growled. “What’s your name?”

“Goat Croix-Valmer,” the goat replied.

“Croix-Valmer,” Bloodhound repeated as he wrote down the goat’s name in his book. “Good. Listen up, Croix-Valmer. I’d like to speak with Emanuelle Cobra first. Is she here?”

Goat nodded toward the corridor.

Bloodhound found Emanuelle Cobra
at the desk where she had been sitting yesterday. Today she was wearing a turquoise top not quite as revealing as the blouse she’d had on the day before.

“Bloodhound,” the superintendent barked as he entered the office. “We’ve already met, of course. I have a few questions.”

Cobra inspected him up and down. He wore a large-checked shirt under a jacket so stained and tattered that its filth couldn’t be described. His jeans were worn smooth even on the thighs, and the heavy boots might possibly have been suited to a nighttime walk in the forest. Bloodhound suddenly felt uncomfortable.

“I’ve already answered questions, my friend,” said Cobra.

“And you’re going to answer more questions, ‘friend,’ ” Bloodhound barked angrily.

Cobra sighed, but didn’t contradict him.

So as not to be at a disadvantage, the superintendent avoided the vacant chair across from the secretary, sitting instead on the edge of the desk. But in doing so he knocked over a penholder, which fell to the floor with a crash.

“Do you want to watch me pick it up?” asked Cobra, smiling derisively. “I can do it really slow.”

Bloodhound was ashamed. Partly about how clumsy he’d been, partly because she’d embarrassed him. He decided to go on the offensive.

“You realize of course that you’re in a bad situation,” he began. “Someone cut the head off your boss while you’re sitting outside, and you maintain that no one has gone in or out. Then, my little dear, there’s only one suspect.”

“Nonsense,” Cobra answered.

“Nonsense?”

“Nonsense,” she repeated firmly. “Besides, I told the falcon everything. Both Earthworm and Earwig were in to see Oswald yesterday morning.”

“Those were just regular meetings?”

“I have no idea what sort of meetings they were,” Cobra replied. “Oswald never has the door open. You can ask Earthworm, he’s here today. As far as that inventor is concerned, I’ve always thought that he was disgusting.”

“Did Oleg Earwig visit often?”

“Before. But yesterday was the first time in a long while. Maybe six months?”

“Did you speak with Vulture after Earwig had left?”

“No.”

“Did you see Vulture when Earwig left?”

“Yes,” said Cobra less certainly. “Yes, I think so. We didn’t talk to each other, but I think I saw him through the doorway.”

“You think? You have to know whether you saw him or not.”

“I saw him,” Cobra repeated.

But it was apparent that she had lost interest in the conversation. After the initial provocations, she now seemed almost bored.

“And how long was it between the time Earwig left and we arrived?” Bloodhound continued.

“I don’t really know,” Cobra answered. “Half an hour maybe? An hour? It’s always hard to say before lunch.”

What she was saying was true; the weather and therefore time were impossible to interpret in detail before the Lunch Breeze because nothing changed.

“And you still maintain that you were sitting at your desk the whole morning?” the superintendent asked.

Cobra sat silently awhile, considering how she should answer. Then she decided, met the superintendent’s gaze, and nodded.

“Yes,” she said. “Yes, I was.”

“This is just idiotic,” Bloodhound growled. “Idiotic! I don’t believe you. I’m asking you again. Did you ever leave your desk?”

Emanuelle Cobra looked at him with her large walnut eyes. She had already answered the question. Finally he turned his gaze away and got up.

“Idiotic!” he growled again, leaving her in the beautiful office.

The superintendent was so
upset by the interview with Emanuelle Cobra that he stormed out of Nova Park, sat in the car, and ate up the spun-sugar chocolate sticks he had intended to save for the afternoon, even before he started the engine. Quickly and aggressively he then drove the short way home, ran up the stairs, and, once inside the apartment, went straight to the refrigerator, where he ate up all there was to eat. Cordelia gave him a friendly chirp from her golden cage, and after a few minutes the superintendent relaxed.

“Ah,” he growled, “I’m sorry, little one, but I was so upset. I’ll have to have a good day tomorrow instead.”

Cordelia looked out through the window. Or so it appeared to Larry. It was tricky to know with a budgie.

“Have I told you my theory?” he asked, sitting down on the couch with a package of alphabet cookies on his lap.

There was never a risk of being interrupted by a caged bird.

“We have to hope that this involves a perpetrator who did not find his destiny right there, in Vulture’s office,” Bloodhound said pensively. “Because I always say that chance, Cordelia, chance is like an automatic weapon. Chance is a machine gun that loads the chamber with bullets of fate. Chance doesn’t care about us stuffed animals, at least about us as individuals, because for chance the whole is more important than the component parts. Chance is just and blind. It doesn’t care who’s standing in the way when it shoots.”

Bloodhound took a “g” and an “h” and put them in his mouth. The cookies were sweet but dry.

“Chance fires its weapon when it has the desire, Cordelia, and we stuffed animals have no protection against these bullets of fate. There’s nothing we can do to avoid them. That’s the way it goes. If chance was waiting like a sniper up at Nova Park yesterday and hit the murderer with one of his bullets, then this could be . . . a little hell . . .”

He ate up an “r” and a “k,” and then got up to get a beer.

“Do you understand what I’m saying?” Bloodhound growled softly. “It’s not so difficult. We’re delivered. It’s our fate. To be delivered. To a certain address, a certain family, and there’s nothing we can do about it. Reincarnation is nonsense. We can talk about the soul another time.”

He took a swig from the bottle as he was returning to the couch.

“We’re delivered, Cordelia, and fate puts our lives in motion. Whether we want it or not. There’s nothing we can do about it. The limits are set from the first moment. Do you call that freedom? Or justice? Bullshit. Fate has staked out your life even before life has managed to begin. It’s about how we look. Who we are. Dog or bumblebee. If we’re smart or dumb. What neighborhood we grow up in, and whether we’re rich or poor. What age we live in, and the values of the age. Can our particular kind of talent be used in Mollisan Town at this point in time? It’s about what school we go to, who else is in the same grade, who our parents’ friends are, and what values they have. You get stuck in a social network before you even grasp what that means. Do you understand, Cordelia? There’s not much you can do about it. You become what you become.”

Superintendent Larry Bloodhound had repeated this monologue—with minor variations—to all the police officers at rue de Cadix over the years.

He poured the rest of the cookies straight from the carton into his mouth, washing them down with beer.

“Fate puts you in motion, Cordelia, like a stone rolling down a slope. Cause and effect. It’s about cause and effect. You do something good and get rewarded. You get to know someone who knows someone else who knows a third person who tells a story that you then always carry with you. That marks you. One of your father’s friends that you admired was a policeman, and you become a policeman yourself. A teacher in school pats you on the head because you stayed within the lines the first time you used crayons and you always want to be praised because you did something someone else decided was good. Or else you’re punished. Because you talked too loud, or dressed too carelessly. Logic rules your life. Fate puts it in motion, but then you roll down that slope in a rut that is the most reasonable. It can be predicted. It can be calculated. And that’s what police work is about. We can trace anyone whosoever back in time, back to the time when they were delivered, by seeing how cause and effect have led the criminal, step by step, up to the criminal deed. We think we’re free in this life, Cordelia, but who the hell is free? We live with the conditions that the Deliverymen gave us when they placed us in a certain home at a certain time. No bastard is free. And through careful detective work, we can put away anyone.”

A long belch gave him an opportunity to catch his breath before he continued.

“We can put away anyone whosoever, if chance hasn’t loaded its machine gun and put a bullet in the murderer yesterday morning. Because sometimes it happens that stuffed animals are struck by something outside themselves, something they have no control over, something that causes their lives to depart from the course fate set out. And if that happens, everything that led up to that point when the deed is committed becomes irrelevant. Then no police work in the world will help. Then this case with Vulture is going to be a fine mess . . .”