by Tim Davys
“Do you want a taste, little friend?” he asked, holding the glass with the cream-colored foam up meaningfully.
But Cordelia preferred water and seeds.
Larry made room for himself on the couch by shoving aside a year’s worth of level-seven crossword magazines, which had taken him only an evening to solve.
He had found Cordelia almost three years ago, and there was something about the circumstances of their meeting that caused him to return often to the event in his memory. Perhaps, he thought, it was because for once something had happened to him that was beyond the anticipated. Something outside the framework, and thus he, too, reacted in a way that was different for him. It was a quirk of fate that his and Cordelia’s paths crossed.
Harbor Seal Flustrup had been semireclined in the backseat of the police car and Pedersen had been sitting alongside, holding him down. The weather was long past midnight, the moon was shining cold and hateful from the black sky, and inside the car it reeked of terror. But it would get worse.
Bloodhound and Pedersen had a place where they would take the hooligans; you drove up North Avenue until it ended and turned onto the little gravel path by the side of the bus stop. The gravel path soon turned into a couple of wheel tracks, but because they always drove up there around midnight, Bloodhound still didn’t know how it looked on the sides of the road.
The superintendent stopped the car suddenly. Flustrup flew against the front seat. The engine was on, the headlight beams shining like two white pipes through the night. Pedersen opened up the back door and shoved the harbor seal out.
“I have no idea!” the seal screamed. “I’m telling you, I have no idea!”
But that’s what they all said, and Bloodhound had scared the truth out of one or two animals before. Pedersen kicked Flustrup so that he ended up in the beam of the headlight, while Bloodhound leisurely got out on the other side of the car. He took care of the customary preparations, and when he was ready he let Harbor Seal Flustrup in on his doings.
“This,” said the superintendent, “is a tin can with a little fire burning in it. Do you see?”
He held out the tin can under the face of the terrified stuffed animal on the ground. A blue flame was burning inside the can, and the harbor seal could feel its heat.
“And this,” said the superintendent, “is a can of water.”
He showed that, too.
“This is a little game. I intend to set you on fire, a little at a time, Flustrup. And when you tell us what we want to hear, I’ll put it out. Do you think that might be fun?”
The harbor seal had listened in silence, but there was no mistaking the terror in his eyes.
“But . . . Holy Magnus . . . I’ve told you I don’t know anything!” he screamed. “I know nothing! I know nothing!”
The superintendent sighed. There was no point in dragging this out. When Pedersen picked up Flustrup from jail, Larry had gone down to the garage and done a line in the restroom. Good thing, too, he thought now. Otherwise he wouldn’t have been able to cope tonight.
“Oh well, time to get started . . .”
That was when it happened.
Just as Superintendent Larry Bloodhound was bringing the can with the blue flame toward one of the harbor seal’s whiskers, a chirping was heard up in the air, and the next moment Cordelia flew down from the sky and sat on Bloodhound’s shoulder. It was a shock. He had heard about flying creatures, but he thought they only existed by the sea and that they were much bigger. It wasn’t until later, at the library, that he figured out that Cordelia was a budgie. Startled, he could only stand and stare. She chirped, the harbor seal was lying on the ground, crying, and Field Mouse Pedersen was sitting in the car, because he despised watching when the superintendent burned the thugs.
What is love? Is it what Superintendent Larry Bloodhound experienced at that moment? For it was more than the feeling of being chosen by fate. It was finding a place of one’s own in an infinite universe. An end to loneliness.
Ever since that night, Cordelia had been Larry’s life companion, the one to whom he showed his weaknesses and from whom he gathered strength.
Bloodhound took another sip of the egg toddy.
“It’s going to be an early one this evening, Cordelia,” he said.
There was something on TV he wanted to watch, but he couldn’t remember what, and when he reached for the remote control the doorbell rang. This happened very seldom, and, startled, the superintendent went out in the hall and opened the door. Outside stood Anna Lynx.
“Larry, may I come in?” she asked.
Never before had Inspector Lynx come to see him at home, and, as curious as he was surprised, he took a step to one side so that she could come in.
“I don’t know how I should say this, Larry,” Anna began. “But I know I have to say it.”
The Crisis Center and the lecture felt infinitely distant, as if she had given it in another dimension rather than in another part of the city. But she knew she had to do this, however painful it might feel.
“I saw you coming out of Claude Siamese’s last night, Larry,” she said.
They sat next to one another on the couch and Larry said nothing. He stared at her for a long time, and then growled quietly.
“How do you know that?”
“I saw you. I was out with my Night Patrol and saw you by chance.”
“You must never tell that to anyone, Anna,” said Larry, looking her deep in the eyes. “Siamese is my best informer.”
“Siamese?”
Anna was taken completely by surprise. Whatever she had thought and feared, the possibility that Siamese was a police informer had not even occurred to her.
“No one knows,” Bloodhound continued. “And no one can ever know it, either. You have to promise that.”
“I . . . promise,” said Anna.
“I’m a fool not to be more careful,” Larry continued. “If you saw me, that means that anyone at all might have seen me.”
“Well, I—”
“Maybe it was luck,” Larry Bloodhound continued, casually lying to his friend. “After this I’ll just have to be more careful.”
And while Larry Bloodhound followed Anna Lynx out to the stairwell, he thought that it was true, anyway. He had to be more careful. But not just that. He would quit. Sooner or later it would have to happen, and today was just as good a day as tomorrow. Stop the lies, and stop the cocaine.
As he closed the door he felt strong and self-confident.
Igor Panda 5
Igor Panda was running for his life. That’s how he experienced it. He tried to keep in the shadows, but some of the streetlights along Avinguda de Pedrables were functioning, and the unrelenting light sought out the fleeing panda. He heard the car at a distance, and he realized they could see him.
The street was empty; the streets were always empty in Yok. Panda was running as fast as he could, feeling the lactic acid on its way up through his legs. He was no athlete; he never had been. But the fear of what was about to happen gave him energy and strength beyond the usual.
Without slowing down, he twisted his head to see how far away the car was. Much too close. He ran, looking backward, and the impact was as unexpected as it was hard.
A mouse had come out from a small alley.
The two stuffed animals collided, falling in either direction on the sidewalk. Panda got to his feet and realized that the alley from which the mouse had come was too narrow for cars. He fled down it, hearing the sound of tires braking hard, hearing doors being opened and slammed again, and then a kind of whining sound, and he knew what that meant: the adders had roller skates on the tips of their tails.
The narrow Burbage Close ended in a large cul-de-sac. It was as paradoxical as it was typical for Yok: cars couldn’t drive in the alley, and yet there was a place to turn around. The darkness was dense, and it took a few seconds before Igor Panda realized he had chosen the wrong way.
There was nowhere to flee.
> Right in front of him stood a wall that might be the back of a garage. To the left a windowless exterior that vanished up into the night, and to the right a fifteen-foot-high metal fence, crowned by coiled barbed wire.
Nonetheless Panda continued running. When he saw the boards piled next to the fence he realized that they were his only chance. He threw himself headlong behind the lumber, and a few seconds later came the adders.
Igor Panda held his breath. It was almost impossible for him not to pant. Yet he forced himself not to.
The adders were six in number. They rode slowly into the cul-de-sac on their roller skates, letting the flashlight beams dance across the building façades, high above Igor. These were adders with black hoods and the customary overalls. Three of them were Holders, the other three Shooters. They always worked in pairs, one holding the weapon and the other firing it, one holding the victim tight and the other biting.
When they realized they were in a cul-de-sac, the snakes skated around and around in circles as they shone their flashlights and investigated every nook and cranny. Panda pulled back farther and farther into the darkness behind the planks. The hiding place was better than he’d thought at first; there was considerably more trash around the cul-de-sac than he’d seen initially, and more hiding places to investigate.
The snakes worked systematically. Panda pressed against the metal fence and closed his eyes. The sound of the hissing snakes and their whining skates became more and more hesitant, he thought, and without wanting to admit it this aroused hope in his chest.
Could he have fooled them?
The next moment through his closed eyes he felt a flashlight aimed right toward his face, and even though he was lying completely still it was too late. One of them pulled him out, and they got him up on his feet.
One of the snakes wound itself around his wrists, binding them behind his back. Another crawled around his right ankle to keep him from running away. A third coiled around his neck, and a fourth closed its mouth around Igor’s right paw so that he could feel the razor-sharp fangs against his thin cloth. The fifth and sixth snakes positioned themselves in front of him, smiling venomously.
“Igor,” said one of them, shaking his head. “Igor.”
He looked up. They were still aiming the flashlight right at his eyes. He was forced to squint.
“You ought to know better,” the snake that spoke for them continued, hissing and whispering. “We do know one another, Igor. You know we’ll always find you. Don’t you?”
Igor did not reply. The light was blinding him, and he closed his eyes.
“But you almost get the feeling you were trying to fool us, Igor,” the snake continued. “It hasn’t been easy to find you. Not at home, not at work. But you must work, my friend. Otherwise how are you going to pay us?”
Igor still did not reply.
“How?” repeated the snake.
And the snake that was around the panda’s neck tensed the muscles in its narrow, long body, curling itself up. This happened slowly, so that Igor felt how the initial unpleasantness of something pressing against his throat slowly changed to panic as it became harder and harder to breathe.
“How?” repeated the snake.
“I don’t know,” Igor forced out.
“That was not a good answer,” the adder hissed.
The snake around his neck let up on the pressure and Igor coughed. He relaxed somewhat and was completely unprepared when the snake around his foot tugged on it. He fell like a pine tree. When he opened his eyes again the snake who was talking was only an inch from his face.
“The money has to be paid back tomorrow, Saturday,” he hissed.
“But—”
“No explanations. If you can’t settle it by tomorrow, you’re never going to settle it. Better to write you off completely than wait and hope. We have our orders. You’re history, Panda.”
“But—”
“Tomorrow,” said the adder. “You have until evening. Not a day longer. And go ahead and try to hide. We’re going to find you. We always find you.”
The snake spit in Igor’s face.
Then they were gone.
Tomorrow?
It was impossible.
Day Six
6.1
They gathered in the small conference room where the rotting geraniums still remained. Falcon Ècu brought everyone coffee and Anna Lynx picked up Danish pastry on her way from the day care.
Superintendent Larry Bloodhound grunted with irritation at the Danish pastry, but quickly decided to have one right away instead of agonizing for twenty minutes and then giving in. Crumbs fell in flakes over the white laminated table where there were already brown, half-moon-shaped rings from yesterday’s coffee cups and the remnants of blueberry muffins from the day before that.
“Well,” he growled, “let’s hear it.”
Pedersen cleared his throat. But just as he was about to begin his report, the door opened and Captain Jan Buck came in.
“Good morning, colleagues,” Buck said quickly. “If you don’t mind, Superintendent Bloodhound, I thought I’d sit in on your morning meeting.”
Without waiting for a reply, Buck sat down on one of the uncomfortable, rickety chairs around the conference table. He smiled encouragingly at all those present.
“But the way it looks in here . . .” he commented. “Larry, don’t you ever have it cleaned?”
Bloodhound growled.
Falcon Ècu did not know where he should look. He was suddenly sitting alongside the police station’s highest commander, and this made him nervous. Buck’s commentary made him feel ashamed, besides. It was truly filthy in here. The air was bad, crumbs and grit crunched when you walked on the floor—and why hadn’t anyone put curtains up on the windows?
Why was Buck here? Falcon didn’t know.
“You’re always welcome, Jan,” the superintendent forced out.
Anna Lynx discreetly hid a smile. Before the case of the upside-down shoe, Larry Bloodhound had persisted with a collegially patronizing attitude toward his young captain; since then, Bloodhound did not mince words. Of all the ingratiating politicians that had crossed his path, Buck was the worst by a long shot. Thus Bloodhound’s perceptibly pained expression.
“But,” Buck nodded, “don’t let me interrupt. Just continue as you were. Pretend like I’m not here. Or . . . just consider me part of the group.”
He smiled ingratiatingly.
“ ‘Part of the group’?” the superintendent repeated, wisely holding back his comment. “Pedersen, have at it now.”
Pedersen was used to the young captain’s desire to take part in police work; Pedersen had been around so long it no longer concerned him.
“My group and I have gone through the individuals who are named in Oswald Vulture’s will,” Pedersen explained to Buck. “We actually finished yesterday, even though I didn’t think that was possible. Shall I take them one by one, or shall I do a summary?”
“The summary,” the superintendent growled.
“Personally, I would love to hear how you’ve gone about this in more detail,” said Buck.
Pedersen looked questioningly around the room, and Bloodhound shrugged his shoulders.
“Well,” Pedersen began, leafing through his notes, “first there was the chauffeur and the cook. They, uh, live together. They still work for Flamingo, Vulture’s widow, on Mina Road, and we got hold of them there. They were shopping at the indoor market in Amberville on Monday morning when the murder was committed. We checked with . . . I think it was the butcher, the one who’s just to the right of the entrance from Gruba Street?”
“Podovski,” Buck called out. “I buy cutlets from him.”
“The landscaper,” Pedersen continued. “The one who’s getting the bathroom furnishings—”
“What are you saying?” Buck interrupted. “Bathroom furnishings? Is someone inheriting bathroom furnishings?”
“The landscaper is out of town and won’t be home b
efore Sunday. He knew nothing about what had happened, he’s in Hillevie with his wife, he’s been there for ten days and . . . I judge him to be credible.”
Falcon Ècu intensely made notes as if his career depended on it. It was the least he could do to prove he was on the ball in front of Captain Buck.
“Then we have the cook and Raukanomaa,” Pedersen continued, “who is some kind of domestic servant. We got hold of Raukanomaa late in the evening, she goes to, uh, dance meditation class, it goes on half the night. Both she and the cook have Mrs. Flamingo, the widow, as an alibi. All three were at the house on Monday. Either they’ve concocted a story together or else they’re telling the truth. Their accounts agree. Moving on, uh, that pug that Vulture in the will realized would be fired. She was fired last Tuesday. Her alibi is doubtful . . . I think it’s wobbly . . . she changed her story when we pressured her. Sleeping in late suddenly became a shopping trip. But she’s one of the small stuffed animals, really small. To cut the head off of Oswald Vulture she would have needed a ladder. Moving on. The masseuse was working in his office all of Monday, so he’s clean. There’s only the lamb and the llama, who . . . perhaps require more work.”
“The lamb and the llama?” asked Anna.
“The llama was the security guard at Nova Park. The lamb was Vulture’s personal secretary.”
“I thought Cobra was his secretary,” Ècu said.
“He had two, apparently,” Pedersen observed. “One at work—Cobra—and another at home. Daniel Lamb. Lamb alleges that he never went to work until just before the Breeze in the morning, and last Monday he had to do some personal errands first. He came to Mina Road at lunchtime. We only had time to check one of his ‘personal errands,’ and it corresponded. He was at the pharmacy to pick up some thread. But there remains a good deal to check to cover the time of the murder.”
“And Lamb?” asked Ècu.