Part 2 (1/2)
To top it off she was clearly inebriated. Whether it was from alcohol or sedatives was difficult to determine, but her fine-motor ability was not functioning, and the vacant smile she showed Bloodhound must have been unconscious.
The reindeer returned immediately with the teacups. Bloodhound did not see any cookies.
”Yes, I can already a.s.sure you here and now, Superintendent, that I intend to take measures,” Flamingo said.
”Measures?”
”My attorney is connected. Established, yes? You under- stand?”
”Mrs. Flamingo,” Bloodhound grunted amiably, ”at this point you are not suspected of anything.”
”That”-Flamingo sniffed condescendingly, filling her teacup with sugar-”I am aware of. No, dear Superintendent, this is not about him. This is about me. And I intend to sue the decapitated bird.”
”Sue whom whom?”
”The bird. You know, the vulture.”
She continued to fill her cup with sugar, whereupon the tea ran over the edge. This she did not notice.
”Your husband?” asked the superintendent. ”But he's-”
”If all the money goes to that foundation for circus performers, then I will, excuse the expression, sue him,” explained Flamingo. ”There won't be any foundation here.”
Bloodhound furrowed his brow and felt tired.
”Excuse me, now I really don't understand-”
”He's always threatened that. Instead of leaving the money to his dear, beloved family, he would let all of it go to a foundation for ... circus acrobats.”
”A foundation?”
”Have you ever heard anything so stupid?”
Now she discovered the overflowing cup in terror.
”But what kind of stupidity is this?” she asked, staring at the cup.
”Did your husband talk about his demise?” asked Bloodhound. ”He wasn't old, but did he feel threatened in any way? Was there anyone who-”
”Stupidities,” Flamingo repeated, but now with clear reference to the superintendent's line of reasoning. ”He wasn't threatened by anyone. The only reason for that stupid circus idea was to annoy us. Take away our inheritance. Us. His own family.”
”Do you mean that you won't get anything?”
”Practically speaking, nothing,” she confirmed.
She sounded desperate now; it was as if the thought became more concrete when she said it out loud.
”Practically speaking?” asked the superintendent.
”All we have is what's in the bank. Twenty million or so.”
”Twenty million?” Bloodhound exclaimed. ”And you don't think that's anything?”
”The company is worth several hundred million,” sighed Flamingo. ”By comparison I get nothing. That crook-beaked swine.”
”And this foundation,” said Bloodhound. ”Who will administer it?”
”I don't know a thing,” Flamingo answered loudly. ”I don't know a thing. I'm only a stupid home bird, aren't I? But I'm going to stop them-”
”Who, then?” asked the superintendent.
”Who, then?” repeated Flamingo, who apparently had lost her thread.
She poured the tea into an ashtray and started pouring more sugar in the teacup.
”Yes, Lord Magnus,” Flamingo sighed as she filled the teacup with sugar, ”what is one to do now?”
Bloodhound didn't know what she was talking about.
”With the body and that?” Irina Flamingo clarified. She suddenly decided that was enough sugar and set the cup aside. ”Because I have an appointment at the manicurist later this afternoon, and tomorrow is my ma.s.sage day. Can he stay at the office until Wednesday, do you think?”
The superintendent was about to answer but was interrupted.
”No, no,” Flamingo cried out. ”On Wednesday Guy is coming in the morning! And after a few rounds with Guy you're completely wiped out. He claims my backhand is getting better, but I haven't noticed it myself. Thursday. It will have to be Thursday. Can he stay at the office until Thursday? I don't think anyone will mind, they can just close the door, can't they?”
”The law is very clear on this point,” Bloodhound explained amiably to the widow. ”Stuffed animals without heads are not considered ... dead. It happens fairly often that the heads are found again, and then they can be sewn back on. Simple as that. Some smarmy surgeon invoices the s.h.i.+t out of us and everything is back to normal. But we are ... that is, not the police, but ... the authorities are responsible for storing the headless body in a special warehouse.”
”In a warehouse?” Flamingo asked, confused.
”It's the Chauffeurs who decide when life ends. We store the body in the warehouse until the Chauffeurs come and get it.”
”And when is that?” the widow asked.
Superintendent Bloodhound refrained from the cruder ironies that popped into his head. Instead he replied, ”One never knows, Mrs. Flamingo.”
”But can't you call up the Chauffeurs? So that there's an end to this?”
”Don't give up,” Bloodhound encouraged. ”We have far from ruled out the possibility of finding his head, and-”
”Or can't you simply incinerate him?” the widow continued; it seemed as if she were talking with the books on the bookshelf. ”Well, I don't know. Not that it matters, really, if he comes home again or not. We didn't see each other all that much.”
”You and your husband?” the superintendent asked. ”You didn't see each other very often?”
Unwillingly, Bloodhound began to realize that, true, this widow may be drugged, but sorry she was not. That felt sad, somehow. Larry had a romantic heart under his filthy s.h.i.+rts.
”No, no, not all that often,” Flamingo repeated. ”He was at the office, he lived at the other end of the house, and, well, he was an unpleasant animal, if I may say so myself. It was unpleasant to run into him, in the kitchen or in the garage, but... I suppose that's over with now.”
Bloodhound nodded.