Part 5 (1/2)
”Mama, we've overslept!” Todd howled.
He stormed into the room, ignoring the stench of red wine and the sleeping cow on the bed. He was her crocodile cub, her darling, her green cuddle toy. Todd's dad was another story. Being a single mother was Anna's own decision, and she had never regretted it.
”We're going to be late,” Todd cried.
”C'mon, no, it-”
”Again,” he whined. ”We're going to be late again again.”
Anna staggered over to the bedroom window and pulled up the shade. Outside it was already starting to get cloudy.
”Have you brushed your teeth?”
”No.”
”Off you go and do that,” she ordered. ”Now!”
Todd left the bedroom in tears, just as the cow woke up.
”What's going on? Oy. My head.”
Anna ran around the bed, looking for her clothes. She found her slacks and tried to jump into them while shaking the rolled-up bedspread to see if her blouse was inside.
”Simon!” Cow h.e.l.lwig exclaimed. ”Lord Magnus, he must be beside himself. I've been away all night.”
”Don't call him,” said Anna Lynx, just as she discovered her blouse under the nightstand.
”You're out of your mind. Of course I have to call. Immediately.”
”Don't call him. He's completely-”
”I'm hungry!” Todd called, again standing in the bedroom, tooth-brus.h.i.+ng finished. ”I won't get any food. You won't have time to make breakfast!”
”I'll have time!” Anna shouted, to drown out the cub's crying.
A moment later Cow h.e.l.lwig lifted the telephone receiver on the nightstand. Anna threw herself to the floor and yanked the phone jack from the wall.
It was then that she thought of it. In the midst of this chaos she was struck by an insight. Since yesterday the thought had been gliding around in the unfathomable pa.s.sages of her brain, and now it let itself be put into words. It was a particularly poorly chosen occasion. The cow was yelling, Todd was crying, and she was lying half-dressed on the floor, with a hangover, and with a telephone cord in her paw.
The tipster.
If Vulture was still in possession of his head when Oleg Earwig left the office, and if Falcon and Bloodhound arrived half an hour later, how and when had the tipster been able to phone in the tip? If the tipster was not the secretary herself, then it must have been the murderer. Who else could have known? But why would the murderer alert the police?
”What are you doing?” shrieked Cow.
”I want porridge!” shrieked Todd.
”Anna, now you're being childish. Plug in the phone.”
”C'mon, we were in agreement,” Anna shouted. ”Your husband is a dictator. A repressor. A fascist pimp.”
”Fascist pimp?” Cow repeated and could not keep from giggling. ”You're out of your mind, Anna.”
”You can stay here, until you find something else.”
Todd increased the volume a few notches, and it became impossible to drown him out. Anna took the phone with her under her arm and scooted the cub out to the kitchen to make breakfast.
But Todd continued to be willful. He didn't want to wear his blue s.h.i.+rt and he wept large tears when there was no more of his papaya-and-mango-flavored cereal. Anna fought on. Cow came into the kitchen about the same time as Anna capitulated, ironed a yellow s.h.i.+rt instead, and let Todd have chocolate milk, even though it was against her principles. It was impossible to talk about equality and patriarchal structures at this time. To get Todd's jacket on, Anna had to promise to take him to Circus Balthazar. There were posters up all over the city, and she had said no for a whole week.
”Stay here awhile, girlfriend,” Anna called to Cow from out in the hall. ”You can crash with us as long as you want, no problemo.”
”Anna, my friend,” Cow called back, ”I'll call you this evening.”
Of course it would be possible to find out exactly when the tipster called, Anna thought, seriously late, as she ran with her crocodile cub in paw down the stairs to the entryway. All incoming calls were logged.
Despite a dubious parking location yesterday evening she hadn't got a ticket, and, relieved, she pressed Todd into the backseat. On the way to the day care she called Charlie at the Technical Department at rue de Cadix. He was the best at tracing ones and zeros through copper and fiber cables. She gave him the approximate time. She theorized that the same subscriber called twice on Bloodhound's extension and once on Falcon's. She wasn't sure of that, but that was what Falcon had told her. With such a tight target range it was easier to get results. She knew how they worked. First the district was established, then the block was narrowed down, and finally, possibly, the specific telephone could be determined. If it were possible to uncover someone's direct line at Nova Park, the inspectors' work would be considerably simpler. Anna was certain that the tipster was at the office. Anything else seemed impossible, considering the tight time frame.
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 ecu 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 s.h.i.+rt. 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 b.u.t.ts, 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 ecu, ”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 ecu, 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 Was owned, I said,” the superintendent repeated. 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.”