Part 29 (1/2)

That was when he saw the sword. Only a few inches away. That was how he got the idea.

After fifteen minutes Cobra and Vulture were interrupted by Leonard Earthworm.

Earthworm stepped into the office, and their meeting lasted about an hour. When the earthworm finally left and Philip Mouse was about to part the curtain to seize the knight's sword, a furious Oleg Earwig made an entrance. For forty minutes the inventor told off the incessantly patronizing and unmoved Vulture.

Mouse stood steadfastly behind his curtain and listened without hearing. The alcohol from the night left his body, he quivered, his head ached, and his anxiety increased. The sounds from the morning's perverse exercise echoed in his head, but it was his own, beloved squirrel he heard. He imagined her pleading for help, for rehabilitation, for a way out.

Philip Mouse does not remember what happened next. He has no memory of how he takes the sword, how he goes up behind Vulture and, in a single ma.s.sive stroke, separates the head from the body.

When his memory functions again, he is sitting on the sofa where he now sits, with Vulture's head in his hands and a sudden, ice-cold clarity about what has happened, what he has done. He realizes that on the other side of the closed door, scarcely two yards away, is the secretary who just opened the door and showed the inventor the way out.

Mouse also realizes that the secretary might be on her way in at any moment with the next visitor.

The idea of getting rid of the head is instinctive. If he doesn't get rid of the head, all has been in vain. If he takes the head with him, the risk of being found out increases. Philip Mouse is a private detective, he's seen that sort of carelessness many times; it is suddenly clear that he has to get rid of the head as soon as possible.

It's like a nightmare, a trapdoor that opens under him and he is falling down into a black hole that seems to have no bottom. His body is starting to shake, he understands that he has to collect himself, but fails. He goes up to the desk, picks up the telephone receiver, and calls Jasmine. There is no intention behind this: he simply needs to hear her voice. When she talks to him, the effect is sobering. She gives him instructions, and he nods and understands.

Philip sneaks up to the door and peeks out through the keyhole in time to see the cobra outside pick up the phone, listen, and then get up and go. Mouse waits a minute or two and then leaves Vulture's office. He doesn't know whether anyone sees him on his way out to the street; he never raises his gaze from the ground.

He seems to be functioning again; logical thinking replaces the terror and confusion.

An alibi. This is what he's concentrating on. He has to give himself an alibi.

How the trains of a.s.sociation interlock with each other is impossible to understand, but Mouse is thinking about Samson Zebra, the old tailor.

Out on the sidewalk Mouse is moving at top speed, running through Tourquai's business district toward Zebra's studio. As he crosses blue rue de Montyon he sees the phone booth, and decides not to take any chances. He calls Bloodhound, twice, without getting the superintendent to act. Falcon ecu on the other hand reacts as expected. By phoning in the tip, Mouse knows that the police will find the vulture at a time when he can doc.u.ment that he's been in a different place.

Zebra has his boutique around the corner from rue de Montyon, and as usual the old tailor is napping behind the counter. Mouse writes his name on the tailor's calendar and then goes into one of the fitting rooms. He takes off his trousers and coughs loudly. Zebra wakes up, excuses himself because it has taken so long, and asks what Philip wants. The detective sighs, maintains that they've been trying samples and fabrics for over an hour, and Zebra does not protest. It might very well be so. Mouse's alibi is thereby arranged.

Philip got up from the armchair. The office was in darkness, but he thought he heard something. A throat clearing? A chair against the floor? Was there someone outside in Cobra's office? the armchair. The office was in darkness, but he thought he heard something. A throat clearing? A chair against the floor? Was there someone outside in Cobra's office?

It was late in the evening, and no one ought to be here. Mouse held his breath. He had to destroy the evidence, he had to burn up the head.

Then he heard it again.

There was someone outside there.

He had to hurry.

Epilogue.

What this city really needs is a thorough reorganization of the taxi business. I'm not talking about under-the-table money, cars that lack proper inspection, or the hygiene in the backseat. No, my proposal is that we jointly decide to send the taxi drivers off to some sort of school where they'll learn some good manners and common sense.

”Rat, stop here up at the corner, please?” I asked amiably.

”I'm a hamster,” my taxi driver answered bitterly. ”Not a d.a.m.n rat.”

As if a taxi driver can take that tone.

”Listen, for me you are and you will remain a little rat,” I pointed out.

The customer is always right. It may take effort, it demands character, but it is a rule that leads to success. I know. Success is something I'm familiar with. I was so bold as to point this out to the taxi driver; it was like taking a tone-deaf animal to the Conservatory of Music.

”Little rat,” I said, ”if you ever want to get anywhere, and not spend the rest of your life sitting behind the wheel and driving in circles night after night after night, you might start with your att.i.tude. The customer, you know, is always right.”

”You're completely off your nut,” the rat/hamster replied.

”I see,” I pointed out nicely. ”Yes, then perhaps you can explain why you're sitting in the front seat in a shabby flannel s.h.i.+rt and driving me around for peanuts, while I'm sitting here in the backseat in a tuxedo, wondering whether I should give you a tip or not?”

”We should have ridden with the gnu,” my wife complained. ”It's always like this when we take a taxi.”

”Do you want to get sick?” I asked. ”Well, maybe it doesn't matter to you, you don't have anywhere to go during the day. But I don't have time to lie in bed with a thermometer in my beak for a week. Kai has to get healthy before I get in the car with him.”

”Hypochondriac,” my wife hissed.

I chose not to hear this. Once again-character. In what other way could this miserable marriage have survived? But my wife's influential family has still not played out its role in my professional life, and therefore I'm going to put up with her d.a.m.n whining for a few more years. I have character.