Tim Davys - Tourquai

Contents

T he stuffed animal was shaking. Brief intervals of intense muscle spasms. Tears were running down its cheeks, or maybe it was sweat dripping from its forehead. The ground seemed to quake under its paws, and despite strenuous attempts, the stuffed animal found it impossible to focus its gaze on the tasteful wall-to-wall carpeting. The black squares against the blue ground were an elusive, frustrating target. Its head ached. Its brain was about to explode. There was a sound, high-pitched and shrill, that refused to stop. Its stomach was churning with nausea. And the stuffed animal hardly dared breathethe Hated One was sitting only a few feet away.

How long had the stuffed animal stood hidden in the darkness? Eternities, it felt like. And what was waiting? What was expected? It was just barely possible to formulate these questions; the answers felt far away. And in this infinity of meditative futilityas the alcohol sank and rose in its body in an incomprehensible rhythm, and thoughts refused to make sensesuddenly the weapon was resting in its paw.

How did that happen? At that moment it was impossible to say, but there was a meaning. There was always a meaning, even if we didnt always see it, thought the stuffed animal. And again hatred welled up in its throat. Like a sour belch burning its palate. Wrath transformed its eyes to narrow slits and the nose wrinkled in a contorted expression of struggle. It could not be withstood, it was simply not possible.

Suddenly the darkness no longer shielded, suddenly the stuffed animal took a step forward. How did that happen? The weapon was raised, as if someone else were doing it. And in that moment time stood still, one moment away from an action that would irretrievably redefine a life. That soul would be darkened forever, and no forgiveness was possible. Yet there was no hesitation, no regret, not then. The stuffed animal did not want anything other than to separate the Hated Ones head from his body. Regardless of the consequences, regardless of what this would mean.

Swine.

That thought was screaming in its head just as the blow fell.

T he black plastic telephone that was on the desk when Larry Bloodhound took possession of the office many years ago had been exchanged for a modern version, a technical monstrosity that rang with high-pitched, aggressive signals. A digital display didnt make you a better cop, thought Larry. He refused to pick up the receiver; it wasnt often that anyone had anything interesting to say.

The superintendent sat rocking in the chair with his muddy paws on the desk. Confidential documents lay strewn across the desk. A rotting apple core was balanced on the computer keyboard, a half-eaten doughnut was stuffed into a pencil holder, and sticking up from the wastebasket was a half-empty package of ginger snaps. Throughout his adult life he had struggled with his weight. He liked food but didnt want to get fat. It was easy for him to gain a few pounds, but hard to get rid of them again. He tried rotation diets, weighed food on a little scale, and put his hope in low-calorie magazine meal plans, but the results were always the same. These self-inflicted reductions made him hungrier than ever, and that forced him to eat in secret. In the desk drawers, among papers next to the computer, inside seemingly thick binders, and behind many of the odd objects on the bookshelf half-eaten packages of crackers and cookies, candy, and chocolate were concealed. In the office, in the corner behind the door, hidden for more than a week now under a long scarf, there was also half a pizza, which his conscience wouldnt allow him to finish. Perhaps there was even an unfinished lunch in the mess somewhere. Saving and hiding food was an instinct that Bloodhound no longer thought about; everything got eaten up sooner or later.

The phone continued to ring.

Bloodhound was sitting in semidarknessthe blinds on the window overlooking the parking lot were pulled downbored and staring at the computer screen, but all he saw was his own reflection. His dark brown cotton covering hung in bags from the cheeks and neck, the deep creases in his head were never smoothed out, and his long ears rested like epaulettes on his shoulders. Larry focused his gaze, observing the background image he had loaded into the computer. A faint smile was observable on his face. Cordelia. She was the apple of his eye. She was his only weakness. She was his caged bird, something as uncommon as a budgie. Not many stuffed animals in Mollisan Town had house petsBloodhound could not think of any offhandand so he kept Cordelia a secret. He had many enemies, and in his profession it was best not to leave any openings.

For the fourth day in a row Larry Bloodhound had put on a wrinkled, white and blue striped shirt. The rings of sweat under his arms had worked their way into the cloth. His pistol holster sat loosely strapped across his chest. Larry did not use the recommended service weapon; instead he carried a large-bore revolver. Rumor had it that he shot with jacketed bullets. If that were true, he could blow a hole in a safe deposit vault if he fired the weapon.

The phone was still ringing.

Even if I have a lot to learn, at least I understand this. If you pick up the phone, it stops ringing...

Bloodhound heard the comment through the gap in the door. That had not been the intent. Falcon cu had been mumbling to himself, the words tumbling out of his beak without his wanting them to. It would be easier, of course, for Larry not to let on that he heard. Inspector cus desk in the open office area was closest to Bloodhounds door on the fourth floor at the rue de Cadix police station. The WE squad had the entire floor, and Larry was the head of the department. He could sympathize with Falcon to a certain degree: Who wouldnt be irritated by the sharp ring tone? But at the same time, he couldnt let the comment pass unnoticed. Someone has to teach the newcomer some manners. With an exasperated grunt, Larry remembered that Anna Lynx, Falcons experienced partner, had the morning off.

He reached for the receiver and brought it up under his ear.

Bloodhound.

Superintendent Bloodhound?

Yes? growled the superintendent.

Superintendent, said the voice, obviously affected, a he trying to sound like a she, superintendent, a murder has been committed, and

And what little asshole do I have the pleasure of speaking with? Bloodhound asked nicely.

That doesnt matter. The essential thing is that

Which wretched little cripple with imitation leather paws is chirping on my telephone?

But, Superintendent, the voice objected, the important thing is

Now Im hanging up, you crazy asshole, Bloodhound informed him and slammed down the phone.

With some weariness he got up, kicked over the waste basket to avoid being tempted by ginger snaps, and took a big step over it. He opened the office door and looked out over the departmenthis domain. The building on light brown rue de Cadix had originally been a hospital, with rows of sewing machines firmly bolted to the massive concrete floor. The original floor was still there, only partially covered by narrow, worn, black linoleum mats of varying lengths lying in all directions under the desks. The windows facing the street were tall, dirty, and permanently shut; the steel beams on which the floors of the building rested were black and massive, like thick tree trunks that disappeared up into the slightly psychotic system of exposed ventilation pipes and drainage barrels on the roof. The light fixtures hung low, placed over the desks to start with, but after a series of furniture rearrangements were now in an incomprehensibly asymmetric pattern. In this chaos there were approximately fifty-five workstations, fifteen more than what the unions had approved at one time, and when Bloodhound appeared in the doorway to his office, the sound of a collective inhalation was heard. It was not only the superintendent who had heard Falcons unintentional complaint.