"Case? Solution? You telling me you're still interested in that jive? Judging by the way you stink, which is enough to make a preacher swear, it seems like you've been giving more of your attention to some of the more pleasant things in life lately."
I couldn't really figure out whether he was serious, or whether his remark represented some form of concealed envy. Could he actually have believed I was a monk the whole time? Besides, he didn't exactly smell like perfumed soap either.
"My, but we are in a bad mood today, aren't we? Could you, perhaps, let me in on what these asinine accusations are supposed to mean?"
"You've got nerve to ask! Yesterday Felicity got wasted, and last night it was Solitaire. The whole district is in an unholy flap, and there are the craziest rumors going 'round about how you, Kong, and Herrmann and Herrmann let the killer get away, even though he was within spitting distance. If you ask me, we're not just up shit's creek without a paddle, we're sinking in it up to our necks! But instead of getting your ass of a superbrain in gear and getting us out of the damned hole we're in, you stage a couple of orgies and catch forty winks all in your own good time. Let me tell you that that's not the wiseass Francis I used to know."
So. Now he had really socked it to me. Of course he couldn't know about what I had found out after Kong & Co. had taken leave of me. He simply could not know how really close I had come to the solution, that there were only a few knots left for me to untie to flush out the butcher. (Or so I thought anyway.) He had no idea, either, of the existence of that gruesome journal. Nevertheless, I was going to have to spoon-feed him with this part of the story since it was connected with his own crippled existence in a deeply tragic way. Anyway, he had made a big mistake about me.
"Bluebeard, I'm sorry if you have the impression that I'm sitting around doing nothing, or amusing myself with the ladies. But I assure you that your impression is totally wrong. Last night, I found out things that nobody in the district had ever had the slightest idea about. Terrible things, and yet things that could improve our chances of finding the killer. I'll tell you all about my experiences later, because at the moment I myself don't completely understand their implications. In any case, if you don't mind, I'd like to ask you a couple of questions now. First and most important: where is Joker right at this moment?"
He seemed convinced now of my zeal and goodwill, for his indignation gradually gave way to a reserved attentiveness. Nevertheless, a trace of wait-and-see skepticism remained in his face, and he hemmed and hawed at length before saying anything.
"Joker? Well, the old geezer is probably sitting around at home getting ready for Bible class. What else would he be doing in weather like this?"
"Where's his home?"
"His owner has a store where they sell porcelain and fine crystal some ways from here, on the other side of the district. The place is a warehouse, business, and apartment at the same time. I suppose Joker is somewhere there right now."
"Okay. I'm going to pay a call on Pascal very shortly. While I'm doing that, you'll march over to Joker's and inform him that Pascal and I would like to talk to him about the murderer. If he gets obstinate, which is to be expected, show him quietly but firmly that, in that case, we would unfortunately have to wise up Kong to the fact that a certain Joker fellow killed his beloved Solitaire. We'll all meet at Pascal's."
"No shit! Joker?"
"It's only a suspicion, very likely unfounded. Be that as it may, you've got to scare the daylights out of him. Okay?"
"Okay!"
"Second question: this morning I made the acquaintance of a lady whose race is totally unknown to me. Her behavior, too, gave rise to diverse speculations. Her fur is sand colored, and her eyes are a glowing yellow …"
"I know that bunch!"
"Are there a lot around?"
"Hell, yes. Seems to be a breed that's really in right now. Soon the whole neighborhood is going to be full of the arrogant snots. Every year these crazy humans get even crazier ideas on how to better our kind. This time, though, with this breed, they're pissing their own pants full."
"What's wrong with them?"
"They're not like us. I mean, it seems to me that somehow, during the whole damned breeding process, they just didn't get domesticated. These new ones, they're wilder, more uppity, more dangerous."
"Like predators?"
"Not really. Otherwise people would be getting cold feet about having them at home. Sometimes I think they're only playing at being perfect house pets to get fed and have a warm roof over their heads while they hatch their low-down plans. Dirty rotten egoists. I don't know exactly what these critters are up to. But whatever it is, they seldom want to have anything to do with us, and they make me puke. What else you want to know?"
"That's enough for the time being. Now we should get to work and get it behind us before darkness falls."
Because of the cold, Gustav had made an exception, for once, and shut every single door and window. So we sought him out in the living room to let him know through vociferous meowing that we wanted to go outside. I noted that renovation of the room had been completed, except for stucco work on the ceiling. For want of a study, my friend had already lugged a monumental desk into the room, and he had spread out his magnificent art books and archaeological report on it. For years he had cherished the dream project of publishing an encyclopedic volume on the
