Chapter 7

Chapter 7: Mondieu

10:35am Thursday

                What would your good do if evil didn't exist, and what would the earth look like if all the shadows disappeared?

~ Mikhail Bulgakov

The weather was a masquerade on the day, a calm sky and blazing sunlight slanting over town. Reflections, the buildings all around, flashed the inspector in the eyes at every turn, a hall of mirrors leaving the inspector blinded and harried. Mondieu hurried along the streets, his feet clapping against the cobbles with unrestrained angst, a ponderous stride.

                Two crimes, two nights, and not a hint of suspicion to throw. The inspector sat at a park bench on the edge of the marketplace, just north of the arboretum. A couple sitting beneath an apple tree, sharing a piece of fruit, all smiles and young love; a merchant doling out his wares, bargaining, nodding, chatting amiably with each passerby; children tossing a ball and stepping between cobblestone lines; young men, women, children – there was a dearth of the elderly in this city.

                What information did he have? The second clue, of course, and now it seemed the clue’s veiled reference to wolves was a none-to-subtle reference to the murder itself. But how? How was it a murder? Then there was the first clue, still unknown. Someone else must have known of the clue, right? Everyone had suspected the first crime was not accident, remembering the first clue. He would need to ask around.

                The criminal was a dastardly artist, and a creative vengeance he wrought. The inspector had all day to anticipate his next move, to prevent the next deaths. What was his first step, then? The doctor wanted to see him in his lab sometime today; he must find out about that first clue, and maybe find out of the city had any cameras, though he suspected not.

                Who might he ask about the first clue? It was obvious: Seth. If he didn’t know, he would likely know someone who did.

                The inspector stood up from his bench, startling the pigeons that had clustered around him, likely expecting a feeding. To the police station, then.

                The inspector started off towards the police station when something caught his eye. It was the women who had run into him the evening before, now wearing a light-blue, dirndl and white blouse, wearing a similar hat as before, with different flowers: dandelions, golden carnations, a small sunflower head tacked to the side. She was swiftly running into the marketplace, carrying the same bags as the previous night, bulging with something.

                Where was she racing to?

                The inspector followed her at a safe distance, carefully, though she never turned. Down several streets through the marketplace she hurried, eventually arriving at a small restaurant bar with open walls into the streets. The inspector sat down on a bench opposite the restaurant and watched inconspicuously. The bustle of the marketplace obscured his vision, slightly, but also veiled his spying.

                A few minutes she waited, rocking on her feet impatiently, and glancing about her with nervous concern. What was she so anxious about? Ten minutes later, a man arrived: DuMont. How did she know him? Wasn’t he new in town for police work? Now he’d have to ask when DuMont arrived in town. Was he called in earlier, or a new arrival?

                The woman and DuMont chatted amiably for a few minutes, exchanging pleasantries it seemed, before the woman placed her bags on a table, and rifled through them briefly. They exchanged something, a number of objects that the inspector could not clearly see from his vantage. Was it safe getting closer? There was not enough time. DuMont placed a few things into his cloak and nodded at the woman before disappearing out the back of the restaurant.

                The woman watched him leave before tucking the items she’d received into her bag – a book? A box? – and exiting the restaurant on the near side to the inspector. Her pace was leisurely now, calm. What was that exchange? The inspector focused his attention on the marketplace, hoping to appear enthralled with the bustle if the woman glanced his way.

                “Inspector?” a woman’s voice said near the inspector’s right side.

                Mondieu almost jumped in surprise. How had she snuck up on him so quickly? Had she seen him before?

                The woman laughed. “It seems I’ve surprised the great Inspector Mondieu!” she exclaimed happily, her face lighting up in a beautiful smile.

                The inspector gathered himself. “Startled, that’s all,” he said, a bit gruffly, which caused the woman’s smile to widen, and her eyes to sparkle. “I meant to say sorry for the eve previous. I was not paying attention to where I walked.”

                The inspector slyly attempted a glance into her bags, hoping to catch a glimpse of what objects she’d trade, but she carried both bags in her right hand, opposite the inspector, close enough that the contents were hidden in shadow.

                The woman waved his apology off. “Not at all, not at all. It was my fault, in such a hurry. A remnant of living in other cities, I suppose. I don’t appreciate walking in the dark alone. Speaking of walking alone, would you walk with me, inspector? I must be somewhere, soon, but would appreciate the company on the way.”

                “What progress have you made, inspector? Have you discovered any clues on the murders?”

                The inspector glanced at her eyes and face as she spoke, watching for anything suspicious. What beautiful eyes – no, not that. Not now. “Perhaps. The criminal will be caught soon, never you fear. There will be justice.”

                The woman’s eyes widened at the ferocity of this statement. “What a wolf you are, inspector. I believe you, a ferocity in your cast.”

                The inspector said nothing. What primal beast ruled inside him? What was the statement about wolves? What did she know?

                The left the marketplace, walking south along the streets, around the central dome, into the residential district. Eventually, they arrived at a small home, and the woman stopped before it, turning around to face the inspector in front of the door.

                “Will you dinner with me tonight, inspector?” the woman asked, cocking her head slightly to the side, her eyes wide and expectant.

                “I do not even know your name, Miss,” the inspector replied.

                “Dinner at the Paradiso, Inspector Mondieu?”

                “I will meet you there at 6.”

                The woman opened her door, stepping partway inside before turning around. “Marie,” she said with a bright smile, touching the inspector’s shoulder briefly before left the inspector standing on in front of the closed door, staring at his shoulder where her hand had just been.

                What had he just gotten himself into? How had he let himself be so manipulated by a pretty smile and womanly wiles? The inspector scowled and swiftly retreated from the house. Time to visit the police station.

                Between the trees the sun slanted, glinting against the white limestone like winter diamonds, and making alchemy of fountains, golden bright in the early afternoon sunlight. The inspector’s stomach began grumbling – hadn’t he just eaten breakfast?

                The police station was, as Seth described. It was just east of the technology tower, with a silver façade and a small fountain in front, a couple of angels dancing amidst the waters. The building was not large, a one-story building sprawling for almost a block – more than enough space for three policemen and minimal, if any, evidence.

                Mondieu pushed through the bright red door into the inner office, finding  Seth seated at a desk, looking a bit bewildered. Papers were scattered across the desk, drawing and notes, and Seth looked as though he’d no clue how they’d arrived, or what any of them meant.

                “Seth,” the inspector nodded at the Constable as he entered, taking a seat in front of the desk.

                “Welcome, Inspector,” Seth replied, a bit of the old Seth back in his voice, a nervous tension. “I’m in over my head, I think. I’ve written everything I know, but nothing connects, and I know so little. Why the murders at the tree? How are the wolves murderers? How can a wolf commit a murder for someone else? I suspect that you saw the note at the back of the wolves’ den?”

                “I did, indeed,” the inspector replied gravely.

                “So a murder then, unless the criminal is merely prescient.” The inspector almost started at that statement, remembering each of his vivid visions just prior to each crime. Seth passed him a strange, bemused look. “Then there is the wounds the shape of a snake’s fangs, but too clean, too easy, and too much blood. The clues left by the criminal, the strange symbology. Is it a secret vendetta? A psycho? An insult, or just a series of dastardly acts without any drive?”

                “There’s always motivation, we only need to find it.”

                “Yes, yes of course,” sighed Seth. “Well, you haven’t come to listen to the ramblings of a raving man. What do you require, Inspector? A tour perhaps? Some information I have?”

                “I require some information about the first clue.”

                Seth deflated instantly. “Ah, yes. An unfortunate thing, Horten’s death, yes? You see, there hasn’t been a murder in Garden before, and rarely, even, a normal death. Almost forty years, since the inception of Garden, we have thrived in our own little idyllic paradise. Forty years, inspector, and no murders, no crimes, no theft, no sexual cruelty, no slavery – none of it.  Amazing, isn’t it?

                “We had no need for law enforcement, nor, even, for laws. What purpose laws in a perfect world? So when Horten stumbled across the clue, a brightly painted sign indicating the first murder, he knew not what to do, except clear it away. He brought it to the attention of town, a question regarding the nature of this strange “graffiti”, though he remembered not the words it carried, except the ominous prophecy of death.”

                “So nothing remains of the first clue, then?”

                “Nothing, Inspector. I’m sorry. I asked him about it the morning after the crime, but he remembered little, for he was old, and no longer possessed the memory of his youth.”

                The inspector nodded, guessing as much.  “So what can you tell me?”

                Seth leaned back in his chair, his seat squeaking with the added weight, and raised his hands, as though to emphasize their emptiness. “I don’t know anything, I fear. I wish I could help, inspector, I do. Right now, I’m flailing in the dark, as I suspect you are.”

                “When did DuMont first arrive in this city?” Mondieu asked suddenly.

                Seth looked taken aback at this sudden change of tack. “What? Oh, a couple of days ago, I believe. Why?”

                “How did you discover to call him in? Did you know him before?”

                “He was recommended strongly by the nearest city, and then sent him over when I requested additional assistance. Is something wrong?”

                “No, nothing is wrong, I was only curious. Thank you for your time, Seth. I will be seeing you soon, likely. Make certain the prison is prepared for admittance, and secure. If we find a criminal, I do not wish them to escape our grasp.”

                “Yes, sir,” Seth replied, standing up as the inspector stood up to leave.

                “Good day, Seth.”

                “Good day, inspector.”

                The door whined closed behind the inspector as he left. Where next? He still had quite a bit of time before his dinner engagement. He still needed to visit the doctor in his labs.

                He asked a passerby the location of Evatt’s offices, and they pointed him in the correct direction. It was likely the Doctor would still be there, having just received the material from the latest crime. The doctor walked south, between the residential and the industrial districts, and found the doctor’s lab easily enough. The room was well lit, windows and skylights allowing the sun to brighten the inside with natural light.

                The inspector knocked on the door briefly before entering at the beckoning of the doctor.

                “Welcome, welcome, inspector. I apologize for the clutter,” the doctor said as the Mondieu entered into the office. The room was cluttered, though not untidy. If it weren’t for the limited space occupied by preserved corpses and bagged murder evidence, it might even have been orderly.  Instruments lined the walls in cleverly crafted cabinets and hooks, and various scientific examination tools: microscopes, magnifying glasses, petri dishes, a hand-operated centrifuge, were arrayed around the table occupying the center of the room.

                It was a simple layout: lighting from above and around, using candles and lamps for the night, and sunlight during the day. The outer edge of the room was storage and sinks for washing of hands, and the inner section was a chair for examination of a patient, and a large table, seven paces square, on which all the evidence now lay. Everything was sterile white, except the evidence itself, and the doctor himself was clad in a white gown with a surgeon’s mask covering his mouth as he hovered over one of the corpses of the wolves.

                “Forgive me if I continue working while we discuss, for there is much to do, still.”

                The inspector nodded, though the doctor was not looking. “So what can you tell me about the crimes, Doctor?”

                “Ah,” said the doctor, placing his scalpel on a white towel, now lightly stained pink. “There is little to tell, I’m afraid, but what there is should be of interest.”

                The doctor motioned over to the side of the table with the first set of bodies, separated and stored in transparent bags at the moment. Unzipping the nearest bag, that of the male, the doctor pulled the body to the edge of the table for nearer examination. “Look at their eyes, inspector. Lightly tinged with a yellowed glaze, often a hint of poison. I extracted a sample of their blood, and found low concentrations of some devilish concoction – what, exactly, I’m not certain without superior equipment – that seems to work as a blood-thinner, and perhaps as a paralytic as well. It seems likely that they died, paralyzed, while their blood seeped out, inhibited from clotting by the poison in their veins. A nasty death.”

                “So it took a while, then, for the subjects to die? The poison itself did not kill them?”

                “I’m not certain, exactly, of the point of death. This is not my area of expertise, inspector. But I suspect that if the poison was not sufficient cause of death, the blood draining from their bodies certainly was.”

                “Can you not test the poison on an animal to test its effects?”

                The doctor looked aghast at the mere idea, and the inspector recanted immediately.

                “Sorry, I did not mean to imply that you kill an animal. I’m reaching for information, here. Is there any other way we can discern the purpose of the drug without killing anything?”

                “I’ll see what I can find, inspector. Until then, let’s consider the second crime.”

                The doctor led the inspector over to the second set of evidence, opposite the first. “I have not had much time, yet, unfortunately. What I have seen so far suggests no poisons, no tampering whatsoever, in wolves or person. I honestly cannot discover the cause of the wolves’ sudden feral assault on Horten. It would seem almost random.”

                “No yellowing of the eyes? I remember the wolves having saliva around the mouth. Could they have gone rabid?” the inspector asked, looking closer at the bodies of the wolves.

                “These wolves already have golden eyes, and there is no discoloration that I can discern. And, perhaps, they have gone rabid. As I said, I have unfinished work still here. I will consider that trail in my continued investigation.”

                “Is there any other way to incite a wolf attack? A sound that drives them mad, a scent on the gardener’s apparel that might upset them?”

                “Nothing that I have discovered as yet, inspector.”

                “Keep looking, doctor. I have much faith in your abilities, and we’ll be needing them more before this thing is finished, I suspect.

                The doctor merely nodded, and returned to his work, and the inspector left by the same door he’d entered.

                Six that night arrived too soon for the inspector, finding him in his room, still pacing back and forth and checking his timepiece every couple of seconds. It was time to go. Why had he agreed to this in the first place?

                He left his room and walked back towards the center of the city. He was going to be late; he hated being late.

                The restaurant was easy enough to find. It was the same one Maria had met with DuMont in that morning. He hurried through the marketplace, walking with swift, long strides, arriving at the restaurant only fifteen minutes past six. Marie was not there. Well, if she isn’t here, I can grab a swift dinner and get along with my night.

                The walls were open into the night, but it was not cold. The moon was a waxing crescent in the sky, and the stars little, white ships in a vast, black ocean. Streetlamps flickered and left an gentle, ambient glow of orange, and a fire burned in the hearth of the restaurant, more for show than warmth, and torches illuminated the venue.

                He sat down at a table in the corner, offering him vision of the entire restaurant and a little seclusion. Just as he sat down, she arrived. She wore a pretty red dress, and a crimson fedora, with only a tiny band around the base and no flowers. Her lips were lightly reddened, and her cheeks warm with rouge, lightly punctuating her high cheekbones and warm, chocolate eyes.

                She spotted the inspector immediately, and gracefully ambled to the table. The inspector stood as she arrived, gesturing for her to take a seat.

                “Inspector Mondieu, I am sorry I am late. I do hope you’ll forgive me. It seems I require forgiveness much these days,” Marie said as she sat, smoothing her skirts and placing a kerchief across her lap.

                A rotund, cherry-cheeked waitress arrived with glasses of rich, mulled wine and a plate of bread. “What might I be getting you two lovebirds, tonight?” the waitress asked.

                “We’re not...” the inspector began.

                “I’ll have a salad and a side of lamb, if you please, and some fruit.”

                “I’ll have the same,” the inspector said, as the waitress turned her glance his way.

                “Very good,” replied the waitress, hustling off into the kitchen.

                “So, inspector,” Marie started, lingering on each syllable and twirling her wine her glass, sipping it briefly, her cheeks flushing rose. “Have you discovered anything… revelatory?”

                What was that supposed to mean?  “Quite a few, Miss Marie. Though I suspect you realize that sort of knowledge is confidential.”

                “Are you saying I am not in your confidence?” Marie replied with a sad twinge in her voice.

                “I scarcely know you, Miss Marie. Is that what this is? Are you attempting to weasel information from me?” the inspector stood up, angrily, as if to leave, and Marie’s eyes widened.

                “Please, sit down inspector. I meant nothing of the sort. It was just idle chatter. Let’s discuss something else, do sit,” Marie said with a light gasp, placing her hands on the table with an urgent entreaty. “Tell me about your life before you came. Were you an inspector before?” Marie asked, as the inspector calmed and sat down.

                “I do not know what game you are playing, Miss Marie. But I’m warning you-” the inspector began.

                “What game is it where people ask questions and get answers, Mondieu? I’m merely fascinated by you, and must know something, anything. Tell me of life outside the city, then, if you must. Or something of your job before, I don’t care.”

                The waitress came with their food and left it at their table, and the inspector tucked his kerchief into his neck and started eating, chewing his food in thought of what he might say next.

                “Why did they send you here, inspector? And not someone else?”

                “That is a long story, Miss Marie, and one perhaps too sad for these times,” the inspector began. Several tables in the restaurant were moved, and a piano, which the inspector had not seen as he entered, began playing some quiet songs. Several of the patrons, there were not many, moved to dance, a slow dance in the ember glow of the room, light and lovely.

                “I was a consulting detective, you see, like the great Sherlock himself. But I failed in a great mystery, the mystery of the age, perhaps. I knew the criminal, had even caught the culprit, but had insufficient proof. Before that failure, I’ve put the craftiest, most devilish criminal minds behind bars, more villains that perhaps any other inspector in the last century.

                “But that one crime, three years ago, that crime broke me.” The inspector finished his vague recollection by chugging all the wine in his glass and setting it down with a loud ringing.

                Marie’s eyes shown amber in the glow of night, and she leaned forward over the table, hanging on each word. Normally I do the questioning. What has she done that’s so loosened my tongue?

                “But enough about me,” said the inspector. “What do you do here?”

                “Ah, my life would bore you, I’m afraid. I simply live, I guess, and do some odd jobs here and there with botany, perhaps. So what have you done these last three years, Mondieu? After the fiasco?”

                “Nothing. I can’t sleep, can’t think, can’t solve mysteries any more. The city sent me here to get rid of me, as I was no use to them any longer.”

                “What yanked you from that? You are investigating now,” Marie said with a confused wrinkle of her eyebrows.

                “No. I suspect a man can only live like that so long. It was good to have a job again. But Marie, tell me about your life,” the inspector urged. But Marie wasn’t paying any more attention. Her glass of wine as at her lips, and she glanced, with stars in her eyes and a smiling playing at her lips, at the dancing.

                “Mondieu, will you dance with me?”

                “I will not, Miss Marie. And I believe it is time to go. I thank you for the dinner company, Miss Marie. Good night.”

                “Wait, Inspector. Won’t you walk me home?” Miss Marie called as the inspector turned.

                “Very well, Miss Marie.”

                Marie offered her arm, waiting on the inspector, and, after a moment’s hesitation, he took it, and they walked out into the streets. They walked back through the emptied marketplace, the streets well lit under the lamps, but devoid of the bustle of the day. The central park, too, was emptied, and the inspector was surprised by how few people were out this night.

                When they reached the edge of residential, Marie stopped. “Inspector, look,” she said, pointing at a sign posted on the edge of the walkway.

                The inspector started and hurried over to the sign, leaving Marie stunned by the burst of motion behind him. Another clue. Damned and thrice damned. When would this end?

                FAIR AND FOUL, SEA AND SKY

                FISH AND FOWL,

BOUND TO DIE

OR FLY

AWAY

“What does it mean,” asked a voice at the inspector’s shoulder. He was almost surprised to find Marie still there. “I’m not sure, yet,” the inspector said with a pause, scrutinizing the sign. “But there are things I must do. Miss Marie, if I may leave you…?”

“Very well, Mondieu. Thank you for dinner this night. Perhaps again, some night soon? Two nights, perhaps?”

“We shall see,” replied the inspector, already turning and hurrying towards the police offices.

               

                The police offices were already in turmoil over the news – or at least Seth. Vespars and DuMont were stolid, blank, thugs of men, and showed no extravagant emotion. The inspector walked in.

                “Have you…” he began.

                “Yes, the signs are in a couple of places around town, at least two we’ve found.”

                “I found one by the residential district,” the inspector replied, still standing in the doorway.

                Seth gestured him inside. “Three, then,” he replied with a huff and paced quickly behind his desk, though there was little space for doing so, and he kept bumping into his chair and frames on the wall.

                “What do we do?” asked Seth.

                “I’m not sure, but this one seems to imply something with fish or birds. How can fish commit murder?”

                “I’m not certain,” replied Seth. “What if the water channels are poisoned? DuMont, go and check with the IT building, and make sure the monitors are within normal parameters for the fish ponds.”

                “Very well,” replied DuMont before gracefully slipping out the door.

                “What do you think, Inspector Mondieu?” Seth asked, his hands nervously twitching.

                “I’m not sure. I can’t tell what’s a red herring, and what is clue.”

                Vespars chuckled a little to himself at this, and received a glare from both inspector and Seth before returning to silence.

                “Could it be another murder at the zoo? There are some of our bigger birds there,” thought Seth out loud. “Or could our fish turn feral?”

                “Vespars, if you could stand guard at the menagerie tonight?” Seth asked, grasping at straws.

                Vespars nodded and left the station.

                “I out of my element, inspector. The criminal is one step ahead, and I can’t catch up. When DuMont returns, I’ll have him wander town, looking for anything suspicious, overnight.”

                “Very good,” replied the inspector, lost in thought. What could they do? “I’m going to retire for the night. There is nothing more we can do but wait, I think, and watch. If you are up for it, maybe do a rounds yourself before you hit the hay, Constable Seth. Until tomorrow, good night.”

                “Good night, inspector.”

                A cold breeze – was it imagined? – washed over the inspector as he exited the police station. The stars bitter eyes glared down, judging, as he journeyed back to the inn for the night. Justice, where are you this night?