Day 3

Chapter 3: Inspector Mondieu

Day 1: January 13^th 11:05am

Knowledge forbidden?

Suspicious, reasonless. Why should their Lord

Envy them that? Can it be a sin to know?

Can it be death?

~John Milton - Paradise Lost

                Waving goodbye to the mechanic, the inspector stepped out into the early afternoon light. The wintry sunlight was blinding, and the sky an intense, deep blue.  On to find Horten. Why did no one react to the clue?

                “Inspector!” a deep, masculine voice shouted from his left. “Over here!” the bellow continued.

                Mondieu turned to see and saw a giant, rotund man approaching him at a rapid pace. He almost cringed, half expecting the man to crash into him, but the man stopped abruptly with a little skid of his faded, brown-leather boots on the limestone.

                The inspector waited as the man, doubled over and gasping for breath with great, wheezing coughs, caught his breath. “Are you well? What is the matter?” asked the inspector, reaching over to put his hand on the man’s back. Was there another murder?

                The man gave a short wave to assuage the inspector’s concern and held up a finger: one moment, please. The inspector left him some room to breathe.

                With an enormous release of breath, the man stood up. He was tall, not quite a handspan less than the inspector’s own height, and his snug outfit might fit three inspectors with room to spare. His face was buttery and vaguely piggish, but boasted the largest smile and moustache the inspector had ever seen, like a croissant on the man’s upper lip. His hair was diminished, and wrinkles played around his eyes and lips, but he was not old.

                The rosy tint bloomed in his cheeks and his jowls almost bounced as he clapped Mondieu on the back. “Mondieu, I’ve looked all over for you.”

                Seems like everyone is, today. The inspector shared a light smile.

                “I’m the innkeep in town,” said the man, grasping Mondieu’s hand and clasping between both of his giant palms. “The Bear, they call me, but you may call me Fredrik.”

                The inspector saw in his mind the crushing, bearish might of this man. The grisly power to crush and break and kill. But there is something tender, easy about this man. The inspector found he liked Fredrik already.

                “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” replied the inspector. “I hear you are providing me with a place to stay. I am most grateful. Right now I am busy-”

                “Nonsense! None too busy for settling in. Come! Let us get your things situated, and some food in your belly. Can’t be working with hunger pangs, can ye?” Fredrik bellowed with a great slap of his belly, and, wrapping an arm around the inspector’s shoulder, began propelling him along the street to the south, towards the city housing.

                They walked at a brisk pace – which soon left Fredrik breathing with a gruff huff like a growling bear - along the southbound street, between walls of carefully pruned chestnut and hazelnut trees, with just blooming tulips lining the path.  Everyone smiled as they past, exchanging a quick greeting to Fredrik, a well-loved innkeep it seemed, and a cordial wave to Mondieu.

                The open streets grew thin, leading into picturesque tunnels of trees: big-leaf maples, birch, aspen, oak. Tiny branches of the main path leafed into houses, houses brightly colored in sky blue, spring green, sunset red, and a warm chestnut brown. Down several streets they walked, Wattson and Cherry the inspector recognized and noted, and several more streets whose names were unfamiliar to the inspector, before they reached Cali. They stopped on the edge of Cali street, and Mondieu realized Fredrik was looking at him strangely, as if waiting.

                He had just asked a question, what was it? Only half-listening, and now a missed question. Ah, I remember.

                “No, I don’t believe justice will be long,” the inspector said with solemn certainty. “The murderer will be found and receive his due punishment.”

                Fredrik the Bear sputtered and rolled his eyes with melodramatic surprise. “Surely it cannot be so serious? Our little town? Murders? A mistake, nothing more. You’ll see. Let’s get you situated and get some food in you. Once you’ve thought things over, murder will see an unlikely conclusion, I suspect.”

                “Hmm. Indeed.”

                “Come, come,” Fredrik clapped with a broad smile. “I’ve ordered your things brought already, and some more things besides – extra clothes about your size, and bath supplies. Should you decide upon a hot bath, simply ring, and hot water will be couriered immediately.”

                Fredrik lead the way east down Cali Street towards a three-story building made of cedar logs with a curlicue sign with the words, “Inn of the Bear” etched on front, now swaying lightly in the breeze with a pleasant creaking noise.

                “Welcome, to my home,” the innkeep said with a flourish.

                “I am grateful, indeed,” replied the inspector, with a deep bow of his own, before leading the way into the parlor. It was a homey inn, with a large stone hearth and an oak bar in the taproom, stools already occupied by several gentlemen in pork pie hats, checkered suits, suspenders and brown dress shoes. Despite the warm day, the hearth was lit and glowing brightly, and the barroom was tidy and quaint.

                The innkeeper himself lugged Mondieu’s two briefcases up the stairs towards his room, which turned out to be on the third floor.

                Finally settled in, they returned to the main room for something to eat. Mondieu felt his stomach grumbling from neglect, and it nearly lurched in a dance of happiness when a fruit-salad was delivered with a leg of lamb, a light, chowder soup, a dark, nutty bread. The innkeeper’s wife,  a large woman named Danya, brought out a pitcher of ale, which the inspector dutifully declined, and then a lighter wine to wash down the meal. Mondieu, whenever possible, avoided the alcohol and sipped lightly on water.

                The innkeeper prattled on about the city and stories he’d accumulated over the years, and Mondieu listened with half an ear, chiming in at important junctures with a smile, a laugh, or a nod of the head. When finished eating, he excused himself, and withdrew into his room, overcome with a lethargy that surrendered him into a short rest.

                So it was not until evening that the Inspector left the inn, hoping to find Horten and discuss the clue, and findings of the previous day.

                The floral scent of violets and hazelnuts crossed the inn on a westerly wind. A distant hum of music caught the inspector’s ear, a violin, a flute, wind chimes singing the songs of breeze. The sun was violently setting in a fiery orange, out of sight of the inspector, but searing the sky in apple red and apricot. And then it was evening.

                The hearty smells of dinner wafted over the streets as Inspector Mondieu passed houses north towards the main park plaza. A dog barked and wagged its tail, padding to the edge of a yard, whimpering for Mondieu to visit and play, and a nightingale cocked its head in the branches of a chestnut tree before flitting off with a warbling goodbye.

                As he drew nearer the plaza, he saw a figure racing toward him. Before he could cry out, or dodge, the running slammed into him, dropping the bags he or she was carrying, and sending each of them tumbling to the ground.

                She, for it was a she, cried out and gave a moan of dismay. “Oh, this is what I get for hurrying. Ah, but you must be the inspector,” the lady said with a smile, pushing herself to her feet and brushing off her dress. She wore an Edwardian hat brimmed with violet-hued flowers, and carried, or had been carrying, two large empty bags.

                She was slender, and quite tall for a lady, wearing a lace, high-necked, white blouse with slim white sleeves, and a crimson scarf as a flash of flair. An umbrella was tucked under her arm and had, amazingly, stayed put throughout the fall. Her cheekbones and eyebrows were eye, and eyes wide and friendly, coffee brown of color and gleaming with amusement. Her hair was tucked beneath her hat, but a few rogue strands of straight brown hair snuck down past her ear, and she brushed these back hurriedly. She was quite pretty.

                “Excuse me, miss. Are you quite all right? I apologize for -“ the inspector began.

                “Oh, nonsense. It was my haste and bumbling clumsiness. I do hope you’ll forgive me, but I must make haste. I do hope we meet again, Monsieur Mondieu. A man is looking for you, and you must hurry also, to the plaza. It is quite urgent, I suspect.”

                Before the inspector could say another word, she scampered off, her heels clicking against the cobbles, and disappeared into the flickering light of the streetlamps.

                Strange. I wonder what, and who that was. I did not even catch her name.

                As he reached the central park, the dome bloomed before him in a gentle, yellow glow like the yolk center of the city egg. Seth, the policeman, was waiting for the inspector when he arrived, and hurried up to him, pulling off his police hat and rubbing the brims worriedly between his thumbs. He seemed to have lost the moustache perched on his upper lip, but otherwise appeared the same as he had that morning.

                “Well, out with it,” the inspector said sternly. “What have you to say?”

                “There has been another clue. There is to be another murder,” Seth replied, with a tremor of nervousness. He glanced about at the shadows, as though expecting a nightmare to come broaching the darkness at any moment.

                “Calm down, lad. What is the clue?” Another clue? What sort of criminal left clues purposely? Was the murderer trying to get caught? Or was he, or she perhaps, simply convinced in their safety? Or was it something more sinister even? The inspector shuddered involuntarily, and followed the policeman towards the eastern section of the park.

                They reached the eastern side of the dome, and there waited the doctor, Simon Temple, and a woman the inspector did not recognize. The woman was the old and her hair long greyed. Lines creased her forehead beneath her iron-colored cloche, and her face possessed a skepticism which surprised the inspector. She was thin, even gaunt, and draped in a formless drab cloak with a washed out red scarf wrapped around her neck. Her lips were pursed and the inspector did not remember seeing her in the crowd that morning.

                “Welcome, inspector. It seems more dire news is at hand,” said the doctor, removing his glasses and wiping them clean with a handkerchief. “While my friend here and I were out for an evening stroll, we happened upon a sign left by the criminal.”

                While he spoke, the doctor pointed at a sign prominently displayed on a post near the slope of the dome. It read:

                ANOTHER DAY, ANOTHER CRIME

                WORSE STILL THAN THE FIRST

                WOLF TO LAMB

                DEATH FOR THE DAMNED

                THERE WILL BE BLOOD

                AND SOON.       

- DESTORYER

 and grabbed an envelope from his companion, and handed it over to the doctor. It clearly had not been sealed shut, and was signed simply, “The Destoryer”.

                “Is that a misspelling? The destroyer?” the inspector asked, pulling the letter from the envelope.

                “It would seem not,” replied the doctor. “It’s an epithet the criminal has assumed as his identification. It explains such in the letter itself.”

                The inspector skimmed the letter briefly, expecting to pore over it in detail in a few moments. It explained the moniker, he who uncreates, who destroys the story in an unraveling. A psycho, then. The worst kind of criminal. And one who believes himself or herself an artist.

                The letter explained how the crimes were only begun. Seven days, a crime for each day of uncreation, and, in the end, the city would be destroyed. But, overall, it carried the sense of someone angry, someone vindictive and maybe a little deranged, but subtly so.  It was addressed specifically to the inspector, though it seemed each of the people present had already read it. A city with no concept of privacy, clearly.

                Whoever it is, they are foolish and intense – emotionally driven, scarcely leashed from insanity. There was a tremor of the artistic drive, as if these weren’t crimes, but surreal paintings of death targeted at a specific audience. But why?

                “So,” began the inspector. “How do we stop this?”

“How do we even begin? It’s already evening, and there is no way of getting information out to every citizen. And how do we defend a city-wide expanse of citizenry?” Seth replied with a bit of a whine. Had they all read the missive already?

“Any thoughts, Doctor?” asked the inspector.

“Information is slow in this city,” piped in Simon. “And even if everyone knew, we still don’t know the details all that well. It is vague enough to be impossible.”

“We could go door-to-door,” the doctor replied. “But even so, how can we stop a murder that could happen at any time, in any place? It’s a tall order.”

The inspector nodded. They were right, of course. They had no place, no time, no real specifics about the murder. It was a dire inevitability, and the immobility of the moment angered the inspector.

“Very well. A few words, Doctor?”

The doctor nodded, and the inspector motioned them over to the side. Seth and Simon made to leave.

“Hold a moment, Seth. I’m not finished with you yet,” the inspector called out, and Seth slumped and stood still. “Doctor Evatt, have you learned anything more?”

“Yes, I have found out some interesting things. You must visit me at my lab, shortly.

The inspector sighed. He’d hoped to learn everything now. “Is there anything you can tell me here?”

The doctor rearranged his glasses on his nose. “There is little I can tell you without showing you, Inspector Mondieu. But I can tell you the deaths happened a couple hours before you arrived, and it was not, I believe, the loss of blood that killed the victims alone.”

The inspector nodded. He’d been expecting that. Why was it so hard to get information from anyone? “How did you find this sign?”

Doctor Evatt shrugged. “My companion and I were out for an evening stroll in the park, and the sign is not, particularly, concealed.”

“And everyone else? Why is Simon here, and Seth? When did they arrive?”

“Shortly before yourself, sir. Seth, it seems, was also wandering through the park this eve, and Simon showed up just after Seth left to find you.”

Everyone just randomly wandering the garden at night, then. An uncanny coincidence.

“Very good. What about this companion of yours?”

Evatt waved off the question. “She’s a long-time friend and patient, and many evenings we dinner and stroll around the parks in the city. Even men such as I need true friends, inspector,” the doctor said with a tired smile. “People to walk with us when we cannot sleep.”

The inspector only nodded. “I’ll be seeing you tomorrow, Doctor. Stay alert, we may need your services shortly.”

The doctor’s eyes looked pained, deep wells of sorrow ages old. “I pray it is not so, but it would seem likely. Good night, inspector.”

The doctor walked off and, taking his companion’s arm, they leaned on each other and walked off into the night.

“Seth?”

“Here, Inspector, sir.”

“Seth, I believe we’ll have need of some additional police forces. Can you assign some additional fellows? People you may trust? We’ll also need a place to work from, a collection of information and resources. Can I trust you to handle that?”

“Yes, sir. We’ve set up an office in the industrial district just past the technology tower, a small building with a silver façade and a small fountain in front. Here is the address,” Seth replied, handing the inspector a small slip of paper. Fascinating. More capable than I originally expected. Perhaps this lout was not so useless as I originally believed.

“I’ve already been interviewing potential candidates as well, Inspector Mondieu. Shortly, we’ll have two more men for the job,” Seth continued.

                Strange. His nervousness seems almost fled from him. Was this the same man nervous and twitching his fingers only a half hour before? The same man who could not meet his eyes this morning? A transformation. Hopefully, it would be enough. The inspector needed all the help he could get.

                “Very good, Seth. I’m impressed with your diligence. There is nothing more to be done here at this time. Keep your eyes open, you know where to find me.”

The inspector left with the missive clasped in his hands, leaving the others standing, motionless, beneath the flickering lamplights. The shadows seemed fuller as each person left the park, the light less capable of holding the darkness at bay.

The inspector checked his watch. He still had time to glance around for Horten a while before turning in. As he walked around the garden, he considered the sign, the second clue. Wolf to lamb? What did that mean? A hunting reference? Was the inspector the lamb, or the victims themselves? And the destroyer? What was he intending? The inspector caught the dubious reference to creation, as an anti-creation, but wasn’t sure of the purpose, as yet. Why? What possible vengeance or hatred could someone harbor against this city?

For several hours, the inspector wandered the gardens and the empty northern markets. Quite a number of people were out for strolls, and the inspector asked if anyone knew where Horten might be, and none had seen him. What could he do to stop this second crime? Obstacles were thrown in his investigating path at every turn. The inspector began the walk back to the inn for the night, though he suspected he would sleep poorly this night.

Where had the day gone? It seemed only moments since the murder this morning, and he had not even found the gardener for questioning. Questions seethed in his mind, roiling as a stormy sea, and his face was set, grim against the crimes of twilight. The game was begun, and justice come, in the form of a dark clad man.

The stars shivered in expectation of the night.