Hunting for Silence by Robert Thier

The Ifrit and the Banshee

It wasn’t difficult to find out where the trouble was happening. All we had to do was follow the ear-piercing screams. And they were screams this time, Mr Ambrose assured me, not high notes in a Mozart aria. Personally, I couldn’t tell the difference, but then, I was an expert on opera the same way a squid was an expert on mountain climbing.

‘Over there!’

Mr Ambrose pointed down a corridor, at the end of which a banshee seemed to be getting strangled. We started to sprint forward, and the farther we got, the more people joined us. It’s interesting how people always run away from danger when they’re being chased, but run towards it if they aren’t. One of the many proofs for the essential blockheadedness of humankind.

Finally, we reached a door with a name plaque on it that I didn’t bother to try and pronounce. To judge by the women crowding around the entrance and the shrill screams still issuing from inside, it was easy enough to deduce that there was a lady in there, but other than that, I had no idea what was going on. The women were blocking the way.

‘Stand aside!’ I ordered.

They ignored me.

I glanced sideways at Mr Ambrose. ‘Maybe they don’t speak English?’

He gave me a look.

‘Stand aside!’ he commanded. Instantly, the crowd parted for him, and the ladies curtsied as he passed. I followed, grumbling something not very flattering about arrogant, chauvinistic men. I hated them even more now that I’d been one of them for a while.

Inside the dressing room, a voluminously voluptuous lady stood plastered against one wall, screaming with the stamina possessed only by professional singers and crazy demagogues on Speaker’s Corner. To her right, a girl in a maid outfit stood pressed against the wall, her face white. And on the other side, nestled into the chaise longue…

‘Holy Moly!’

Mr Ambrose cocked his head. ‘Indeed.’

There on the chaise longue, bold as brass, as if it were perfectly at home here and a well-known native to Paris, lay a coiled snake, its colourful scales shining in a poisonous pattern. As if feeling the attention, the reptile raised its head and hissed. Screams erupted all around in a high-pitched cacophony that was loud enough to ring my skull like a bell.

I gave a derisive snort.

God! And these ninnies called themselves women? The snake wasn’t even doing anything! It was just sitting there and hissing.

‘Calm down, will you?’ I called, cutting through the kerfuffle.

‘Calm down?’ the maid squashed against the wall exclaimed. ‘’ow should I calm down? Sere is a snake in madame’s room! A great, big poisonous snake, c’est vrai!’

‘No, no.’ I waved her concerns away. ‘I know this snake. I’ve seen it before in South America. It isn’t poisonous.’

‘It isn’t?’

‘No.’ I patted her hand. ‘It just wraps around its victims and squeezes them to death.’

Maybe, I realised as renewed shrieks threatened to rip apart my eardrums, I shouldn’t have said that last part out loud.

‘Well, Mr Linton?’ Cocking his head, Mr Ambrose gave me a look.

‘What are you looking at me for?’

‘You got them screaming again. You get them to stop.’

‘And how am I to do that?’ I demanded.

‘It might help if you removed the snake.’

‘Fine, fine!’ I sighed, pulled out my revolver and shot the snake through the head. And you know what? Those ninnies still didn’t stop screaming! If anything, the din got louder!

‘Parbleu!’the prima donna exclaimed. ‘C’est scandaleux!’

‘You shot it!’ the maid shrieked. ‘You shot it!’

‘Well, of course I did. You wanted it gone, didn’t you?’

Annoyed, I turned towards her—unfortunately forgetting that I still had a smoking gun in my hand. That ratcheted up the screaming to new and unexplored levels. Wincing, I raised my hands to cover my ears. Luckily, Mr Ambrose picked the gun out of my hand before I accidentally shot myself through the head.

‘Out!’ he commanded, cutting through the screams like a hot knife through foie gras. The assorted singers and dancers scattered. Only the prima donna and her maid remained plastered to the wall. I could only assume they had never dealt with Rikkard Ambrose personally before. Silently, he lifted one finger to point first at them, then at the door.

‘Mais…mais Monsieur Ambrose…’

‘Dis is Madame’s room!’ the maid protested. ‘You cannot just—’

‘Out. My secretary and I will attend to this problem. You will be notified when this room is once more ready for your use.’

The young woman’s eyes widened. ‘Our use? Mon Dieu, you cannot expect Madame to return to this place after what has just ‘appened and just pretend that—’

Mr Ambrose took a step towards them and gave them one long, hard, cold look. The words died in the maid’s throat, and she curtsied.

‘Oui, Monsieur Ambrose. Tout de suite, Monsieur Ambrose.’

Half a second later, they were gone. Shutting the door behind them, Mr Ambrose strode over to the coil of limp scales on the bed, grabbed it as if it were a shawl, and lifted it up. Through narrowed eyes he examined the animal.

‘Hm. What do you think, Mr Linton?’

The question, as simple as it was, touched something deep inside of me. A year and a half ago, he wouldn’t even have considered asking it. But now…

He cared what I thought. More than that, he respected my opinion.

‘Well…’ Taking a step closer, I gazed at the snake. I had been right before. It was indeed a South American specimen. One, in fact, that I had nearly stepped on more than once during our travels across the continent. Seeing it this close up made me very glad I hadn’t. ‘I think we can both agree that this little charmer isn’t native to France.’

‘Indeed, Mister Linton.’

‘So the question is—how did he end up here?’

‘She.’

‘Pardon?’

‘She.’ Mr Ambrose pointed to the snake’s tail. ‘This snake was a lady.’ Glancing at me, he lifted one eyebrow infinitesimally. ‘You really shouldn’t make chauvinistic assumptions, Mr Linton. It is unbecoming of a gentleman, I’ve been told.’

The…the nerve of him!

Suddenly, I felt the strangest urge to throw myself on him, wrestle him down to the chaise longue and kiss him silly. But since the chaise longue was spattered in snake blood, I refrained, and instead gave him a cool look that told him exactly what I thought of his attempt to turn the tables.

‘Well, we still have to ask ourselves how this lady ended up here. I doubt she came over from Brazil because she’s an opera enthusiast. Could she have escaped from some kind of zoo or ménage?’

Mr Ambrose shook his head. ‘If there were something like this anywhere near my opera, I’d know about it.’

‘Is there someone who could have left this on purpose? Someone who hates the prima donna that much?’

‘Yes.’ Mr Ambrose nodded. ‘The prima donna’s understudy, the understudy’s understudy, the choir, the managing director, the orchestra, and half of the two dozen men who are in love with her.’

I blinked. ‘But if they’re in love with her…?’

‘They’re French.’

‘Oh. I guess that explains it.’ I hesitated. ‘But could any of these people have gotten hold of such an animal?’

‘Maybe. But for them, there would be far easier methods to achieve the same goal. A bucket of dirty dishwater balanced on the door, a bit of paint splashed over a costume—it does not take a deadly snake to upset a prima donna. And if the purpose was not just to play a trick on her, but to kill—why not simply shoot her? It doesn’t make sense.’

‘You…’ I hesitated. ‘You don’t suppose it was Dalgliesh after all, do you?’

He whipped his head around to look at me sharply. ‘What makes you think that?’

‘When I think of Dalgliesh,’ I told him darkly, ‘I think of a snake. Besides, this smells of something bigger than some spat between opera singers. There’s a vicious mind behind this, with resources at its disposal.’

Mr Ambrose considered it for a moment – then shook his head. ‘No.’

‘So he doesn’t have an opera house in Paris?’ I probed. ‘Any place that might be in competition with this one?’

‘Yes, he does. But the mighty Lord Daniel Eugene Dalgliesh would never stoop to concerning himself with the day-to-day running of such a small operation. Dalgliesh likes to plan great intrigues and play at politics. I am the one who has the hands-on approach.’

‘Oh, trust me,’ I told him with a wink, ‘I’ve noticed.’

The look he had on his face for a moment—just a moment—was priceless.

‘Yes. Um. Well…’ He cleared his throat. ‘Back to the business of the attempted murder…’

‘Must we?’

‘Yes, we must, Mr Linton.’

‘Too bad. Since you’re sure Dalgliesh is not behind this, I was hoping I was going to get to see more of this beautiful city. Maybe with some company?’ Sidling up to him, I put my arm around his waist. He, fervent romantic that he was, responded by holding a dead snake under my nose.

‘Well, then you shall get your wish. I will put the investigation of this incident into your capable hands, and to ensure you’ll have plenty of company, you’ll start by questioning all the opera staff.’

My eyes nearly bugged out of their sockets.

‘I what?’

‘Oh, and this…’ He dumped the dead snake into my arms. ‘Take it to an expert, will you? Find out where exactly it came from. Preferably without threatening anyone with a firearm.’

‘You…I…how…what…?’

‘Quite adequate questions to begin with, Mr Linton. I’m sure you will be a success as an investigator. Good day.’

And, turning, he strode out of the prima donna’s dressing room. I, for my part, stood there in silence for a moment—then looked down at the snake.

‘You know, I think I understand your choice of lifestyle. Strangling people to death is so much more satisfying that just poisoning them with a little bite.’

*~*~**~*~*

My first interview with a member of the opera staff went something like this:

‘Good morning, ma’am. Could you please state your name, and then describe in your own words as closely as possible what happened a few hour ag—’

‘Mon dieu! C’est scandaleux! J’exige de voir le gérant, ou du moins je l’aurais fait s’il avait été là, mais ce bloc de pierre appelé Ambrose l’a envoyé en vacances parce qu’il n’avait pas besoin de de le payer pendant qu’il était là, n’est ce pas? Cet homme me rend fou! Mais pourquoi suis-je entrain de vous le dire? Vous êtes son fidèle laquais, un homme dont il faut se méfier! Vous n’oseriez jamais remettre en question les précieux ordres de votre maître, n’est-ce pas? Allez au diable! Allez en enfer et prenez votre bloc de glace de patron avec vous! Peut-être qu’il va fondre et faire de ce monde un meilleur endroit! Et puisque nous sommes sur le sujet de l’enfer…’[9]

‘Um…yes. Thanks.’ I held up both hands, just about managing to halt the flood of words from the big-bosomed prima donna. ‘That’s a very great description. Now—could you repeat it in English, please?’

‘Pourquoi diable tu m’as appelé ici? Et pourquoi est-ce que tu continues de parler en anglais? Je ne comprends pas un mot de ce que tu dis. Honnêtement, je m’en fiche, mais j’ai de meilleures choses à faire plutôt que de m’asseoir là à écouter. Est-ce que Ambrose va déduire de mon salaire le temps passé ici?’[10]

I perked up. That last part I might actually have kind of understood!

Ambrose de déduire cette temps de mon salaire…

What could that possibly mean? Take three guesses.

‘Yes.’ I nodded emphatically. ‘He will absolutely deduct this from your salary. This and anything else he can think of.’

The prima donna slapped a delicate hand on the tabletop between us.

‘Merde!’

I beamed. She had understood! We were making huge strides in interlingual communication.

‘Yes, absolutely merde,’ I agreed, patting her hand. ‘Don’t worry, I know the feeling. I’ve had a few merde-moments with Mr Rikkard Ambrose myself.’

‘Cet homme est une tête de nœud!’[11]

‘Yes, absolutely. He definitely is a tait du noid, whatever that may be.’

‘Hm…’ The prima donna gave me a considering look. ‘Pour un homme, vous n’êtes pas trop mal. Surtout pour un anglais.’[12]

‘Thank you—I think. If that was was a compliment. You’re not too bad yourself, as long as you aren’t screaming or singing.’

Reaching into her humongous collection of petticoats, the prima donna removed a small flask and held it up.

‘Voulez-vous partager?’

Ah, the international language of getting completely wankered! This was one I definitely understood. With a broad grin, I snatched up the bottle, unscrewed the top and took a big gulp.

‘Hou la la! Ralentissez, petit gars, ralentissez!’[13]

‘Ooo la la is right!’ A broad grin spread across my face, and I handed her the bottle. She grabbed it, and took a gulp even bigger than mine.

‘Voila!’

‘Ha! That’s the best thing you can do? Give me that bottle!’

‘No way! If I do, it be empty in three gulps!’

I froze. Then, slowly, I raised my eyes to meet hers. She clapped her hand in front of her mouth. ‘Merde!’

‘You can say that again, Lady! How come you suddenly speak English?’

She gave me a sullen look. ‘I thought you call me to reduce my pay. That enfoirè Ambrose try to do that twice since he arrived. So I simply pretend I not understand. Simple solution be the best, eh?’

‘Genius!’ I slapped the table. ‘I wish I’d had that idea.’

A corner of her mouth twitched. ‘He try with you, too?’

Oh, he tried lots of things with me—most of which succeeded.

‘Um…something along those lines. But, you know, I’m not here to announce a pay cut.’

She nodded. ‘I gather from what you say.’

I frowned. ‘Then why did you keep on pretending?’

Her smile blossomed into a full-blown naughty grin. ‘It be so much fun to watch you wrestle with Francais and lose.’

‘You…you devious little…!’ I jabbed a finger at her, while the inner me stood up and applauded. ‘As punishment, you will serve as my translator! I need someone to help me find out what is happening here. And since you’re the victim, you’re pretty much the only one I can trust to tell the truth.’

‘Translator. New job, oui?’ She held out an open hand and raised a delicate eyebrow. ‘How much it pay?’

‘You’ll do it, or I’ll inform Mr Ambrose about this little scheme to avoid him.’

‘Qu’est-ce que vous avez dit? Je crains que je ne comprends pas un mot que vous dites. Je ne parle pas anglais. C’est un langage tellement compliqué, et je ne suis qu’une chanteuse idiote.’[14]

‘Really?’ I gave her a long, hard look. ‘You’re really playing that game again?’

She smiled at me with an innocence not even my little virgin sister could have matched.

‘Excusez-moi? Qu’est-ce que vous avez dit?’[15]

My shoulders slumped. Crap! Or, as the French would say, crêpe suzette! What was I going to do now? I needed someone impartial to translate, or I would never get anywhere in this damn investigation. How could I possibly change her mind and make her help me? How could I convince her?

My gaze swept over the well-endowed prima donna—and then, as if led by a helpful alcoholic divine entity, landed on the bottle. An idea popped into my head. An idea that, I was sure, Mr Ambrose would not like. Which of course meant I had to try it immediately.

A smile spread over my face, and I leant forward, towards my soon-to-be interpreter.

‘Listen. I have an offer for you…’