Hunting for Silence by Robert Thier

Investigating

Have you ever tried to get a hungover French prima donna out of bed at seven in the morning? No?

Lucky you.

Now try imagine that, only while your head is hurting like the devil rammed his favourite pitchfork through your left ear, and you’ll have a vague idea of how I felt the next morning. I didn’t exactly feel like conducting an in-depth investigation. However, I decided it was better than trying to face Mr Rikkard Ambrose, since I was not entirely certain whether last night had been a weird dream, or whether I had really answered his renewed marriage proposal by oinking.

‘Merde! Vous, les Anglais, vous êtes complètement fou! Personne ne devrait pouvoir se promener à cette heure de la matinée.’[20]

‘Oh, come on Claudette,’ I told the prima donna. We had gotten to a first-name basis last night. It was amazing what you could achieve while completely wankered. ‘Put a chausette in it.’

She wrinkled her nose.

‘What would I want with a ordinary, filthy sock? I only wear se most finest silken stockings.’

‘Oh, just be quiet and come along. You know as well as I what we have to do.’

She continued grumbling in her native language, but she followed after me and settled herself down beside me in the room that had been declared our official centre of operations.

‘And?’ I asked her. ‘Ready to investigate? Remember, you are my translator, so you’ll have to pay close attention.’

She gave me a look of polite disinterest, and made a ‘pouah’ noise in the back of her throat that was as uniquely French as you could get. Sighing, I turned towards the door.

‘Oh, well. Here goes nothing.’ I cleared my throat. ‘Send the first one in!’

The door opened, and a lady rushed in, a few music sheets in her hands and a dangerous glint in her eyes.

‘Est-ce que Ambrose va déduire ce temps de mon salaire?’ she demanded.

Claudette and I shared a look.

‘Do you need me to translate sat?’ she enquired, one corner of her mouth twitching.

I sighed and pulled out a list of prepared questions. I could see this was going to be a long investigation.

I turned out to be right, and wrong in a way. Right because I had not the least difficulty finding people who harboured a grudge against my new friend, the temperamental prima donna. In fact, the first two dozen people I interviewed gave me extensive and detailed plans of what they’d like to do the stuck-up witch, never mind that the stuck-up witch in question was in the room translating for them.

‘Pourquoi voudrais-je mettre un serpent dans sa chambre? Si je voulais nuire à la chienne, je lui aurai juste tiré dessus! Elle m’a volé le rôle principal dans les trois derniers opéras effectués dans cette décharge! Elle mérite de mourir! Le serpent l’a mordu?’

‘Why would I put a snake in her room?’ Claudette translated. ‘If I wanted to harm the bitch, I would just shoot her. She stole the leading role from me in the last three operas performed in this dump! She deserves to die! Did the snake bite her?’

Thoughtfully, my translator inclined her head. ‘I have to admit, she has a point.’

‘Err…you do? She has?’

‘Absolutely. That’s what I would have done if she had gotten the leading roll. Shot her, I mean. Oh, and regarding the “bitch” comment…’

She turned back to our suspect. ‘Vous pouvez prendre votre arme à feu et tirer sur votre propre cul, misérable petit cafard!’[21]

‘Err…what did you just tell her?’

Claudette gave me a bright smile. ‘I told her that we appreciate her honesty and cooperation, of course.’

‘Of course you did.’

I asked the lady a few more questions, and Claudette translated (hopefully) faithfully, although I had the niggling suspicion that she tagged on a few less than complimentary remarks here and there. But who was I to prevent people from insulting each other? I was a firm proponent of freedom of speech, after all, as long as that didn’t include beating someone to death with a volume of famous speeches.

One after the other, more members of the opera staff filed in, and with each and every one, the proceedings went more or less the same. I’d ask if they had put the snake into Claudette’s changing room, and the answer would be…

Well, let me just give you a few examples.

‘Pourquoi utiliser un seul serpent? Et qui n’est pas toxique? Cela n’a aucun sens!’

‘Why would I use just one snake?’ Claudette translated, nodding approvingly. ‘And one sat isn’t poisonous? Sat does not make any sense! You know…she’s quite right, actually. If I’d gone for snakes, I’d ‘ave used more than one, certainment.’

Or, the next one:

‘Un serpent d’Amérique du Sud? Pourquoi d’Amérique du Sud? Ma cousine Monique a utilisé un serpent local lorsque son mari était grossier, et cela a bien fonctionné pour elle, à en juger par la taille de son pied. Comment oses-tu suggérer que je serais antipatriotique au point d’utiliser un serpent étranger? Vive la France et notre roi Louis Philippe!’

‘A snake from South America?’ Claudette translated. ‘Why from South America? My cousin Monique used a local snake when her husband was being rough, and it worked perfectly fine for her, to judge by the size his foot swelled to. How dare you suggest I’d be so unpatriotic as to use a foreign snake? Long live France and our king Louis Philippe!’

And finally, my favourite:

‘Mettre un serpent dans le vestiaire de la prima donna? Je ne ferais jamais une telle chose! Non, ce que je voudrais lui faire c’est coller une carotte sur sa tête, la peindre en argent et lui faire jouer une licorne sur scène devant tout le monde.’

‘Put a snake in the prima donna’s dressing room? I would never do such a thing! No, what I would like to do is glue a carrot to her head, paint her silver and make her play a unicorn on stage in front of everyo…really?’ Breaking off, Claudette turned to the vindictively grinning, middle-aged janitor that sat facing us. ‘Sat’s the best you can sink of, Francois? You need to sink of somesin’ a lot better if you want to get back at me because of the incident with se brooms, mon ami!’

At the end of a very long morning, I sagged back in my chair and stared at Claudette.

‘Does anyone in this place not want to see you dead?’

‘The mice under the floor?’ she suggested, as if she wasn’t entirely sure about them.

‘I don’t quite understand. How have you managed to get this many enemies? Do you have some nefarious alter ego that I have yet to meet?’

The prima donna gave a soft laugh, and looked at me with a mixture of pity and fondness. ‘Oh, my dear Monsieur Linton, you don’t actually sink sat sis has anythin’ to do with ‘ow I behave or w’o I am inside, do you?’

‘It doesn’t?’

‘Of course not! I am se prima donna! Everybody wants me out of se way. Sey want my job, or sey want revenge for my taking se job from them, or from their mother, cousin, daughter, grand-niece twice removed…you take your pick.’

‘Then how are you still walking and breathing?’

‘Se bon Dieu likes me,’ she said with a cheeky grin—which slowly disappeared from her face. ‘Or at least I thought so until yesterday.’

‘So…if everyone here wants you gone, how are we supposed to find out who put that snake in your room?’

Claudette shrugged, as if it were a matter which could still be solved tomorrow if we didn’t get to it today. But spending a lot of time in the company of Rikkard Ambrose had given me an eye for looking beneath the surface. I could see the little twitches in her face that betrayed her hidden emotions. And among those emotions, one rose high above the others: fear.

Reaching out, I squeezed her hand.

‘We’re going to get them. Whoever they are, we’re going to get them.’

She gave me a weak smile.

‘Thank you, Monsieur Linton. You are a good man.’

Why did people keep telling me that? It always made me want to answer ‘Not according to my crinkum-crankum[22].’

‘Let’s see…’ I bit my lower lip and concentrated, trying to see our problem from all angles. ‘We can’t discover who has a motive, because practically everybody does. What else is there? Hm…We could gather the entire choir and…no, that won’t work. We could get the music director in one room with a gorilla, an axe and…no, that won’t work either. We could…yes! Yes, that’s it!’

I snapped my fingers. Sitting up straight, I grinned at Claudette.

‘I know how we can find out the truth. Go and get Mr Ambrose! I’ve got a task for him.’

Claudette blinked. ‘You ‘ave a task for ‘im?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you want me to… fetch ‘im?’

‘Yes.’

‘You have plate armour and a gun for me?’

‘Ha, ha. Very funny.’ I waved her off. ‘Go! And hurry! We don’t have much time.’

She jumped up and ran, and—wonder of wonders—truly returned with Mr Ambrose in tow only a few minutes later. He did not look pleased. Not at all.

‘Mr Linton? I was told that told that my assistant required my assistance?’

Oh. I hadn’t thought about it in those terms before. Maybe I should have gone myself after all. I cleared my throat.

‘Well, um, err…yes.’ I sat up straight. ‘I know how we may be able to find out who’s behind all this. But I need your help.’

Even though I might have oinked at you last night. You wouldn’t mind that, would you? After all, it’s a perfectly acceptable response to a proposal in most porcian families.

For a moment, I was sure he would tear me a new one. For a long, silent moment, I was sure he would just turn around without a word and march out of the room. But instead, he looked at me and said: ‘How can I help?’

I felt a warm tug in my chest.

Maybe there was no oinking after all. Maybe, in response to his renewed proposal, I just passed out in a drunken stupor. Yay!

‘I’m going to call the staff in again, one after another. And while I’ve got them in here and am squeezing everything I can out of them, I need you to go search their rooms.’

One stony eyebrow lifted infinitesimally. ‘You want me to go and…what? Dig through dresses and note paper for clues?’

‘I want you to search for a cage. Or a basket. Or anything else that could have been used to bring a snake into this place. Unless, of course, you think whoever did this brought it in here wrapped around their neck, disguised as a shawl?’

‘Somewhat unlikely.’ Mr Ambrose gave a slow nod. ‘I see your point, Mr Linton. Adequate. I will go inspect the rooms in question, while you keep the suspects occupied.’ He gave us both one last, hard, ice-cold look. ‘Do your job well.’

Then he turned and was gone.

Beside me, Claudette raised a few sheets of music and fanned herself. ‘Oh là là! That man is simply…well, I know you are a man, so you would not understand, but trust me, he is…oh là là!’

‘Oh, I think I understand what you mean,’ I said, my voice rather fainter than usual.

We called in the first employee, and I pelted him with renewed questions, this time focusing on any contacts they might have to shipping companies, zoological gardens, geographical societies or any other place or organization that might somehow grant them access to rare South American serpents. This proved to be a far more fruitful line of enquiry than my previous attempts. By asking the staff members about each other and comparing their statements, I was able to eliminate most of them from my list of suspects. In the end, only three remained. I sent a messenger boy to inform Mr Ambrose who was under suspicion and where their rooms where located, and then detained them with further aimless questions. I was just starting to wonder how long I would have to keep them occupied when, from outside, a loud screech cut through the everyday noise of the opera house, followed by a resounding slap.

‘Stay here!’ Jumping to my feet, I pulled my revolver and raced to the door. Claudette, the stubborn idiot, acted as if she hadn’t heard me and stayed right on my heels. Ha! A woman after my own heart.

Racing down the corridor, I swerved around a corner, approaching the epicentre of the commotion. To judge by the sound of it, a minor French Revolution was going on somewhere in the opera house, involving mostly female revolutionaries. I was ready for anything when I came around the last corner.

Or at least I thought I was, until I saw Mr Ambrose striding towards me, three red streaks down his cheek, and the rest of him covered in rouge and pink feathers. I stopped in my tracks, my eyes nearly popping out of their sockets.

‘W-what happened to you?’

‘The directions you gave me to the last suspect’s room, Mr Linton—were they “left corridor from the entrance hall, two doors down”?’

‘Yes.’

Mr Ambrose’s eyes glittered with frost. ‘Interesting. I wonder how it is, then, that when I opened that door I appeared to have stepped into the ballerinas’ dressing room.’

My eyes, if possible, went even wider. ‘The ballerinas’…!’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh dear.’

‘Indeed.’

I eyed his decorated state. A tiny part of myself wondered if I shouldn’t feel jealous that Mr Ambrose had entered a room full of scantily clad women. But the bigger part of me felt only one thing when looking at him right now: a burning need to burst into maniacal laughter.

‘Mr Linton?’

‘Y-yes?’ I managed.

He raised a warning finger. A stray feather fell from his fingertip. ‘One word. Just one word, and I…’

I whirled away, ducked through the nearest doorway and managed to slam the door behind me before succumbing to the inevitable.

*~*~**~*~*

Once Mr Ambrose had cleaned up, and I had managed to regain control of my facial muscles, we met with Claudette in Mr Ambrose’s office for a strategic conference. Having told him about my three suspects, I expected him to have news for me after searching their rooms. And he did. Only not quite the news I was expecting.

‘None of those people had anything resembling a basket or a cage in their rooms, Mr Linton.’

I frowned. ‘You’re sure? Did you look everywhere? Did you—’

‘I checked every cupboard. Every wall. Every loose floorboard.’

‘Couldn’t you have missed—’

He gave me a look. ‘I spent years in the colonies with little money in my pockets and only my wits to defend it. Trust me when I say I know how to hide something.’

I closed my mouth and nodded. A little shiver went down my back. Every time he said things like that I realized how little I actually still knew about Mr Rikkard Ambrose. Yet…how were you supposed to question a man like him? It was more likely you could open a safe with a can opener.

Focus, Lilly! You’ve got more important things to do right now.

‘Well, then…what now?’

We exchanged looks. None of us seemed to know what to say, with the exception of Mr Ambrose, who knew how not to say anything.

‘I suppose I’d better go back to re-interviewing the staff,’ I sighed, finally. ‘Maybe there’s something I overlooked.’

The next few hours I spent once more cooped up with Claudette in our impromptu interrogation room, grilling one opera employee after another. But after an exhausting afternoon of endless questions, I still was no closer to discovering the truth. Finally, I slumped in my chair, utterly spent. Unfortunately, there were no yellow piggies to distract me. My eyelids, far too heavy to hold up anymore, slid shut.

‘Do you have any more of that fabulous plonk with you?’ I appealed to Claudette. ‘I could use some right about now.’

‘I’m afraid not, mon ami. Your dear employer confiscated it.’

I muttered something about Mr Rikkard Ambrose I would not be able to repeat in polite society—just as, without a knock, the door opened.

‘I didn’t quite hear that. You were saying, Mr Linton?’

Cautiously, I half-lifted one eyelid. There he was. Mr Rikkard Ambrose. ‘I, err…I was just discussing the current state of our investigation with Claudette, Sir.’

‘Indeed? So you have something to report?’

In answer, I sank deeper into my chair and groaned.

‘Not really,’ explained Claudette, my trusty translator.

Mr Ambrose opened his mouth, probably to fling some criticism at me—and then hesitated. His gaze slid over me, and a muscle in his jaw twitched.

‘Hm. Well…I can’t have you wasting the entire day with this. I am here in Paris for more than just this little opera house, you know.’

I groaned again, letting my eyes slide shut. Honestly, at the moment, I just couldn’t find the energy for a rebuttal.

‘Miss Allard?’

‘Yes, Sir?’ Claudette enquired.

‘Go.’

‘But—’

‘Go now. I have things to discuss with Mr Linton.’

Shrugging, Claudette rose from her chair and left the room, leaving me behind under the intense scrutiny of Mr Rikkard Ambrose. With all my might, I managed to lift one eyelid.

‘What? Are you going to give me a lecture on not doing my duties?’

‘No.’ He continued to watch me, his intense gaze sending a shiver down my back. ‘How long have you been working, Mr Linton?’

I thought of saying something like, ‘Not long enough, Mr Ambrose! I must get back to work immediately. After all, knowledge is power is time is money!’

But in the end, I just went with the truth.

‘Too long for someone with a hangover,’ I admitted, resisting the temptation to sink down onto the table. For a solid oak surface, it looked extraordinarily comfortable right now.

‘Is that so? Hm.’

He regarded me for a moment—then seemed to come to a decision.

‘Get ready!’ he commanded.

‘For what? More work?’

‘No. To leave. Meet me at the front door in ten minutes.’

My head, already halfway down to the tabletop, came up again.

‘The front door?’

He gave me a supreme look. ‘Do you think that this measly little opera house is the only business in Paris I have to attend to? I cannot waste all my time investigating an incident that might have been nothing but the random act of a jealous singer. I have more important things to do. There are some interesting real estate investments I want to examine while I am here, and I need someone to accompany me through the city. Be sure to make the cantina cook give you something edible to take along. The real estate evaluation will likely take up the rest of the day.’

It took a few moments for his words to sink in. When they did, I felt a tingle rise inside me. My one open eyelid rose a little higher.

‘This “real estate evaluation”…would it involve us walking through Paris? Making a tour of the city?’

‘Probably.’

‘And would it also involve us passing some popular tourist attractions?’

He gave a jerk with one shoulder, that might have been a shrug. ‘Quite possibly. These are difficult to avoid here.’

‘And we’ll be feeding pigeons?’

‘If you want to waste your lunch, be my guest.’

‘Mr Rikkard Ambrose…!’ A grin started to spread across my tired face. ‘Are you asking me on a romantic rendezvous to take my mind off things?’

‘Certainly not!’ His spine stiffening, he sent me an arctic look. ‘I am here for business purposes and require my assistant, Mr Linton. So get moving, will you? Knowledge is power is time is money!’

My grin widened. ‘Yes, Sir! Right away, Sir!’