Chapter Forty-Seven
Pluck took supper on his own, in his room, so that he might have some moments of quiet in which to perfect the formulation of his hypothesis. The interviews were winding down. He’d just about deduced the whole of the conspiracy. But he needed to be sure, and to be sure, he needed to satisfy his erotic impulses, so that their debilitating influence should not, like a herd of passionate cows gathering on a train track, derail his thinking.
There was no question in his mind: he would have to have Frau Hühnerbeinstein.
He leapt up, overturning his table and his supper, and dashed out of his room. He raced down the corridor, up a flight of stairs, to a door and knocked with ardour. “Madame! Open at once! Remove your clothes, and open the door! It is of the utmost importance, I assure you!”
The door opened, and the coronel held a knife against Pluck’s cheek.
“Eye-Goo! Old friend!” But his pleasure at seeing his comrade soured into offence: “But what are you doing in Frau Hühnerbeinstein’s suite?!”
“This is my suite, and if you don’t go away, I’ll cut you up—‘friend’!”
“Out of my way this instant!” He pushed Eyague aside, hard, and strode in. Frau Hühnerbeinstein was nowhere to be found, but the coronel took the opportunity to slice at Pluck’s cheek, earning the inspector a gash to twin with his original.
“Ow! You fool—you stumbled and cut my cheek!”
“Get out!” the coronel screeched.
“Not till you produce Frau Hühnerbeinstein!” Pluck wiped the blood, then pulled out the flowers from a vase and looked inside.
“She’s across the hall, you cretin!” the coronel seethed.
“You imprisoned her in a room across the hall? Tsk, tsk.” Pluck walked across the corridor. “It’s a good thing you’re friends with a detective, mio amico, or you’d be dead or in jail by now.” He rapped on the door. “Frau Hühnerbeinstein—are you tied up? Are you hurt?”
The door opened, and the diva appeared, in nightcap and robe. “What’s the matter, Inspector?”
“Nothing, nothing—only, will you please come with me to my bedroom?”
“What for?”
“Sexual relations, madame. I wish to enjoy your body, and I make no apologies for it.”
“No,” she said simply.
“Really?”
“Absolutely not.”
“By ‘Absolutely not’, do you mean—”
“Shall I kill him, madame?” the coronel asked, holding his knife to Pluck’s throat.
“No, no, just get him back to his room, if you please. Good night, Inspector.”
Pluck hung his head. He was sad.
“I said ‘Good night’, Inspector.”
“Good night, madame,” he mumbled, and shuffled off to his room.