Hunting for Silence

12. 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, êtes complètement fou! Personne ne devrait pouvoir se promener à l'heure de la matinée.'

'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 cela va coûter à Ambrose de déduire cette 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 voudrais juste l'arracher! Elle m'a volé le rôle principal dans les trois derniers opéras effectués dans cette décharge! Elle mérite de mourir! Le serpent la mordre?'

'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, votre misérable petit cafard!'