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Magnus,” Flamingo sighed as she filled the teacup with sugar, “what is one to do now?”
    Bloodhound didn’t know what she was talking about.
    “With the body and that?” Irina Flamingo clarified. She suddenly decided that was enough sugar and set the cup aside. “Because I have an appointment at the manicurist later this afternoon, and tomorrow is my massage day. Can he stay at the office until Wednesday, do you think?”
    The superintendent was about to answer but was interrupted.
    “No, no,” Flamingo cried out. “On Wednesday Guy is coming in the morning! And after a few rounds with Guy you’re completely wiped out. He claims my backhand is getting better, but I haven’t noticed it myself. Thursday. It will have to be Thursday. Can he stay at the office until Thursday? I don’t think anyone will mind, they can just close the door, can’t they?”
    “The law is very clear on this point,” Bloodhound explained amiably to the widow. “Stuffed animals without heads are not considered . . . dead. It happens fairly often that the heads are found again, and then they can be sewn back on. Simple as that. Some smarmy surgeon invoices the shit out of us and everything is back to normal. But we are . . . that is, not the police, but . . . the authorities are responsible for storing the headless body in a special warehouse.”
    “In a warehouse?” Flamingo asked, confused.
    “It’s the Chauffeurs who decide when life ends. We store the body in the warehouse until the Chauffeurs come and get it.”
    “And when is that?” the widow asked.
    Superintendent Bloodhound refrained from the cruder ironies that popped into his head. Instead he replied, “One never knows, Mrs. Flamingo.”
    “But can’t you call up the Chauffeurs? So that there’s an end to this?”
    “Don’t give up,” Bloodhound encouraged. “We have far from ruled out the possibility of finding his head, and—”
    “Or can’t you simply incinerate him?” the widow continued; it seemed as if she were talking with the books on the bookshelf. “Well, I don’t know. Not that it matters, really, if he comes home again or not. We didn’t see each other all that much.”
    “You and your husband?” the superintendent asked. “You didn’t see each other very often?”
    Unwillingly, Bloodhound began to realize that, true, this widow may be drugged, but sorry she was not. That felt sad, somehow. Larry had a romantic heart under his filthy shirts.
    “No, no, not all that often,” Flamingo repeated. “He was at the office, he lived at the other end of the house, and, well, he was an unpleasant animal, if I may say so myself. It was unpleasant to run into him, in the kitchen or in the garage, but . . . I suppose that’s over with now.”
    Bloodhound nodded.
    “May I offer you some tea?” Flamingo asked.
    “I already have some, thanks,” Bloodhound replied.
    “What service!” Flamingo exclaimed with surprise. “Was there anything else you wanted to know, Superintendent?”
    “Well,” said Bloodhound, picking up his notebook. “Just a few formalities. Did your husband have any other family? Parents still living? Were there any siblings?”
    “No siblings, no parents,” Flamingo answered clearly. “But we have a cub. He’s grown now, of course. Doesn’t live at home. That was long ago.”
    “A cub . . . and you have informed him about . . . what happened?”
    “I haven’t got hold of him yet,” Flamingo replied. “But he’ll probably call back soon. He calls sometimes.”
    “And, can you . . .” Bloodhound began. “This is an unpleasant question, Mrs. Flamingo, but I have to ask it. Can you imagine anyone who would have wanted to kill your husband?”
    Irina Flamingo giggled. “But, Superintendent, everyone knows that. No one liked Oswald. I can think of quite a few who wanted to kill him!”

1.4
    H e regretted it as soon as he opened the trunk and took out the socks. It was the sudden silence that made