#19
In front of LaSalle police station: Tuesday, early in the morning
The rain had strengthened, but the wind had slackened to make up for it. The torrents running along the gutters carried all sorts of rubbish from old newspapers to bottles, dead leaves and cigarette butts. It was as if no downpour could ever clean the streets completely. Pedestrians were already clogging the sidewalks like ghosts, scarcely awake but already late. Many were grousing under their umbrellas or hats, but most had accepted the fact that they would be sopping wet day after day, no matter what.
Waiting for Matt, Sergeant Hitchgins stood on the steps with the orderly. The latter was a good fellow nearing retirement who preferred standing there all day long welcoming visitors to stupidly risking his life on patrol such a short time before enjoying his pension. Hitchgins did not keep him company out of friendship, though. To tell the truth, he was being petty, hoping that Commander Pinelvy would pass and be outraged by seeing him there unshaven, uncombed and chewing his soggy cigarette butt under the yet indifferent gaze of passers-by. He was to be disappointed, because the Commander had a meeting with Judge Caryotte that morning.
Sally arrived, holding up her black dress to prevent it from dragging in the puddles. She noticed the sergeant through the constellation of drops dotting her almond-shaped glasses. She stepped closer, picking a lock of red hair from her wet nose.
“Ah! Dear Mister Hitchgins! I’ve been told…” She would never have dared to specify what she was speaking about, for she deemed that unbecoming. “What they are doing to you is dreadful.”
Hitchgins shrugged.
“Don’t worry Miss Sally. I’ve seen worse dan dat in me career. I guess I can help ya wid sumthin’, right?”
She pursed her lips. It was a fact that she only spoke to people when she had something to ask them but she didn't like anyone to point it out, be it explicitly or not.
“Well, in fact Inspector Harry asked me to check a few details regarding the murder at the Royal Hotel, six years ago. He wants everything I could gather about the killer and the precise timing of the crime. He believes it might have something to do with his current case and... Oh well, the folder must be somewhere in your office.”
The sergeant stared at her with a toad-like glaze over his fatigue-shadowed eyes. He took his cigarette butt between his thumb and index finger and quickly slipped his tongue between his lips to drive out a tobacco fragment.
“Seven years'n two months, actually. Da folder must be under me toolbox. Third from da bottom if me memory serves me right.”
Sally knew him too well to be in the least surprised. She thanked him and was about to step into the police station when he spoke again.
“Watch out though. There's a coffee stain coverin' da second paragraph of da second page. Da first witness arrived on da crime scene at'bout ten past 'leven in da evenin'. But Harry doesn't know which way's up anyway. Timothy Hanselholm hadn't got a record. Given who interrogated diz poor nutcase at the time, I can tell ya he'd have spilled da beans. And since then, ya can be sure he'sn't been in condition for any lousy trick. Poor little thing.”
That said, he put his ignoble cigarette butt back into his slack mouth. Sally thanked him again and went. About five minutes later, Matt arrived, limping slightly. He was trying to cover himself with his cape but it could not keep him from being soaked, if only because of the splashes from passing cars.
“Hi Matt. Ya're a little wee bit late dude, aren't ya?”
“Good morning Sergeant. I'm so sorry... I had not realized it would take more time than usual to come. This still hurts a bit, see?” He pointed at his ankle.
“Boarf! I'm hitchin' more dan ya today.”
Hitchgins stepped down the stairs with the gait of an arthritic hippopotamus.
“Oh my, that's true. What happened to you?”
“Lessay I've got sum kind of an altercation wid sumone who had more penetratin' arguments dan me.”
“I see.” The look on his face made it clear that he did not see at all but as usual Hitchgins paid no attention and headed for the nearest tram stop. Matt quickly caught up with him.
“Looks like we're going to pound the pavement together again, Sergeant... Where are we going today?”
Hitchgins stopped and raised an eyebrow.
“Haroupf! Don'ta tell me them sly dogs didn’t even bother tellin'ya?”
Matt looked rather surprised.
“Well... No. I mean, I don't know our mission yet, if we have one, that is.”
At this point they were interrupted by a man who suddenly planted himself right in front of them. He was tall, upright, displayed a smile straight from a tooth powder advertisement and wore a blue suit that was probably supposed to be elegant. He had a bundle of dripping tracts covered in big noisy letters.
“Good day to you, gentlemen! I'm delighted to meet you. Did you know that we, at 'Clean Streets, Clean Hands', have a special affection for lawmen. We think it is necessary to wipe out the scum that plagues our streets and we swear to leave no stone unturned to support you in your daily struggle. You are the hope of our splendid city!”
He shoved one of his flyers into the sergeant's hand. The latter hardly cast an absent-minded glance at it.
“Tell your colleagues about us! We want you to stop risking your lives for nothing. Local administrations must back you up. For a city uncluttered with rabble, vote for 'Clean Streets, Clean Hands' and get others to vote for us too!”
Hitchgins folded the paper and disdainfully slipped it into the man's breast pocket.
“Sorry to disappoint ya, me good sir, but as far as I'm concerned, ya can keep yar smelly bullshit to yarself. It's been nice talkin' wid ya.”
He walked away, not paying any more attention to the activist. Matt waited until they were out of earshot.
“Really, I wonder why you answered him like that. It's true that the city needs quite a clean-up, isn't it? I'd say it's our job.”
“I'll tell ya me little Matt. When “clean” means white, rich and tight-arsed, then I do feel a certain deep fondness for dirt.”
They had almost reached the tram stop when Hitchgins stopped again to look at Matt.
“I can't believe dis pesky manicured lavender-smelling ass-hole didn't even have da decency to tell ya. Sum people really needa buy themselves sum balls. We're headin' to the Wild Crescent, boy.”
Matt's eyes widened. The Wild Crescent was the far suburbs spanning from the South to the East of the agglomeration. This had always been a dangerous area, plagued by poverty and crime, but things were getting even worse these last years because the gangs had organized and federated to form a few crime empires. They had even seriously threatened the other parts of the City before Judge Peter's harsh and sometimes unconventional policies had pushed them back. Rumors said he had made a deal with the gangs already holding the city center to side them with the police against the intruders. Lately, the most active and reckless gang - though not the biggest - had been the Kamilet, from the Western part of the Crescent.
“But that's... that's...”
“Not as dangerous as they say... Ya shouldn't worry. No more than, what? Lessay a dozen'n a half colleagues've been wasted there in da last four months.”
“Twenty is still a big casualty roll, don't you think?”
“Nah, not twenty. A dozen and a half. One o'them had been caught by a maniac and we've only found half o'da corpse. So there's hope da oder half's fine and havin' a good time in the tropics, see?”
Matt made quite a funny face. Funny for the others, that is, because he was not laughing at all.
“Well, I guess things will never improve down there if we daren’t patrol the area, will they?”
Hitchgins chuckled and took the few steps to the stop where he waited, quietly ignoring the rain that would soak him to the bones for the rest of the day anyway. As Matt caught him up, he added:
“Oh, and by the way, dat would've been eighteen, not twenty.”
.
Well, she at least threw away her alliance with me, as did all my allies, except Albania (even though I didn't cal them in the fight).
