Egon dug out the notebook and opened it to the final page, handing it to Thompson. “Her initials written in the back, plain as day. KH. Find the puppets, you find the girl.”
Straining to catch every word, Thompson had been listening intently, his elbows on the desk. Now, he leaned back in his chair and switched his attention to Theo, his face fallen with sympathy. “Puppets?”
“Look, I wouldn’t have come here if I didn’t on some level believe that there’s a connection at play. It was her favorite spot in all Québec. Maybe she did venture inside and lost her shoes. Maybe the owners of this Quatre Mains have something to do with it, or could provide some explanation about the notebook, the matchbook, the shoes. Lord knows, it is more than you have been able to find in all this time.”
In a loud clear voice, Foucault chided him. “We’ve turned the Old City upside down. We have spent more time on this case than many, monsieur. It’s not that we have given up, but puppets—”
“You’ll forgive my sergeant,” Thompson said. “Of course we will look into the matter. I’m sure we can find something about the proprietors of the Quatre Mains. Track them down, eh, Foucault? Though I must say, the fact that Monsieur Picard was camping out illegally in the building does not help matters.”
“Pardon me,” Foucault said. “I cannot believe we are talking about these dolls, but I do not want to insinuate anything at all.”
As he heard their patronizing apologies, Theo realized just how far gone he was. Of course, they were humoring him, and he would have felt the same in their place. Puppets. To say it aloud made him realize just how preposterous Egon’s theory had been. And just how crazy he was to believe in such fairy tales.
“We will contact you should anything come of our investigation,” Thompson said. “In the meantime, let me ask you to leave police work to the police. Under no circumstances are you to go back to the Quatre Mains. Or any other abandoned buildings. Could be dangerous.”
Out on the sidewalk in front of the police station, Egon hunched against the wind and lit a smoke. They stood there not speaking to each other, each wondering how such a solid story had produced such disappointing results. A few stray snow flurries danced in the air, and when Thompson came charging through the door, he was bundled for the cold. He grinned when he saw them and hurried over.
“I was hoping to catch you before you left,” he said. “I wanted a word in private. My sergeant is something of a natural skeptic.”
With a flick of his wrist, Egon tossed the cigar into the street. “So you believe us?”
“Let’s take a ride,” Thompson said. They drove through the winding streets of the Old City, quieter in late October, free of the summer tourists. Halloween decorations hung from the lampposts, ghosts and witches in colonial garb crowded into the public squares, jack-o’-lanterns dotted the second-story balconies where once had hung baskets of flowers, and in the shop windows, silhouettes of bats and black cats, a few posters advertising special street performances of the Fant?mes. He parked the car on the corner nearest to the Quatre Mains, and they walked to the shop. The glass rattled when he tried to open the front door.
“Locked tight as a nun’s chastity belt,” Egon said. “Enter from the rear, like I told you.”
Theo looked right and left down the empty street. “Shouldn’t we seal off the crime scene? Put up some of that police tape?”
“So far the only crime is breaking and entering. And I don’t suppose you’ll want me to arrest you for that.”
Single file, they slipped down the alley and found the back entrance. With a twist of the knob, the door opened. Stale air pressed down upon them, and the abandoned room looked shabby and desolate in the pale afternoon light.
“This was the workshop,” Thompson said, “where they made the dolls and puppets. Where you brought your broken treasures to be fixed.”
“You know this place?” Theo asked.
“From when I was a boy. In its heyday, the Quatre Mains was known far and wide, best toys in Québec.” He led them through the beaded curtain into the main room and paused, conjuring memories. “Every child loved the Quatre Mains. You could find things here that were nowhere else. My maman bought me a set of the Irish Guards here, tin soldiers, I see them clearly as yesterday. Made in England. And my little brother would beg my father on a Saturday morning to come to town for the puppet theater they ran in the tourist season. Punch and Judy most of the time, but every once in a while, something special. Magical.” In the dust on the countertop, he wrote the name Nico with one finger.