The Austrian Aroma (LSD, #5)

14. Poison

Poison

"This mission isn't over yet.", Shirley says.

I look around. On the table in front of me, I see a hot cup of coffee and a piece of chocolate cake, still warm from the oven. On seven chairs against the wall of the dining room of Twilight Zone, I see the seven members of the Sieben Gänge gang. Every one of them confessed her crimes and accepted her punishment. On fifteen other chairs behind me, the oldsters are happier than ever. All our problems are solved, the world is saved, and we're celebrating our success. But Shirley doesn't agree.

"You better relax and take a piece of chocolate cake, Shirley. There's nothing left to worry about. Or are you the kind of woman who always wants to have the last word?", I say.

Shirley, still in her toga of the Advocate of the Devil, paces around in front of the seductive seven: "What was the work you did for the gang? You received orders, and you reported back. What were those orders about? You had to invent irresistible recipes. Am I right? Were those recipes used to cover up the taste of poison? Is that how you killed millions of people each year?"

A good lawyer never asks questions she doesn't already have the answer to. The seven fat ladies of heavy crime nod in silence. Shirley goes on with her final plead: "Who gave the orders? Who received the reports? Who is The Chef behind all these activities? The Sieben Gänge gang doesn't consist of seven people. There is one more, The Chef, and it's already Saturday afternoon, the terrorist attack is tomorrow, time is running out, the clock is ticking, so, ladies, you better start talking FAST!"

"Wereallydon'tknowwhatyou'retalkingabout,wehavenothingmoretosay,we'vetoldyoueverythingweknow,wehavenoidea,we—"

"STOP!"

"But... you said we had to talk fast. I broke my tongue on that last word."

I stand up and offer Shirley my seat, my coffee, and my piece of cake, because this is a piece of cake for a real spy, trained in terrible torture, an exactitude expert, an intelligent Interpol interviewer, interfering in interesting interrogations. No more rhetoric questions. No more lawyer word games. We need facts.

The courtroom falls silent. The smacking and clacking stop. Even the triplets hold their eternal gossip for a complete second. I stand in front of the accused women, point my index finger at the last one, Barbara, and ask with a severe tone: "What was the last order you received?"

"Three crates of pear liqueur and ten boxes of dark chocolate bonbons for the Luxembourg Ambassador."

Okay. Wrong question. I need to get warmed up. Slowly, I pace to the other end of the line, point my finger at Michaela, and ask: "Who paid you for the recipes you invented? How did you get the money? How did you get the orders to make those recipes? How did you send them? To whom? Did you invent that Caribbean Kiss yourself?"

Nothing like shooting an entire salvo to get warmed up. The result is immediate: "Do you want me to answer all those questions at the same time? Can't you make a list of priorities? Why do you point your finger at me? Do you enjoy it, making me nervous? Are you angry with me? Or do you talk to every woman like this?"

The rest of the gang responds too: "Didn't you ever learn how to behave in front of a woman?" "Do you enjoy making her upset?" "Can't you see she's crying?" "Why is it so important to you to know all this?" "What do you want to know anyway?" "If you want to have the right answers, you'll have to start with asking the right questions, don't you think?" "Can you pass me the sugar, please?"

The jury behind me responds too: "Can't you be quiet?" "What did you say?" "How can I hear the answer when everybody's talking at the same time?" "Can you pass me the milk, please?" "May I have another piece of this delicious chocolate cake?" "I left my false teeth on my nightstand. Can I borrow yours?"