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a long coat from Carél and a high-heeled red shoe from Dot that was strapped over the tip of her tail. It was obvious that reptiles wore out clothes faster; with all that scraping against the stone and asphalt of the sidewalks it was unavoidable. She knew that the others also appreciated the first Monday of the month, but for Cobra this bonus was considerably more valuable than for stuffed animals who walked on two or four legs.
    She reached the gateway on Avenue Michelle Duboir just as she heard the Evening Storm’s first ominous whispering. As usual the gate stood open, and she crawled in through the arch and across the cobblestones of the dark, gloomy inner courtyard. She knocked with her head, waiting for the electronic lock to open, and then pulled open the door. The stairs down to the basement were like one long, winding promise.
    She was the first.
    “Terrible,” said Jasmine Squirrel, who came to meet her at the door. “Simply terrible.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    Cobra did not want to converse. She did not even look at Squirrel. The clothes were hanging in long rows on racks in the middle of the floor in the well-lit room. There were two makeshift dressing rooms, little more than curtains hanging over spanned steel wires, but usually no one tried on the clothes anyway.
    “No, but . . . Emanuelle, you have to pull yourself together now. I’m talking about your Oswald Vulture.”
    “Oh, yes. Sure.”
    “What did the police say?” asked Squirrel.
    “The police? They . . . asked their questions. Is that a Luigi Barcotta?”
    Cobra nodded toward a white dress with ruffles and shoulder straps. It would absolutely not suit her. Jasmine nodded in boredom, and her long, luxuriant tail billowed expectantly behind her.
    “Correct. Barcotta. I thought we should try him for a few months. I’ve never been truly converted, but—”
    “Vulture was a swine,” Cobra stated. She wanted only to wriggle over to the rack of Barcotta garments before anyone else arrived. “I didn’t even miss him at lunch. There are lots of swine, so I don’t intend to make a big deal out of Vulture, and it’s clear that it was . . . horrid. But life goes on. And if you’re going to cut someone’s head off, Oswald Vulture was not a bad choice.”
    “And you said that to the police?” Squirrel mumbled ironically.
    “Now I must go over and look,” said Cobra.
    Jasmine Squirrel nodded, and Emanuelle was over by the clothes racks in a matter of seconds. Squirrel went back and sat down at a little table where she had her papers. She did not need to give any instructions. Cobra knew the rules. She could get clothes for ten thousand. Not a cent more. Every month they returned, the females who were part of the secretarial pool, and picked out new clothes. The company had tried other limitations: a certain number of garments, a certain number of a certain kind of garment, but all such variations led to arguments and jealousy. Easier to put price tags on everything, and let the females keep track of the amounts themselves. Besides, this had proved to elevate the experience.
    Doesn’t she even wonder what will happen now? thought Jasmine Squirrel as she looked over at Cobra, who was completely engrossed by the new Barcotta collection. In principle, thought Squirrel, Cobra has lost her job. Doesn’t she understand that? But there was no worry in the black latex body squeezing into a red sleeveless top and hurrying over to the mirrors to see how she looked.
    Carefree, thought Jasmine Squirrel. Or hopeless in the full sense of the word.

1.6
    S uperintendent Larry Bloodhound took a short detour past his office. There he threw together a suitable number of papers to stuff into his briefcase, accidentally spilled a half-full can of cola over the keyboard that he never used anyway, and left for the day. Determinedly he made his way to the stairs. He kept his gaze straight in front of him. If he glanced to either side and let