You wouldn't think the strangler would be sentimental about
a client, but he was.
"He's been our most regular customer for years," complained Greyboar.
"Big deal," I sneered. "The old bastard's a cheapskate. And he drives me nuts! Every time he hires us he insists on haggling for hours. I wind up giving him a discount just to stop listening to his voice. Fine for you to wax philosophical about fond memories—you just do the jobs. You aren't the one who has to listen to that quavering whine for hours. You aren't the one—"
"All right, all right!" Greyboar glared at me. "I'll do the job—just so's I won't have to listen to you whining for hours. But I'm not happy about it."
He held up his hands, forestalling my outburst. "I know, I know," he grumbled, "you're the agent. You're the wizard manager. You're the financial genius. I'm just the muscle what does all the work and probably ought to be happy with whatever crumbs you drop from the table. But I still think it's stupid, at least in the long run."
"What long run?" I demanded. "He's got to be a hundred years old by now. How much longer do you think he's got, anyway? No, no, trust me on this one—better we take a big lump payment now instead of hoping for a few pennies later."
He was still glaring at me, so I glared right back and stuck in the knife. "Or have you got some cute little philosophical angle on this I don't know about?"
Of course, that made him furious. But I wasn't worried. Stick it to the strangler on his philosophy, and, sure he'd get mad as a wet hen—but he wouldn't do anything about it. Nothing physical, I mean. It was a matter of pride with Greyboar. He considered it boorish to refute a philosophical challenge with his thumbs.
So he glared at me for a full five minutes, frowning all the while in that inimitable fashion which would cause a lifetime of nightmares to any poor child which saw it. But he couldn't think up a logical riposte, and he finally gave up trying. He nodded once, indicating his official approval of the engagement. That was all I needed. I was out of the room in a flash, down the stairs, up the street, around this corner and that, and back in The Trough. I was in a hurry because I wanted to close the deal. Once we'd taken the money for the job, Greyboar wouldn't back out even if he did think up some idiotic philosophical objection. Professional ethics, don't you know?
Our prospective client was still there, at the same table in the corner. The silly jackass was all scrunched up, trying to make himself as inconspicuous as possible. His eyes were flitting hither and yon, flicking fearfully over the other occupants of The Trough. Dozens of lowlifes, there were at that hour, every one of whom—not to mention all of them taken together—was a source of fear and loathing for our client. Nothing unusual about his reaction, of course. He wasn't the first little rich kid who'd sat in that corner table, huddled and shivering with terror, while I left him to finalize the deal with Greyboar.
As soon as I sat down he started whining. "I could have had my throat cut fifty times over while you've been gone. You said you were only going to be a few minutes. You were gone for hours! I was alone at the mercy of these—"
"Oh, shut up," I snarled. (One of the things I always liked about the strangling trade—you really didn't have to fawn over your customers the way a greengrocer does.) "You were safer here than anywhere in the world. D'you think for a minute that any of the characters in this room would even think of scaring off one of Greyboar's clients?"
I sneered. "There isn't a cutthroat anywhere in the Flankn who'd try to come between Greyboar and a commission. Certainly not in The Trough! There's probably more pleasant ways to commit suicide, but there's sure none quicker."
I let the sneer slide off after a few seconds. It's good to put the piglets down, but you don't want to overdo it. As the wise man says: "Pissing on 'em's fine, but don't drown 'em."
"Besides," I added, "I wasn't gone all that long. Took me longer than usual, because Greyboar's not happy with the job. Your great-grandfather's been one of our steadiest clients for years. The big guy hates to let him go. In fact—"
Well, I won't bore you with the rest. Naturally, I used Greyboar's reluctance as my excuse to jack the fee up even higher. And, naturally, I succeeded. I wondered, sometimes, what Greyboar would have done without me as his agent. Probably been strangling crocodiles in a circus sideshow for peanuts.
I'll give the little rat this much, he put up a good struggle. No matter how scared they are—of their surroundings and of the very idea of hiring a strangler in the first place—I never saw one of these greedy heirs apparent who'd cough up the fee without squabbling. But it didn't bother me. The kid wasn't a shadow of his great-grandfather when it came to haggling. And Greyboar could say what he wanted—personally, I was looking forward to getting rid of that ancient horse trader. Wouldn't ever have to listen to him again, the venerable Monsoor Etienne Avare.
Yep, the Merchant Prince himself—our newly contracted chokee-to-be. The richest man in New Sfinctr, some said. That wasn't actually true. There were several dukes and archbishops—not to mention the Queen—who had fortunes to make Avare's look like a child's piggy bank. But he was certainly the wealthiest member of the parvenu classes. And, in any event, after a while the whole point becomes moot. Even somebody as greedy and tight fisted as me thought hoards that big were ridiculous. I mean, what's the fun of having so much money that you can't even count it?
Quite a guy, actually, Monsieur Etienne Avare. He'd amassed a fortune as a young entrepreneur, and then kept it growing all through his later years. Even when his years got later and later and later. Over a hundred years old, he was. He'd outlived all his sons and daughters, all his grandsons and granddaughters, and was halfway through the next generation.
Not without some help, of course. Greyboar was right about that—Avare had been a steady customer over the years. Every few months we'd get invited to his mansion, have a nice gentlemanly chat over brandy, and then get a commission to burke whichever one of his descendants had succeeded in convincing Avare they were worthless bums not worthy of inheriting his money. Very high standards he had, the Merchant Prince. Two generations had failed to meet them already.
Greyboar always liked the work. It was not only steady, but it was completely free of petty nuisances. The porkers who examined the deceased would invariably report them as suicides or accidents. One of the benefits, you'll understand, of having a merchant prince as a client. But, of course, he'd never had to deal with Avare's haggling. As soon as the brandy was finished, and the deal agreed to, Greyboar would make his grand exit while I had to stay and do the dirty work. The brandy snifters would disappear in a flash, replaced by a tumbler of salted water. After the first such session, I never made the mistake of drinking from it again. Hard to negotiate when you're dying of thirst, don't you know?
But it was all in the past now! We had a new client, one of Avare's half-dozen surviving great-grandsons. Marcel Avare, his name was. He'd gotten tired of waiting for the old man to croak, and since he was one of the few Avare scions who'd managed to make some money on his own, he'd been able to save up enough to hire Greyboar to bring him his inheritance. Much dumber than the old man, of course—he'd even let slip how much of a nest egg he'd saved up. I cleaned him out of every penny of it. But, then again, his loss would only be momentary. He'd soon enough be the richest merchant in New Sfinctr himself.
The deal made, our client scurried out of The Trough like a rodent fleeing a lion's den. I would have liked to have stayed myself, celebrating. But Greyboar always liked to do a job quick, and I'd need a clear head to figure out a plan of action. The truth was, it was going to be a tricky job. The old miser's mansion was built like a fortress, and he had bodyguards and watchdogs like you wouldn't believe.
So I left and went back to our apartment. Well, it'd be more accurate to say our garret. Three small rooms we had, on the top floor of one of the Flankn's tenement buildings. We could have afforded a nicer place, easily, but I never saw any reason to waste money on inessentials. Greyboar'd make noises now and then about "the dump," but he really didn't care that much himself.
By the time I got back, Greyboar had reconciled himself to reality. Sort of.
"You know how hard it's going to be, just getting to Avare to put the thumbs on him?" he demanded.
"D'you mind if I sit down first, before you start grousing?"
Once seated, I said: "Yeah, I know it's going to be more difficult than our usual jobs. But look at the bright side—I was able to crank our fee way up, moaning and groaning to the little snot about the insuperable challenges ahead."
"How much are we getting, anyway?" he asked sulkily.
I played the trump card. "Five thousand quid."
The sulky look vanished. Greyboar whistled. "Not bad, Ignace, not bad at all."
"Not bad?" I demanded. "It's better than three times our normal fee! It's as much as the old miser would have paid us for five or six jobs. And I didn't have to spend hours listening to the old coot demanding a discount for volume trade."
"All right, already," grumbled Greyboar. "I don't want to hear it again. I'll admit, it's a very good commission. Still and all, I think this job's going to prove a bad move in the end. Entropy, you know? The natural tendency of the universe to run down. You think you can get around it, but—"
"Will you shut up about your damned entropy?"
Once again, we were glaring at each other. Greyboar gave it up first.
"All right. I'll shut up about the entropy if you'll stop crowing about the job. I still think—never mind. Let's get down to brass tacks. How are we going to get to Avare?"
Before I could answer, there was a knock on our door. I got up and opened it. Surprised, I was.
"Henry?" I'm afraid my jaw was probably hanging down. The last person I'd expected!
But it was him, no question about it. Henry—old man Avare's manservant and general gofer. We knew him well. He was always the one who came and told us that Avare "desired our company."
Sure enough. Henry nodded politely, and then announced: "Monsieur Avare would desire the company of you gentlemen. Tonight at eight o'clock, if you would."
Greyboar started to say something, but I silenced him with a gesture. "Certainly, Henry. Greyboar and I would be delighted to come. Eight o'clock—we shall be prompt."
As soon as Henry left and I'd closed the door, Greyboar started right in.
"What are you doing, you little squirt? You know we can't take another job from old Avare now!" He glowered fiercely. "There's a matter of professional ethics involved here!"
"Who said anything about doing a job for him?" I demanded. "Was there any mention of a job? Did Henry say anything about a job? Did we agree to do a job? Did any money change hands? Was the crude subject of money even mentioned? No! We were simply invited over to the old miser's mansion for brandy. What better way to get in to see him? Without having to fight our way through an army of guards and watchdogs? We just waltz into the mansion, and then, as soon as Henry's poured the brandy and left the room, like he always does, you do the choke. Then we leave. By the time anybody figures out something's wrong, we'll be long gone."
Greyboar was frowning ferociously. Before he could say anything, I continued:
"Sure, and it'll be obvious we did the choke, but so what? We'll have to hide out for a bit, while the porkers make a show of looking for us. But we won't even have to leave the Flankn. And you know the porkers won't try all that hard to find us. The truth is, Avare's made himself plenty of enemies in this town—especially among the upper crust, half of whom owe him a fortune. There'll be counts and barons and earls and who knows what greasing the porkers' palms to let the whole thing slide."
He sighed. "Yeah, yeah, I know it'll work. But I don't like it. Your scheme bends professional ethics into a pretzel."
"And so what?" I couldn't pass up the opening. "You're a philosopher, aren't you? What else is philosophy good for if not splitting the hair between bending and breaking?"
Here I did my imitation of the wizard Zulkeh:
" 'Tis a truth known to babes in swaddling clothes, the epistemological distinction 'twixt bending and breaking! Did not the great sophist Euthydemus Srondrati-Piccolomini himself, in his ground-breaking A Loop Is But A Hole, argue that—"
Greyboar, the sourpuss, was not amused. But he gave up whining about professional ethics. Still and all, he made the rest of the afternoon miserable, muttering about "unforeseen entropic consequences" and such-like nonsense.
When the time came to leave, I was right glad of it. We hired a carriage. Bit too far to walk, and besides, wouldn't be proper showing up at Avare's mansion without suitably snooty transport. As much money as we were making for the job, I wasn't about to quibble over a few shillings. The more so since it was midwinter. New Sfinctr's winters are fairly mild—it's about the only saving grace the city has, business opportunities aside. But a mild winter's still not summer.
My misery wasn't over, though, because Greyboar started whining all over again after I explained the details of the plan. It was the part about the brandy that upset him.
"And why shouldn't we wait until after we've had the brandy?" I demanded. "Avare's brandy is the best in town, you know that."
"I don't care," grumbled the strangler. "You can twist professional ethics all you want, you miserable little lawyer, but I still think it's going too far to drink a man's brandy when you're planning to put the big choke on him."
"What's the difference? He's a chokee no matter how you look at it. And enough about professional ethics! He won't start talking business until after the brandy, you know it as well as I do. So we finish the brandy—the best in the world, that brandy is—and then, when he starts in about a job, we just politely decline. If you want to be an absolute stickler about it, you can explain to him that we have a prior engagement which prevents us from accepting his commission—professional ethics, don't you know? Then you give him the squeeze."
He hemmed and hawed, but he came around eventually. I knew he would. He loved good brandy, Greyboar did, but he was too cheap to buy any for himself. Well, actually, it'd probably be more accurate to say that I was too cheap to let him.
At eight o'clock sharp, we presented ourselves at the front gate of the mansion. Henry himself came out to let us in. He ushered us through the grounds—waving off the dogs and their keepers—and into the mansion itself. He took off our overcoats and hung them in the vestibule. Then he led us up the main staircase onto the second floor, and from there it was but a short distance to the study.
I don't know what it is about rich people that they always have to have a "study." Not the scholarly types, as a rule, your robber barons. I'll give Avare this much, his study actually had a lot of books in it. Nary a stuffed animal in the room. And the books all looked well read, too.
Of course, his library was highly specialized. One whole wall was taken up by much-thumbed copies of The Encyclopedia of Exploitation—all 788 volumes, he had the entire set. Another wall was taken up by leather-bound first editions. Top-flight stuff. All the great classics on the subject ever written by either one of the world's great scholarly clans: Rockefeller Laebmauntsforscynneweëld's trilogy: Plundering the Poor, Pillaging the Plebes and Peeling the Paupers. J. P. Sfondrati-Piccolomini's Beg and Be Damned. On and on.
Secular writings, mostly, but he had a fair number of the Ecclesiarchy's "Tomes for Troubled Times," too—for instance, Paolo Pipa, Cardinal Bufo's The Sin of Wages.
His proudest literary possession was encased in glass and mounted on the wall above the fireplace. The first time I saw it, I couldn't believe it. But Avare assured us it was genuine. Only four authentic copies in the world, according to him. An ancient piece of vellum, bearing a fragment of the legendary Primitive Accumulation of Capital, by Genghis Laebmauntsforscynneweëld.
As usual, Avare greeted us from his easy chair by the fireplace. In all the hours I spent with the old guy, I never once saw him out of the chair. "At my age," he'd explained, "one must conserve one's energies. My legs have long since withered to sticks, but one doesn't need legs to ruin rivals."
The truth is, Avare looked like he was already a corpse. The twitching fingers and the moving eyeballs were the main signs of life. When he talked, even his voice sounded like it came from the grave. Hoarse, faint, dry as dust.
"Be seated, gentlemen," he rasped. "Henry, pour these good men some brandy."
As soon as our brandies were before us, Avare raised his own glass in a feeble semblance of a toast. Greyboar and I drank deeply. The one downside to the whole business, I thought at the moment, was that we'd not be tasting any more of that terrific brandy. A sad thought. I drowned my sorrows. So did Greyboar.
"Goodness," said Avare, "you are both certainly thirsty tonight. Henry, leave the bottle next to the gentlemen. I shall ring for you when I need further assistance." Here he gestured to the small bell which he always kept by his side. But I wasn't worried about the bell. As feeble as Avare was, he'd never get hold of it before Greyboar got hold of his weasand. Very quick-moving, the chokester, when his mind was on business and not philosophy.
Henry left the room, closing the door behind him. A nice thick door, I noticed, perfect for deadening sound. Yes, indeed, things were looking good.
Greyboar was uncomfortable, fidgeting. And, of course, Avare noticed immediately. There was nothing decrepit about the old man's mind.
"You seem ill at ease, Sirrah Greyboar," he commented. "Not at all your normal self."
Greyboar muttered some silly stuff about indigestion. The old man wasn't fooled for a moment, I could tell. And the worst of it was that Avare decided to get right down to business instead of whiling away a pleasant half hour in well-brandied conversation. I decided then and there that I'd sneak the brandy bottle out with us when we left. Have to make sure Greyboar didn't notice, of course. The chokester would be bound to make a stink about it, yapping on and on about the fine points of professional ethics.
"I have requested your presence tonight," said Avare, "because I have concluded that yet another of my would-be heirs has demonstrated that he is unfit for the inheritance."
He frowned peevishly. "Really, I am so tired of the whole business. You'd think that one of my descendants would show some capability. I'm on to the fourth generation now. Such a sad and sorry lot they've proven to be! Most distressing! It's why I cling to life, you know? Personally, I'd as soon be done with it. At my age, the grave is a thing to long for rather than fear. But I have a grave responsibility to the family fortune. It's my plain and simple duty to ensure that it falls into competent hands."
Not to worry, old-timer, I thought to myself. Your toil and trouble is almost over. I made a little motion to Greyboar, signifying: okay, choke the geezer and let's get out of here.
But, naturally, that was too simple for the great philosopher! Oh no, he had to make a great ethical issue out of the whole thing! I couldn't believe it, I just couldn't! The huge numbskull started jabbering away as to how he couldn't accept the commission because, don't you see, he'd already taken on another client, don't you see, and given the nature of his commission, don't you see, there'd be an irremovable stain on his professional ethics, don't you see, if he accepted Avare's commission, don't you see, because—
Well, like I said, there was nothing wrong with Avare's brain, whatever condition his body was in. Greyboar hadn't stumbled his way through the first two clauses before the old man figured everything out. I could tell by the sudden gleam in the ancient eyes. There'd be no way now that Greyboar could get to the bell before Avare rang it. And besides, it was plain as day from his furrowed brow that Greyboar was completely pre-occupied with trying to elaborate the ethical whichness from the whatness. He wasn't even thinking about the bell!
But Avare didn't even look at the bell. He leaned forward and held up his hand. Surprised me no end, that—it was the most energetic action I'd ever seen the old man perform.
"Sirrah Greyboar!" he said. "Stop! There's no need to continue. I am in complete sympathy with your situation. But before you get on with the job, I must know—who employed you to strangle me?"
Greyboar—pardon the expression—choked.
"Uh, uh, I'm not sure, uh, wouldn't be proper—"
"Come, come, my good man!" snapped Avare. "What possible objection could you have to informing me of the identity of my murderer?"
Greyboar looked over to me. I shrugged.
"Well," said the strangler, "I was hired by your great-grandson, Marcel."
"Wonderful!" cried Avare. "I knew it! I knew it! I had all my hopes pegged on that boy!"
Then, before we could think to stop him, he started ringing the bell furiously. The truth is, Greyboar and I were both a bit confused at the moment. And before we could think to take action, Henry was already in the room.
"Henry!" exclaimed Avare. "Bring more brandy! The sealed bottle!"
Henry gasped. "The sealed bottle! Is it—"
"Yes, yes!" replied Avare. "And tell me—which one do you think it was?"
Henry shrugged. "Well, Monsieur Avare, as you know, I have always been partial to Marcel."
"Yes, Henry, your instincts were correct. Marcel it is. The marvelous lad!"
Henry left the room hurriedly. Avare turned back to us.
"Gentlemen, if you could postpone your business for just a moment longer, I would appreciate your joining me in another glass or two of brandy. The world's greatest brandy, I might add. I've had a sealed bottle of Derosignolle waiting in the cellar for the past thirty years. Surely you won't pass up the opportunity. Only twelve bottles left in the world, you know."
Well, the long and the short of it was that Greyboar and I spent the next hour finishing the bottle of Derosignolle with Avare and Henry. The situation by then was so bizarre that it didn't seem odd to have the old man's manservant take off his coat, roll up his sleeves, and pull up a chair for himself.
"Been with me for years, Henry has," explained Avare. "Closer to me than any of my family, in truth. It's only fitting that he should be part of this grand celebration."
Seeing the look of befuddlement on our faces, Avare snorted. "Gentlemen! Why do you seem so out of sorts? Haven't I already explained that I've simply been clinging to life long enough to make sure that one of my descendants was worthy of the family fortune? And for it to be Marcel! I had hopes, of course, but I was getting a bit distressed that it seemed to be taking him so long to get about it."
"He's still quite young, Monsieur," said Henry.
"Not that young!" replied the old miser. "Why, by the time I was his age—well, let's have none of that. No one wants to hear an old man's ruminations on the past, not even the old man himself." He took a sip of brandy. "Won't even have to change the will. I'd already named Marcel the sole heir. Purely on speculation, of course, but then"—here he grinned evilly—"I've always been a great speculator."
When the brandy was finished—and, by the way, it was the greatest brandy I'd ever had, before or since—Avare became all business.
"I believe it would be best to have the choke administered right here. I haven't actually left this chair in years, except for—well, no need to be vulgar. Very fond of this chair, I am, I shall be most pleased to expire in it."
He turned to Henry. "I can trust you to make the usual arrangements with the police, Henry. We certainly don't want Marcel's inheritance to become complicated by busybody officials."
Henry nodded. Avare thought a moment longer, then frowned.
"There is one small point, Henry," he said. "I really should not like the cause of death listed as suicide. Wouldn't want any of my rivals, what few still survive"—here he cackled horridly—"to gain even the slightest comfort from my demise. Much rather have them think I died in a state of complete satisfaction with my life. Which, after all, is the plain and simple truth."
"I completely agree, Monsieur," replied Henry. "The police coroner would never agree to suicide as the cause of death, in any event—no matter the size of the bribe. He'd be the laughingstock of New Sfinctr. His career would be ruined! Who would believe it? Does a shark commit suicide? Nonsense!"
Henry coughed apologetically. "If Monsieur will forgive me, I have given some thought in the past to the proper way of handling this joyous occasion. As it happens, the timing is perfect. The miserable incompetent, Emile Vantard, was thrown into debtor's prison just yesterday. I thought it would be suitable if I had the rumor spread that, in your glee at the ruination of a long-standing rival, you leapt from your chair and began capering about, howling like a wolf. Alas, your aged legs failed your spirit and you fell, breaking your neck."
"Perfect!" cried Avare. He cackled again. "Perfect, perfect." Then, after stroking his chin:
"One last little point. Now that Marcel has shown his mettle, I must insist that his inheritance remain undisturbed." He gave Greyboar the rheumy eye.
The strangler shrugged. "I'm bound to be approached by the other heirs after the will is read. The disgruntled heirs-that-aren't, I should say. Be a line of them outside my door, I expect."
I saw my chance and leapt at it. "Of course, we'd be forced to turn down the offers, if we were prevented from taking them by a prior commitment. Clear matter of professional ethics."
I leaned back in my chair, restraining a sigh of satisfaction. Then, smiling innocently at Avare, reached for my brandy.
Stopped. How the hell he'd done it without my noticing is a mystery, but Henry had already switched the snifter for a glass of salt water.
"To be sure," wheezed Avare. "Professional ethics—of course! I shall have to provide you with an honorarium. Something substantial enough to offset any possible later counteroffer from Marcel's rivals."
My heart sank. I stared at the glass of salt water in my hand.
Wheeze, wheeze. "To be sure, to be sure. I foresee a lengthy negotiation." Avare's ancient vulture's eyes seemed to be glowing at the prospect.
Greyboar rose hastily from his chair. "Not my job, this." He patted me on the shoulder. "I leave the matter entirely in the hands of my trusted agent. I'll while away the time in the kitchen, with Henry."
Bitterly, I watched Greyboar hurriedly drain what was left in his own snifter. Then, heard alum poured over bile.
"Take the whole bottle with you, my good man!" urged Avare. His eyes were fixed on me like a carrion eater on a dying mouse. "Ignace, I'm sure, won't have any need for it. Professional ethics, you know. No reputable agent would befuddle his mind with strong drink whilst in the midst of protracted bargaining."
I think I let out a whine. Not sure.
But, finally, it was done. To my surprise, I even managed to squeeze a bundle out of the old buzzard after I raised the specter of Marcel's rivals forming a consortium. I think his heart wasn't entirely in it anymore, now that he was eagerly looking forward to his eternal rest.
And so was I, so was I.
"Make it quick," I hissed to Greyboar, as I opened the door. "Before the old bastard changes his mind."
The strangler snorted and lazed his way past me into the salon. As I began to close the door, I heard the Merchant Prince speak his—hallelujah!—last words.
"I believe the time has come. I can trust you to do the job properly, I am sure."
"You won't feel a thing," rumbled the strangler.
And he didn't, either. At the end, I couldn't resist peeking. I've got to give Avare his due. He went out of this world the same way he passed through it. The satanic grin never left the old pirate's face.