The Philosophical Strangler(21)

Plucky girls, though, I’ll say it now. As terrified as they were, they managed to think quick and talk almost as quick as me.

Greyboar and I, as it turned out, had definitely accomplished the first part of the job—tracking down the Baron’s ex-girlfriend and “the rival.” Caught them, in fact, in the very act of “alienating his affections.” Marooning his affections on the moon, more like. What the upper crust calls in flagrante delicto, don’t you know? What we crude plebes call humping like rabbits. Having a grand good time of it, too, like teenagers usually do.

The ex-girlfriend’s name was Angela. She was the one on the left. Cute as a button, which wasn’t surprising given that she was all of seventeen years old. She was a short girl, with one of those lush figures that looks so striking on a small woman. Her complexion was dark. Not as dark as Greyboar or Gwendolyn, who look like desert nomads, but at least as dark as an Ozarine. “Olive-skinned,” they call it. Her eyes were big, colored one of those rich dark brown hues. Almost the same color as her hair, which was on the short side but so curly that it framed her head like a halo.

The “rival” was the one on the right. Jenny, her name was. Eighteen years old—the predatory older woman of song and legend! Other than being almost as young, Jenny’s appearance was very different from Angela’s. She was taller and slimmer, with long blondish hair and green eyes. Where Angela was drop-dead gorgeous, Jenny was what you might call “country-girl pretty.” But even in the tension of the moment, I was struck by her eyes. In their own way, they were just as lustrous and sparkling as Angela’s.

The story was simple enough. The Baron had bought Angela from her father the year before. The Baron’s “affections,” as Angela described them, did not make him a candidate for the World’s Greatest Lover. His most attractive characteristic was cold indifference. His other qualities went very rapidly downhill from there.

Jenny had been hired on some months back as Angela’s seamstress. After the terrible epidemic in the Year of the Jackal, she’d been orphaned. She managed to stay out of prostitution because she’d learned to be a seamstress from her mother. Starvation wages, of course, but Jenny hadn’t been able to accept the alternative. She was a stubborn girl, that much was obvious.

Over time, close proximity led to this and that, and eventually they’d planned and carried out Angela’s escape. Since then they’d lived here, in the little house Jenny had inherited from her parents. Jenny was teaching Angela how to sew, and the two of them had plans to open a little shop in the room below.





“Of course he’d call me his ‘rival,’ ” snapped Jenny. “Think the mighty Baron’d admit his girl got stole by a girl?” I swear, the two of them even giggled at that point. Plucky, like I said.

“But why’d he do it?” I demanded. Well, screeched. I fear my voice was shrill. “We’d have found out sooner or later, and I told him a dozen times if I told him once—I swear it!—‘Greyboar won’t choke girls.’ ”

Greyboar had calmed down by now. Actually, he was almost as pale as the girls were. In fact, not to put too fine a point on it, he was looking positively ragged. He looked around for a place to sit. Angela and Jenny moved over, still clutching each other, giving him room to sit on the bed. When he sat down, the bed creaked alarmingly. He must have weighed twice what the two of them did together.

“He knows my reputation,” growled Greyboar. “That’s what the rotten bastard’s counting on. All professional chokesters have to keep their reputations clean as a whistle. Not a very trust-filled business, strangling. If you don’t take your professional ethics seriously, you’re soon out of business; it doesn’t matter how good your fingerwork is. And my reputation is as good as gold. Never violated professional ethics. Never. Not once.” His nostrils flared, it’s a sight to freeze a man’s blood, believe me. “I even strangled my own guru!”

I cleared my throat. Couldn’t believe what I was about to say—me, his agent, of all people! But, well, I’m a hard-boiled cuss, sure I am, but—well, the truth is, they—the girls—they—

Couldn’t do it. Just couldn’t.

“Maybe this once, big guy. I mean, what the hell, we’ll tell the Baron if he complains we’ll tell the world the truth about his rival. We’ll shout it from the rooftops! He’ll be the laughingstock of New Sfinctr! Of all Grotum!”

Greyboar shook his head. “Won’t work. Two reasons.” He held up two fingers like cucumbers and counted off.