The Philosophical Strangler(31)

Really, a wicked sense of humor.

When Benvenuti was finished, Greyboar and I examined the portrait intently.

“You’re good,” announced Greyboar.

By now, my initial hatred for the man had ebbed considerably, and I was positively awash with simple ill feeling. If there’s one thing I admire in a man, it’s a proper sense of retribution.

“Good?” I demanded. “He’s bloody great! The portrait’s perfect! Perfect, I tell you. I know—I was—uh, I have it on good authority.”

Benvenuti began packing away his supplies. “Sirrah Greyboar, I thank you for your gracious assistance. I shall need tomorrow morning to render up the portrait to the estate. Beginning in the afternoon, however—or anytime thereafter at your convenience—I shall be available to do a portrait of your lady. I can do it here, if you wish. But, if I might make the suggestion, it would go better at my studio. The lighting is much superior.”

Greyboar coughed and looked away. I grinned.

“Bit of a problem, that,” I chuckled maliciously. “Fact of the matter is, Greyboar hasn’t the faintest idea where the lady is, where she’s gone to, nor when—if ever—she’ll be back.”

Benvenuti raised his hands. “You needn’t say more, Ignace. Indeed, please don’t. The lady’s whereabouts are none of my business.”

“They’re none of Greyboar’s business either,” I cackled. “The fact of the matter is, she’s not really his lady. Fact is she’s—”

Greyboar stared at the wall stonily.

“—pure and simple crazy.”

Again, the Ozarine artist was delicacy itself. “As I said, the matter’s none of my affair. But I repeat, Sirrah Greyboar: I shall be delighted to paint the lady’s portrait, whenever and wherever the occasion should come to pass.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” I giggled.

Greyboar tried to lay The Stare on me. But I’m immune to it.

“Oh, come on, big guy!” I grinned from ear to ear. “You’ve just got to learn to be philosophical about these things.”





In time to come, the portrait became famous. The Baron’s estate had conniptions when they saw it, but the fact is that Benvenuti had stayed within the letter of the law. Eventually, the Baron’s portrait was sold by the estate to some other mucky-muck—the Duke de Croûte, I think it was; one of the Baron’s longtime enemies—who promptly put it up for public display at a grand soiree. Greyboar and I were tempted to go, but, under the circumstances, we decided that would be a bit imprudent. But I did get a chance to see it, eventually, after it was acquired by the New Sfinctr Museum. It’s one of their most popular exhibits, in fact.

When I finally saw the portrait again, I was flattered to see that Benvenuti had even given it the title I’d suggested.

The Great Hunter. Sans Beaters. Sans Bearers. Sans Guides. Sans Tout But the Beast.

Beautiful portrait. Perfect likeness of the Baron in his last moments. Perfect, I tell you. The bulging eyeballs, the blowfish cheeks, the purple veins popping out on the forehead—most of all, the hopeless sense of doom gleaming from his eyes. Greyboar was in the portrait, too, of course. At least, his thumbs were.





Chapter 5.

A Delicate Affair

We didn’t see Benvenuti again for a time. Winter was upon us, and that was always a busy season for the trade. Noblemen and financiers and men-about-town came down with cabin fever, got cranky, decided what’s-his-name was the cause of all their misery, sent for Greyboar.

Then, alas, came spring. I hated spring. Everybody’s mood turned gay, flowers, birds chirping, all that crap. Business went into the toilet except for the run on brides by jealous rivals, and that didn’t do us any good on account of Greyboar wouldn’t choke girls. Fortunately, we did pick up the occasional groom. (Hired by rivals, sometimes; but usually it was the in-laws who came knocking on our door.) Otherwise we’d have starved.

So, anyway, come late April Greyboar suddenly decided to visit Benvenuti in his studio. The Cat happened to be around that day, and she agreed readily enough to the proposal. And when Jenny and Angela heard about it, they were practically bouncing off the walls in their eagerness to come along.

I wasn’t too happy about that, remembering how good-looking the damned artist was. But after I stalled for a few minutes, Greyboar—the treacherous dog—started making snide remarks about jealous shrimps. Then Jenny and Angela started making sarcastic predictions about midgets suddenly put on a regimen of total abstinence and I withdrew my objections. I did, however, insist on coming along.