The Philosophical Strangler(41)
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.”