The Philosophical Strangler(44)

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.”