The Philosophical Strangler(45)

“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.





Chapter 7.

The Second Law At Work

Well, it’s like everything in life—there’s an upside, and then there’s a downside.

The upside turned up almost at once. Only a day after Marcel came into the inheritance, Henry secretly told all the remaining now-disowned non-heirs the true manner of Avare’s passing. It was an act of complete treachery, of course—not only to Marcel, but to his great-grandfather’s last wishes.

“Least I could do to pay back the miserable old tyrant for years of semi-slavery,” he told me later, sharing a friendly ale at The Trough. Personally, I suspected there was another motive as well, judging from the fancy clothes which Henry was wearing. I do believe Henry’d been skimming the old man’s till for years, I do. Hard to explain the manservant’s newfound riches otherwise. I figure he decided Marcel would want a complete audit done of the estate, first thing, and so best to get rid of him quick.