The Philosophical Strangler

  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."

  "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.

  Anyway, before you knew it the strangler and assassin trade in New Sfinctr was booming. I had to turn down all the offers, of course—professional ethics—and leave the business to others. But I wasn't chagrined in the least.

  Why? Simple. I really had gotten a big bundle from Avare. Enough to keep Greyboar and me in the pink for quite a while. Long enough, I was certain, for someone else to do away with Marcel. At which point, of course, our obligation to the old Merchant Prince would have been satisfied and we could pick up on all the aftermarket trade. We'd be rich!

  Oh, I was such a shrewd fellow. Heh heh.

  And, at first, everything seemed to be going according to plan. Even with the second-raters that the disgruntled heirs had to settle for, it didn't take much more than a week before the new Merchant Prince of New Sfinctr was a chokee. Throttled, apparently, by someone hired by Marcel's brother Antoine.

  The next day, we were approached by Antoine's cousin Pierre. I rubbed my hands, foreseeing well-nigh-endless work. The Avare extended family was huge.

  Heh heh. Shrewd!

  Except—

  I couldn't believe it! Greyboar went mad!

  "I can't see it, Ignace," he insisted. "My interpretation of our obligation to old Avare is that we can't burke any of his heirs. No dice."

  The moron! But, since he was clearly prepared to be stubborn, I raced down to the Ethics Committee and got an official ruling. The Ethics Committee, being made up of sane and sensible men, naturally ruled that our obligation extended to Marcel alone.

  Didn't matter! Greyboar still refused to budge. He babbled some gobbledygook about the downhill nature of Time's Arrow and the intestines of entropy and God knows what other silly nonsense—all of which led him to the firm opinion that the Ethics Committee was shaving the thing way too close and that since he wasn't bound to actually take on the job by their ruling, he wasn't going to do it.

  Ethics, he said. And he wouldn't budge an inch.

  It broke my heart. Antoine was gone in four days. Pierre and his five brothers—one after the other, like tenpins—lasted ten days, thanks to the commissions someone got from his sister Amelie. Big commissions, according to rumor.

  * * *

  I spent those two weeks sulking, brooding over ale pots in The Trough. I didn't even pay much attention when that artist Benvenuti showed up one night and spent hours at another table with Greyboar, chatting over this and that. The crazy sister/lover, I imagine. Didn't care!

  Which, of course, was sheer stupidity on my part. Because Greyboar then disappeared for a few days and I was too disgruntled to wonder about it.

  Stupid.

  Stupid! I should have known better than to let the numbskull roam loose on his own. By the time I finally thought to track him down, the damage had been done. The further damage, I should say.

  I found him at Benny's studio, posing for a portrait. He must have been at it for days, because the portrait was almost finished. When I saw it, I almost had a heart attack.

  Not the cost of the thing, so much—although that was horrendous enough. (And can you believe the nerve of that artist, claiming he was only charging us "family" rates? What family? The nematodes?)

  No, no. It was the portrait itself. Havoc on canvas! Ruin in oil!

  * * *

  Even a lowlife like me could spot it. Benvenuti hadn't given it a title. Didn't need to. Take your pick:

  The Brooding Strangler, Pondering the Futility of His Wicked Life.

  Chokester, Gazing Into Eternity, Soulful.

  The Gleam of Reason Within the Beast.

  Ogre, in Repose, Regretting His Fangs and Talons.

  * * *

  Yeah, that kind of portrait. And I couldn't, no matter how hard I tried, get Greyboar to relinquish the monstrosity. At first, he tucked it away into a closet. But then, the first time the Cat drifted by for a visit, he hauled it out for her opinion.

  "You aren't that cute," she promptly announced. "Be nice if you were, though."

  Thereafter, Greyboar left it prominently displayed in his little cubbyhole of a room. Used to spend hours there, just staring at it. Practicing his "ethical entropy," he said.

  * * *

  Then, thankfully, my pain was eased because business hit what would have been a dry spell for us anyway, because Greyboar wouldn't have taken any of the six commissions offered to burke Amelie. Tough cookie, Amelie. She hired stranglers to strangle stranglers, and managed to stay unchoked for a fortnight. But then she died of poisoning.

  The dry spell would have continued, however, because the courts ruled that the last sister on that side of the family—Arianne—was the heir. But Arianne only lasted a day. Committed suicide. Stabbed herself twelve times in the back.

  Then the inheritance started running back through the masculine branches of the family. And, again, my heart was broken watching the lost commissions. I even started avoiding The Trough, so I wouldn't have to see the smug looks on the faces of all the hoi polloi stranglers lounging about the place in their newfound riches. By now the business was well into second and third cousins and every mangy ham-thumbed chokester in the trade was getting a piece of the action.

  Then—finally!—there looked to be a break in the clouds. One of the remote cousins, like an idiot, decided to bring in some lawyers. Didn't take long before the estate started getting gobbled up by legal fees. At first, I was worried that the gold mine would dry up. But I needn't have feared. It seemed the smaller the estate got, the more hysterical the feeding frenzy became. Pretty soon we had lawyers hiring stranglers to choke other lawyers—and offering (can you believe it?) to let them bill by the hour.

  Paradise! Not even Greyboar could claim any ethical problem with strangling lawyers!

  Nor did he. "Glad to," he rumbled.

  But—but—I couldn't believe it!

  He insisted on doing the work pro bono!

  "A professional is obligated to return something to the community, Ignace," he explained solemnly. "I just wouldn't feel right, charging for this sort of thing."

  He even left off his damned Languor and charged into the thing with vigor and enthusiasm. And, of course, with him back on the job, the whole thing was settled within a couple of weeks.

  There was one point where it got a little sticky. A pair of lawyers hired us to choke the other simultaneously. One of them went through me, following proper procedure. But the other one—on the very same day—accosted Greyboar himself on the street. He was so insistent that Greyboar took his money (one quid—just a token to satisfy protocol) without sending him to his agent. Naturally, having screwed the whole thing up, Greyboar started moaning and groaning about his professional ethics. I finally had to get an official clarification from the Ethics Committee. They ruled that since both commissions had been accepted in good faith, that they were both valid. But the Ethics Committee also fined Greyboar half the fee for not going through his agent like he was supposed to. It was a moral victory for me, you understand. But, on the other hand, I hated to lose the money. True, it was only half a quid. But the way Greyboar was throwing around his pro bono labor, I figured we needed every pence we could get.

  Like all good things in life, of course, the gold mine eventually played itself out. Within three months there weren't any heirs left and t
here wasn't any estate left and what few lawyers were still alive had already gorged themselves full. The way it finally ended up, the only thing left of the estate was a single bottle of brandy. The courts ruled that the bottle should go to Henry, since there were no heirs left and he was, after all, the faithful servant who had loyally served old man Etienne for umpteen years.

  Ironic, it was.

  Henry certainly thought so. He came by The Trough with the bottle and insisted that Greyboar and I drink it down with him. Leuwen the barkeep normally frowned on liquor being brought into The Trough instead of purchased on the premises, but when we explained the situation he gave his wholehearted approval. Even came over and had a glass himself.

  "Here's to treacherous servants!" he toasted.

  * * *

  So, I can hear you asking, where was the downside?

  Where do you think? Philosophy, of course.

  I started getting wind that something screwy was going on when I noticed that Greyboar was getting more and more cheerful as the pro bono commissions rolled in. Not at all like him, that. The truth is that Greyboar was lazy even before he discovered his "ethical entropy." After that he was impossible. Days on end he spent lounging around, grumbling about the smallest little job, whining and complaining that he had to practice his Languor. Usually, I had to crack the whip to get him to work. But here he was, charging around like a kid with a new toy, squeezing like mad, grinning all the while like an idiot.

  Finally, I demanded an explanation.

  "Isn't it obvious?" he boomed cheerfully. "You're seeing entropy at work! I told you this whole scheme of yours was goofy, in the long run. It makes me laugh just thinking about that old idiot! There he was, the great Etienne Avare, Merchant Prince of New Sfinctr, bumping off one relative after another so he'd be able to keep the fortune intact. A futile attempt to outsmart the second law of thermodynamics if I ever saw one! And what happened? Tell me! What happened?"

  By now I had my hands over my ears. Damned if I was going to listen to this gibberish! Greyboar grabbed my hands and pulled them away. I resisted, of course, but it was like a mouse resisting an elephant.