The Philosophical Strangler

by Eric Flint

  Jenny found them first. Wandering into a room where she shouldn't have been wandering, with me and Angela not far behind like we shouldn't have been, she suddenly started oohing and ahing again.

  "You've got to see these!" she squeaked.

  Angela scurried into the room. A moment later I heard her oohing and ahing too.

  "Oh, they're wonderful."

  Tiresome. Like I said, they ought to hang all artists just on general principle. Male ones, anyway.

  I moseyed into the room, just to bring the presence of masculine sanity and nonchalance. A bedroom, it was. The artist's, apparently. But I didn't have much time to examine the furnishings, for my eyes were immediately drawn to the portraits which lined every single wall in the room.

  I froze. Utter shock.

  The portraits were all of a single woman. The same woman, over and again, in a variety of poses. Except they weren't really poses. I'm no artist, but even I could tell that these paintings had been done from memory. These weren't your typical studio portraits.

  All kinds of portraits, there were. The most of them, mind you, were eminently proper. A woman—the woman—fully clothed, riding a horse. The same woman, sitting on a chair staring out a window. Same woman, singing.

  But, then—there were the others.

  The same woman—the woman—lying on a bed.

  You know.

  Artists call them "nudes." Us lowlifes call them nekkid wimmen.

  There were a lot of those paintings. The same woman, in a variety of different poses and attitudes. None of them were actually what you'd call pornographic, mind you. Even in my state of shock, I could tell that these were the kind of paintings that aesthetes go berserk over but don't do all that much for your normal regular-guy-type lecher.

  Still. I mean—naked.

  Her.

  That woman.

  I finally found my voice.

  "Get out of here!" I hissed to Jenny and Angela. "If we close the door and act like nothing happened, maybe we can still keep—"

  Jenny and Angela were glaring at me.

  "And just what's your problem now, Ignace?" demanded Jenny.

  "Yeah!" chimed in Angela, planting her hands on hips. "Still protecting your little cherubs? Boy, do you—"

  I tried to shut them up with frantic hand motions.

  Too late. Greyboar was already standing in the doorway.

  I sighed. "And here it is," I muttered. "Murther and massacree. So much for pleasant social outings."

  Greyboar was motionless—all except his head, which was slowly scanning the room. His eyes—I swear it—were starting to bulge out of their sockets. And that's some feat, believe me, when you've got a brow like his.

  "Aren't they wonderful, Greyboar?" piped up Jenny.

  Greyboar made no reply, beyond a faint noise which sounded like a man strangling to death. I was seized by a sudden urge to giggle. I suppressed the urge manfully. (Well, more like a despot suppresses insurrection.)

  The chokester scanned the portraits, wall to wall. His head swiveled back, scanning. When he was done, he turned and walked out of the room. There was a kind of slow but inexorable pace to his movement. Think of a glacier advancing on a rabbit hutch.

  "What's wrong with him?" demanded Angela crossly.

  I rolled my eyes. Pointed to the portraits.

  "That's his sister," I hissed. "Gwendolyn."

  Their eyes grew round. They stared at the portraits. Me, I just sighed and left the room.

  In the studio, I found Greyboar standing in the center of the room. He was staring at the artist, who was still seated and working on his sketches.

  I started to head toward the chokester. Not quite sure why, really. I mean, it's not as if a guy my size is really going to restrain the world's greatest strangler when he's hell-bent on—

  What would you call that, anyway? Throttling your sister's squeeze? Sororicopulicide?

  But, to my surprise, Greyboar turned away. And then, to my utter astonishment, went and got a chair against the far wall, hauled it out, and planted himself upon it. And there he sat, his face like a stone, watching the artist finishing his sketches.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Hrundig enter the room. His eyes quickly flitted about, taking in the whole scene. Greyboar, seated, staring at Benvenuti. The door to Benvenuti's private room, open. Jenny and Angela, now standing in that door, staring pale-faced at Greyboar. Me, standing in the middle of room, looking like—whatever I looked like.

  Yeah, Hrundig looks like your classic barbarian lowbrow, but there's really nothing at all wrong with his brains. It didn't take him but the instant to size up the situation. His expression grew grimmer—some trick, that—and his hand moved to his sword.

  For a moment, everything was frozen. Then, suddenly, Benvenuti sat up straight, blew out his cheeks, and exclaimed: "Finished!"

  He held up the sketches and turned his head. For the first time, he became aware of his surroundings. His eyes flicked about, absorbing the odd poses and expressions on the people in the room. He cocked an eyebrow.

  "Is something amiss?" he asked. He glanced down at the sketch pad. "You don't care for them? I think they're quite excellent—and I'm usually my own harshest critic."

  "It's not that," I muttered. "It's those other—"

  "You should perhaps have kept the door to your private room closed," said Hrundig.

  Angela and Jenny started scurrying forward.

  "We shouldn't have gone into that room in the first place!" squeaked Jenny.

  "That's right!" chimed in Angela. "The gentleman has as much right to privacy as anybody!"

  Greyboar spoke then, his voice sounding even more like an avalanche than usual. "There's an interesting set of portraits in the other room," he rumbled.

  Benvenuti's face grew absolutely still. Not scared-shitless-still, though. Just—still. As stony as Greyboar's own.

  I was impressed. Really impressed. Most people, when Greyboar gives them The Stare—men, for sure—turn pale, sweaty, sickly looking, etc., etc., etc., including, usually, serious bowel-control problems.

  Not this guy. Artist he may have been, and an Ozarine to boot, but he had steel balls.

  I made a last, desperate attempt to head off slaughter and mayhem. "Hey, big guy," I said, placing a restraining hand—so to speak—on Greyboar's shoulder, "I'm sure his intentions were quite honorable. It doesn't mean anything, you know. Women are always posing stark nak—uh, nude—for artists. It's not the same thing as—you know. Different rules."

  "That's right!" squeaked Angela. Jenny nodded her head about a million times.

  Benvenuti rose, dropped his sketch pad on the chair, and walked over to the door to his private room. He started to close it, when a thought apparently came to him.

  "Cat," he said. The Cat turned away from a portrait and gave him that bottle-glass stare. Benvenuti's face was expressionless, still, and then he said—in a voice with nary a quaver (boy, was I impressed):

  "I believe you are the only person here who has not yet examined the paintings in my private chambers. You might want to take a look at them. They're far better than the ones out here." He made a slight gesture with his hand, politely inviting her in.

  The Cat drifted past him into the room. Benvenuti turned back to Greyboar.

  "The woman in those paintings," he said harshly, "was not a model. Nor did she ever pose for me. She was my lover, once, and I did those paintings from memory."

  I sighed, and covered my face with a hand. "Oh, boy," I muttered. "It's like the wise man says: 'why waste a good excuse on a dummy?' "

  Through my fingers, I saw Hrundig stiffen. His hand was now gripping the sword tightly.

  Angela—bless the girl—made her own desperate attempt.

  "It must be someone else!" she piped. "Just a passing resemblance."

  "It's Gwendolyn," rumbled Greyboar. "There isn't another woman in the world who looks like that. Besides, the paintings are perfect. Every detail. Eve
n got—you remember, Ignace, that time you bit her when you were kids?—even got that little ragged scar on her left knee."

  Suddenly, Jenny charged forward and planted herself before the strangler.

  "You behave yourself, Greyboar!" she admonished. "We're having a pleasant afternoon and I won't stand for anything spoiling it!"

  "That's right!" cried Angela. A moment later, she was standing next to Jenny, wagging her finger in Greyboar's face. "We won't stand for any of your roughneck ways!"

  Benvenuti started laughing. Everyone stared at him.

  "What's so funny?" demanded the girls.

  "You are," he replied cheerfully. "You look like two mice lecturing a bear on table manners." He shook his head. The gesture expressed admiration combined with wonder.

  Greyboar's face suddenly took on an actual expression. The Stare vanished, replaced by a peeved frown.

  "I'd like to know why," he grumbled, "everybody seems convinced that I'm about to turn this place into a slaughterhouse."

  "There's a bit of a body count in your past," said Hrundig.

  "That's business," replied the strangler. A glance at Hrundig's hand, followed by an irritated shrug. "Oh, stop clutching that stupid sword, Hrundig. There's no need for it, and it probably wouldn't do you much good if there were."

  "I imagine not," replied Hrundig. "Still—Benvenuti is my friend."

  Greyboar looked up at Angela and Jenny—or, I should say, looked straight at them, for even seated his eyes were on a level with theirs. Suddenly, he grinned.

  "Benvenuti's right. You do look like two mice lecturing on protocol."

  The girls flushed. Greyboar took a deep breath and gazed up at the ceiling. "It was quite obvious that Gwendolyn never posed for those paintings, Ignace, so you could have saved us that ridiculous suggestion."

  "Worth a try," I muttered.

  Still staring at the ceiling, Greyboar sighed. "Ignace, not everyone in this world is as hot-tempered, choleric and pugnacious as you. Nor, Jenny and Angela, am I quite the homicidal maniac you seem to think I am. But, even if I were, I still wouldn't have done anything about those paintings."

  His gaze dropped; he glanced toward Benvenuti's private room. "Only one person in the world scares me," he muttered, "and that's my sister. I imagine she'd take it badly, if I was to go out and do something like choke her former boyfriend on the grounds that he had sullied the family name." He grimaced. "Real badly."

  He looked at Benvenuti, now, and for what seemed like endless seconds they stared at each other. I understood that stare. Two men, both of whom in their own way loved a woman, simply acknowledging that fact. I found myself swallowing. There were times—now and then—

  When I found myself missing Gwendolyn. A lot.

  The Cat came back into the room. She wasn't doing her usual drifting, though. She headed straight for Benvenuti. For an instant there, I could almost follow her progress.

  "Is that it?" she demanded, pointing at the tablet on the chair.

  Benvenuti nodded. The Cat picked up the sketches and studied them. Then she studied the artist.

  "You're good," she pronounced. She looked back at the sketches. "Is that really what I look like?" Then, without waiting for an answer: "It's exactly what I feel like."

  She transferred her stare to Greyboar. "You should see the portraits he has in the other room. They're wonderful. They really are. Not at all like the crap on the walls out here. The funny thing is, the woman in the paintings looks kind of like you, except she doesn't look like a gorilla."

  "My sister, Gwendolyn," rumbled the strangler. Abruptly, he rose.

  "Well, I believe our business here is done," he announced. "The Cat's happy, which is what matters."

  Then—I almost laughed, here—Greyboar actually nodded very politely to the artist. Almost like one of your real upper-crust salon-type bows, that was.

  "I thank you, Benvenuti." Greyboar hesitated, adding: "Someday, if you'd like, come visit me at The Trough. I—would like to hear about Gwendolyn."

  "I will do so, then," replied the artist.

  Greyboar turned and left, after ushering the Cat through the door. I started shooing Jenny and Angela after them, eager to make an escape.

  "One moment, please," came Benvenuti's voice. We stopped and turned around.

  The artist was smiling at Jenny and Angela. "The moment I saw the two of you," he said, "I wanted to do your portrait. Now, after witnessing your gallantry in my defense, I must insist. At no cost to yourselves, of course."

  Jenny beamed. "Oh, that'd be great!" exclaimed Angela.

  Well! I didn't think it was great!

  "I don't know about this," I growled, in my best man-of-the-world tone. "Two innocent young girls—an artist—who knows what might—"

  "Oh, shut up!" snapped Jenny.

  "Yeah, what's your problem?" added Angela.

  I bore up stoically under their childish complaints. "Well, you know, he'd probably want you to pose, you know, with your clothes off."

  "And so what if he does?" demanded Angela.

  "You always like us to pose with our clothes off," added Jenny.

  I tried to think of a riposte. Alas, I failed. The only thought in my mind was: Ought to hang all artists. On general principle.

  Fortunately, I had enough sense not to say it.

  Benvenuti grinned, enjoying, I darkly suspected, my predicament.

  "Actually," he said, "I wasn't thinking of a nude portrait. In fact, I wasn't thinking of any sort of formal poses. I would just like to try and capture your spirit, if I could. The two of you are like liquid sunshine."

  "Oh, how sweet!" exclaimed Jenny, blushing. With her peaches-and-cream complexion, a blush made her look especially angelic. Angela smiled, like a sultry cherub. Then, to me, in a loud whisper: "You never say things like that to us."

  I tried to think of a riposte. Failed.

  "Let's be off!" I said, and started hustling the girls out the door. Over my shoulder, I glared at Benvenuti.

  He shrugged. "I assure you, sirrah, my intentions are quite honorable."

  I was not mollified. "Intentions be damned," I muttered. "Anybody who'd seduce Gwendolyn is out of his mind in the first place, so who knows what he'd do?"

  * * *

  On our way back, Jenny and Angela chattered cheerfully. The Cat stared at her sketches. Greyboar was silent. Lost in thoughts of Gwendolyn, I imagine, but I didn't ask.

  I was too busy thinking my own silent thoughts.

  Dark thoughts. Dark.

  Despite what you might think, only some of my gloom was brought on by the prospect—inevitable, I could tell, from their chatter—that my two girls would soon be cavorting about in the studio of a damned artist who was not only the handsomest man I'd ever seen but had all the other accouterments, to boot.

  But, mostly, my gloom was brought on by more general considerations. Almost philosophical, you might say, much as I hate the term.

  I could feel the net of Fate closing in. Destiny's doom. The Kismet Kiss of Death.

  Or, to put it in my crude layman's terms:

  Shit kept happening, no matter what I tried to do. One damn thing after another. Philosophy! Leads to mad and reckless impulses. Leads to desperate flight. Desperate adventures. Hooking up with crazy women. Dragged back into the life of a crazy revolutionist sister. Mad artists.

  Mad mad mad mad mad. All of it.

  This is going to end badly. I just know it!

  Those sorts of thoughts.

  When we finally pulled up in front of Jenny and Angela's house, I tried to restore my usual good humor.

  "Tomorrow—back to business!" I exclaimed cheerfully. "Enough of all that other stuff."

  Greyboar shook his head. "Won't matter, Ignace. Entropy rules. There's no getting around it. It's just the second law of thermodynamics, that's all. The essence of the universe."

  I grit my teeth.

  "You'll see," he said stoically.

  I ground my teeth. />
  Greyboar grinned. "You can refuse to recognize philosophy, Ignace, but philosophy recognizes you."

  PART TWO: ANTITHESIS

  Chapter 6.

  Thermodynamic Fortune

  You wouldn't think the strangler would be sentimental about

  a client, but he was.

  "He's been our most regular customer for years," complained Greyboar.

  "Big deal," I sneered. "The old bastard's a cheapskate. And he drives me nuts! Every time he hires us he insists on haggling for hours. I wind up giving him a discount just to stop listening to his voice. Fine for you to wax philosophical about fond memories—you just do the jobs. You aren't the one who has to listen to that quavering whine for hours. You aren't the one—"

  "All right, all right!" Greyboar glared at me. "I'll do the job—just so's I won't have to listen to you whining for hours. But I'm not happy about it."

  He held up his hands, forestalling my outburst. "I know, I know," he grumbled, "you're the agent. You're the wizard manager. You're the financial genius. I'm just the muscle what does all the work and probably ought to be happy with whatever crumbs you drop from the table. But I still think it's stupid, at least in the long run."

  "What long run?" I demanded. "He's got to be a hundred years old by now. How much longer do you think he's got, anyway? No, no, trust me on this one—better we take a big lump payment now instead of hoping for a few pennies later."

  He was still glaring at me, so I glared right back and stuck in the knife. "Or have you got some cute little philosophical angle on this I don't know about?"

  Of course, that made him furious. But I wasn't worried. Stick it to the strangler on his philosophy, and, sure he'd get mad as a wet hen—but he wouldn't do anything about it. Nothing physical, I mean. It was a matter of pride with Greyboar. He considered it boorish to refute a philosophical challenge with his thumbs.