The Philosophical Strangler

by Eric Flint

  So the dwarves did all the digging. Greyboar stayed down there almost the whole time, fussing and fuming and driving the poor little guys crazy. The Trio and I, on the other hand, being sane and rational men, spent the time up in the Cardinal's chamber. Good company, the Trio, especially with plenty of ale to keep their stories coming.

  And there was another upside to the whole affair—a big upside. The Trio started prying up loose boards, more out of habit than anything else, and discovered the Cardinal's secret stash. A whole chest full of gold coins, gems and jewelry. All of it obtained illegally, no doubt, so the Cardinal could hardly report the loss to the authorities.

  On the spot, we arranged a satisfactory split. A third for me, a third for Greyboar, and a third for them. It took me an hour to get the Trio to agree to it. Fifty-nine minutes of ferocious debate with me, them advancing the ludicrous proposition that we should split it evenly—a fifth apiece. One minute for Greyboar to come up and reason with them.

  It only took the dwarves a bit more than half a day to break into the Cat's cell. Without them, it would have taken two days. And the cell was right where Vincent had told us. Yes, everything was working just according to The Plan. Except for one little problem.

  The Cat wasn't in the cell.

  * * *

  We wasted two hours while Greyboar inspected the cell about ten thousand times. Stupid, stupid, stupid. The cell wasn't more than five feet by seven feet by four feet tall, with a small alcove added on where the hardtack was stored. And every surface was faced with hard rock, so there was no way to dig out if you didn't have tools. There wasn't any sign of digging, anyway.

  The point here being that all it took was two minutes to figure out the Cat wasn't there and hadn't dug her way out. But still the big lummox spent two hours at it before he gave up.

  Oh, she'd been there, all right. There wasn't any doubt about that. Every surface of the cell was covered with handwriting, scratched with a sharp stone. You couldn't mistake the Cat's hand—she wrote with big bold letters, probably because she was half blind.

  You couldn't mistake the language, either. Pure Cat. The Trio were positively awestruck.

  "Never seen sech command of y'profanity," marveled Geronimo Jerry.

  "Genius, genius, th'Cat," whispered Erlic, in tones you usually hear in a church.

  " 'Tis not alone th'mastery o' the curse," admired McDoul, "but th'beauty o' th'anatom'cal depictions—an' th'lass ne'er repeated herself the onc't! Imposs'ble, o' course, th'most o' th'acts ascribed to th'Judge—but th'imagination! Ne'er could've thought o' th'half o' them, m'self."

  It was true enough. They'd gagged the Cat at the trial, but she'd wiled away her time in the cell completing her speech. He'd chosen the wrong time to say it, but you couldn't deny that O'Neal had been right. The Cat was not ladylike.

  So, she'd been there, all right. But where was she now? It was a complete and total mystery.

  It took me two hours, but I finally convinced Greyboar that we didn't have any choice but to leave. The Cat was gone, the Old Geister knew where, when or how, and that was that. Wouldn't do any good for us to linger around and get caught.

  So we left, not without the strangler moaning and groaning and running back, oh, maybe two hundred times, to make sure the Cat hadn't magically reappeared. Once in the Cardinal's bedchamber, we waited while the dwarves sealed up the entrance in the closet so as to leave no trace of the tunnel. Then, the three of them crammed themselves into the chest—that was how we'd planned on taking the Cat out, of course—and we left the mansion.

  Getting out was a piece of cake, even with us carrying the extra chest with the treasure. During our stay in the Cardinal's quarters, the servants had had plenty of time to terrify themselves with speculation about whatever horrid consultations were going on between the Cardinal and the Inquisition. As soon as they realized we were coming out, they disappeared. We marched through the mansion totally unobserved. We even had to let ourselves out.

  Less than a day had passed. Sunrise was still just a hint on the horizon, so we made our way through the streets without being observed by anyone. Five minutes after leaving the Cardinal's mansion we were going through the front door of the townhouse we'd rented. And discovered again that the Cat was a strange, strange woman.

  Chapter 21.

  Justice and Injustice

  Because there she was, big as life—sitting in a chair in the

  main room, casual as could be.

  Greyboar charged over and clutched her like a drowning man clutches a life preserver. It was a touching scene. Or at least, it would have been, if the Cat hadn't been furious with him.

  I believe I've indicated she had quite the command of the earthier aspects of the language? Well, we were all given another demonstration.

  The gist of her displeasure, stripped of the rhetoric, was: What was the big idea, you ape, this stupid rescue attempt? Have I ever asked for any help? No, and you'll never see the day I do, either. I am not pleased. Indeed, I am displeased. Most displeased. Most extremely displeased.

  It wasn't often you got to see the strangler groveling and apologizing and begging for forgiveness, let me tell you. He was usually on the other side of the equation, don't you know? I loved every minute of it and so did the Trio. Not that we didn't keep a straight face, mind you. If Greyboar'd seen us grinning ear to ear, he wouldn't have done anything about it. Not at the moment. But the Trio and I were students of the wise man, not the least of whose saws is: "Idiots never remember the fatal word—later."

  Eventually, the Cat was appeased. She even relented enough to give Greyboar a big kiss. Naturally, the big dummy immediately blew it.

  "But how'd you get out of the cell?" he asked.

  That started another round of the Cat's—what can I call it? Swearing doesn't begin to do the woman justice. Whatever, the gist of it was: You unspeakable (actually, this part was full of speech) great baboon, you know I hate being cooped up. Think there's a box in the world can keep me in? That's what Schrödinger thought, too. I left, that's how I got out. You stupid (well, and then on and on and on).

  So, how'd she get out? Beats me. I'm not stupid. I never asked.

  After the Cat wound down, I decided it was safe to introduce the voice of logic and common sense.

  "Shouldn't we be figuring out the future instead of the past?" I asked. "We're not done yet—we've still got to deal with the Cardinal."

  "Where is the rotten slimy bastard?" roared the strangler, his huge hands making various motions which boded ill for the aforementioned man of the cloth.

  "He's upstairs," said the Cat. "Jenny and Angela tied him up in their bedroom."

  Growling like an animal, Greyboar stalked toward the staircase.

  The Cat blew her stack again. The gist of it: You arrogant moose, what do you think you're doing? Think I'd need any help chopping a sorry worm like the Cardinal? Think I'd wait around for the big strong gorilla to do the job for me? You conceited jackass. You egotistical peasant. You puffed-up peacock. You overweening slob. You—etc., etc., etc., etc.

  "You already killed him, huh?" mumbled Greyboar, after the storm passed.

  The Cat was still glaring at him. Quite a glare, too—the combination of those incredibly blue eyes magnified by the inch-thick lenses on her spectacles. Then she snorted.

  "Didn't have a chance. He was already dead when I got here. It was the girls did him in."

  "The girls?" I demanded. "But they wouldn't—oh, no! He must've struggled!" I was frantic with worry. "Are Jenny and Angela okay? Are they hurt?"

  I started my own charge for the stairs.

  "Relax, Ignace!" came the Cat's voice. A penetrating voice, I believe I've mentioned. Stopped me dead in my tracks. I turned around. The Cat was bestowing a look on me that did not indicate any great favor.

  "You're just like him!" she snapped, indicating Greyboar with her thumb. "Another swell-headed male, thinks women are lambs." Definitely an unfavorable look. "Men!" she grow
led.

  She took a deep breath. And then, like a sunburst, she smiled. Nobody in the world had a smile like the Cat, when she put herself into it. It was blinding, really.

  And now she was laughing her heart out. She had some kind of laugh, too, the Cat. Great to hear, sort of, if it weren't for that maniacal tinge. Like a she-wolf mocking the world.

  When she stopped, still chuckling, she nodded toward the stairs. "Go on up and see for yourselves," she said. "You'll love it. But be quiet. The girls are asleep. All tuckered out, the poor things."

  So we tiptoed up the stairs and went into the bedroom. I was the first one through the door. As soon as I saw the scene, I insisted everybody else had to wait outside until I had the chance to cover up Jenny and Angela. Naked they were, sprawled on the bed in each other's arms, exhausted contentment on their sleeping faces. I wasn't about to let leering slobs like the Trio get a look at them!

  Then everybody came in, and we all circled the bed, gazing on the most-definitely-deceased corpse of the Cardinal. He was still in his robes, tied to the bedpost at the foot of the bed. His complexion was bright purple, his eyes were bugged out like veined eggplants, his gray tongue was hanging out about eight inches. He looked like the aftermath of one of Greyboar's chokes—except there wasn't anything wrong with his throat and neck.

  And, besides, the cause of death was obvious.

  We woke the girls up, then. Didn't mean to, but the howling laughter which filled the room would have awakened the dead. They were startled at first, rubbing the sleep out of their eyes, but soon enough they were joining in the gaiety.

  "Isn't it perfect?" giggled Angela.

  "We didn't mean to do it, really we didn't," protested Jenny. Her grin did not, let me say here, indicate deep remorse.

  And it really was the perfect way to do in the Cardinal. Even Greyboar and the Cat, itching as they'd been to do the job themselves, admitted as to how it had all worked out for the best.

  The Plan had gone perfectly. Too perfectly, in fact. As soon as the Cardinal had come into the house, the girls had overpowered and tied him up. That hadn't taken but two minutes. Truth is, the girls were right—a shriveled-up old lecher had been no match for them. Then, they decided the best place to keep him was in the bedroom. One of them could watch him at all times, while the other one got some rest.

  So they hauled him up into the bedroom. They tied him to the bedpost because it was the handiest place available. And then—

  Well, then it started getting boring. They hadn't counted on that, a boring adventure. But the truth of it was that after doing their part—to perfection, too!—they really didn't have anything to do for the next two days or so except keep the Cardinal tied up.

  Jenny and Angela didn't take well to tedium. Much, much, much too full of vim and vigor and youthful energy.

  "And besides," said Angela, "he was such a pain in the ass, cursing and threatening us the way he was doing."

  So, partly because they were bored, and partly to get the old goat's goat, they started doing what the two of them did often and very, very well whenever they had the time (they always had the energy). Later, they swore they'd only intended to tease the Cardinal a little, but—but, the truth of it is, Jenny and Angela were crazy about each other and either of them alone had enough pep to keep a whole factory going for a week if you could bottle it up somehow, and both of them together, when they were in the mood—which they usually were, and certainly were that day—could—how shall I put this? Well, let's just say they violated several of the Commandments for hours and hours and hours, naked as the day they were born, and in their usual freewheeling style.

  Not five feet away from the tied-up-but-not-blindfolded person of Luigi Carnale, Cardinal Fornacaese, lecher and pedophile sans pareil.

  "We're not exactly sure when he croaked," giggled Angela. "Couldn't even place it to the hour."

  "We weren't paying him any attention at all," cackled Jenny.

  Judge Rancor Jeffreys couldn't have devised a better means of execution himself. Death by torture. Slow, horrible, lingering. Prolonged agony. Endless torment—especially that, endless torment.

  Going to be a bit tricky for the Cardinal—sweet-talking his way through the pearly gates, that is. Likely to frown, the guardian angels, when they pondered the manner of his passing.

  Bad enough for a Cardinal to die unshriven. But in his state! The Lord in His Heaven hath long decreed that Envy and Lust are mortal sins, each of them alone, not to speak of the two combined. And that's what Cardinal Fornacaese died of—terminal Envy, complicated by Lust.

  * * *

  The whole affair turned out to have a number of beneficial side effects.

  First, it got the Trio another raise from the Cruds. As soon as they sized up the situation, they raced to the Cruds with dire warnings of a plot by the Dark Duke—uncovered by perilous spy-type derring-do on their part!—to kidnap Cardinal Fornacaese. The authorities charged over to the Cardinal's mansion to foil the plot. Alas, too late! The Cardinal gone! Never to be seen again! Mysterious, the whole thing, very mysterious. The servants were unable to shed any light on the situation. Even under the Inquisition, they could only babble about some unknown party of Inquisitors who had been in the presence of the Cardinal on his last known day on earth.

  So the Trio—excellent timing those lads had, they calculated to the second when the servants would started babbling about Inquisitors—raced to the Cruds with the breathtaking news that they had just uncovered—through the most thrilling spy-type adventures!—the Dark Duke's scheme, now well under way, to infiltrate the Inquisition with his agents. They got another raise. They even got a medal from the Angel Jimmy Jesus—unnamed and unmarked, of course, just a blank piece of metal. Very security-conscious, the Angel Jimmy Jesus. What was better yet, the Inquisition started inquisiting itself. Never quite the same, after that, the Inquisition in New Sfinctr.

  At first, we were worried that things were going to get sticky for the Cat. The Cat wasn't worried about it, of course. The woman didn't worry about anything except finding Schrödinger. But the rest of us were fretting that she'd be arrested again, wandering around the streets like she insisted on doing. But our fears were unfounded. The porkers tried to arrest her, but Judge Rancor Jeffreys wouldn't hear of it. Hadn't he ordered the Cat immured? Yes. Hadn't she been immured? Yes. Then that was that. Whoever this other woman was, she was—by definition—an impostor. The porkers tried to talk the Judge into opening up the Cat's cell, just to make sure she was still there, but Jeffreys blew his stack at the idea. The whole point of immuration, don't you see, is to wall away the criminal from the world forever and forever. What would be the point, if the authorities dug them up? So the porkers gave up, especially after the Judge ordered three of them hanged for attempting to undermine the law.

  There was a downside, of course. There always is. For wouldn't you know it but what Jenny and Angela had developed a taste for the fine life, staying in that swanky townhouse. So they started wheedling Greyboar into buying it.

  "It'll give you so much more fashionable a place to live, instead of that bear's den you've got in the Flankn," insisted Jenny.

  "You'll get more clients," argued Angela. "Especially the ladies, who are afraid to go into the Thieves' Quarter."

  "And it'd be great for us, too!"

  "Much better location for our dress shop."

  "Much higher class of clientele."

  Of course, the little monsters didn't try to wheedle me, they know better. But I wasn't worried. Greyboar didn't have the sense about money that I did, but he wasn't a fool either—his grip was tight more ways than one.

  Until the Cat stepped in. I swear, the big gorilla was an absolute patsy in the hands of that woman. Didn't have any of the masculine firmness that I had in my dealings with Jenny and Angela.

  All it took was for the Cat to stare at him with those telescope blue eyes and sneer: "What a cheapskate." Two seconds later, Greyboar's ordering me to
spend our hard-earned money to buy the house! I couldn't believe it! Of course, I knew better than to argue with him when he was in one of his the-Cat-wants-it moods.

  The whole thing turned out pretty good for Eddie, Lester and Frank, too. They'd been staying in the house, hiding out in the cellar. It wasn't at all safe now for a dwarf in the streets of New Sfinctr. When they heard we were going to buy the house, they approached Greyboar and asked him if they could stay on—as hired hands, or something—cooks, maybe, or—or, whatever. Well, the truth is, the dwarves really didn't have any of the skills of a house servant, and besides, Angela and Jenny wouldn't hear of the idea. What were they, anyway? Snotty little rich girls, what didn't know how to look after themselves? They weren't against the idea of the dwarves staying, mind you. They thought it was a great idea, seeing as how Frank, Lester and Eddie were such sweet little men and all. But they thought it was ridiculous to actually hire them as something or other. Why not just let them stay? So that's how it ended up.

  I wasn't too pleased with the idea, myself. Not that I had anything in particular against the little guys. Very nice dwarves, they were. But if you let dwarves move in with you, you'll sooner than you know it have all the dwarf business with it.

  "They'll build a stop for the Underground Railroad," I complained to Greyboar. "You know they will, as sure as the sunrise. Dig one right down through the cellar."