I would’ve continued the argument, but Greyboar cut me off.
“This is all counting chickens before they’re hatched. First we’ve got to figure out a way to rescue the Cat. Then we can argue about who’s in on it and who isn’t.” The strangler gave me one of his patented stares. Chill a volcano, that stare. “And if the plan needs two girls what’ve got more spunk in ’em than any ten average cutthroats,” he added, “then they’re in.”
Jenny and Angela squealed with delight. “Let’s come up with a plan!” they cried in unison.
Greyboar was scratching his chin. “First thing we’ve got to do is find out everything we can about the Durance Pile,” he said. “Ignace and I have been in it ourselves a few times, but they always keep us in a special cell, so we don’t really know much about the whole layout.” He looked over to me.
“Who knows the most about the Pile?” he asked.
“The Trio in B-Flat, who else? They’ve held the record for incarceration for—what is it now?—yeah, four years running. Don’t even have any real contenders, any more. Hook Harvey made a pretty good run at the title two years ago, but then—you remember, that heist went bad?—he—”
“Yeah, yeah, I remember,” interrupted the strangler. “All right, so we’ll have to bring the Trio in on it. They owe me a favor anyway,” he added, flexing his hands, “seeing as how I let ’em live after using my name like they did to cozzen the guards.”
A great guy in his own way, Greyboar, don’t get me wrong. But for somebody who claimed to be a philosophy student, he had the thickest skull in creation. I tried to break it to him gently.
“You stupid jackass,” I snarled, “the Trio are in the slammer their own selves! How are they going to help? What are we supposed to do, march up to the warden and tell him pretty please we’ve got to talk to the Trio so’s we can figure out how to spring your star inmate? Overmuscled moron. What was it the wizard called you? Oh yeah—the mentally retarded mesomorph!”
Greyboar didn’t even scowl. I hate to admit it, but my attempts at constructive criticism never did have much impact on the big loon. The big loony, I should say, because naturally he added:
“So first we’ll have to spring the Trio.”
I threw up my hands in despair. “That’s great! That’s great! In order to spring the Cat we’ve got to first spring the Trio! And in order to do that—what’s your plan? No, tell me—it’s great to watch a genius at work! Don’t hide your light under a bushel! Who have we got to spring in order to figure out how to spring the Trio, so’s we can spring the Cat. And who do—”
I was interrupted by a knock on the door. Jenny and Angela jumped in their chairs.
“Who could that be?” asked Jenny. “We haven’t actually opened our shop yet.”
“Nobody comes here except you guys,” added Angela. There was a trace of apprehension in her voice. “You don’t think it could be some—well, you know, another assassin like you were supposed to be?”
Greyboar chuckled. “I really doubt it, girls. The Baron’s in no position to hire any more assassins. And just in case there might be some friend or relative who gets ideas, I had Ignace pass the word around that I would take it hard if any harm should come to you. Real, real hard.” He looked at me. “You did pass the word around, Ignace?”
I laughed. “Sure! I started with Reilly—he’s the top specialist in wayward girl jobs, you know? Explained to him that even though you’ve always been a stickler about doing a proper choke, anything happened to Jenny and Angela you’d like as not lose your professional aplomb and revert back like an animal to your days in the slaughterhouse. Described in detail, I did, how you used to debone steers with your bare hands on account of you’d get impatient with all that slow knifework. When I got to how hard it’d be for him, bellying up to the bar to order a pot of ale, what with no spine and all, he started puking.”