The Philosophical Strangler by Eric Flint

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 growled.

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.