Greyboar gazed up at the fellow and spoke.
“May I be of assistance, sirrah?” Yeah, just like that. Polite as can be.
The stranger bowed—I hated that bow; courteous as you could ask for, without a trace of foppery; there’s no justice—and replied: “Indeed, sirrah, such is my very hope.” He gestured to an unoccupied chair at our table. “May I?”
I scowled, but Greyboar immediately nodded his permission. After the man sat down, he said: “Allow me to introduce myself, gentlemen. I am an artist. My name is Benvenuti Sfondrati-Piccolomini. If I am not mistaken, I believe I have the honor of addressing the famous professional strangler Greyboar and his agent”—here he nodded politely at me and shrugged apologetically—”whose name, alas, is not known to me.”
Naturally, I started to deny everything, but Greyboar cut me off. “His name’s Ignace. And I’m Greyboar.”
Since there was now no hope of claiming to be misrecognized, I decided to brush the fellow off.
“What d’you want?” I demanded, in my best brush-off tone. “We’re busy.”
Alas, the fellow took no offense. Instead, to my surprise, he beamed cheerfully. No simpering foppish smile, either. One of those manly-type grins. Naturally, his teeth were blindingly white. Naturally, the debonair dark mustache set them off perfectly.
“Perhaps you can help me with a problem.” He reached back and lifted the strange object he’d been carrying. He turned it toward us. Now, finally, I recognized the thing. Artist, he’d said. Sure enough, the object was a portrait. A very large portrait. Oil on canvas.
Unfortunately for my amour propre, I was in mid-quaff when he turned the portrait. Seeing it full on, I couldn’t stop myself from spewing ale all over the table.
Greyboar, whether from some weird premonition or simply because he has the nervous reactions of iron ore, simply took a long, casual draught of his ale pot. Then, after a satisfied belch, announced:
“Quite a good portrait of the Baron.” He wiped foam from his lips. “Excellent, actually—though I’m no connoisseur of the arts.”
“Connoyser be damned!” I hissed. I was on my feet like a shot.
“Blackmail!” I pronounced. “Choke him, Greyboar! Burke him, I say! He’s a filthy rotten blackmailer!”
Greyboar, alas, responded with nothing more dynamic than a glance in my direction. “Choke him?” he mused. “Blackmail? Whatever are you talking about, Ignace?”
He turned his gaze onto the stranger. “Surely this fine gentleman’s no blackmailer,” he rumbled. “And if he were, so what? What crime have we committed to fear blackmail?”
The stranger glanced at me and laughed. “Too many for Ignace to count, I venture to say.” The quick laugh was followed by a pleasant grin and a casual wave of the hand.
“But you may rest easy, Ignace,” he announced. “You may have, but I most surely did not, mistake the emphasis in Greyboar’s words. Where you heard `what crime have we committed,’ I heard the important words: `to fear blackmail.’ ”
He transferred his cheerful grin to the strangler. “I dare say you’re not troubled by blackmailers often. And certainly not for long.”
Greyboar cracked his knuckles. Several of the patrons in The Trough flinched and stared up at the ceiling.
“No,” he said. “Not often. And not for long.”
“Then what d’you want?” I demanded.
Again, he was unfazed by my hostility. He simply responded with his suave smile and said:
“I am in a bit of a predicament, sirrahs, as a result of the recent demise of the Baron be Butin. Some time ago, the Baron commissioned me to do his portrait.” He glanced down at the canvas. “As you can see, I had almost finished the work when word came that the Baron had shuffled off this mortal coil.”
Comprehension dawned. I sneered. “So you lost the commission? Never got your money?”
He nodded. Again, I shot to my feet like a rocket.
“Extortion!” I pronounced. “Choke him, Greyboar! Burke him, I say! He’s a filthy rotten extortionist!”
This time, Greyboar simply chuckled. The stranger frowned.
“Whatever are you talking about, my good Ignace?”
“I’m not your good Ignace! I know what you’re up to! You lost out on your commission because Grey—because some unknown desperado choked the Baron, and now you’re trying to squeeze the fee out of us!”