The Stranger - Max Frei [111]
While we sat, a second murder occurred, this time not far from the Street of Bubbles. The same bloody “smile,” but this time the Mona Lisa was a bit older (three hundred years of age). She was the local wisewoman, old Xrida, whom everyone on the street consulted for toothaches or all manner of bad luck. She was still youthful, energetic, and, in contrast to many of her colleagues, a very sweet lady. The residents of all the neighboring quarters had loved her, and the Echo Hustle and Bustle published letters of gratitude several times a year from people she had healed.
I should add that neither of these murders was carried out with the goal of robbery, since no valuables belonging to the victims had been touched. As for money, the women probably didn’t have any with them. Here in Echo, it is thought that touching coins cools off love. For this reason, no woman will ever take money into her hands, and only the boldest consider gloves to be sufficient protection. Men, too, prefer to take precautions; but ladies are especially superstitious in this regard.
By the way, this is why the inhabitants of the Unified Kingdom gradually introduced the custom of using various kinds of bonds and IOUs. Several days at the end of the year are set aside for clearing these debts. I myself prefer to pay with cash, and have occasionally gotten into awkward situations because of this. You hand your money to the bartender, and he glares at you because, you see, he’s left his gloves in the kitchen and now he has to run hither and thither all on account of you.
Thus, in the space of an hour, we had two corpses on our hands. And very few fresh ideas. The night was generous: we received five more “smiles” that were the spitting image of each other, while the victims differed significantly in age, appearance, and social standing. They even lived in distant regions of the city. The criminal seemed to be mixing work with pleasure—grisly murders cum nocturnal excursion: “Echo by Night.”
Close to morning we had a breathing spell. The murders seemed to have ceased. Most likely the protagonist was exhausted and had decided to take a nap. Juffin turned the matter over to Melifaro and Lonli-Lokli for the time being. Sir Kofa Yox went to gather information about the murders in the pubs, and our Venerable Head ordered me to stay right by his side. So far I had been of no use to him whatsoever. Maybe I provided him with inspiration—his muse, so to speak? In that case, I was a pretty lame muse; Juffin hadn’t been visited by a single interesting notion the entire night.
The seventh murder was bequeathed to us at noon, with the same “signature” and no return address.
Strictly speaking, this was what we knew: the killer was probably a man (the tracks he had left in the dust had all but disappeared, but the size was impressive); he was in all likelihood a newcomer (quite unconventional behavior); he possessed a knife of extraordinary size by local standards; he was indifferent to the property of his victims; and he seemed to have no connection with the rebellious Orders, since he didn’t even practice traditional magic in his own gruesome kitchen.
Moreover, he wasn’t insane, since madness in this World leaves behind a weak but distinct stench. Sir Juffin Hully detected no trace of it at any of the crime scenes.
“Max, you seem to be present at a historic moment,” Juffin said, putting aside his pipe, which he had been turning around and around in his hands for the last five hours. “This time I am absolutely baffled. We have seen seven corpses in the past twenty-four hours, a slew of clues that don’t add up to anything, and no magic to speak of, whether outlawed or permitted. It’s time to give the case back to Boboota’s department and try to live down our shame.”
“But you yourself know that—” I began cautiously.
“I know. But it doesn’t smell like there is any kind of sorcery afoot here. And using True Magic for such bestial murders? Highly unlikely. I can’t even