The Mammoth Book of New Comic Fantasy Page 27

  The Club Nefarioso stood in Blind Hop Lane, a quiet, upmarket street near the Elvish Quarter. It was a large, detached house with its own tree-lined grounds, and a passer-by could easily have mistaken it for the private mansion of a rich merchant.

  Heighway paused in the road outside and turned to Raasay and Kratavan. Dusk was beginning to fall.

  “Right, gentlemen,” he said in lowered tones,” what we have here is a high-class knocking-shop. Half the toffs of this city have probably been through these portals at one time or another. So the watchword is discretion.”

  Raasay looked confused and opened his mouth to ask a question, but Heighway cut him short.

  “It means keep your mouth shut and don’t upset anyone,” he told Raasay. “On second thoughts, Sergeant, I think you’d better stay out here on surveillance . . .” Heighway held up a hand to forestall Raasay again. “I mean keep watch. Hide in the bushes and don’t come out until I say so. Kratavan, come with me.”

  Raasay sidled into the bushes, and Heighway and Kratavan walked up the driveway past a fountain where water poured forth from an extremely rude statue. Heighway rapped sharply on the front door, which was opened instantly by a uniformed doorman, and they entered to find themselves in a long, wood-panelled hallway. Ahead of them was a pair of ornate double-doors beyond which they could hear the hum of conversation.

  “Here we go,” muttered Heighway, and then the double-doors opened and they found themselves in a room some forty feet long, with a high ceiling, walls covered with exotic tapestries and a carpet with a pile so deep you could lose a shoe in it. Along one wall were alcoves with semi-circular couches and low marble tables, and at the far end was a small marble bar behind which a white-shirted barman was briskly mixing cocktails from the hundreds of bottles that lined the shelves behind him.

  There were maybe twenty or so other people in the room. Six or seven were the wealthy merchant type; elderly, stout men with expensive clothes and that annoyingly complacent look that only the truly rich acquire. Each was reclining on a couch with an expensive drink in one hand and an incredibly beautiful girl in the other, and there were more beautiful girls standing near the bar. They were all dressed in the most expensive but revealing costumes, and they eyed Heighway and Kratavan as they walked to the bar with an almost predatory interest.

  Heighway leant on the cool marble bar-top and exhaled slowly, then watched the barman as he finished mixing a pair of vivid green concoctions that had more fruit in them than a monkey’s lunch. Popping a couple of tiny paper umbrellas into them, the barman handed them to one of the girls and then turned his politely enquiring gaze upon the inspector.

  “Yes, sir?” he asked. “What would you like?”

  “I’d like, er . . . I’d like to see Wendy,” Heighway replied.

  “Ah, right, sir. Come this way, please.”

  Heighway turned to find that one of the girls had taken hold of Kratavan’s arm and was whispering something into his ear. Kratavan’s mouth was gaping and he had turned bright red.

  “Kratavan!” said Heighway, sharply. “Leave the nice lady alone and come here.”

  Kratavan dragged his attention away from the girl. He was trembling slightly.

  “Sir,” he muttered, “are we on expenses?”

  “No, we’re not! Now come on!”

  The barman was standing in front of a door to the right of the bar. He knocked sharply three times, and a small grille in the door slid open.

  “Attali, these two gentlemen would like to see Wendy,” he said.

  The grille slid shut and the door opened. Heighway and Kratavan stepped through and it closed quickly behind them, abruptly shutting out the light from the other room.

  They found themselves in a room so dark they could hardly see, but as their eyes became accustomed to the gloom they could just make out the shadowy figure of yet another beautiful girl. She was holding two baskets, each of which contained dark clothing of some kind. Behind her, a bank of what appeared to be lockers lined the wall, and to their right were dark cubicles.

  “Gentlemen,” she breathed huskily, handing them each a basket, “if you would just like to change into these, then you may follow me through into Wendy’s room.”

  “What the . . .” began Kratavan, but Heighway cut in quickly.

  “Yes, er, Attali,” he said. “Whatever you say.”

  “Good boy,” Attali whispered, then a door at the far end of the room opened and closed, and she was gone.

  Five minutes later they had changed. The clothes were made of black rubber and consisted of skin-tight trousers and vest that made any sort of movement strangely uncomfortable and a close-fitting hood with holes for nose and eyes. Heighway could hardly see anything, especially as the room was still nearly dark, and he began to realize how difficult it would be for members to recognize each other.

  “Come on, Kratavan,” he said. “Let’s get this over with.”

  They staggered across to the door. Taking a deep breath, Heighway opened it and then stopped dead. He’d been expecting something a little on the sordid side, but this was far worse than he’d imagined.

  It was a large room that had obviously been decorated by somebody with a bit of a thing about dungeons. Flickering torches burned in sconces on the bare, brick walls, the floor was of large stone slabs and the vaulted stone ceiling was mildewed and cobwebbed. To their right the walls were hung with chains, fetters and manacles in which several rubberclad, hooded men were confined, and a number of racks and shelves held whips, scourges and other such items. In the centre of the room was an assortment of instruments of torture such as racks and pillories, and in the far wall were two doors with signs on them, one saying “Nursery” and the other “Disciplinarium”. Incongruously, along the wall to their left ran a well-stocked bar tended by a half-orc2 in a smart black jacket.

  There were several beautiful girls here, too, all dressed in skin-tight rubber, high-heeled boots and small masks. Their customers were dressed in the same type of clothing as Heighway and Kratavan, to which one or two had added their own distinguishing touches. There was one large, fat man in particular who was manacled to the wall and who had cut away the crotch of his trousers to allow his private parts to hang freely.

  Heighway eyed him with distaste. “That reminds me,” he muttered to Kratavan. “I must get my watch back from the pawnbroker’s.”

  “Sir,” whispered Kratavan, who had been staring in the direction of the bar, “I think I recognize that barman. We’ve done him a few times for pick-pocketing.”

  Heighway dragged his attention away from the large man. “Well, well, well,” he muttered. “Danny the Dip. What’s he doing here? Kratavan, stay put and keep an eye open. I’m going to have a word with our Danny.”

  The barman looked up enquiringly as Heighway lurched to the bar.

  “Yes, sir, what will it be?”

  “It will be six months inside if you don’t give me a few answers, Danny my boy,” Heighway growled in a low voice.

  “What the . . .” stammered Danny. “Who . . .?”

  Heighway glanced around and then peeled back the lower portion of his mask to reveal himself to the barman.

  “Mister Heighway! I should have known! Half the police force must come to this place.”

  “I’m not here for fun, Danny. I need some answers. Someone has been blackmailing an important officer, and you’ve been passing on the blackmail notes.”

  “I didn’t know what was in the note, honest, Mister Heighway!” Danny looked round the room frantically and then lowered his voice to a whisper. “I can’t talk here, it’s too dangerous. I’ll meet you later, when I finish work. The Weyr Inn. Ten o’clock.”

  Heighway nodded, then reached over the bar, grabbed the barman by the front of his jacket and hauled him forwards.

  “Don’t let me down, Danny. I’m not enjoying this case and I could get very angry with somebody.”

  “I won’t, Mister Heighway, I promise.”
<
br />   Heighway released the frightened half-orc, then turned away from the bar and walked back to Kratavan. His body felt clammy inside the uncomfortable rubber, and the smell of stale sweat and bad body-odour that permeated the room was becoming overpowering.

  “Come on, Kratavan,” he said. “Let’s get out of here. I need a beer like I’ve never needed one before . . .”

  Five uncomfortable, embarrassing minutes later and they stood outside the club, breathing in the warm evening air whilst Heighway tried to get his heart to slow down.

  “I don’t believe it!” he gasped. “I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life! Never! I mean . . .”

  Words failed him. Kratavan tried not to smile.

  “I think that that Attali likes you, sir,” he said, innocently.

  “Likes me? Good grief! When she asked me if I wanted a hand I thought she meant with taking off the rubber vest! I didn’t know she was going to do that!”

  Shaking his head, Heighway marched off down the path, then paused to look round.

  “Now, where’s that idiot Raasay got to?” he muttered. “Raasay! RAASAY!”

  “Sir?” came a muffled voice from the undergrowth.

  “Where are you?”

  “Here, sir.”

  There was a short pause while nothing happened.

  “What the hell are you doing, man?” Heighway hissed.

  “Hiding, sir. You told me to hide in the bushes and not come out until you said so, sir.”

  “Oh, good grief . . . look, Kratavan and I are going to the Weyr Inn. You might as well stay there and keep an eye on this place . . .”

  Raasay’s head emerged from inside a large bush. He looked upset. His face was muddy and he had a big, black spider hanging from one ear.

  “Sir . . .” he began.

  “And if Danny the Dip leaves here, follow him,” Heighway continued. “Make sure he joins us at the Weyr.”

  “But sir!” Raasay protested. “There’s a dirty big snake in here with me!”

  “It has my sympathy. Just do as you’re told, sergeant. That’s an order.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Raasay subsided grumpily into the bush with his spider and Heighway set off down the road with Kratavan beside him.

  “There’s something about this case that doesn’t add up,” Heighway mused as Kratavan set their third pints of Gobbo’s Pearly Light Ale down on the table in front of him. “Oh, thanks, Kratavan . . . I mean, why should someone want to blackmail the Commissioner? They’re all filthy rich in that club, anyway. And young Danny was very scared. I mean, I know I came on a bit heavy, but I’m not that frightening. Was anyone watching when I spoke to him?”

  “The big bloke with the dangly bits was taking an interest. But maybe he . . .”

  Kratavan was interrupted as the door flew open and a uniformed patrolman burst in, looked around wildly and then ran across to their table.

  “Inspector Heighway, sir!” he gasped. “Sergeant Raasay said to come quickly! Someone in the club has been murdered, sir!”

  Danny the Dip lay on the cold stone floor of the beer cellar near a large white sink. His sightless eyes stared up towards the ceiling and his mouth gaped open. His shirt and his hair were soaking wet, and his face had a sheen of water upon it.

  Heighway sighed and turned to Sergeant Raasay, who was standing beside a stack of beer barrels. He was wearing the same type of rubber trousers and vest that Heighway had experienced earlier, and he was hopping from one foot to the other and seething with indignation. Nearby stood Kratavan with one of the Club Nefarioso’s hostesses.

  “Right, said Heighway. “Tell me again, sergeant.”

  “I was on watch like you said, sir, when all of a sudden this screaming starts from round the back. So I rushed round and found the beer cellar door was open.” Raasay pointed to the wooden door at the end of the cellar, which was still gaping open to the night. “I ran in and found one of the young ladies screaming, sir, and Danny was draped over the sink with his head rammed into the glass-washer. So I pulled him out, but he was dead, sir, and then I sent this young lady to find a patrolman and told him to fetch you, sir.”

  “You did well, Raasay. Now . . .”

  “And then I went through there into the club, sir . . .” Raasay indicated another door, behind him. “And it was like a big dungeon, and this odd man dressed in rubber told me to put on these clothes . . .”

  “Yes, I . . .”

  “And you’d said to do what I was told, sir,” Raasay went on indignantly, “and so I did, and then he told me to hit him with that whip, sir, and then another man told me to bend over a big table, and . . .”

  “Yes, yes, I know!” Heighway interjected. “I’m sorry, Sergeant, but you were only supposed to follow my orders.”

  “But he . . .”

  “I’m sorry!” Heighway interjected again. “Here, Kratavan, you’d better help the Sergeant get changed and take him home. He’s had a nasty experience. Meet me back at the station later.”

  Kratavan led the still-babbling Raasay off through the door into the club with the hostess following concernedly, and Heighway looked down at Danny’s body. Presumably he’d opened the door and let the killer in, which meant it could be anybody.

  At that moment a familiar elderly, black-clad figure entered through the door from outside. It was Madame Min, the police pathomancer. In one hand she was carrying what looked like a large cage covered in a black cloth, from which came a gentle clucking. In the other hand she held the small black bag in which she kept all her magical paraphernalia. Heighway groaned inwardly. He had always felt that there should be a more scientific method of investigating the means of death than the spells and flummery employed by a pathomancer.

  “Okay, Heighway,” she greeted him gruffly, dumping the cage on the floor. “What have you got for me?”

  “Pretty straightforward, this one, Min,” he told her. “Not much for you to do. Someone drowned Danny the barman here in his own sink.”

  “Nonsense, man. I can sense his spirit already, and I can tell you one thing. He wasn’t drowned. No, judging by the aura of pain, I’d say poison was nearer the mark.”

  “Oh, come on, Min, he was found with his head wedged into the glass-washer!”

  “Doesn’t mean that’s what killed him. Well, we’ll soon find out. Best get on with the post mortem.”

  Min took a small, sharp knife from her bag and knelt down by the corpse. Heighway watched with surprise, for Min’s usual methods involved candles, incense and incantations.

  “You’re always on at me to be more scientific,” she told him as she pulled the corpse’s shirt up. “Well, I’ve come up with a new method. Watch.”

  Heighway stared with horrified fascination as she made an incision in the pale abdomen, and then turned away, revolted.

  “Great God, Min!” he complained. “Do you have to?”

  “Can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs. Now, we need to find the stomach . . . ah, here we are! We make an incision, so . . . then we remove some of the contents . . . and . . .”

  An excited clucking started up and Heighway turned back in surprise to find that Min had removed the black cover from the cage. Inside, four scrawny chickens were pecking ravenously at a small pile of something horrible that she had dropped into it, whilst the pathomancer wiped her bloody hands on a towel.

  “What the hell are they doing?”

  “They’re eating some of his stomach contents. The last things he ate and drank.”

  “But why . . .?”

  “Just wait. Ah, now look!”

  One of the chickens had stopped pecking and was making tiny retching noises. Then, one by one, the others joined it.

  “You see?” Min was literally hopping up and down with excitement. “All four of them are being sick!”

  “I’m not surprised! I’d be sick myself!”

  “No, they have strong stomachs, do chickens. One of them, maybe, but all four? No, that has to be
poison. Strong stuff, too.”

  “Are you absolutely sure, Min?”

  “You can bet your life on it, matey.”

  Heighway turned round as the door opened and the hostess came back into the room.

  “Your friends have gone, inspector,” she told him in a voice that sounded strangely familiar.

  “Right. Thank you, miss . . . er . . .”

  “Attali.”

  “Attali. Right . . . oh! Sorry! I, er, I didn’t recognize you in the light!” Heighway was almost stammering with embarrassment. “Look . . . maybe you could give me a han . . . no, I mean, help me . . .”

  “How, inspector?”

  “Do you know if Danny had anything to eat or drink before he died?”

  The girl thought for a moment, her beautiful face creased in concentration.

  “I think a customer had bought him a whisky. He was drinking something from a goblet. I’ll show you.”

  Heighway followed her through the door and found himself behind the bar in the dungeon room. It was empty now save for an elderly slattern who was rearranging the dirt on the floor with a filthy mop. Attali pointed to a round crystal glass on the work-surface beneath the marble bar-top.

  “That’s it,” she told him.

  Heighway picked it up. Dregs of whisky swirled in the bottom and Heighway could see a couple of tiny grains of something. Carefully he inserted a fingertip, lifted out one of the grains, sniffed it and then touched it gingerly to his tongue. The acrid sensation told him all he needed to know. It was poison, all right. Score one to Madam Min.

  “Attali, were there many customers in here when Danny was having his drink?”

  “Three or four.”

  “Do you know who they were?”

  “I don’t know who any of the Wendy customers are. They have their own private entrance. They come in unseen and change into those clothes. Then they all look the same.”

  “Some of them are quite distinctive, though,” mused Heighway. “Like the big bloke with the crotch cut out . . .”