He hadn’t come down to see me—choosing instead to take Buzhinsky with him to help clean himself up. I’d waited in the kitchen, so I could yell at him or kill him. But he never came down. I’d like to think that’s because he knew he’d screwed up and that I’d be mad. I was more certain that it was because he thought he’d done a great job and went to bed.
How had everything gone so wrong? And by everything, I mean everything! It was as if the prince and his merry band of misfits went out of their way to make every comic error they could think of.
I shook my head. Maybe the policeman really did decide not to tell anyone. Rasputin was vastly unpopular. And the policeman would have blackmail material enough to make himself a very rich man. Perhaps I was over-thinking it. I was definitely tired and starting to feel the results of the champagne.
I left everything out so Felix could see what I’d done, and, instead of the chilly west wing, found a nice, warm guest room and passed out.
I awoke a few hours later to find Felix shaking me. My head was spinning. What time was it? Why was he waking me up?
“Um…” he said slowly, as if that would help. “...we may have a problem.”
Somehow I pulled myself together. My mouth tasted like the Dead Sea, but I managed to show up dressed downstairs. Buzhinsky met me and led me into the courtyard, where I found the prince standing next to a dead dog. A gun gleamed in his hand. My gun. How did he get my gun?
The poor dog was clearly dead, shot once through the head. My heart ached for it.
“You shot a dog?” I said, my anger barely contained.
Felix handed the gun to Buzhinsky, who spirited it back into the house. I didn’t even want it back. I would never have shot a dog.
“I had to. We couldn’t get rid of all the blood.” Felix looked at me like I was an idiot.
“So,” I hissed through clenched teeth, “you shot a dog?” I was furious! I loved dogs! How could he do that? And with my gun?
Bombays weren’t supposed to kill anyone we weren’t assigned to kill, but I thought I might scrape by with an exception here.
Felix rolled his eyes. “Of course! I had to make it look like one of my guests from last night shot a dog! That would explain the blood.”
Oh sure. That made perfect sense. Of course.
I knelt down to touch the poor beast. It was one of Felix’s own Borzois. What a bastard.
“And what on earth made you think that one shot to a dog would cause this much blood?” I tried to control the rage that bubbled up inside of me. I was interrupted by the arrival of the police. Perfect.
Vlassiyev arrived with four other officers. Clearly he never meant to “not tell anyone.” I stepped behind Felix and kept my face down.
“We are investigating the murder of Rasputin, sir,” Vlassiyev said. “What do you have to say to that?”
Felix shrugged. “I have no idea what you mean.”
The five policemen looked at the enormous pool of blood and at the pitiful body of the dog lying in the middle of it.
“Would you care to explain this?” Vlassiyev pointed at the ground.
“I had a party last night. One of my guests thought it would be funny to shoot one of my dogs.” He didn’t say any more.
Vlassiyev knelt down and examined the dog. “Only one shot to the head.” He straightened up. “That would not account for this much blood.”
Felix shrugged again. I realized that this had been his defense most of his life.
“And we’ve had a call from Rasputin’s daughter,” Vlassiyev continued. “She said her father never came home last night. She said you picked him up and brought him to your house, and he hasn’t been seen since.”
Felix nodded smugly. “Rasputin was not one of my guests. I’ve never met the man.”
My fingers curled into fists. Was he kidding? The police just said Rasputin left with him last night. It wouldn’t take much to find out Felix had been one of his patients for the last two months. Was he insane?
Vlassiyev cleared his throat. “And one of your guests summoned me to the house last night to tell me Rasputin was murdered here and not to say a word about it.”
“I’m sure you misheard him,” Felix said simply. “Was Rasputin murdered?” His voice dripped with hope.
“Yes,” the officer said, “we found his body this morning. He is dead.”
I braced myself in case Felix did a little jig in front of the officers. At that moment, a Count Something-or-Other appeared in the courtyard and, completely ignoring the police, walked over and shook Felix’s hand.
“Just heard! Well done, my fellow! I always hated that damned monk!”
I went inside and gathered my things. Before anyone noticed, I’d packed up and fled Moika Palace through a side door. It took days to catch a train to Finland. I’d read a newspaper in Sweden that said the tsar hushed the whole thing up and sent Dmitry and Felix to the Western Front. Whatever.
The Rasputin Assignment became famous in the Bombay Family. For years, my relatives expressed sympathy for the job, and they all said they were grateful it wasn’t assigned to them, which made me feel a little bit better.
After all we went through with this greasy bastard—the poison, the shooting, and the bludgeoning—the autopsy showed that Rasputin had died of the one thing I hadn’t planned on…hadn’t even considered as a means of execution.
Rasputin was poisoned with potassium cyanide in his food and wine. He was shot in the back and shot in the head. His face was bashed in with weights. But that wasn’t what got him in the end.
Rasputin died…of drowning.
But at least this time, he really was, totally and completely, dead.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
I hope you enjoyed these stories from the historical files of the Bombay Family of Assassins. As a history geek, I enjoyed writing them. Especially the John Billington story. I’m a direct descendant of this man who came over on the Mayflower and was also the first person hung for murder in the American Colonies—and it was fun killing off my 11th Great Grandpa (in a weird way).
If you haven’t read any of the Bombay books, I suggest you start with ‘SCUSE ME WHILE I KILL THIS GUY. You can find more information on my website: www.leslielangtry.com
If you have read them all, watch for a special Christmas short story coming out for the holidays of this year: FOUR KILLING BIRDS, which will be part of an anthology by the Killer Fiction Writers.
~ Leslie Langtry
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About the Author
Leslie Langtry manages somehow to write from her home in the Midwest, where she lives with her two fabulous kids and terrific husband. She has never assassinated anyone – and wants to make that perfectly clear.
To learn more about Leslie Langtry, visit her online at
www. leslielangtry.com
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OTHER BOOKS BY LESLIE LANGTRY
Greatest Hits Mysteries:
'Scuse Me While I Kill This Guy
Guns Will Keep Us Together
Stand By Your Hitman
I Shot You Babe
Paradise By The Rifle Sights
Snuff the Magic Dragon
Enjoyed this Greatest Hits Mystery? Check out these other humorous, romantic mysteries from Gemma Halliday Publishing!
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Snuff the Magic Dragon (and other Bombay Family Bedtime Stories) (Greatest Hits Mysteries) Page 11
