by Eric Flint
“No way that they were raped by rats,” said Slim dismissively, over the rim of his full glass. “Even if you all think you’re hung like Errol Flynn.”
Mercutio shook his head, looking thirstily at the glass. “‘Tis true that most rats are destined to be hung. But it was not a rat that killed them.”
“It was a bloody great rock that someone smashed their skulls with,” supplied another drinker. “Too big for a rat.”
“Indeed. And that too was not what killed them,” said Mercutio, grimly.
Laggy laughed. “You might live on as a bit of head-plastic after your brain gets smashed in. But the rest of us would be dead,” he said with a sneer.
“Oh, the rock would have killed them,” said Mercutio, digging in his pouch again, and producing a small cellophane packet of white powder. “But this already had.”
“What?” demanded Captain Wuollet.
Mercutio held the packet up. “This is what killed them. They were killed by the drug, the same one that killed Snout, when she tried to use what she’d stolen from the last victim. The rest was mere fakery to make it look like a crime of rapine. You did it.” He pointed at Laggy
The proprietor of the Last Chance laughed again. “Don’t be ridiculous. Why would I kill them? Anyway, how can you prove it?”
“There was very little blood where we found the body,“ said the captain, quietly. “And head wounds bleed. You all know that. What you may not know is that dead bodies don’t.”
Mercutio nodded. “Anyway. We—Snout and I—saw and robbed the body. There was no mark on her. She had not been violated. We heard someone approach and ran off lest we be caught. Methinks, if you offer sufficient reward and impunity among the rats, the looters of the other bodies will come forward. But you may be certain that the last victim was killed before her skull was broken. You had it all backwards.”
“Why didn’t you tell someone?” demanded Captain Wuollet.
“And be blamed? ‘Tis not our business.”
“It’s drivel,” said Laguna. “I mean yes, maybe the dust did come from the women, and might have overdosed your rat. But look, what reason do I have for killing them? They’re my business. They were raped and someone killed them to hide his ID. It had to be someone strong, that they knew or could recognize.”
He pointed at Holmes. “Someone like him. There is no other motive.”
Mercutio shook his head. “It is indeed a question of motive. But you have the motive. One of the women stumbled on your unpleasant secret, and thought she’d blackmail you. She threatened to tell Miz Zed. Even sent her a note. You killed her, and her friends, because, reviewing your disc of voyeurism, you saw that she’d talked.” Mercutio reached into his pouch yet again, this time holding up a recording-minidisc. “I have it here.”
“Give me that,” yelled Laggy, his face ashen. “Thief!”
“At least he is just a thief, not a murderer and slave-holder,” said the bat, grimly. “As you are. You also forgot that there was a witness. Or perhaps you thought you were safe as he was an alien who cannot speak English. You forgot that we too can speak Korozhet, although we choose not to.”
Captain Wuollet held up her hand. “Stop right there. Mr.. Laguna told me that he didn’t speak Korozhet.”
“That is correct,” said Mercutio tugging his long whiskers. “Mr.. Laguna does not. Unfortunately, Mr.. Laguna is dead so what he speaks is of no matter.”
“What?” said Abe, just seconds ahead of several others.
Mercutio held up his stubby paws. “‘Tis, methinks, both simple and obvious.” He pointed at the short, plump proprietor. “This is not Mr.. Laguna.”
Everybody still looked puzzled. “What?” said Slim finally. “This is my buddy, Honest...”
“No,” said Mercutio, with the air of someone explaining to a simpleton—or a group of simpletons. “The man you call Honest Laguna is a former Korozhet slave who was found by the real Honest Laguna. Laguna was drunk, and trusting. This man—free now because the Korozhet had run off without their slaves—was found by the real Laguna. The slave he helped killed him, stole his clothes and possessions, including his still, and set up shop here. The act was witnessed by a fellow slave... one who is still here.”
“What?”
“It would appear to me that their brains are stuck on that word,” said Firkin. “Laggy here was a slave. He’s got a few more slaves himself.”
“But slaves are totally forbidden in human space,” said the mayor.
“Methinks that you have a veritable nugget of fact there.” Mercutio fluffed his whiskers. “One that is motive for murder. He has not told them they’ve been liberated. He uses them in his drug manufacturing process, and to run his stills.” He gave his audience a ratty grin. “Just because you have been a slave yourself does not mean that you are a good man. According to Cookie, he was a Korozhet trusty. When the Korozhet fled... well, the two of them were found by Laguna, who was drunk. Laggy here was much the same size and build, and for reasons as yet unknown killed him.”
“You’ve just got his crazy rat’s word for all this,” said Laggy, backing against the bar. “How could I kill the girls? I’ve got alibis for my time. He lies.”
Mercutio regarded him askance. “We eat, perforce, rations. They are scarce, while the hydroponics are getting going. Methinks you will find scant witnesses to your presence during the dinner sittings.” He pointed with a stubby pawhand to the door in the painted mural. “Let us look behind the door then and ask the others if I lie.”
That gesture proved to be a mistake. All the eyes in the place followed, and people stopped looking, for an instant, at Laggy. Captain Wuollet was one of the first to realize it. And thus caught the full blinding force of the magnesium flare. And something hit her flak-jacket really hard.
***
There was, by the noise—she couldn’t see anything—a lot of chaos. Which included things like “after the bastard,” and “he went that-a-ways.” It sounded like Laggy’s well- oiled lynch mob was being put to excellent use, thought Rebecca, as she struggled to clear her vision.
By the time she could see again, Holmes had removed his large body from shielding his commanding officer. The bar was empty, with the exception of two rats, one with a large glass of cognac, and the other with her flouncy arms in the till, never mind her fingers. The bat was fluttering around the door in the wall-mural. And what was obviously a weird retinal after-burn shaped just like a cupcake was standing talking gibberish to the bat.
“What happened to the mayor and Abe?”
“The mayor was leading the pack. He might even stop it being an onsite lynching. And Abe was looking for some tools.” Sergeant Holmes closed the cash-register and narrowly missed making Firkin a little short-handed.
She sniffed irritably at him, and showed teeth. “Spoilsport.”
Abe returned with a small toolkit, and walked over to the mural door. Rebecca saw that the bat was pointing at some small holes she’d never noticed before. “At least you could help instead of indulging in petty larceny!”
Mercutio preened his whiskers. “I never indulge in petty larceny,” he said loftily. “This is hundred year old cognac. And you know as well as I that Cookie told us that Laggy has somehow locked that one. Methinks it will take explosives.”
Rebecca looked at the rat. “You have some explaining to do.”
He cocked his head. “Is Mercutio headed for durance vile?”
“I’ll settle for explanations,” said Rebecca. “And a glass of that loot. This time. If you stop Firkin trying to open the till again.”
Firkin sat down on the bar and pulled a bottle out of her sleeve and drank some of the amber fluid in it. She looked at Mercutio very intently as she did it.
“Art sure you would not have a stoup of this stuff?” he asked.
“Methinks I will stick to my own brew,” said the rattess. There seemed to be a hint of menace in that statement, although Rebecca could not put her finger on jus
t why.
“I think,” said Mercutio, “That the largest part of my explanation is that things are not always quite what they seem by first appearance. And if you can see motive... the picture gets clearer.”
“I’m still faint but pursuing as to what the picture actually is, and just how he was able to do it.” Rebecca took the cognac from the faintly sinister rat. “I assume you found the motive on the disc.”
Mercutio shook his head. “I did but deduce it. I know not what is on that disc. Probably the rutting of some miners and one of wenches. There must a hundred of them in his room. I guessed what his reaction would be. I was right.”
“Methinks they have great resale value,” said Firkin, snatching it up and dancing away.
“I’ll resell you,” said Rebecca. “Give it back.”
“No wonder no one likes the constabulary,” said Firkin, tossing it down. “So explain, Mercutio. How then did little Laggy kill the girls, if we grant him the motive?”
Mercutio savored the cognac. “It was a matter of arranging a rendezvous and waiting for the drug to kill them. The note, methinks you will find came from him, not the claw of Zed. I hath seen her script, which the girls had not. I caught a bare glimpse of the note when Laggy gave it to you, but it was neat and handwritten. Wingclaws or feet do a poor job of writing. Zed uses an electronic scripter, even for her picket signs. Did the note offer a great deal of money perchance?”
“Yes,” admitted Rebecca. He was too astute for his own good, this rat.
“So that is how he killed them,” said Holmes. “But how did he move them then. Mister rat?”
Mercutio shrugged. “He has a vehicle, and he repairs it. I think you’ll find he has a slider. Look carefully in the tunnel on the sides and you may see the tracks...”
“But we did. For the barrow,” said Holmes, shaking his head.
“With a narrow torch beam,” said Firkin. “I was there, I saw you do it. The tracks will be on the edges of the tunnel if they are there at all... not where a barrow would leave them, which was what you looked for.
Holmes shook his head again. “God, what a sick bastard. You think he...”
It wasn’t something Rebecca wanted to think about, either. “Without a forensic expert we won’t know. I suspect he found the first body had been robbed, when he went to hide it, and saw a bright way of getting someone else to take the blame.”
“We’ll ask him, very politely, of course,” said Holmes. “When I examine his mind. If they haven’t killed him.”
Firkin snorted. “They’ll not catch him.”
“Then I will,” said Rebecca, grimly.
“Or the rats will find him. For a fee, of course,” said Mercutio.
“Got it!” said Abe. The painted door in the mural swung open to reveal a room full of lab paraphernalia, and a still. And three terrified looking aliens. Of course, expressions could be hard to read accurately on alien faces. But the cowering wasn’t. Cowering crossed the species and interplanetary divide.
Maybe the easy answer was just to pay the rats to bring the bastard in dead, thought Rebecca grimly. She turned to Mercutio. “I’m thinking of giving you a job in the police force.”
Mercutio seemed distinctly unwell, and looked around hastily for an exit. “Me? Art diseased in thy mind? My reputation, Iago...”
