You seem like a pretty shrewd guy, says the Con Artist, his hand resting on the Compasssmaker’s South Pointing Marmot. How much do you think we could get for this? Pepple shrugs. He grabs the Compasssmith’s corpse under its arms and drags it off to the grave up north.
When he walks back the Con Artist, using a pen knife, pops open the thick south panel of the box beneath the bronze marmot. The two men look inside. They see a labyrinth of gears, locked together in seemingly chaotic fashion, but somehow combined, serving purpose—and alive. Any motion, even the natural tremor of the Con Artist’s hands, causes the gears to flutter and breathe. From deep within they hear (just behind the drone of crickets) the hum of tiny gyroscopes. A swift motion causes a flurry of spinning and wheeling. And yet, apart from the hum of the gyroscopes, the gears make no sound. The Con Artist replaces the panel. It locks into place.
Listen, says the Con Artist, I read that contract up there. I know that while this might not be mine, it sure isn’t yours. But we both know how it could be yours.
Pepple doesn’t take his eyes off the marmot. The Con Artist rubs his nose.
You want it, the Con Artist says, don’t you?
Pepple does want it. He frowns.
Tell you what, he smiles, how about we cut a small deal wherein you help me, and I help you bring home this little jewel? Easy as cake.
Pepple frowns.
Just be a matter of making my way out of here. Getting someone to take my place. Or maybe just walking, I don’t know. I heard what the Compasssmith said, how many duels he fought, and who fought before him. So let’s just cut the shit and start dealing.
Pepple considers.
From the edge of the forest, not far, the two men hear a high-pitched whistle. They turn. Nothing.
Pepple look the Con Artist in the eye. He walks off.
Gone, the Con Artist pops out the solid-brass south panel of the box and inserts it inside his shirt, over his heart.
The Concierge arrives, fresh and well-groomed. He approaches the oak, slicks his hair to the right, gently smoothes his waistcoat, and extends his hand to the Con Artist. Very little time passes before he, with a slight Toulousian accent, informs the Con Artist of a murderer who has, since last week, been on the loose.
I saw him, sir, with these very two eyes, from the upper window of a local hotel, says the Concierge. A tall man, provincial, with a beard, together with a tiny little fat man—like the character of Sancho Panza, but with a face of a goat. The tall man shot another man in white, and—before anything else, I called the police.
The Con Artist tells him he was wise to do so.
The Chief of Police picked up the phone. He told me, Sir, right away will I investigate. Perhaps he has made the arrest already.
Perhaps, says the Con Artist. But the two of us have a duel to attend.
As the Concierge takes the field, the Con Artist turns and lightly adjust the brass panel beneath his shirt.
They raise their guns, their guns go off.
