This can only be the work of one man,cried Snutton, using his left boot to turn over the victim's severed head.
Porlock, have I ever spoken to you of Ergot Mountrotten?
No, I don't think so,
Porlock answered hesitantly. Or
wait, yes, you did! It was in January of '85, at Petra, … er,
no, sorry. That was Mrs. Mulpotter, the Dampwick Arsonist.
I thought not,
replied Snutton, chewing on his cigar
as if it were made of rubber. The name of Ergot Mountrotten is
on no one's lips. The man's life appears blameless. Why, he
might be a unicorn in a fairy tale.
Porlock shuddered. I don't see …
No, you don't.
Snutton rapped out the words as if
with a shovel. So you will not fail to be surprised when
I tell you that Mountrotten is behind three out of every four
unsolved criminal atrocities perpetrated in the Northern
Hemisphere!
Really, Snutton?
gasped Porlock.
I never exaggerate,
said Snutton. Let me draw you a
portrait of the man.
He seated himself comfortably on a hydrant
and leaned back as if dodging a blow.
“Picture to yourself a tall, imposing man with a fat neck; a face like a map of Argentina; piercing purple eyes that never cease their rolling; a graceful, pear-shaped nose; a cruel, bloated mouth that habitually twists itself into the shape of the letter R; a beard like an oyster's; a close-fitting suit of sedate buff serge; and a pair of stone grey rhinoceros-hide boots bought in one of the darkest corners of Piccadilly.
To all this add an air of menace so overpowering that
cats and dogs will not approach within half a mile of him, and
you have Ergot Mountrotten to the life.
Snutton, this is wonderful!
exclaimed Porlock. I see
the man as clearly as if he were standing behind you pointing
a gun at your head.