Chapter 10
Cheery Littlebottom sat at the reception desk in Pseudopolis yard, absentmindedly swinging her feet and staring into space. It was two more hours until the end of shift and she was alone in the room, except for a few people toiling away at the desks to finish their reports.
She was bored. No watchman had brought someone in for the cells, no civilian had come in to complain and no one had come to just talk to her, for a whole hour! She'd also finished all her paperwork, so there was nothing to do – but sit and wait for there to be something to do.
At least they've gotten around to buying that high office chair I needed, Cheery thought. She hadn't enjoyed standing for hours on a small crate in order to see over the desk. I wish those equal heights activists would stop complaining about it though. I don't feel like a baby sitting in this, and it's much more comfortable than their alternative.
Cheery was shocked out of her thoughts as a man stumbled through the doorway. At first she thought he was just drunk, but a moment later she realised something was horribly wrong.
"Quick! Someone get a doctor, or Igor!" she shouted and sprung down from her chair.
Some watchmen ran outside to carry out her demand. Others caught the man as he fell down, laying him carefully down onto the floor. He struggled and tried to resist them.
"Sir, lie down. Calm down sir. What happened, what's wrong," Cheery asked the man.
"Snake! Snake!" he managed to gurgle out.
Foam was beginning to bubble from his mouth. He struggled to tear away the shirt from his neck. Cherry spotted two bleeding punctures, near the left artery. She knew it was probably too late to save him as he started to shake and convulse. Some of the watchmen tried to hold him down.
"Oh Gods, where's Igor?" one of them cried.
The man ceased moving. He seemed to just collapse, as though he'd lost an internal battle. Cheery felt for his pulse and finding none proceeded to perform CPR. It seemed like a futile action, but it had to be done. It might just turn out to have a million-to-one chance of success.
She continued pumping at his chest, checking for a pulse every few moments. She didn't know how long she did it, but when she felt a gentle hand on her shoulder she reluctantly ceased. The man was dead.
"Osmosis Jones," Carrot said. "He was a well known con-artist. Unlicensed, I wouldn't be surprised if the thieves had gotten to him."
Cheery sat back, completely spent from her exertions. For some reason, the image of Catherine Atonic's body came to the forefront of her mind and began jumping up and down for her attention.
"Mrs Atonic… she was bitten by a snake," she said as realisation dawned.
"Yes. Um, is that significant?" Carrot asked.
"This man, Jones, he just died of a snake bite!"
"Do you think they're connected? He's a victim of the Hashishim?"
"Poisonous snake bites are extremely rare here. I'd be surprised if they were completely unrelated. Igor will want to do an autopsy, but I'm sure the width of the bite on Mrs Atonic is the same size as Jones'. It could mean the same snake," Cherry said before standing up, arms and back aching. She needed a drink.
Gumbute smiled in amazement and delight.
The Hashishim had found Conan Mann!
Gumbute had been able to give them nothing but a dubious description and a name, and a false one at that. The assassins had failed even after two years of supposedly thorough searching, yet the Hashishim had found him in less than a day!
He gazed at the picture in the times again. He'd had orange hair and a beard when he made the mistake of conning Gumbute, but this Osmosis Jones was definitely the man.
I wonder why nobody else uses pot plants like they do, he wondered. I wish I knew how they did it.
He'd had Dhin go out and buy him a pot plant that morning. It now sat on his desk and he bent down to its level, staring hard. It was a lovely chrysanthemum, blooming with four large yellow flowers. Gumbute tried concentrating harder on them and repeated the name Conan Mann in his head. No visions were forthcoming but his head began to throb, a sure sign that in the future he would have a headache.
He sat back and sighed. Perhaps he would have to start off small first. Then he remembered that the Hashishim had a garden.
Maybe I need to start out in a large garden, surrounded by trees and flowers and birds and animals and… young women, Gumbute thought.
He was close, sort of, there were "pot" plants involved.