The Peaceful Affair: Chapter 2
When Jesus Cohen had been building the Tower of Hanoi his daughter had been kidnapped and a ransom of two million dollars demanded. A meager sum, to be sure, for the billionaire contractor, which he would have paid gladly for the apple of his eye, had it not been for the delicate finger attached to the ransom note, bearing the ring Cohen had given Christina for her sixteenth birthday. By the time it had been established that the finger in question had belonged to one Guillotine Heaven-Smith — a young woman who had suffered a fatal cardiac arrest while attending a concert of the Coleopteras — Cohen had already gone to see Noro Myx to beg for his help in saving Christina from the evil clutches. Myx had taken all of fifty-two minutes to find the young lady, and although it had turned out the evil clutches belonged to none other than Hiroaki Levi Eagle’s Anus — Christina’s then one-third Japanese, one-third Jewish, one-third Cherokee boyfriend — Jesus Cohen had been so grateful to Myx, he had transformed him instantaneously into the envy of all and sundry in New York City, by gifting him the apartment at the top of the Tower of Hanoi (so named by Jesus due to his fondness of the eponymous game, which eight-disk version he’d solved at age 10, luckily far less than the 64-disk version required to bring about the end of the universe).
The meeting was held at this prime location.
“Doe’s sure nothing at all had been touched?” asked Myx. He was tall for his stature, lithely obese, with piercing forest-blue eyes, and an ancient pipe stuck in his mouth, given to him by the King of Liechtenstein upon successfully resolving the case of the missing capital (which had turned out to be an L). Being allergic to smoke, the pipe had never actually been lit, though Myx hung onto it out of sheer admiration for a certain gentleman from 221B. A harmless habit indeed, which cannot be said of his other a priori endearing custom though a posteriori horrendous praxis: playing the violin.
“That’s what he said,” confirmed the small giant. It was shortly after noontime, and the two operatives had been recounting the facts of the case in detail for over an hour now, with Myx being his usual inquisitive self. They were seated in the apartment’s spacious living room, which boasted a view capable of rendering an acrophobe catatonic. The tall dwarf always felt himself to be between Scylla and Charybdis at these meetings, being anxious both of heights and of Myx.
“So,” recapped the detective, “Doe enters the office at eleven o’clock, sits down at his desk, unlocks the attaché case, takes out the two treaties of interest, studies them for a while, falls asleep, and when he wakes up — poof, the documents are gone, as if by magic.”
Myx rose from his armchair and started to pace the room in silence, now and then sucking on the prop pipe. The small giant and the tall dwarf knew better than to interrupt his meditative walk. After what seemed like half an hour, but which in reality amounted to a mere twenty-eight minutes, Myx declared with zeal, “Lights!”
Short for “lights, camera, action,” it meant they would all be moving now into high gear.
“Motive and opportunity,” Myx repeated for the umpteenth time his nutshell take on criminal investigation. “Time to salsa — we’re all going to Washington.” It always took him a while to rev up, but once he did — even a team of wild evangelists could not stop him.
“Right now!” added Myx, after the requisite three seconds had elapsed and his assistants were still down and sitting.
Casting a bored look at the three, the guard at the entrance checked their names against a computerized list in his booth, pointed languidly toward the right, and said deadpan, “At the end of this walkway you’ll find a small yellow door. John’s waiting for you there.” It was early afternoon, and Washington was awash with that harsh moonless sunlight that reminded one it was still daytime.
“Come in, come in,” called the president mirthfully as they arrived at the yellow door. “You must be the famous Noro Myx. I’m Doe. John Doe. You can call me John.”
All he needs now is a secretary called Moneypenney, thought Myx, and said, “A pleasure to meet you, John.”
The two shook hands. “Let’s go into the Blue Room,” invited the president. “It’s kind of my favorite, you see.”
The foursome proceeded to walk the corridors of the house in silence, interrupted by a few brief exchanges of the “Hi John”–“Hi California-Sue” sort. Finally, they arrived at a nondescript wooden door at the end of a short hallway, and walked through it.
The Blue Room was medium sized, comfortable looking, with a mahogany coffee table at its center surrounded by a couple of armchairs and a large plush sofa. In the back stood a small desk, fronted by three plain chairs. The entire office had a bluish tint about it. Myx and the president each took one of the armchairs, and the two operatives sat down on the sofa.
Myx went into business mode. “Okay John, I’m not one for wasting time, so let’s start right away.” He paused for a moment to pour himself a glass of water from a pitcher atop the coffee table, nodding appreciatively at the pitcher’s azure hue; the famous detective liked consistency.
“When investigating a crime,” he began, “the two most important factors to consider are motive and opportunity.”
“Isn’t it motive, opportunity, and means?” asked the president.
“Like I always say: If you have the opportunity you’ll find the means and vice versa. Anyway, let’s move on. I’ve heard your account from my assistants but I’ve a number of additional questions.”
“Shoot!” said the president in earnest.
His dislike of guns notwithstanding, Myx continued. “I know the following question seems trivial, but tell me: who would gain from stealing the War Treaties?”
Trivial indeed. “Every nation we’re at war with, that’s for sure. Let’s see, the current count stands at 57 countries. Then there are the 112 nations that have signed a temporary non-hostility truce with us. They’d gain from such a theft as well. That leaves out only … Uhm … the Swiss. But then again, they might be in it for the money.”
“So basically you’re saying practically every human being on this planet would have motive for stealing the War Treaties?” asked Myx.
“Yes,” replied the president gloomily.
“I guess we’re left only with opportunity this time around,” commented the tall dwarf from the sofa sotto voce, utterly unable to hide a minutely prominent smirk of schadenfreude. “I’m sure some people did not have opportunity.”
Myx seemed to take no notice of the interruption. “Well, I guess we’re left only with opportunity this time around. Or so it would seem.” At this last remark he eyed the tall dwarf sharply, causing her to feel a whole half-inch shorter.
Myx turned toward the president. “Who, other than you of course, could have gained entrance into the Triangular Office?”
“No one,” came the reply. “You see, about a year ago they installed a special handle on the door, which is geared to my DNA print. The handle is a sophisticated piece of advanced technology that recognizes my hand as soon as I touch it.”
“Curiouser and curiouser,” remarked the small giant. “So basically everyone had motive and only you had opportunity.” The tall dwarf said nothing, though her smirk was at risk of becoming permanent, not unlike Batman’s eternal nemesis, The Joker.
“You’re saying I stole the case?” cried the president indignantly.
“Please, John, calm down, nobody’s implying such a thing.” Myx glanced at the sofa. “My assistants simply have this nasty habit of talking a teensy bit too quickly.”
The detective continued the questioning. “What happens if you have, say, a heart attack while in the room?”
“They blast their way in using a small explosive charge. The door was built with no override mechanism at all, per my instructions.”
“And you’re certain you had closed the door upon entering?”
“It closes automatically. And if someone tries to tamper with it, an alarm sounds.”
“What about security cameras? Aren’t all rooms in the house surveyed twenty-four hours a day?”
“All rooms except this one. Or, rather, it is surveyed but I can turn off the camera.”
“Which, I assume, you had done while studying the documents?”
“Yes. I take no chances where the War Treaties are concerned.”
“Of course, of course.” Myx had a distracted look about him for a brief moment, and then he snapped back into focus. “Let’s render a visit to the Triangular Office.”
The walk was a short one and the door at the end quite a disappointment, completely belying what had transpired behind it. There was no lock visible — just a round, brass handle of ordinary appearance.
“Go on,” prodded the president teasingly. “Try entering.”
The tall dwarf attempted to turn the handle — to no avail.
“I told you so,” said the president proudly, engulfing the handle with his right hand. “Open sesame,” he enunciated with a smile, turning the knob and opening the pertinacious door.
The interior was as disappointing as the door. The size of a standard living room in Madison, Wisconsin, the room contained very few objects: a small worn-out desk, a leather swivel chair, two wooden chairs, a 20-inch television set, a water dispenser, and a large grandfather clock of impressive workmanship.
“I know it doesn’t look like much,” said the president, as if in response to the looks on their faces, “but it’s my private little retreat. I like it this way: simple, with no excess of objects to clutter the mind. Helps me concentrate.” Myx cast the president an approving look — this Doe character was turning out to be a man to his taste.
“It’s not triangular,” remarked the small giant observantly.
“How very observant,” delighted the president. “The name is due to that little plaque over there.” He pointed to the wall behind the desk, whereupon hung a red-and-blue plaque in the form of an equilateral triangle. At the upper corner was engraved the word Truth, and the two lower corners were engraved with Justice and American Way. The interior of the triangle prominently held the letter “S”.
“Enough chitchat,” said Myx, indicating the swivel chair. “This is where you were sitting, I presume?”
“Yes,” confirmed the president.
“Falling asleep, did you recline in the chair, or was your head resting upon the desk?” asked the detective.
“My head lay on the desk.”
“Which part of your head touched the desk: your forehead, or one of your cheeks?”
The president hesitated for a moment, a look of concentration dashing upon his face; finally, he replied, “My left cheek.”
“Was your head resting on the documents themselves?”
“Actually, no. The case was lying over to the left, and I laid the papers to my right for a moment, while my head drooped.”
“So the perpetrator had easy access to the loot, not even needing to stir you,” concluded Myx evenly. “Once he or she had gained access to the room, that is.”
“Yes, the coast was entirely clear.” The president seemed depressed.
Myx seated himself in the chair, laid his head on the desk, and closed his eyes. The two operatives and the president remained standing silently. Fifteen minutes later the detective stood up and announced, “Let’s go.”
“I guess you wanted to enter into my frame of mind, to sense how I felt at the time of the crime?” asked the president inquisitively.
“No,” said Myx. “I needed a nap.”
“Do you have any theories?” asked the president once the four were comfortably seated back in the Blue Room.
“Theories are a quarter a six-pack,” Myx dished out one of his favorite aphorisms. “Besides, like philosopher Karl Popper declared, a theory has to be falsifiable — you erect it to try knocking it down. I’ve dismantled quite a few theories over the past few hours. Now then, I assume you’ve informed your staff I’d like to question them?”
“Yes,” replied the president. “They’re waiting in the next room.”
“Good. Let’s start with your personal secretary, then.” The detective relaxed into the armchair he’d come to think of as his Armchair, took the pipe out of a pocket, and assumed the role by sticking it in his mouth.
