The Peaceful Affair: Chapter 3
Eve Apples was a beautiful woman in her late thirties. She took the chair proffered by Myx, which the detective had placed beforehand on the opposite side of the coffee table.
“Good afternoon, Miss Apples,” said Myx, flashing the You-Can-Trust-Me-More-Than-Your-Mother smile, which always put suspects in a talkative mood. Suspects in a talkative mood had turned out to be quite conducive to business.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Myx,” retaliated Apples with a specially cultured smile of her own, tying with ease the Battle of the Grins. Myx took note but remained unfazed.
“Since you know who I am and why I’m here, let’s get right to the point.” He paused as if in reflection, extracted the pipe from his mouth, and discharged a verbal missile in a low, grave voice, “Why did you steal the War Treaties?”
Apples burst into laughter. “Mr. Myx, did you really think that would work?”
“It was worth a try. I once solved a case in a record twenty seconds like that. Oh well.” Myx shrugged his shoulders. “I understand you’ve been with John for quite a while now, haven’t you?”
“Let’s see, I joined his team right after college, when he was running for Mayor of Atlanta. That was almost fifteen years ago.”
“Have you, at any time, been lovers?”
The president — who’d been sitting quietly in the other armchair — rose to protest, but Myx motioned him to noninterference. “I must be able to ask any question if I’m to further this investigation. And, please, do remember that anything heard within these walls stays with us. Discretion, eh?”
He turned back to Apples, who smiled, glanced fondly at the president, and replied, “Yes. But that was several years ago.”
“And it had ended peacefully?”
“Sure. John’s such a sweetheart. You can’t stay angry at him for long.”
“But you were angry for short?”
A cloud seemed to pass momentarily over her face, but then it cleared. “For a very short while. But I got over it quickly, and, as you can see, I’m still here.”
“Why lose a good job over an ex-lover, eh?”
“Mr. Myx — ” started Apples in protest, which the detective quickly deflected. “Forget it. Where were you yesterday night between eleven o’clock and twelve-thirty?”
“In bed.”
“Can anyone attest to that fact?”
“Yes. My husband.”
“Anybody else?”
“Yes. My husband’s other two wives.”
“His other two wives?” echoed Myx.
“He’s a Muslim,” replied Apples.
“What’s his name?”
“Ibrahim McGregor.”
“McGregor?”
“His father was Scottish, his mother Egyptian.”
“Interesting,” commented Myx impassively, incongruous images of Yasser Arafat and Sean Connery floating through his mind.
“You should see how dashing he looks in a kilt and a kaffiyeh. I think that’s why I fell for him.”
“So you’re saying that yesterday night all four of you were … together?”
Apples smiled coyly. “Yes,” she admitted in a hushed voice, “we were.” The president was showing manifest signs of contemplating conversion.
“Well then,” said Myx as he rose from the armchair, “I guess we’re done for now.” As Apples started advancing toward the door through which she’d entered, the detective called, “Please use the other door.” The young women changed direction.
“Oh, Miss Apples,” called Myx just before she completed her exit, “one last question: why have you kept your maiden name?”
“I haven’t. Apples was my first husband’s name. He died in a plane crash over ten years ago.” And she was gone.
“Now that’s one cool lady,” remarked the small giant once the door had closed behind Apples.
“I tend to agree,” tended Myx.
“I hope she’s not the one!” cried the president emotionally. Myx ignored him and motioned the tall dwarf to let the next person in.
Xena Hammerhead was a beautiful woman in her late thirties. She entered the room casting a defiant look around her and sat down in the same chair as her predecessor. The moment her buttocks touched the seat, Myx was up and shouting, “Why did you steal the War Treaties?”
Hammerhead seemed startled for a moment, then her expression turned to anger. “What the hell are you talking about?” she cried out. “I stole nothing.”
“Okay,” retorted Myx sheepishly as he regained his armchair, “you didn’t.”
Hammerhead was visibly fuming, but fighting hard to contain the fire. “Are you going to ask intelligent questions, or do I leave right away?” A brief game of Who’ll-Blink-First ensued. Myx lost.
The detective began the questioning. “How long have you known the president?”
“About fifteen years. I joined up fresh out of law school.”
“You’ve been his personal lawyer ever since?”
“Yes.”
“How personal?”
“Mr. Myx — ” Hammerhead was nearing boiling point again, but the detective pushed on relentlessly, “Have you and the president ever been lovers?”
“Mr. Myx” — Hammerhead bolted out of her chair like a flash of lightning — “what do you take me for?” Everyone except Myx averted their gaze from this tempest. “Of course we were lovers!” finished the lawyer, and remained standing.
“Please, please,” said Myx softly, “no need to get all worked up. Do sit down.” He turned on his I-Won’t-Pull-This-Stunt-Again smile, which he’d developed for just such fiery situations. Hammerhead regained her chair.
“Just one last question: Where were you yesterday night between eleven o’clock and twelve-thirty?”
“On Philadelphia,” replied Hammerhead, her mouth forming a small yet unmistakable smirk.
“You mean the reception hosted by the Vice President on the USS Philadelphia?” Myx prided himself on keeping abreast of current affairs.
“No, I mean on Canada Philadelphia, my lover.” She broke into a laugh, to be immediately joined by the president. The small giant and the tall dwarf eyed Myx guardedly and allowed themselves only a narrow grin.
Myx did not look amused. “I think we’re done for now, Miss Hammerhead,” he said coolly, pointing toward the exit. “Please leave by that door.”
“Divide et impera, eh, Mr. Myx?” smiled Hammerhead victoriously as she rose to leave.
“Oh, Miss Hammerhead,” said Myx in a sweet low voice when she neared the door. “How is your lady friend of yesterday night?”
Hammerhead spun around and stared at Myx in shock, as did the president. “Lady friend?” he questioned bewilderedly.
“None of your damn business!” flared the woman. “And how the hell did you know Canada is a woman?”
It was Myx’s turn to smile triumphantly. “Logic, my dear, logic. You know, that faculty men are reputed to have.”
“You sexist chauvinist!” hollered Hammerhead and left, slamming the door behind her.
Myx was smug. “What a refreshing young lady. Immensely enjoyable. Mind you, as for that last remark about chauvinism, I do believe she was a bit off the marker. I did say reputed to have.”
The president was starting to develop some doubts about his choice of detective. “Mr. Myx, are all these theatrics really necessary?”
The smile disappeared from Myx’s face in a splash. “John,” he turned a serious face toward the president, “please indulge me. I’ve been at this game for quite a while. And, yes, these ‘theatrics’ — as you called them — are necessary. Investigating a crime is as much about human psychology as it is about cold facts. Perhaps the former even more so.”
The president recovered his calm. “Okay, okay, we’ll do it your way. It’s just that, well, in addition to being my close staff, these people are also personal friends of mine.”
Very personal, thought Myx. “Who’s next on our list?”
“Gates,” replied the tall dwarf. “The National Security Advisor. Shall I ask her to step in?”
“Yes,” confirmed Myx.
Dorothy Gates was a beautiful woman in her late thirties. There was a pleasant mien about her that bespoke contentment, and she smiled warmly while taking her seat. “Good afternoon, everyone,” she said in a univocal southern accent.
Myx pulled out his Indian-Autumn smile and remarked, “I can see I need not ask where you’d met the president, as you’re obviously from the south.”
“Born and bred in Atlanta, Mr. Myx, where I met John and hooked up with him.”
“And that was …”
“Oh, let’s see now, just about fifteen years ago. Right after college.”
“What did you study?”
“Computer science and acupuncture.”
“Impressive. Tell me, I can see by the absence of a single’s ring that you’re married.”
“Why, how perceptive of you, Mr. Myx,” cried Gates in delight. “Indeed I am.”
“Any children?”
“Two. Billy’s five, Barcelona’s three.”
The detective raised a right brow. “Barcelona?”
“That’s where she was born. I was on a war-keeping mission at the time.”
“I see. Tell me, where were you yesterday night between eleven o’clock and twelve-thirty?”
“Why, at home of course. With my husband and children.”
“Of course,” acknowledged Myx. “Your love affair with the president — when did it occur?” In his corner, Doe could be heard sighing heavily.
“Why … I mean how — ”
“Call it an educated guess,” smiled Myx, waving his left hand in a motion of dismissal. “Was it a long time ago?”
“Years ago,” replied Gates in a barely audible voice. “I think it took place about a year after I’d entered the mayor’s — I mean president’s — employ.”
“Well,” Myx rose to escort Mrs. Gates to the door, “I believe we’re all done here. Oh, I’ve one trifling question left to ask,” he whispered warmly as the two of them stood by the exit. “Why did you steal the War Treaties?”
Gates laughed heartily, brushed Myx’s cheek, and walked out without a word. Myx remained standing by the door for a long moment, his thoughts straying completely off the case’s path.
“We’re left with Jennifer Love and Napoleon Jefferson,” remarked the small giant, once Myx had regained his armchair.
“For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings,” recited Myx distractedly, “That then I scorn to change my state with kings.”
“Noro,” prodded the small giant gently, “shall I call Miss Love in?”
“Huh?” Myx seemed fifteen miles away, somewhere in the heart of Maryland. Suddenly, he snapped out of it, and cried with joy, “Yes. Right. Love me tender!”
The president’s doubts were simmering along nicely. The small giant ushered in the next examinee.
Jennifer Love was a beautiful woman in her late thirties. Upon sitting down, she wasted not a moment and said, “Please go ahead, Mr. Myx.”
The detective smiled broadly. “Very well, Miss Love. I understand you’re the newest member of the team.”
“Yes, I joined up as press assistant about five years ago.”
“And you replaced …” Myx let the phrase hang.
“Mrs. Doe.”
“John’s wife?”
“No, his mother. She decided to retire.”
“To Florida?” asked Myx with a chuckle.
“No, to Lausanne, her town of origin.”
“That’s in Switzerland, on the shores of Lake Geneva,” interjected the tall dwarf from the sofa.
“Yes,” intervened the president, “my mother came to the States when she was eight years old. She always said she’d go back to Lausanne one day. And so she did.” He seemed lost for a moment. “So she did.”
Myx decided to retake control of the interrogation. “Have you and the president ever been lovers?” he asked, turning to Love.
“Mr. Myx!” she cried irately. “The president and I most certainly have never been lovers!” Myx cast a surprised glance at the president, who lowered his head in what might have been shame.
“Please forgive me, Miss Love,” said Myx, turning the charm knob to a higher setting. “Sometimes an investigation such as this necessitates a modicum of unpleasantness.”
Love relaxed visibly, saying, “It’s okay, I understand.”
Myx continued. “Your whereabouts yesterday night between eleven o’clock and twelve-thirty?”
“Philadelphia,” came the reply. Before Myx had had a chance to decide whether she was referring to the lover, the ship, or the city, Love added, “It’s a little restaurant not far from my home. Some friends of mine and I were having a late dinner. In fact, I was there till about twelve-thirty, when I got the call from John to come right over.”
“One last question, Miss Love.” Myx focused intently on her. “Why did you steal the War Treaties?”
“Quoi?” she said in surprise, “I mean, what?”
“That will be all, Miss Love. You may go now.” Love rose, cast a quizzical look at Myx, and strode proudly out the door.
After Love’s departure, the president yawned and asked, “Is this going to take much longer. I’d like to get some sleep.”
“Only Napoleon Jefferson’s left,” said the small giant.
“The Marine officer in charge of guarding the attaché case,” added the tall dwarf. “I’ll go get the captain,” she said, rising from the sofa.
Napoleon Jefferson was a beautiful woman in her late thirties, somewhat of a minor surprise to Myx, who fixed his operatives with a penetrating gaze; both were terribly busy admiring the ceiling.
“At ease, Captain,” said Myx. “And, please, do sit down.”
Even seated, Jefferson decidedly did not look at ease — she looked very much the quintessential Marine.
“Why Napoleon?” began Myx. “Was your father a history buff?”
“Sir, my father is five foot one, and when my mother was pregnant he thought they were destined to have a short child. So he figured he’d get one up on destiny by giving me this name.” She added evenly, “Must have worked: I’m six foot one.”
“Have you and the president ever been lovers?” continued Myx.
“Affirmative, sir,” responded Jefferson without so much as blinking.
“Yesterday night, after you left the president at the entrance to the Triangular Office, where did you go to?”
“Back to my quarters.”
“You mean home, I take it.”
“Affirmative, sir.”
“Do you have any witnesses as to your whereabouts between the time you left and twelve-thirty?”
“One witness, sir: Lieutenant Colonel Jefferson.”
“Your commanding officer?”
“My husband, sir.”
“I guess his full name is Josaphine Jefferson?” chuckled Myx.
“Thomas Jefferson, sir.”
“Of course, I should have guessed. Captain, why did you steal the War Treaties?”
“A Marine officer never steals,” replied the woman dryly, and added emphatically, “sir.”
“Does he or she ever smile?”
“Affirmative, sir,” replied Jefferson flatly.
“Captain,” said Myx.
“Sir?”
“Dismissed.”
The woman got up, saluted the president, and marched out the door. Myx thought he heard faint echoes of a military band — or perhaps it was only his imagination.
He took the pipe out of his mouth and inserted it into his pocket. “John, I think we’re done for tonight.”
“What? How? I mean — we’ve gotten nowhere.” The president rose from his armchair, an agitated look on his face. “They all have alibis. My God, we’ve wasted an entire day!”
“I beg to differ,” smiled Myx enigmatically. He stepped over to the president, placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder, and said, “It’s time to send in the cavalry.”
