The Peaceful Affair: Chapter 9
“Jennifer Love and Professor Gates. Hmm … Quite interesting.”
Myx had been listening distractedly to the report of the previous day’s findings, narrated by the small giant and the tall dwarf. It was one of those beautiful cloudy mornings that made you want to spring out of bed, joyously shout at the top of your lungs, “Stop that damn racket!” and launch your TV at the little man in the horrible green suit standing right beneath your window singing O Solo Mio in a high-pitched voice that made your tonsils pop out.
A thoughtful mien about him, Myx began speaking in a low somber voice. “People often make the mistake of assuming good and evil are dichotomous, but, alas, reality is much murkier. Would that it were so simple,” sighed the detective. “Would that the two could be cleanly disjoined.” Myx paused for a prolonged meditative while, sucking on his unlit pipe.
Finally, the pipe popped out of his mouth. “Sometimes good and evil are no strangers. In fact, they may be brothers, perhaps even twins. Remember, my friends, two tacos do not an enchilada make.” A non sequitur in the hand is worth two in the bush, Myx was wont to say.
A man zoomed in. “Good morning, John,” the detective greeted his resident president. “I trust you’ve slept well?”
“Marvelously,” chirped Doe, a heavenly aura about his face, as he concentrated on the task at hand.
“John?”
“Yes, Noro?”
“This really isn’t necessary.”
“Oh, sorry. It’s hard not to heed that inner voice within — that deep, deep calling. Do you know what I mean?”
“I do, John, I do,” replied Myx patiently. “But I assure you my apartment receives the best of treatments. You may safely stow the broom.”
Doe cast a melancholy look at his gallant wooden lance, and swept it aside with a tear and a whispery recital of Wystan Hugh Auden:
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
A pregnant silence ensued, ultimately ending with Myx’s walking over to Doe, placing a paternal hand on his shoulder, and evoking the lordly Tennyson, ’Tis better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all.
“Now, John,” continued Myx in a more resolute voice, handing Doe a round cup of coffee, “would you like to tell us how you ended up in Loony Prunes?”
“I’m afraid I can’t be much help there, Noro,” replied Doe. “All I remember is I was sitting in my office four days ago. Sometime during the afternoon I heard a noise, looked up, and there I was standing in the room looking at me!”
“Anonymous,” commented the tall dwarf.
“Yes,” affirmed Doe. “Quite an afternoon, I can tell you.”
“Madame Le Nord does seem to have conserved one or two trifling secrets for herself,” mumbled Myx.
“Anyway,” continued the president, “before I knew what was happening, I felt a needle prick — and woke up with a worried Dr. Freud standing at my bedside.”
“That very same night Anonymous hid the War Treaties and called us in,” completed the small giant.
Doe turned to Myx. “Why did he do that? Why hide the documents just to have you find them again? I mean, he could easily have walked out the house with the papers to become a very wealthy man.”
Myx walked over to the window. “The key lies in the ‘finding’ bit. You see, I believe their intention was to have me search for the treaties, not find them. They wanted me to provide proof-of-loss, if you will: A certificate signed by the famous Noro Myx, ascertaining the unfindability of the War Treaties.” Modesty was a quality Myx highly admired — in others.
“They?” said the president.
“Most certainly,” replied Myx with certainty. “Anonymous is not alone in this. We’re already aware of Jennifer Love and Fenestra Gates, and I’m sure this group of connivers includes other as-yet-unknown members.” He paused for a commercial break and emphasized, “As yet.”
“What now?” asked John Doe.
“I think I shall seek out my brother,” replied the detective. “When it comes to international affairs he’s the world’s number-one expert.”
“You have a brother?” amazed Doe. “And if he’s in international affairs, how come I’ve never heard of him?”
“Every great detective has an older brother,” averred Myx. “As for your not being aware of him — I never said he was involved in international affairs. Oh, no, dear Jabberwock is much too lazy for that. However, a superb mind coupled with an astonishing range of contacts and acquaintances have rendered him a savant beyond comparison.”
“Does he live close by?” asked Doe.
“As a matter of fact he does, although that is quite irrelevant — he spends most of his time at Club 22.”
“Club 22? I’ve never heard of it.”
“Of course not. It’s the easiest club in town to get accepted by.”
“Huh?” the president cast an uncomprehending look. “What’s the catch?”
“They only accept those they’ve rejected,” replied Myx evenly.
Doe scratched his head and mumbled, “Whatever.” Then he added eagerly, “What are we waiting for? Let’s go!”
“I believe it would be better if you remained out of sight for now, John. Let’s give Anonymous a chance to carry on a while longer and see where he’s heading. In the meantime, do make the most of the best view in town,” smiled Myx as he left.
Club 22 was housed in a beautiful nineteenth-century building, which stood on the waterfront point where 1st and 2nd Avenues merged into one. A worn-out metal plate on the heavy wooden door had Club 22 etched in delicate golden letters, and written beneath in smaller print, Founded June 31st, 1899. Myx was admitted with a silent nod by the austere minordomo, a fact he noted with some surprise. In answer to his question the detective was told the austere majordomo had been urgently called out of town to attend to his second mother’s first uncle’s third niece who was suffering from a severe bout of food rationalizing, involving the patient’s utter refusal to eat anything beginning with an “e” or an “s”, or drink anything ending with an “a” or a “k”.
“Noro, how good to see you. You never take the time to visit your older brother these days.” Jabberwock Myx was the spitting image of Noro: two eyes, one nose, one mouth, two legs, and two hands with five fingers apiece. The resemblance was eerie.
“I see you’re still hiding in this club of yours, Jabberwock,” said Myx smilingly, “shunning the frumious Bandersnatch.”
“Now, now, Noro,” the elder brother replied in a playful tone, “don’t make me use my vorpal sword.” He led Noro to the Trampoline Room, which bore a small memorial plaque hanging right of the entrance: God Created The World In The Midst Of A Triple Somersault. Salto S. Trampoline, 1927.
“Now then,” said the elder Myx as he comfortably bounced atop a springy sheet of material originally invented by space engineers to enable astronauts to dance cha-cha in reduced gravity, “what brings the esteemed detective Noro Myx whiffling through the tulgey wood, seeking out his most humble brother?”
“The world,” replied Myx, hopping upon his own contraption.
“What about it?”
“I think it might be in danger of nuclear peace.” The elder Myx’s somersault nearly turned sour. The younger Myx proceeded to briefly summarize the facts of the case. For several minutes only the sound of bodies hitting surface could be heard.
“I believe I may be in a position to help out in some small way,” Jabberwock finally remarked after deep contemplation. “You’ve heard of Private General, Commander-in-Chief of our campaign against Canada?” Myx’s slight nod broadened expansively as a result of the continuous vertical motion.
“Well, he’s a member of the club,” continued Myx senior. “In fact, General’s due here at noontime, as we’re scheduled for a match of chess tennis.” A game resembling checkers tennis, except for the use of chess pieces instead of checkers, it was one of Jabberwock Myx’s favorite pastimes; he’d even won the club championship the previous year.
“Excellent.” Myx jumped off the trampoline. “Please do your best to get something out of him.” In reply, the hopping brother performed a farewell scissors.
“I still can’t believe we actually pulled it off,” Eve Apples was saying.
“Yeah, nice to see the great Noro Myx isn’t omniscient,” Xena Hammerhead remarked smugly. The two were seated at a secluded table in Kafkaesque, a small restaurant at the corner of Samsa and Gregor. “We managed to throw him off the truth with that Canada Philadelphia trick.”
“Or so it would seem,” said Apples pensively, and whispered, “If he were to discover you’re Ibrahim’s third wife …”
“Sh, don’t say that out loud. Don’t even think it,” whispered Hammerhead back.
“Ah, there you are,” came a sweet voice from a set of lovely lips, usually affixed to Christina Cohen-McGregor’s mouth. “And how are my sisters in matrimony?” she winked, taking a seat beside the two wives.
Ignoring the question, Apples asked, “What’s the latest news from the front?”
Christina turned serious. “We’ve lost three knights and a queen in the past twenty-four hours.” The three exchanged grave looks and some coffins.
“More coffee?” the waitress startled them.
“Yes, please. And another cup, too,” sounded a gentle voice from behind, as a pair of brown shoes came to rest near the three pairs of high heels. Per custom in Washington, each brown shoe housed precisely one foot attached to one leg only, which legs merged into the torso of Ibrahim McGregor. He smiled warmly at his three spouses, and remarked, “They walk in beauty, like the nights.” Some members of the sloppier gender would consider McGregor to be the luckiest devil in brown. But then, some devils would think otherwise. As with most things in life — like the musical version of Silence of the Lambs, The Godfather remake on pogo sticks, and the eleven-second special edition of all non-violent scenes in The Terminator — it all depended on the color of the shirt you were wearing.
Ibrahim McGregor leaned closely in. “They’re sending a man tonight.”
“Tonight?” echoed Christina tremulously.
“What time does he get in?” asked Hammerhead levelheadedly.
“The flight from Heathrow lands at nineteen-hundred hours,” replied McGregor in an authoritative tone. “I’ll fetch him at the airport and we’ll head straight for Location Gamma, where the three of you will be waiting.” Suddenly he was all milk and honey again. “Now, my dear maidens of love, shall we dine?”
“Hello, Noro?”
“Hello Jabberwock. Have you found out anything?”
“I’ve got a name for you: Mac. Seems to be some kind of arms dealer who’s been meddling in a number of important wars of late. Oh, and apparently he’s one Coke short of a McCombo #3. Be careful, Noro.”
“Thanks, Jabberwock. And don’t worry — careful is my fiddle’s name.”
