The Peaceful Affair: Chapter 11
“The Swiss Consulate?” repeated Myx.
“Yes,” confirmed the small giant, she and the tall dwarf having just finished their trailing account of the previous evening.
“We know Mac’s been dealing with our side,” said Myx. “And he’s also catering to the opposition — here, take a look at this.” He handed them a newspaper clipping from Montreal’s popular daily Can O’ Dada. Doe and Lipps, who were also present, leaned in with the two operatives to read the headline: Plane Crash at McDesert.
“It seems both passengers survived unscathed,” continued Myx. “One was identified by a former student as none other than Professor Gates. The other was described by eyewitnesses as ‘an elderly man in his late teens’. Apparently, he did not go unnoticed at the burger delicatessen, where he dashed in shouting joyously, ‘Civilization! Civilization!’. I had Jabberwock run a quick check for me: General Orgie de la Fesse — Commander-in-Chief of the Canadian campaign against the United States — has a three-hour hole in his schedule of yesterday. The facts point toward one arms dealer, one general, and one professor occupying the same spatiotemporal position.”
“And now it turns out Mac’s a Swiss agent,” commented Doe thoughtfully.
“So it would seem,” hummed Myx. “So it would seem. Now, why would the Swiss take such an active interest in the Canadian-American war, playing on both sides of the net?”
“Especially considering they want to join the UN,” added Lipps additively. “What would they gain by such meddling? They only stand to lose if they’re found out!”
“And where does Professor Gates fit into all this?” asked the small giant. “I mean, we know he’s in cahoots with Anonymous Doe and Jennifer Love. Plus, he’s Dorothy Gates’s husband.”
“Asking questions is easy,” said Myx seriously. “The hard part is getting your cell phone’s battery to last all day!” He banged his hand with a force sufficient to shore up the big bang theory, causing one of the mares in the bathtub to neigh Like a Virgin in the rather unusual key of D minor.
“We need to divide and conk her,” relaxed Myx. “Okay, listen up girls and president. You two” — he turned toward the small giant and the tall dwarf — “will continue your silent pursuit of Mac. Find out where he goes and whom he meets. Apoka, you’re assigned to dear Fenestra Gates, professor of computer science by day and international operative by day. John, are you still any good at hacking into computers?”
“They don’t call me DoeDoe for nothing, you know,” said the president proudly.
“Excellent. I’ve got a list here I want you to work on.” Myx handed the president a piece of paper. “We all know what to do then.”
“And where are you going?” asked Lipps.
“Well, it’s been a while since I’ve visited the United Nations.”
“Noro, Noro, do come in.”
The secretary-general of the United Nations welcomed the detective warmly. “It’s been much too long. Let’s see … Why, I haven’t seen you since that unpleasant business with the striped zebra, the pink flamingo, and the missing ambassadors. And that was over two years ago!”
“I apologize, my dear,” said Myx charmingly, “but criminals have yet to acquire the notion of ‘annual vacation’. Something or other always seems to crop up.”
“Don’t I know it … Your lovely operative was here just the other day. How’s the investigation coming along?”
“That’s why I’m here, actually. It seems that every rock we upturn caches three more underneath. You may be able to help me with some information.”
“Anything for a dear old friend,” smiled the secretary-general openly.
“Where do things stand with the Swiss application for membership? Is it official yet?”
“No, not yet. This is strictly in camera.”
“But they’re set on joining?”
“That’s how it looks.”
“In your opinion, why? They have stood apart from the world for so long. Why join now all of a sudden?”
“Neutrality no longer holds the sway it used to,” the secretary-general answered thoughtfully. “Global economics is based on war. The Swiss banks are having a harder time attracting heavy clients, who have grown leery of their offishness. And who knows, maybe they’re eager to get their hands on some attractive chunks of the French, Italian, and Austrian Alps. You know how they love snow.”
“You’re snow right,” mumbled Myx absentmindedly. “Tell me, what could they possibly have to gain from the Canadian-American war raging even as we speak?”
“Nothing, really,” said the secretary-general amazedly. “After all, it’s a wholly bilateral affair, as are the aftermath treaties.”
Myx was disappointed. “Nothing at all? Are you sure? Is there no set of circumstances under which a third party might make a gain?”
The secretary-general thought for a moment, and said, “Well, come to think of it, there is the very rare possibility of a draw.”
“A draw?” whistled Myx in surprise. “I’ve never heard of such an event.”
“That’s because it has never happened until now. A draw is only a theoretical possibility.”
“What happens in such a case?”
“Both countries lose, so to speak — their treaties are assigned to a third country.”
“And who determines the lucky winner?”
“The third country is decided upon by the … International Olympic Committee,” said the secretary-general sotto voce.
“Which happens to be seated in Lausanne, Switzerland,” completed Myx.
“Noro, you don’t really think …” She let the sentence hang in midair, until it dropped with a loud bang.
“On the contrary, my dear,” smiled the detective. “Most people would attest to the fact that I do really think.”
Fenestra and Dorothy Gates were lunching at a Chinese restaurant not far from the University of Maryland campus. Lipps had managed to secure a table within hearing range, eschewing the usual hoopla her presence created through the help of a kindly hippopotamus named Freddy, who was very good at inducing mass hipposis. Freddy liked to lend Lipps a leg out of sheer grandeur of spirit.
“De la Fesse is a haughty buttock,” remarked Dorothy Gates courteously.
“That may be,” replied Fenestra, “but what’s important is once both his buttocks are firmly planted he can be relied upon to execute the moves Mac sold him.”
“If you say so …” grumbled Dorothy. “Speaking of which — what about Mac? How reliable is he?”
“Love vouched for him — said Hee-Kame High-Lee recommended him,” Fenestra informed his unhappy wife.
“Highly recommended by whom?”
“I just told you — Hee-Kame High-Lee, the reputed international double agent.”
“Double agent?”
“He’s an agent who represents agents: literary agents, acting agents, sports agents, modeling agents, chess agents — state your business, he’s got the agent for you.”
“So Hee-Kame High-Lee recommended Mac to Jennifer Love.”
“Yes.”
“And how can we be sure of High-Lee’s trustworthiness?” asked Dorothy quizzically.
“High-Lee was recommended by one of the top triple agents in the field,” replied Fenestra gravely. They both burst into subdued silence. After a few moments of quiet meditation accompanied by variegated culinary activities, Fenestra asked, “Do you think Myx’s on to Love?”
“Hard to tell with that one,” replied Dorothy contemplatively.
The small giant and the tall dwarf had been seated in the unmarked red Ferrari for what seemed to them like ours but in reality was theirs.
“How long does it take to gobble a piece of beef?” voiced the tall dwarf impatiently.
“Statistically speaking — ” began the small giant, only to be interrupted by a cry of “There he is” from her colleague. Mac had just appeared beneath the big yellow M, carrying a yellow poodle in hand, with a tethered attaché case trudging closely behind. He hailed a cab, quickly climbed in, and sailed away toward the horizon. The shod couple sprang into action, discreetly following the fellow in the yellow, their red Ferrari blending perfectly in the morning traffic among all the other red Ferraris.
“I think we’re headed toward the ducks,” remarked the small giant. Behind the wheel, the tall dwarf was concentrating hard on keeping up with the cab.
“Can’t you go any faster?” asked the small giant worriedly. “We’re losing them!”
“I’m doing my best,” grunted the tall dwarf. “I told you we should have taken the bicycle!”
Lady Luck having decided to yawn at that precise instant, the cab came to a halt, spewing out Mac, poodle, and case. A little girl holding a small fluffy dog was standing on the sidewalk, softly singing in a sweet voice carried beautifully by the clear, morning hare.
“I have a feeling we’re not in cans as of now,” mumbled the small giant, as the two watched Mac and the girl intently from within the Ferrari, which the tall dwarf had positioned behind a lovely red rose for cover. At five feet they were far too far to hear the conversation, which was quite short in any case. Hardly any time had elapsed before the pair under surveillance exchanged pooches, the little girl then skipping away, heartily singing, while Mac got back into the cab.
Once again, the cool operatives were thrown into warm pursuit, cab and Ferrari racing through the narrow streets of desire until they finally reached Central Bark, whereupon Mac and the small fluffy dog got out of the car. As the cab sailed away, the small giant and the tall dwarf observed Mac as he tried to teach the dog to juggle watermelons. At length, man gave up on beast, shouting in frustration, “Toto, you old dog, can’t you even learn such a simple trick?!”
The small giant and the tall dwarf sat giggling in their car, until the former abruptly lost her smile.
“What’s wrong?” asked the tall dwarf.
“The case,” answered the small giant gloomily, at which the tall dwarf’s smirk disappeared into thick air.
Mac’s attaché case was nowhere to be seen.
“Don’t feel too bad,” said Myx to his right stuff. “Mac’s quite a shrewd fellow — he pulled a fast one on you. The entire ride, along with the exchange of dogs, was intended to shake you fellows off the briefcase. Did you perchance get a glimpse of the cab driver?”
After a meditative pause the small giant said, “All I remember is he wore a brown thinking cap.” The tall dwarf just shrugged her shoulders.
With a gleam of mischief in his eyes, Myx stepped to the wardrobe and pulled out a white rabbit triumphantly. Noticing the puzzled looks on his operatives’ faces, he mumbled “Oops” and pulled a brown hat out of the rabbit.
“You!” cried the tall dwarf.
“Indeed,” smiled Myx. “I decided that a nice drive around town would do me some good. And what better way to do so than by cab?”
“Then you have the attaché case?” asked the small giant incredulously. Without a word, Myx again walked over to the wardrobe, this time returning with a large polar bear the spitting image of Noro aged 12. The detective then drew a case out of the bear.
Doe, who’d been typing furiously at the computer all this while, clapped his hands and cried, “Encore! Encore!”
“Well,” urged the tall dwarf, “let’s open it!”
Just then, a number of things happened simultaneously. Harry Bloom of Canberra, Ohio, gave birth to a small baby boy, to the utter delight of Margaret, the proud father. Ginger Livingroom called her friend Barney by mistake (she had intended to dial Rabbi McAllister), and the two ended up getting married that very same decade. A little boy and his sister (also little) were captured by a wicked witch whose house was made of fine Swiss chocolate, later escaping by eating the wall, to be escorted without further ado to the dentist by their mother (the witch was ultimately brought up on charges of building without a permit, chocolate trafficking, and kids napping). And the doorbell sounded. It was Lipps.
“Why the hell don’t you open the case?” she asked immediately. “Who cares about Ginger Livingroom?”
“You’re right!” cried Myx decisively and opened the attaché case forthwith. A shiny hamburger wrapper was the sole item to be found inside, upon which was inscribed a series of letters, written in thick, red ink: UI2NT21MT2.
Doe, Lipps, the small giant, and the tall dwarf all looked befogged — probably because they were confused. Myx just smiled and commented meaningfully, “Uhum.”
