The Peaceful Affair: Chapter 16
“How is he, Noro?” asked Jane Doe upon Myx’s return late that night.
“He’s fine, Jane,” replied the detective gently. “Young Charles is a fine boy.” Yawning, he added, “Now, I strongly suggest you and I get some shut-eye-and-shut-the-other-eye-too.”
“Good morning, Noro. Did you sleep well?” Jane Doe was humming along in the kitchen as she fried eggs.
“Marvelously,” yawned Myx widely. “My, that smells good.”
“I call it Eggs Benedict,” replied Doe proudly, as she divided the dish onto two plates, which she spirited to the kitchen table. “It’s a special recipe that has run in my family for ages, dating all the way back to Brother Benedictus, who had been one of Jesus’s unacknowledged apostles, doubling as company cook when he wasn’t preaching.”
“Divine,” commented Myx silently, and wasted not another word while engaged in the consumption of the delectable postdiluvian delight. For the next seventeen minutes only an epicurean resonance could be heard in the kitchen. Deep into the eighteenth minute, a knock on the door made itself heard.
“I’ll get it,” rose Myx, and proceeded to march carefully toward the front door, while simultaneously licking the large plate.
“I wonder who that is at this early hour,” mumbled Jane Doe, reveling in the aroma of tea exuded by the hot mug she was holding. A short minute later (lasting only sixty seconds) she sprang up like a sprite through the mist of Earl Grey, having heard the sound of a plate-once-host-to-Eggs-Benedict being shattered. She rushed over to the main entrance, breaking the world record for the 32-foot dash. The door was wide open, and a quick peek out into the corridor revealed naught. Doe stepped back inside, whereupon a glinting object, lying amidst pieces of broken ceramic, attracted her attention. She bent her knees, extended her right hand, and — with some highly agile maneuvering of her fingers — picked up the object. She then straightened her knees, bent her hands inward, and brought the object to bear.
Alone in the apartment, Jane Doe stood holding a familiar unlit pipe.
“I hate dicknappers,” Lipps was saying. “They simply spoil all the fun.”
It was a couple of hours after the detective’s disappearance. She, Jane Doe, the small giant, and the tall dwarf were all gathered at Myx’s place to discuss various outstanding issues. (Truth be told, the small giant was also interested in any remains of Eggs Benedict still open for bidding.)
“How do you know he’s been dicknapped?” inquired the tall dwarf, who was sitting on the sofa, with one leg on top of the other, and another leg underneath the other.
“Oh, come on,” shot Lipps impatiently from her lofty position on the kiddie chair, “since when is Noro in the habit of abandoning his favorite unlit pipe?”
From atop the television, Doe added softly, “He’s not much of a plate-wrecker, either.”
The tall dwarf was adamant. “Have any of you received a ransom demand? Have any signs of evildoing been found at the front-door scene? Why would anybody want to dicknap Noro Myx? We must not jump to conclusions.” She stood up and shouted, “If I’ve learned anything from Noro, it’s first conclude — then jump!”
The small giant applauded her colleague’s shining wisdom, Lipps snorted and cavorted, and Doe wrote a beautiful critique of the foregoing performance, entitled Private Eyelash, which was published in the Dicknapping Section of the New York Rhymes. Had Myx been present in the room, he would certainly have taken pride and joy in the superb performance of his most trusted associates. He would have beheld that his teachings had been to absolutely no avail.
Just as all four were about to debate which movie they should go see, there was a knock on the door.
“Come,” cried Doe.
“In,” shouted Lipps.
“It’s,” howled the small giant.
“Open!” neighed the tall dwarf.
Nothing beats a foursome, Myx would say every Tuesday, except, perhaps, six aces and a jack.
Without further ado, the door opened reluctantly to reveal a ransom boy.
“Please state your name for the record.”
“Noro Myx.”
“Occupation?”
“Famous Detective.”
“How do you plead?”
“By begging.”
“Who is Xyron Mo?”
“Director of the Mexican hat-dancing troupe.”
“Why does Dulcinea not speak a word of English?”
“She prefers whole sentences.”
“Who was the woman in the red sombrero?”
“Who can ever tell with women?”
“You will stop answering a question with a question — is that clear?”
“You put it so nicely, how could it not be clear?”
Hushed voices.
Low murmurs.
Silent echoes.
Light breezes.
Heavy thumps.
Big tomatoes.
Fragmentary sensations, and then — with a whoosh — the blindfold was off. Grins began to form slowly, followed by chins, faces, torsos, arms, hands, legs, feet, and, finally, big toes.
Noro Myx was face-to-face with his hosts.
“Hello, detectives,” smiled Myx, taking in the small room’s roominess. “What a pleasure to see you again.”
The ransom boy was so scrawny his shadow had had to give up its shadow. The lad was still wearing the scooter helmet, imprinted with the logo of the ransom company (a tuxedoed shark), whose motto could not escape one’s eyes as it was written on the boy’s t-shirt: We Aim To Squeeze.
“Twenty-seven minutes,” Scrawny declared proudly. “Three more minutes and our percentage would have grown wings. Boy, I’m good!”
“Quit licking yourself and deliver!” ordered Lipps in a voice so husky, Scrawny’s knees buckled like lava flowing from Vesuvius.
“Ah, teenagers,” sighed Lipps nostalgically — just like she used to, bent down, and picked up the lukewarm ransom pizza from the melted boy.
“Anchovy,” bewailed the small giant, as Lipps placed the pizza on the table. “Why? Why?”
“There, there now,” commiserated Jane Doe. “Remember what Noro always says: An anchovy a day keeps the doctor away.” The small giant felt a bit better, her dislike of doctors surpassing her aversion to anchovy.
A boisterous session ensued, consisting of much chewing and munching, at the end of which the pizza had sadly passed away, requiescat in pace. As per custom, the ransom message lay at the bottom of the now-empty pizza box, engraved in golden pepperoni letters. The four musk-eaters peered at it intently:
Applesauce and ginger ale,
Muscat wine and peppered quail,
Peking duck and lizard’s tail,
Olives — and a touch of snail,
Pay, and we shall all regale,
But hark, oh hark, if ye shall fail,
Myx, he will be reading Braille!
Once the reading had been consummated to everyone’s satisfaction, a number of sounds made a visible appearance, including a thud, a cry, a sigh, and an mmm: Jane Doe fainted thuddingly, Lipps cried “This is outrageous!”, the tall dwarf sighed “Where will we ever find olives out of season?”, and the small giant was rejoicing in the pepperoni, “Mmm, this is good”.
“Detective Versa and Detective Vice,” Myx was saying nonchalantly. “Or is it the other way around?”
“It’s the other way around!” Detective Versa stomped his foot.
“Sorry,” apologized Myx contritely. “Detective Vice, Detective Versa, how goes the dicknapping business?”
“Lousy,” replied Vice. “You wouldn’t believe what the ransom chains charge nowadays. Why, it’s downright highway robbery!”
“Enough,” declared Versa authoritatively, eyeing the two reproachfully. “No chitchat during business hours.” Both detectives — one Famous, one shamus — cast innocent glances heavenward.
“Mr. Myx,” continued Versa, “or should I say, Mr. Mo?”
“Quite a show,” interjected Myx.
“Why, pray tell, did you have our photograph taken in so compromising a position?”
“Compromising?”
“We were drinking white milk in Lilliput’s Tavern!”
“I see.”
“I don’t think you do.”
“Of course I do. It’s elementary, my dear — what son?” This latter question was directed at Vice who had been quietly licking his nose, and whose hand had now shot up in the air. “Mr. Myx, would you happen to have Dulcinea’s phone number?”
Versa speared Vice with a gaze of sheer momentariness.
“I do,” shouted Myx in an attempt to be heard over the wedding march slowly playing in the backdrop. He then turned toward Versa and said, “You’re afraid they’ll milk you.”
Versa’s face darkened. “You know too much for your own good.”
“What a pithy remark!” delighted Myx. “You’re wise beyond your ears. Indeed, my own good is much too minute to accommodate the vast sum of my knowledge. But the good of the people — now there’s an endless pit!”
“Well done,” remarked Vice, pinpointing with utter precision Versa’s current state of face.
“Enough!” shouted Versa. “Return the pictures! Return our dignity!”
“Is that all?” Myx spread his hands in amazement. “No need to have gone to such lengths.” He reached into his pocket. “Here are the pictures.”
Versa was not to be mollified quite so easily. “And our dignity?”
“Gone with the wind,” lamented Myx cinematically. “Despair not, though, my good friend. After all, tomorrow is another day.”
“Okay,” smiled Versa. “One out of two ain’t so bad.”
Just then, the room’s single door made the familiar sound of being knocked upon. Vice sauntered languidly toward the knob, turned it left, and then pulled the door inward. It opened to reveal the ransom boy.
He was holding their entire takeout order to the letter: quail, tail, snail, and all.
“Noro!”
Jane Doe rushed over to the detective as soon as he walked through the door, and gave him a big hug. Myx’s three operatives reacted more subduedly, showering the returnee with no more than a little hog, weighing less than one hundred pounds.
“Thanks for paying the ransom,” said Myx gratefully, once he’d recovered his unlit pipe and Armchair.
“Our pleasure,” replied Lipps magnanimously.
“Of course,” continued Myx, “I was never in any real danger.”
“Of course,” echoed the tall dwarf dryly.
Ignoring her arid tone, Myx explained, “I am, as you may know, an adept at Dow kei daq.”
“Kei what?” the small giant inquired politely.
“Dow kei daq. It’s a practically unknown form of martial art, invented by the stockbroker monks of a secret monastery beneath Mall Street. Anyway, I could have overcome my abductors at any point — ”
“At any point,” interjected the tall dwarf hollowly.
“ — but I chose not to,” completed Myx. “I deemed it imperative that I discover their goals and identity.”
“And did you?” asked Doe excitedly.
“My dear Jane,” replied the detective heartily, “indeed, I did.”
?
?
?
?
Question marks appeared on all four faces.
Very softly, Myx revealed, “It seems the title ‘detective’ has come to be used somewhat exaggeratingly these days.”
