The Peaceful Affair: Chapter 27
General General strode stridently into his office, hitting his stride just as he bumped into a straggling Stradivarius who strangled not a second in striking “String me!”
“These Stradivarii are nothing but striving straits,” snorted General, as he pushed his way forward. Inside the office the officer found Antoine Cent Eccent contentedly riding General’s favorite tricycle.
“Get off my favorite tricycle,” he gave a general order.
“Your command is my wish,” declared ACE, and descended the four-wheeled tricycle, evidencing his being somewhat of a nonconformist counter. “I see you’ve been to the club,” ACE evinced his capacity for deducing clubbiness from clubs.
“Best way to start the day,” replied General cheerfully, setting down his club case.
“How goes your game of chess tennis?” asked ACE in a nutshell.
“Much improved, thank you,” cracked General and ate the nut.
“Well, you know what they say?” Cent Eccent primed himself for an ism. He hesitated briefly between a syllogism and an aphorism, opted for the latter, and said, “Improvement is the mother of all movement.”
“Splendid,” avowed General contentedly. “Soon I’ll be in shipshape condition, ready for that rematch with Jabberwock Myx.”
At the mention of the shape of a ship Cent Eccent’s Québécois accent descended on him like a Newtonian apple. “Monsieur, please, draw me a ship.”
“Stop that right now or I’ll ship you off to prep school!” cried General.
The suggestion of a schooling experience had a cooling effect on ACE.
“Is there any purpose to this visit?” snapped General.
“I … I mean …” Cent Eccent’s brain had cooled down to a temperature outside its operational envelope.
“Cold, huh?” commented General, and remembered something. “I guess Myx is on his way there himself as we speak.”
ACE’s brain was slowly warming to the last comment. “Noro Myx is headed for The Cold?”
“Yes. I bumped into the Myxs at the club just now. Jabberwock said his brother was interested in visiting The Cold, and I authorized it.”
“Whatever for?” questioned ACE.
“For Myx to be able to enter The Cold, of course,” replied General obviously.
“No, I mean, why was Myx interested in making such a trip?” asked ACE.
“Theo,” came the rejoinder, terse but brief.
“This blouse of yours tastes awful,” the small giant chewed out her colleague. “You just had to drop the medallion.”
“Yes, well, some of us like to try a somersault now and then,” growled the tall dwarf.
“Sometimes I wonder whether you’re worth your salt,” sighed the small giant.
“I’ll have you know I’m the salt of the Worth,” the tall dwarf retorted sharply, adjoining ocular proof in the form of a certificate from Fort Worth, Texas.
“Well, let’s hope Noro hasn’t found it,” wished the small giant.
“Alas, in all probability he has,” the tall dwarf denied the wish.
“Why do you think so?” asked her colleague.
“He’s gone to meet Theo in The Cold, most likely to ask for his help in deciphering the medallion.”
“The Cold? How did you find that out?”
“Cent Eccent.”
“Oh.”
For several minutes the tall dwarf just stared at a point in the wall the size of a medium-sized television set, which havened a medium-size television set. The small giant was salting her friend’s pants in preparation for a feast. At length, the tall dwarf said, “We must determine the extent of Noro’s knowledge.”
The small giant seemed unsure. “Noro’s a highly learned man — he knows quite a lot of things. I’m not sure we can — ”
“I meant his knowledge regarding the medallions,” the tall dwarf expounded impatiently.
“I can call Apoka!” the small giant suggested eagerly.
“Heaven forbid,” forbade her colleague. “You can’t talk to Lipps — you’ll spill the beans completely.”
A young boy hurrying down a sky-high beanstalk, followed by a puffing giant, proved that the beans had already been spilled long ago.
“Go ahead, call her,” sighed the tall dwarf resignedly. “But be monosyllabic. Maybe that will help eschew assorted faux pas.”
The small giant was on the phone faster than a peeled banana.
“You may wish to get off the phone in order to make useful use of it,” suggested the tall dwarf calmly.
The small giant descended the phone, dialed the number, and was greeted by a familiar, husky voice. “Hi, hon.”
“Apoka …”
“What’s up deary?”
“Noro …”
“Up and away.”
“To …”
“The Cold, cutie pie.”
“What …”
“Oh, something about a medallion.”
“Found …”
“As a matter of fact, I was just on the phone with him. Seems he has found out something or other.”
“Thanks …”
“Sure thing, precious.”
Click. Click. Clack. Clack. Bump. Swoosh. Academy Award for Best Sound Effects.
The small giant wiped the sweat off her brow, and said, “Noro has discovered something.”
“Blasted,” came the reply. “Let’s go over to his place and see if he’s back. Maybe we’ll learn more.”
Benny Wittgenstein — “Bug” to his associates — had been sitting in the backseat of McGregor’s and Agent’s car for the past ten minutes, listening carefully to their instructions — which had now become his own.
“Is everything clear, Bug?” asked Agent sternly.
“As clear as the jitterbug,” answered Benny, and twirled for emphasis.
“Time to recap, then,” ordered Agent.
“I can do this, I can do this,” Benny emboldened himself. “I can reiterate the knotty instructions to the letter.”
“Benny …” prompted McGregor slowly.
In one breath Benny shouted, “I gain access to Myx’s apartment by way of the sewers and eavesdrop!”
“Excellent,” cried Agent.
“Elementary,” said Benny.
“Look,” McGregor pointed to a vehicle that had just pulled over in front of the building wherein Myx made his home, “Myx’s men.”
“Women,” corrected Agent.
“Ladies,” amended McGregor.
“Persons.”
“Humans.”
“Individuals.”
“Mortals.”
“Beings.”
“Souls.”
Totally unaware of the fierce battle for political correctness they had created ab initio, the small giant and the tall dwarf exited the car coolly and entered the building ardently.
“Benny, you’re on,” said Agent, bent backward, and opened the back door.
“Remember,” advised McGregor, “don’t let them shoe you.”
“Nor shoo you,” added Agent.
“Trust me,” said Benny reassuringly, waved his antennae, and zoomed out of the car. He stood reflectively on the sidewalk for a moment, and then jumped upon the front-seat windowsill, enunciating solemnly, “I’ll be back.”
Before McGregor or Agent could add another syllable, the roach was gone.
“That won’t do at all,” stated the small giant firmly, as the pair approached Myx’s front door.
Squeezing so hard her ears rang, the tall dwarf was still unable to wring any wrong. “What?” she finally asked.
“You have the appearance of someone who lost her medallion yesterday while tramping at Club 22,” clarified her friend. “Noro will be on to you in three seconds flat.”
“You’re wrong,” claimed the tall dwarf. “I’ll bet you he takes at least five seconds rugged.”
“I accept the bet,” accepted the small giant.
“The usual sum?”
“The usual sum.”
The tall dwarf rang the bell, triggering a high-pitched sound that woke up a myopic mouse named Mr. Caesar, who wasted no time in scuttling to the study, where he tugged at Myx’s trousers. The detective rose and ambled toward the door, not forgetting to award a scholarship to the trusty mouse.
“Can you repeat the question, please?” requested Myx when he arrived at the entrance.
“Why does evil?” asked the door.
“Because causes must have permits,” Myx answered the door.
One.
“Hello there,” the detective greeted the small giant and the tall dwarf.
Two.
“Please, do come in,” he invited.
Three.
Eying the tall dwarf, Myx remarked nonchalantly, “You have the appearance of someone who lost her medallion yesterday while tramping at Club 22.”
“I win,” stated the small giant triumphantly, and went on to demand the usual sum at once. “Five and seven, please.”
“Twelve,” replied the tall dwarf grumblingly.
“Very good,” began the small giant, “you’re a — eek, a bug!” For a moment there, Benny — who had been quietly smoking a nicotine patch beneath the sofa — thought he’d been made. His heart raced so fast it beat Benny to the finish line by a full head start.
“Don’t let my home cinema system fool you,” laughed Myx. “That’s not a bug — it’s a feature.”
Benny’s heart returned to its normal pace.
“Here,” Myx handed the medallion back to its rightful owner. “You should take better care of this interestingly beautiful article. It’s quite beautifully interesting, you know.”
“Beautiful, huh?” said the tall dwarf glowingly, taking hold of the proffered object.
“Interesting?” questioned the small giant, not at all pleased by Myx’s intense use of the qualifier in question. “How much interest can there be in a silly ole medallion?”
“Oh, let’s just say, elephantine interest,” replied Myx cheerfully.
(“How do you spell ‘elephantine’?” asked Benny under the sofa. “Preferably, with a quill,” answered a passing quail en route for her aunts in Dublin. “Dublin — that’s in Ireland, right?” whispered Benny. “No, in California,” replied the quail tersely and flew into a rage.)
“Better elephantine than dogged,” remarked the tall dwarf.
The small giant rubbed her chin, and began pensively, “Yes, for a second there …” Her voice trailed off.
“Oh, there’s a second?” asked Myx in a tone that could be construed as teasing, if one was fond of construing tones.
Unconsciously, the small giant touched her hand to her bosom, which harbored a gold-and-silver medallion hidden beneath her blouse. The tall dwarf remained silent by not uttering a word.
“Elephantine is spelled with ‘ph’, not with an ‘f’,” commented McGregor once Benny had finished relating his report.
“So she has this medallion Myx finds interesting …” Agent murmured to himself.
Less pensively, and more resolutely, McGregor said, “Well, Bug, you’ve certainly earned your fee.” He handed Benny two tickets to Kitchen World, whose slogan — No Better Heaven On Earth — was probably familiar to every single cockroach who’d seen it.
