The Peaceful Affair: Chapter 29
Woolly Coat was a dapperly drab fellow who would have made not a single dent upon history’s lining were it not for the presageful nature of his moniker. Woolly, willy-nilly, fashioned a whole range of designer coatwear. There was the French coat, which came with a baguette affixed under the left sleeve; the drench coat, designed for dry weather; the wrench coat, heralded by Coats and Bolts as “the most efficient garment for handling nuts”; and, the apical achievement of Woolly’s industrious life, the trench coat, which, upon perceiving the slightest risk to its bearer, would dig a trench so fast as to make one’s cuffs link. A prime example of the latter garment garbed the person who was exiting the building under observation.
“Start the engines, he’s leaving,” said Agent, pointing to the trench coat and hat, who by now had hailed a taxi, and — to the absolute surprise of the driver — got inside.
“Myx, we’re on to you,” muttered McGregor under his breath as he negotiated the car out of the carpool wherein it had been swimming.
It was early evening as the trailed taxi joined the early-evening traffic; interestingly, it was also early evening as the taxi trailer joined the same early-evening traffic.
“Hey, be careful not to bump into the taxi!” cried Agent.
“I maintain a safe distance of one foot and two inches at all times,” announced McGregor distinctly, and handed Agent a large square jacket. “Here, I think you’ll find my record spotless.”
Agent took the old vinyl record out of the proffered envelope, inspected it up close, and placed it on the ancient turntable. A gruff voice filled the car’s interior. “Your record is spotless, indeed,” confirmed Agent, “but your singing is rather spotty.” McGregor nodded spiffily.
All of a sudden the taxi braked, with McGregor coming to a screeching halt two inches behind it. “See?” he said with pride. “I put one foot down and that still leaves us with two whole inches to boot.”
“You’re an excellent footman, my friend,” complimented Agent. “Now, pay attention, our mark is on foot.”
“The game’s afoot!” exclaimed McGregor joyously.
“Sh, play dead,” whispered Agent. “We don’t want Myx to spot us.”
McGregor took out his portable coffin, and gave himself a touching elegy. With tears in his eyes, Agent following the august dictum, de mortuis nil nisi bonum, and said softly, “You’re a good man.”
(“Does that fatten?” asked a passing sparrow. “No, Latin,” answered Benny “Bug” Wittgenstein who happened to be flying high. “It means, ‘of the dead say nothing but good’.” “Oh,” said the sparrow, and ate Benny without much ado to speak of. “You’re very good,” she added, licking her beak. “Requiescat in pace.”)
“Can we get back to business here?” complained Agent. “With all these birds and bugs, one can easily lose track of one’s subject.”
McGregor had gone back to playing alive. “Subject? I thought he was our object. Anyway, he’s just entered a fishing boutique called Fishy.”
“Frankly, I would not have pegged Myx as a fisherman,” remarked Agent honestly.
“Maybe he’s one of those closet fishermen one hears about now and then,” suggested McGregor.
“Perhaps,” committed Agent noncommittally. “Look, he’s coming out again.”
“That was quick,” said McGregor quickly in a high-pitched voice.
“Can you make out what he’s carrying?” asked Agent.
“I think one can safely assume Myx’s into this fishing business hook, line, and sinker,” stated McGregor, as their target exited the shop carrying a hook, a line, and a sinker.
“Not quite,” pointed out his colleague. “That’s not a sinker, it’s a singer.”
“Hook, line, and singer. I wonder what he’s up to,” wondered McGregor.
“No time for wonder, he’s back in the taxi,” declared Agent bluntly. “We’re on the move again.”
Eight wheels revolved relentlessly, conveying two vehicles in a direction known to the occupants of but one of them. “Which one?” asked McGregor. “The forward one,” answered Agent earnestly.
After upwards of half-an-hour they stopped in front of a large building with assorted doors and windows. The driven passenger stepped out of the taxi carrying the goods he’d bought earlier, and paid the driver.
Before the tracking couple could read Crime and Punishment, the trench coat was flapping beside their car.
“Good day, gentlemen,” resounded a genial voice. “Please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Alice.”
“You’re not …” started McGregor, before his jaw dropped.
“You’re not …” tried Agent, and let his jaw drop, too.
“I’m not what?” asked the red herring in puzzlement.
McGregor was the first to grab hold of his senses. “What kind of a name is Alice for a herring?” he asked angrily.
“A given name,” answered Alice evenly. “My surname is Red.”
Agent’s senses had finally caught up with him. “Red? A bit bland, isn’t it?”
“Perhaps,” replied Alice calmly. “Though I prefer to think of it as colorful. Anyway, Ibrahim, Secret, would you like to come inside? I feel a bit like being in a fishbowl, standing outside like this.”
Agent raised his hand.
“Yes?” prompted Alice.
“How do you know our names?” asked Agent.
“A herring knows things,” replied Alice, his smile broadening. “Come on, what do you think of my offer?”
“Let’s face it,” whispered McGregor to his associate, “there’s no use going back to Myx’s. He’s probably long gone by now. We might as well investigate the ongoing goings here.”
Agent hemmed and hawed for a while, finally deciding an affirmative answer would be most suitable for the occasion. “Okay,” he decreed, and turned to Alice, pointing to the nearby building. “By the way, what is this place?”
“A house,” answered the red herring plainly.
“I see,” Agent disclosed his being in possession of a primary sense. “What’s going on inside?”
“Oh, it’s just a friendly gathering,” Alice explained simply. “We’re having a tee party.”
“A tee party?” repeated Agent questioningly.
Alice motioned them toward the house. “Come, my friends, enough of this — let’s go inside.” He knocked on the door, and was answered quickly by a white rabbit, who led the three of them silently into the living room. “Tom, Dick, Harry — meet Ibrahim and Secret,” the herring made all-around introductions, placing the hook, line, and singer on the floor.
“As you can see, Tom is a rather silent rabbit. In fact, he only talks when he has something to say. Dick, on the other hand” — Alice pointed to a sturdy-looking turtle seated atop a smallish green sofa — “suffers from no such silence impediment.”
As if to corroborate the herring’s words, the turtle began riddling in a surprisingly melodious voice. “Why did the chicken get to the other side?”
“Because she wanted to cross the street!” McGregor jumped by leaps and bounds.
“Excellent!” shouted Harry, a large silver teapot, who completed the company present in the room.
“I still don’t understand why you call this a tee party,” complained Agent.
“Quite simple, my good man,” Harry teed off loudly, his spout spouting water vapor in the excitement. “If you get the right answer to a tee, you are permitted to try your luck with that golf ball over there.” The turtle raised his right foreleg and pointed to a small white ball reposing on a tee.
“And let’s not forget,” said Tom evenly, “you also get a tee shirt.” Dick, Harry, and Alice regarded the rabbit in sheer amazement.
“I believe that qualifies as Tom’s longest speech to date,” remarked Alice.
“Hear! Hear!” spurted Harry.
“Do I get a shot at the ball?” asked McGregor eagerly.
“You do indeed,” replied Alice with a smile, and handed him a folded garment. “Here, you might want to try on your new tee shirt.”
McGregor quickly donned the article in question. The shirt’s front side carried the words, The Sentence On The Back Side Is A Lie, and the back side bore the text, The Sentence On The Front Side Is True. McGregor then selected a paradoxical golf club from the refrigerator, stepped up to the tee, and whammed.
“Whole in one!” cried Dick, his shell glowing in the excitement.
“We’ve got a victor!” cried Harry, spouting vapor at the brisk lively tempo of allegro.
Agent looked around the room. “Victor’s here?”
“More riddles! More riddles!” requested McGregor elatedly.
Granting the request, Dick rolled over on his shell, and sang delightfully:
Buy me, make me, take me if I’m yours,
I’m big, I’m small, I’m full, don’t laugh —
I can even come in half,
Who am I my dearest sirs?
“You talk too much,” jetted Harry.
“I’ve never spoken to Much in my life!” said Dick indignantly, and rolled back onto his legs. “Why, I don’t even know this Much fellow. I do say, dear Harry, at times you speak one too many words.”
“Who won too many awards?” asked Alice.
“In time, I will!” shouted McGregor, and recited triumphantly:
Time, time, time, time,
There’s my answer — let it chime,
I’m lucky winning’s not a crime!
“A timely answer, indeed,” said Dick gravely, and handed McGregor a tee shirt in the shape of a mixed metaphor. Without mixing a beat, McGregor walked over to the refrigerator, selected a golf club, stepped up to the tee, and walloped.
“Whole in one!” roared Dick, his shell gleaming in enthusiasm.
“We’ve got a victor!” shouted Harry, swiftly showering vapor at the rapid tempo of presto.
Agent stood up and scrutinized the room. “I’m quite sure Victor’s not here,” he finally said, and sat down sulkingly.
Alice sprang and said, “Oh, I nearly forgot. Tom, may I borrow your fishing rod?” The rabbit rose wordlessly, left the room, and promptly returned with the requested article, which he handed to the herring without further ado. In the meantime, Alice had taken hold of the fishy purchase he’d brought along, which he now assembled onto the rod, with expertise evincing much experience. He then swung the rod vigorously over his head, causing the line to soar like a blind eagle named Timmy. The observant group watched the flying cord silently, their eyes following the singer attached to the hook, until he finally landed on the floor in the midst of them all. He seized the microphone without batting an eye, bowed majestically to his audience, and began crooning in a resounding bass voice, his voluminous hairdo wavering in the wind. The singer crooned on for several magical moments, his spectators mesmerized beyond recognition.
McGregor turned to Alice in praise. “Excellent show!”
“Magnificent!” added Agent.
“Bah,” snorted Dick, “don’t pay Alice any attention. He always fishes for compliments at these gatherings of ours.”
“Well, I most certainly need not stand for this,” said the herring huffily. “I’ve got other fish to fry.” With that, he gathered his gear, bade them all farewell, and departed wordlessly.
“Don’t mind him,” squirted Harry. “He’s really quite a nice fellow. It’s just that, well, sometimes he behaves like a fish out of water.”
At this point the white rabbit decided to stand up and speak softly. He stood up and spoke softly:
Neither mix nor max,
Let honor wax.
Dick and Harry were dumbfounded. “I’ve never seen him this garrulous before,” sprinkled the teapot pensively.
“Whole in one!” bellowed Dick, his shell twinkling in gusto.
“We’ve got a victor!” exclaimed Harry, leisurely spraying vapor at the slow tempo of largo.
Agent waved his right hand in disgust and muttered, “I know for a fact Victor’s not here.”
“What victor?” posed McGregor bewilderedly. “Tom’s riddle stands unsolved.”
“Sorry,” said Dick in a low voice. “I’m often prone to premature articulation.”
“And I have a tendency toward premature congratulation,” added Harry meekly.
They sat in contemplative silence for several minutes, until Agent finally admitted. “Tom’s riddle is a doozy.”
The turtle jumped off the sofa, and announced, “What we need is thinking caps. I’ll go get them. Be right back.” Three hours later, he returned carrying a bag full of colorful caps, which he passed around, each member of the brooding lot selecting one and placing it on their head.
“I give up,” Harry gave up after several intense capful moments. The others continued to ponder for a while, and then followed suit.
“Tom,” announced Dick solemnly, “you’ll have to enlighten us.”
The rabbit, who had been busily playing carrot-and-stick, quietly said, “Very well. I shall double the couplet.” And double he did:
Neither mix nor max,
Let honor wax.
Out of the burrow,
Comes Myx Noro.
“That was a tough one,” admitted Dick, his shell fading in disappointment.
Harry was out of vapor. “No victor,” he agreed.
“I told you so,” said Agent victoriously, his euphoria quickly giving way to gloom as he became riddled with a reminder of the barren mission. Silently, he and McGregor thanked the rabbit, the turtle, and the teapot for a lovely evening, and left, right, left, right, left.
