The Peaceful Affair: Chapter 40

After a moment of stunned silence, they all began crying together in shock.

“Death and war? Barbaric!”

“How savage!”

“This is absolutely hideous!”

“The most gruesome text I’ve ever seen in my entire life!”

“Horrible! Simply horrible!”

“Ghastly!”

“Let’s all settle down now,” called Myx, attempting to allay the tumultuous ocean of tremor.

“How could my father have dug up such a nasty tablet?” lamented Annabelle Doe.

“He’s not to blame for the text,” said Myx somberly. “Apparently, it dates back from time immemorial, long before the ancient geeks had invented the soul.” The audience had regained a semblance of order. “Be that as it may, your father — Sydlig Henrikson — and his associate, Armageddon Baggins, had become captivated for some unknown reason by this foolish, ancient text and had decided to break its preposterous circular chain of reasoning. I can only guess as to their logic thereupon: Man will be man, you always need more, and don’t waste your breath with death; war, they had eventually concluded, was the weak link.”

“And so these misguided gentlemen had founded the peace underground, with the goal of extirpating war on a worldwide basis; their aim was nuclear peace. The two returned to Sweden and tried to rally support for their cause, but were quickly discovered by the Swedish authorities who deported them without further ado.”

“Now I understand why my father always used to say, ‘I found peace underground’,” mumbled Annabelle Doe, “and why he hated Sweden so much.”

Myx nodded solemnly. “Henrikson and Baggins had two medallions made, each inscribed with part of the tablet’s text. When fitted together the original passage pops out. They carried these medallions on their person till the day they died, passing them on to their granddaughters. Medallions, too, it seems, can skip a generation.”

“Having hired May Day and Neiklot, and observed them for a while, I had decided it was time to draw them out. Or, rather, to draw out their accomplices, since, clearly, the two were not acting alone. And so I’d produced The Theft of the War Treaties with Jane’s help.”

Before any permanent damage had been done, Myx caught on to his sin of omission, and added, “And Apoka’s help, of course.” The divine operative bowed her head graciously. “I’ve also been aided by Charles Dodgson, whom some of you have come to know as Mac.”

“We know he’s your son,” cried Young Man Coronet.

“Ah,” smiled Myx, “I see the Case Puzzle acquired by the Jeffersons during the commando reunion at my apartment has reached the British. Alas, it is a sham concocted by myself.”

“I knew it!” jumped Lieutenant Colonel Thomas Jefferson.

“Sit down!” ordered his wife.

“Yes, ma’am,” saluted the colonel and sat down.

Unmindful of the interruption, the detective went on. “Charles is the son of Jane and Lewis Dodgson. Jane prefers to go by her maiden name these days: Doe. As for Lewis …” Fenestra Gates was shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Myx turned to him and said, “Yes, Professor Gates, or should I say Professor Dodgson?”

“What?” cried Dorothy Gates, jumping on her husband’s head. “You were once married to Jane? And you two had a son together?”

“It was in England, Dorothy,” whimpered Fenestra, his head feeling rather heavy. “That doesn’t count.”

“Lewis Dodgson had changed his name to Fenestra Gates when he’d immigrated to the States and become a Canadian agent,” explained Myx.

“Why — ” began Dorothy Gates, only to be interrupted by a stern Myx. “Please, spare me the I’m-So-Innocent scene. You and your husband are Canadian agents, along with Jennifer Love. And of course we have a slew of British agents here: Ibrahim McGregor, Secret Agent, Eve Apples — and her former hallucination Xena Hammerhead, Young Man Coronet, and Christina Cohen-McGregor.”

“How dare you accuse my daughter of being a British agent!” called Jesus Cohen indignantly, hopping on his seat.

“It’s true, Daddy,” said Christina defiantly, and went back to licking her lollypop.

“Calm down, all of you,” commanded Myx. “The assortment of international agents here present is by no means alarming. It is all part and parcel of accepted warfare. The alarming bit concerns the movement to end war.” He cleared his throat and went on. “Although I am not Charles’s father, I’ve helped Jane raise the boy, to the point — I’m proud to say — he calls me ‘Dad’.” Charles waved to Dad from his seat.

May Day Henrikson turned to Jane Doe and said, “But you told us he’d run away as a boy and joined the circus.”

“Raising my son often seemed like a circus act,” replied Doe laughingly.

“Mac’s a Swiss agent,” stated Neiklot Baggins resolutely. “We followed him to the Swiss Consulate.”

“A smoke screen,” said Myx coolly. “The Swiss, in fact, have nothing to do with this entire affair; only a pair of Swedes to start it all.” The detective scratched his right earlobe. “People have a regrettable tendency to confuse Switzerland with Sweden.”

“Despite my efforts, the partners in peace were reluctant to come out of the woodwork,” continued Myx gravely. “I had almost gone to Plan B/41.9 when chance had pushed me onto Jane’s new aide: Young Man Coronet.” The young man munched sullenly on his cufflinks. “From there it was quite easy to follow the trail leading to Old Man Crown, better known as Lord Dogsworth, father of the incumbent Lord Dogsworth.” The lord cast a majestic look upon the lot.

Myx cast a regal look of his own. “It had now become clear to me that Dogsworth and his ilk held a lion’s — or at least a hound’s — share of this foul business. At this point, a tad of history proved quite useful.” He assumed the posture of a history teacher. “The House of Cards — which Dogsworth heads — had been the ruling dynasty in England until they’d been ousted by the House of Windsurf two centuries ago. The Cards had vowed to regain their lost crown, an oath that had been passed from father to son.” Dogsworth and Coronet were quietly sipping sherry.

“Some years ago,” continued Myx, “the former Lord Dogsworth had hidden his son here in the States, in order to conceal from the Windsurfs the fact of his having an heir. He’d wanted time to groom the boy peacefully, if you’ll excuse the pun. Interestingly, young Douglas had lived in the same neighborhood as little Private, whom we now know as General General.”

General shot a long inquisitive look at Dogsworth, and cried, “My God, you’re Doggy Dougie!”

A dazed look appeared on Dogsworth’s visage. “I … You …” His efforts to compose a nice English sentence came to naught. He began mumbling, “Noblesse oblique … Noblesse oblique … Noblesse oblique …” Suddenly, he sprang like an arrow and exclaimed, “That’s it! As a boy, I had said ‘oblique’ not ‘oublie’. That’s why I remember. You’re Private, my best friend!”

“Doggy Dougie!” shouted General. The two, who were seated at opposite ends of the same row, ran over the intervening heads until coming to a head.

“You cheater!” called General. “How dare you team up with these peace-mongers!”

“Couldn’t be helped, dear Private,” replied Dogsworth without a shred of remorse. “Blood is thicker than Coke.”

Myx picked up his expository discourse. “And so the House of Cards had joined forces with the underground, reasoning that in the aftermath of nuclear peace they would be able to overthrow the Windsurfs and regain their place in the palace. Having thus uncovered all the players, the affair had become quite straightforward. It was just a matter of biding my time while keeping tabs on the lot of you. When you’d approached both de la Fesse on the Canadian side and General on the American side with a peace offer — attempting to create a worldwide chain reaction leading to nuclear peace — I’d decided the time was ripe to end the peaceful affair.”

Horrified whispers could be heard throughout the audience.

“Nuclear peace …”

“Chain reaction …”

“My God …”

“Jumping jelly …”

“But I was approached by a fellow named Victor,” protested General loudly, “not by any of these subversives.”

“Ah, Victor,” smiled Myx, and turned to Annabelle Doe. “Tell me, Mrs. Doe, if you had to choose one word describing May Day as a child, what would it be?”

Without the slightest hesitation, Annabelle said, “Ambiguous. Always ‘this or that’, never just ‘this’. Poodle or doodle, pony or Sony, winner or loser. Always ambivalent.”

“Winner or loser,” repeated Myx slowly. “It seems indecision as regards this question has persisted to this day: Victor or May Day, May Day or Victor.”

Annabelle looked at her daughter uncomprehendingly. Her daughter elected to be totally unambiguous: Victor conjured Hammerhead and asked, “Xena, will you marry me?” “Yes,” said the maiden and married Victor in a moving ceremony attended by family only.

“Now look what you’ve done,” complained Neiklot Baggins.

Myx turned to his former operative. “My dear Neiky, we have talked so little of you. In compensation, may I draw you a ship? Or a shop? Maybe a sheep? Perhaps a box with holes?” Baggins was fuming. So was Antoine Cent Eccent.

“You see,” explained Myx, “Miss Baggins here is dimorphic, a condition whose onset is probably due to her having double dated on her own once.”

Antoine Cent Eccent stood up and said in a charming Québécois accent, “Monsieur, please, draw me a ship.” Myx grabbed a pad and pencil, and drew him a one-upmanship. “By the way,” he added, “that grandfather clock whose face you’d replaced to spy on the happenings within the Triangular office?” Baggins snarled. “Eleven hours is one hour shy of the requisite number,” completed Myx firmly.

“I knew that clock would be our undoing,” remarked Victor and stomped his foot.

“Bah,” commented ACE intelligibly.

Suddenly, Jennifer Love stood up, panting and shouting, “You still owe us an antidote to that poison you gave us!”

“Poison?” said Myx innocently. “Oh, I’m sorry. You must have misheard me — I meant poise. It’s very important to maintain one’s poise.” If looks could kill Love’s gaze most certainly would have broken Myx’s right ankle.

“And so,” concluded Myx humbly, “once again I have solved the case and averted worldwide disaster.” There followed a humble round of applause.

“What happens now with these two?” asked the secretary-general, pointing to Baggins and Henrikson, or to Cent Eccent and Victor.

“Dr. Freud! Just on time,” called Myx, as the good doctor entered through an entrance at the back of the auditorium and ambled down. “May Day, Neiky, you will be receiving the best care medical science has to offer; and fine company to boot: Loony Prunes houses several former presidents.” The two left quietly with Dr. Freud, Cent Eccent clutching his new drawing tightly, and Victor holding Hammerhead’s hand.

“What about Dogsworth?” asked General, once the loony trio had departed. “He can still breathe life into this movement.”

“I doubt he’ll have the motivation once I show him this,” said Myx, handing the lord two slips of paper. “The first document attests to the former Lord Dogsworth’s being sterile. He could not have had children. Nor grandchildren.” Myx’s gaze shifted to the young man. “The second document reveals the true identity of Young Man Coronet: Edward of the House of Windsurf. He was sent by the rival House to keep an eye on Dogsworth.”

“Damn you, Myx!” cried Coronet through clenched teeth, and turned to leave. Dogsworth rose immediately.

“Let him go,” said Myx. “Now that we know who he is he can do no more harm.” Coronet departed the scene.

“As for you, Lord Dogsworth,” continued the detective, “I trust these documents shed a new light on your situation.”

“They do indeed,” admitted the lord quietly. “It seems I have been led down the garden path my entire life. I pledge my utmost devotion to warfare henceforth. You have my word as a gentleman.”

Myx smiled. “A gentleman you are and your assurance is amply sufficient.”

“So it’s over,” sighed Jane Doe in relief.

“Not quite,” Myx told the president. “Not quite.”

“Oh,” said Annabelle Doe, “is there any point to which you would wish to draw our attention?”

“To the curious incident of Chapter 13,” said Myx evenly.

“There is no Chapter 13,” stated General positively.

Myx vaulted triumphantly. “That is the curious incident. Indeed, it has proven to be the pivotal clue — the linchpin of my theory. Remember,” he said gravely, “when you have eliminated the important, whatever remains, however importunate, must be the sleuth.”

“Are you saying — ” began Lipps.

“Saying?” shouted Myx. “Braying!” The famous detective was bouncing up and down like a banana blue in the face. “We’ve been dreamt! You, sir,” — he pointed at me with a handy finger — “are responsible for all this. You have stolen Chapter 13!” The accusation sank in like a glass umbrella. Everyone turned their heads toward me with incriminatory visages.

Blithely ignoring all and sundry I sat at my secluded table in a back corner of The Circular Ruins, hammering wildly at the board of keys, in a race toward that most beautiful wordy duo:

The End.

It was then I heard the voice over my shoulder.

With relief, with humiliation, with terror, I understood.