EQMM, December 2006

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Jerome nodded. Then after a few moments he said, “By the way, the old guy you talked to back there by the orchard, I'm sure he was only a fruit farmer. But when I was a boy, they told stories about the Old Apple-Tree Man, a tame tree spirit who warned people when it wasn't wise to go into the woods."

  "Then he should have warned Shypoke,” said Ganelon. “And speaking of Shypoke—"

  "Let's see,” said Jerome. “I saw him at dinner. Afterwards I went for a walk with Khalila, who had some questions about the feasibility of the Cairo to Cathay Railroad. A very smart girl. And oh, yes, we ran into Ivanov. Later I was standing at my window when I saw Shypoke again. He was coming around the side of the retreat house."

  "Was anyone following him?"

  "Not right behind him, no,” said Jerome, adding, “Look, I'm sorry. I still take these drops for my eyes before I go to bed. I chose just that moment to put them in. Remember the story of the blind man cured at Bethesda? At first he said he saw men like trees walking. That's what I saw, a blurry shape just like a tree walking come out of the retreat house and head off in the direction Shypoke had gone."

  Ganelon sighed to himself. That's all he needed, a walking tree. He imagined his grandfather laying his oboe aside to give his full attention to so intriguing a development. He saw his father bouncing his fingertips together thoughtfully as he considered the truth hidden behind so unscientific a story. Ganelon found himself wondering where the nearest bar was.

  He and Jerome walked on for another fifteen minutes until they reached the crashed Russian biplane. Nicknamed a Pasternaki from its tapered, parsniplike fuselage, it had come down across a clearing and smashed into the base of a large tree. The dead pilot, a round-faced blond young man, wore a green uniform with red markings.

  With a nod at his partner standing by the airplane, the monk who'd guided them to the crash explained, “Brother and I had been sent to clean the brush away around what we hope is Saint Magnus's Tree. As Father Boniface put it, ‘There'll Be a Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight’ if we're lucky enough to hear our founder's voice speaking to us across the centuries. Anyway, as we were starting back we heard the plane go over. Then its engine cut out and we heard it crash."

  Flanel examined the body and announced the pilot's neck had been broken in the crash. After walking slowly around the airplane, he stood rocking back and forth on his heels and tugging at his lower lip, doing a fine impersonation of a man deep in thought.

  Khalila toured the wreckage. When she reached the gas tank she rapped on it. Then she came over next to Ganelon. “Sounds empty to me,” she murmured.

  Ganelon had wondered why there'd been no fire or explosion on impact. Nice detective work. You bet, business was slow at the agency. But having a beautiful junior partner around might make the time go faster.

  At Flanel's signal the monks emptied a scythe and two rakes from their wheelbarrow, loaded up Ivanov's body, and trundled back to the retreat house with everyone following behind.

  Two dead bodies or not, it still wasn't Ganelon's case. Maybe that was just as well. He was here to get to the next level in the Happy Way. With that in mind he left the others when they reached a small side path that led to Father Sylvanus's hermitage.

  Ganelon found the hermit sweeping the dirt floor of his galvanized dwelling with a broom of twigs. “Any chance of squeezing in a lesson, Father?"

  The priest gave him a sad smile. “Let's leave that for the new Father Sylvanus,” he said, adding, “Did I ever tell you I was born on Saint Magnus Day seventy-five years ago? I came in with our founder's prayer and I have a strong premonition that I will go out with it. So I have much to do, including the naming of the new Father Sylvanus from among those I have trained. I had high hopes for Father Carlus before he chose the byway of speed-demonry."

  The old priest looked around at the forests as if for the last time and said, “Saint Magnus was much in awe of trees, the way they stood half in heaven and half deep in the earth, much as we humans do. Meditating on this set him to wondering if the vast underground network of tree and seaweed roots could be used as a long-distance communication system. Stick your head in a hollow tree, shout your message, and someone with his head in a tree at the other end would hear what you said. Imagine sending a message from one end of Australia to the other using the roots of the shady coolabah tree.

  "Fortunately Saint Magnus confided this wild idea to no one. Otherwise he might have been judged mad and unfit for canonization.

  "But my predecessor and teacher, Old Father Sylvanus, as they called him, found the saint's secret diary among some ancient manuscripts in our library. By translating it he was able to calculate the precise hour when the saint's prayer, having circled the world, would return to where it had started. Tonight we will find out if his calculations were correct.

  "Of course, the original tree has long since fallen to dust. But any hollow tree of the same kind would surely do. Though reasonable men may disagree on what kind of tree it was."

  Father Sylvanus returned to his sweeping for a moment. Then he said out of nowhere, “Some say the next great battle between Christianity and Islam is nigh. I hear some Germans are telling the French that when that day comes their Mr. Hitler will be the new Charles Martel, the hero-warrior who will defeat the Arabs once and for all.

  "Be that as it may, a small religious group called the Druze believe that when this conflict ends and the victorious side, whichever it is, stands bloody and exhausted, then a vast Druze army will march out of China, defeat the victor, and rule the world."

  "A Druze army in China?"

  Father Sylvanus nodded. “The Druze believe that for centuries their male dead have been reincarnated in China for just this purpose."

  "And how better and faster to move such an army than by rail?” added Ganelon.

  "Indeed, so you may live to see exciting times. Well, I leave all that to you. Goodbye, Ambrose.” Ganelon went down on one knee to receive the old priest's blessing. Then Father Sylvanus went back into his metal hermitage.

  Ganelon returned to the retreat house with a troubled mind. Since the death of China's president Sun Yat-sen several years ago he'd heard rumors that Fong-Smythe had forged an alliance with the country's most powerful warlords, for what purpose he hadn't discovered. If an army did come out of China, would it be Fong-Smythe's?

  * * * *

  Ganelon started dressing for dinner early. Knotting his tie at the window, he noticed Timmons and Massoudi below him on the flagstone walk in animated conversation as the twilight deepened. He couldn't hear anything. But then he saw Timmons hold his hand out, thumb and fingers pointing down at the knuckles, making the Dragon's Claw, the sign of the Fongs, the thumb buried deep wherever the clan leader was and each finger in one of the world's four corners. Massoudi shook his head at the claw in disbelief. But clearly it left him unsettled. If Timmons connected the Baron with the Fongs he'd have gone a long way to disqualifying Waldteufel for the Persian job.

  Ganelon watched as Massoudi and Timmons went their separate ways. Then he saw Waldteufel, ever the lurker, step from behind a nearby willow and glare in the direction the Englishman had gone.

  As the detective finished dressing there was a knock. Timmons stood in the doorway with a bottle of scotch under one arm, a gazogene under the other, and carrying two glasses. “What'd you say to a drink before dinner?” he asked.

  Ganelon invited the Wing Commander in.

  As he made the drinks Timmons said, “You know, there's much more involved here than jobs for redundant aviators or the sale of surplus aircraft or how a Persian strongman controls his trackless empire.” He passed Ganelon his drink and gestured at the wall as if it were a map of Asia. “They used to call it the Great Game. Persia lies athwart Britain's road to India and it keeps the Russians away from their long-sought-after warm-water port.” He lit a cigarette. “The British have much history in the area. And the Russians. Before nineteen seventeen the Persian army was officered by Russian
s who trained the Shah himself."

  "Sounds like you know what you're talking about,” said Ganelon.

  "A friend in high places filled me in on things when he heard I might be heading to that neck of the woods."

  Ganelon nodded as if he accepted Timmons's explanation. But all it did was convince him that the man was British Secret Service. “By the way,” he asked, “when did you see Shypoke for the last time?"

  Timmons shrugged. “Last night I met with the Anglo-Persian Oil people. I hoped they might persuade General Massoudi to favor my people for the flying part. I thought I heard someone outside the window. When I looked I saw Shypoke listening at Father Boniface's window. Why, I don't know. It was none of my business."

  As soon as Timmons left, Ganelon hurried off to the dining room hoping to get the chair next to Khalila at the Cairo to Cathay Railroad table. The four of them made a jolly bunch. When different nationalities gather they often find common ground by telling humorous stories about the English. When Ganelon's turn came he quoted Alphonse Allais’ remark, “Queer people, the English. Whereas we in France name our public places after famous victories—Rue de Rocroy, Place Iéna, Avenue de Wagram—the English insist on naming theirs after famous defeats—Trafalgar Square, Waterloo Station, and so on.” Khalila's laughter rang silver in his ears.

  Then he saw Jerome at a corner table throw down his napkin and leave the dining room and noticed for the first time that the pilot's friend and table companion Timmons wasn't there. Excusing himself, Ganelon rose and went after Jerome.

  As he fell in step with him the pilot said, “I went by Timmons's room on my way to dinner. No answer. I figured he'd gone down ahead. When he wasn't at our table I decided he'd been sidetracked. But not for this long. There's one man who really likes his rations."

  At Timmons's room Ganelon turned the knob and the door swung open. The Englishman lay stretched out on the floor amid a wreckage of bottles and glasses, dead from a blow to the back of the head. The killer must have been waiting behind the door when Timmons returned from Ganelon's room.

  Noticing something odd about the dead man's large aviator's wrist watch, Ganelon checked it, hoping it might have stopped during the assault, giving a clue to the time of death. But the watch was still running. It had just lost its crystal.

  Grim-faced, Jerome looked down at the dead body. “My friend deserved better than this,” he said.

  Inspector Flanel arrived quickly, gaiters and all. He interrogated Ganelon and Jerome. Then they left him hunkered down viewing the crime scene from multiple angles and turning things over with his stick.

  * * * *

  After compline, a procession of monks carrying fat candles set out for the hollow oak Father Boniface had decided was St. Magnus's Tree. Those guests who wished to come along fell in behind, dressed for the cool night air. They included Khalila and her Cairo to Cathay people, the Baron, General Massoudi, and Ganelon and Jerome, who arrived at the last minute.

  They entered the woods and proceeded to Father Sylvanus's hermitage. After a bit, when no one appeared, the retreat master said, “I guess the good Father still doesn't believe my tree is the kind our founder used. He may regret not joining us.” Then he ordered the procession to continue.

  They started out on the same path they had taken that afternoon to the crash site. But for Ganelon the trees loomed larger now on either side and seemed to fall in behind them as they passed. He chalked this up to the darkness, the candlelight, and Father Sylvanus's stories. But he didn't remember so many tree roots in the path. The stumbling monks uttered gentle appeals to this saint or that as their candle flames sketched abrupt patterns on the darkness. More forceful expletives came from the guests in a Babel of languages to which an owl or two uttered replies. Just beyond the wreckage of the Russian airplane a breeze sprang up, guttering the candles. Protective hands cupped the flames, dimming the light even more.

  At last the procession reached a place where the bracken had been scythed and raked away around an ancient oak standing alone some twenty feet off the path. It had a large waist-high hole in its trunk. The monks turned in and gathered in a semicircle about the tree.

  Father Boniface produced a pocket watch. “The hour of our blessed founder's prayer approaches,” he said. “Forgive us if we of his order listen first.” Then he directed the monks, in alphabetical turns, to put their heads in the hollow oak, tapping each on the shoulder when his time was up. So the minutes passed. None heard the expected voice. Pulling his own head out of the tree, Father Boniface shook it sadly and signaled the guests to take their turns. Ganelon went last. The hollow in the tree was silent as a tomb. Then the hour had passed.

  The downcast procession returned, more strung-out and stumbling than before. As the lights of the retreat house came in view they discovered that Baron Waldteufel had gone missing somewhere along the way. Arming himself with a candle, Jerome volunteered to go back and try to find him.

  When the others reached the millpond they found a monk with his head and shoulders inside a hollow willow near the one in whose roots Shypoke's body had been entangled. When Father Boniface touched him and said Saint Magnus's hour had passed, the body slid from the willow and onto the grass. It was Father Sylvanus. The dead priest's face wore a smile of final contentment.

  Ganelon asked, “Does the smile mean he learned Saint Magnus's prayer?"

  "Oh, the prayer is no secret,” said Father Boniface. “No, his joy must mean he heard it spoken in our founder's very voice. You see, late in life Saint Magnus turned mystical in an attempt to discover the unknowable side of the Almighty, the deus abscondus, the hidden God. He rose from his deathbed and had a disciple help him to a hollow tree nearby, and in a ‘Hello, Central, Get Me Heaven’ kind of thing, he stuck his head inside and shouted: ‘God, Whoever You are, I love You.’”

  The monks carried Father Sylvanus's body into the chapel. The guests returned to the retreat house, except for Ganelon and Khalila. Ganelon followed the body out of respect for his teacher. Khalila came, too, saying, “The Cairo to Cathay people have accepted our terms. I leave for home in the morning. But I'd like a chance to see the famous window by candlelight."

  Half an hour later Ganelon and Khalila left the monks to their vigil over Father Sylvanus's body. As they came outside they saw Inspector Flanel heading in their direction.

  "I hear Baron Waldteufel wandered off and Jerome's gone back to find him,” said the policeman. “When he does I intend to arrest the baron for murder. He was killing off his rivals for the Persian air force job. He had the motive and the opportunity to siphon off Commissar Ivanov's gasoline. And I have proof positive he killed Wing Commander Timmons. During my careful examination of the broken glass in Timmons's room I found this, the baron's monocle.” Flanel opened his hand triumphantly to reveal the crystal from Timmons's watch.

  Just then Jerome emerged from the forest darkness. He was alone. “I went as far back as the last spot I remembered seeing Waldteufel with the procession. No baron."

  Examining the night, Flanel decided it was too late to start a search. He promised to return in the morning.

  Ganelon walked Khalila back to the retreat house. “Flanel's a very lucky man, being right for so wrong a reason,” he said. “He may make Chief Inspector yet.” Then he added, “We have to ask ourselves, what's so important about the Persian air force job to make it worth killing two people?"

  "Three, counting Shypoke,” said Khalila.

  "Shypoke was a mistake all round. The man wanted to eavesdrop on the Anglo-Persian Oil people's meeting but got the wrong window. The baron thought Shypoke was listening in on his telephone call to England. That's why he killed him. Know the name Dorian Fong-Smythe?"

  When Khalila shook her head, Ganelon told himself she soon would if she came into partnership with him. Then he said, “He's Waldteufel's employer. So why's it so important to Fong-Smythe that the baron gets the Persian job?"

  * * * *

  Early the next
morning Ganelon and Khalila led Flanel on the route the procession had taken and described the events of the night before. On the way the inspector looked for traces of the baron's wandering off. They had not expected to get as far as the hollow oak. But that was where they discovered Waldteufel dead next to the tree, the blade of a scythe driven through his body.

  Flanel waved them behind him and studied the scene, stroking his chin.

  As Ganelon looked at the wooden-handled scythe he suddenly remembered Father Sylvanus's remark about what the trees had said about the woodman's axe: "Look, look, part of it is one of us."

  After a bit Flanel said, “Here's what happened. On the way back to the retreat house the Baron got separated from the procession. In the dark and half blind—for let us not forget, I found his monocle at the crime scene—he was beset by his guilty conscience and panicked. He started to run. As often happens in these cases, he went around in a circle and came back to the hollow oak, plowing headlong into a lower limb. See the mark of a blow to his head. Stunned, he accidentally fell on the scythe a careless monk left behind after clearing the bramble around the tree. Case closed."

  "A wound toward the back of the head is tough to come by running full tilt into a tree limb,” observed Ganelon.

  Flanel gave a dismissive laugh. “As he ran he heard one of the owls you spoke of. Wild-eyed, Waldteufel looked back over his shoulder toward the sound. Bang!"

  Ganelon and Khalila exchanged glances. Then, promising to send two monks back with the wheelbarrow, they left Flanel hunkered down examining the scene of the crime.

  They walked in silence for a long distance, neither wanting to bring up the terrible murder. At last Khalila said, “I can't imagine Jerome a killer."

  "That scythe sure didn't walk back there on its own,” said Ganelon. “I saw it at the crash site on our way to the tree. It was right where the monks left it when they emptied their wheelbarrow to load up Ivanov's body. Look, when the procession started back Jerome got Waldteufel to hang back on some pretext and hit him a good one, leaving him for dead. On the way back Jerome had second thoughts about whether he'd killed him or not. He volunteered to find the baron so he could finish the job, picking up the scythe on the way."