Reaching the summit, he stood beneath a blasted oak to admire the view. Beyond the Porpentine’s curl he could make out a gray suggestion of the roofs of San Sebastiano, then the definite blue of the sea. Somewhere beyond lay the coast of Africa.
At the time of the Dresden bomb attempt on the Nawab, Ganelon had been serving in the Tripolitanian wars. One night, wrapped in his cape and staring into the campfire at the Sidi oasis, he wondered if the bomb thrower could have been Ludwig Fong. Killing doers of good deeds and thinkers of good thoughts was Fong’s recreation, after all. Hadn’t he himself set the fire that destroyed the convent where the blessed mystic, Mother Inez, communed with God? Hadn’t he brewed the ink whose fumes killed the peacemakers about to sign the pact ending the Turco-Balkan War? And how many medical missionaries hurrying on some errand of mercy had taken a turning in the jungle trail and met a smiling Fong in the act of stripping off his goat-skin gloves?
But all that was idle speculation now. Fong was done killing with his own hands. During a recent medical missionary hunt he had contracted Zambezi, or Simpering Fever. Now even his felonious children fled his terrible doting smile. He shunned the light of day, living alone amid draped mirrors lest he stumble upon his smirk unawares. In an ironic intersection of crime and punishment his last victim, a world authority on Simpering Fever, had reportedly been on the verge of a cure.
The baron looked interested at luncheon when Ganelon mentioned his walk to the top of Mont St. Hugues. “That blasted oak was Grandfather Justin’s favorite thinking spot,” he said. “By then he’d turned to applied phrenology.”
“Changing character by changing the bumps on the head?”
“Quite so. He designed the Sandor Corrective Cap, an iron skullcap with adjustable screws to apply pressure where needed. He wore it himself for three years with nothing for his trouble but bad headaches. Then one night he was surprised by a violent thunderstorm atop Mont St. Hugues. As he stood hurling science’s cool defiance into the teeth of wild nature, a bolt of lightning struck. Instantly, Grandfather’s headache went away and he realized he must find a solvent to make bone malleable. Many thunderstorms later he hit on pickle brine. For hours he’d soak his head in brine, breathing through a straw, and then work at amending his character with a hefty rubber mallet. He was never successful. Perhaps he needed younger, more mutable bone.
“But by the time I came along he’d abandoned phrenology for pottery. I remember vividly his wild-eyed look when he talked of shaping base clay into splendid little receptacles.”
Unwittingly, Sandor had told Ganelon why they never spoke of the pickled boys at home. The Founder suspected Baron Justin was the real killer. So did the young baron’s father, who confined Baron Justin in the tower. And Gaston, given the choice of being the madman’s keeper for the rest of his life or spending it in a quiet Duranceville cell, confessed to the murders. Ganelon found some satisfaction that the Founder had botched a famous case. But it still left him chasing after a stolen cufflink.
Once again, the table talk was Vieux Gaspard’s Ointment. Barking his grim laugh, Gruber promised his shop owners would give the product prominent display or face him on the dueling piste. Hardacre, afraid his countrymen couldn’t work their tongues around Vieux Gaspard, proposed a name change for the American market. Oil of the Limberlost, perhaps. Or Calaveras Frog Oil. A hop in every drop.
During dessert the Nawab turned to Ganelon. “After all I said last night about jewels, I find, on reflection, there is one I sorely covet, the Ararat Red, the legendary ruby which illuminated Noah’s Ark during the forty dark days and nights of the Flood. It was stolen years ago from the Sultan of Turkey. I understand it may soon be on the market again.”
The baron now asked his guests to adjourn to the music room for the parlor game he had promised. Ganelon was so shaken by the Nawab’s words, he hardly heard him. The Ararat Red, he knew, was the pride of Dr. Ludwig Fong’s fabled collection. Could Fong have used the ruby to hire an assassin to kill the Nawab? And wasn’t it said that the Gooseberry Fool had a weakness for precious stones?
Pondering this grim possibility, Ganelon followed the others into the music room. The curtains had been drawn shut and seven armchairs set around the walls at ten-foot intervals. The baroness had taken her place at the piano. Ganelon wondered if the parlor game was to be musical chairs. He had been bringing up the rear and found the only chair left was between the baron and Gruber, directly across the room from the Nawab.
The baron cleared his throat and said, “In a moment the servants will take away the lamps and leave us in darkness. Then my wife will begin to play. With the darkness and the music to protect his identity, I beg the one who stole the Nawab’s cufflink to return it. Place it in that bowl on the piano and the matter will be closed forever.”
Ganelon shook his head firmly and went over and protested in the baron’s ear, “I don’t like this. The Nawab’s life...”
“But it was the Nawab who suggested this little bit of entertainment,” replied the baron.
His words made Ganelon’s resolve stumble. The detective went back and sat down in confusion.
“My dear baron,” called the Nawab, who seemed to be enjoying himself, “I hope you’re not placing a valuable bowl in harm’s way. Major Sowerby knows silver. May he...?”
The baron agreed. Sowerby went and picked up the bowl, turned it over, and judged it a very fine piece.
“Which I am prepared to risk,” said the baron.
Suddenly the Nawab’s little manservant rushed into the room in considerable distress and whispered to his master. The Nawab smiled, patted his forearm reassuringly, and dismissed him. At the baron’s signal the lamps were removed and the baroness began a vigorous polka.
Ganelon sat in the darkness for several minutes contemplating how very close he had come to making a fool of himself. Then he thought of what Father Sylvanus had said. Fool or not, at least he could have the courage of his convictions. Suppose the whole business about the cufflink had been leading up to this dark moment. What if the Gooseberry Fool was in the room?
Ganelon sprang up, stumbled to a window, and threw open the curtains.
The piano stopped. Everyone sat, blinking at the afternoon light. Except for the Nawab. He was quite dead in his chair, his head thrown back, lifeless eyes staring at the ceiling, the mark of the strangler’s thumbs on his windpipe.
The baroness uttered a small cry.
Ganelon had failed the Nawab. But he resolved to do everything he could to find his murderer. “Send for the police,” he told the baron. He looked around at the guests and added, “No one must leave this room until they arrive.” Then he turned to Sowerby. “Can you clarify things, Major?”
Sowerby started to protest. Then the wind went out of him. “I didn’t kill him, I swear to that. The Nawab was very embarrassed by the baron’s fuss over the cufflink. So I proposed this little parlor game. He passed the suggestion on to our host. What his excellency didn’t tell the baron was that he was going to give me the remaining cufflink to slip into the bowl. When the lights came back on, there it would be. The baron’s honor would be satisfied. The Nawab would get the cufflink back and be no worse off than before.”
“So that’s what the Nawab’s manservant came to tell him, that now the second cufflink was missing?”
“Correct.”
Thorwald had gone to the piano. “But the bowl’s empty,” he said.
“Because you never put it there, did you, Major?” said Ganelon. “You palmed the second cufflink. Now you had the pair.”