Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 128, No. 6. Whole No. 784, December 2006
- Автор: Пикард Нэнси, Пронзини Билл
- Год: 2006
- Язык: английский
- Год: Dell Magazines
- ISBN: 0013-6328
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 128, No. 6. Whole No. 784, December 2006». Краткое содержание книги:
“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 Russians 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.