Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 116, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 709 & 710, September/October 2000

As a boy, Ganelon had been sent to Father Sylvanus to learn the via felix, or the Happy Way, the forgotten medieval art of self-defence. An opponent was rendered horizontal with a hip lift and his body humors (blood, phlegm, choler, and bile) redistributed, producing a radical, if temporary, personality change. Ganelon’s grammar had been a heavy board grooved with a maze in which four lead balls must roll but never collide. He practiced with it on his hip until he was as adept as his teacher. Now Ganelon wondered if the via felix could be self-applied. Might he stretch himself out horizontally, supported by a sawhorse in the small of his back, and redistribute his body humors until he had character or, at least, patience?

To business! If Cipriani wasn’t the thief, and Gruber and Thorwald arrived after the cufflink was stolen, then Ganelon was left with two suspects: Sowerby and Hardacre.

As he concluded this reasoning, LeSage arrived to help him dress for dinner. While the detective stood before the mirror adjusting his white tie, LeSage said, “I think I should tell you, sir, you being a detective, that before your arrival I had the pleasure of caring for Mr. Hardacre’s needs. While brushing out his vests, I discovered a business card. It read ‘Jeremiah Wynne, North American Representative, Old Father William’s Supplifying Salve.’ ”

“So he’s been consorting with the enemy?”

“The Old Father William people are in financial straits and desperate to lay hands on our formula, sir. So I fiddled the lock on a curious flat leather box Mr. Hardacre brought with him. Inside was a full gray beard of the kind that hooks over the ears, and matching eyebrows. I never told the young baron. He’d be furious with my snooping through guests’ things.”

The guests gathered in the music room for a drink before dinner. “What a pleasure to meet the son of the great detective,” said the Nawab of Jamkhandi. “I hope your father is well.”

Ganelon lied and thanked him for his enquiry. Actually, the Founder was deep in the toils of oboe madness, an affliction common among woodwind players, whose compression of breath must eventually drive the upper palate into the very foundations of the brain. When the fit was on him, the Founder would rave about a love affair with a certain high personage whom he called Regina and see at every window the face of his nemesis Dr. Ludwig Fong, Eurasian arch-villain, chiropractor, and would-be master of the world.

Ganelon met the remaining guests. Suspect Sowerby had a flush face and a sad mouth made sadder by a turned-down moustache. Or was it the drink in his hand? Could Sowerby have stolen his benefactor’s cufflink? Some people hate a benefactor most of all.

The duelist Herr Gruber, whose moustache-ends turned sharply upward, appeared something of a fire eater, his eyes aflash with the memory of his last such meal. After they met, Ganelon felt the man had been measuring him for an epee thrust.

Suspect Hardacre was mixing drinks. The American’s weathered face suggested a sunburned neck beneath his collar and tie. “Pink-gilled,” the English say, meaning “country bumpkin.” But Hardacre was no yokel. Ganelon suspected he’d been among his countrymen who had lived in Europe during their Civil War as agents of the North or South. His French was fluent but encumbered, as though learned while he had the American habit of chewing tobacco. Could Hardacre be the thief? Surely a man who once chewed tobacco was capable of anything. And why the fake beard?

Louise Sandor took the detective by the arm, explaining, “Mr. Hardacre is mixing American cocktail drinks. Will you try one? Major,” she asked Sowerby, “how do you find your...?”

“Tarantula Juice, ma’am,” said Sowerby hoarsely, adding, “The name rather understates the taste.”

Hardacre suggested a Lightning Bolt or Calamity Water. Ganelon chose the latter as sounding the least instantaneous. Then he raised his glass to Thorwald across the room. Thorwald wasn’t drinking and replied with a bow. Was the self-righteous gentleman of the teetotal persuasion, too? Ganelon smiled to himself, remembering how Thorwald had shown no real interest in his running commentary during the carriage ride until the part about the Phantom Balloon only being seen by the pure of heart. From then on he missed no chance to sneak a glance skyward.

This reminded Ganelon of the lavender cologne. Could Cipriani’s perfume atomizer have been used to smuggle the sapphire out of the château? He chatted his way over to the baron and asked if the atomizer had been examined. “Yes, I remember,” said his host. “One of those blue glass things. LeSage took it all apart.”

Just then a footman opened the dining room doors and everyone moved toward the table. The Nawab was given the place of honor on the baroness’s right. Ganelon sat on his other side and offered his regrets for the stolen sapphire cufflink.