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

The Nawab dismissed the loss with a shake of his head. “My people believe that the Devil, that great aper of the Almighty, once tried to make an animal to match the horse in grace and beauty. But his best effort was the camel. And they say that when he saw how much we loved the beauty of God’s flowers, the Devil hurried to his underground smithy and created precious stones, hoping their brightness would lure us from the righteous path. I have made a study of jewels. But they are the Devil’s flower bed. We must never become attached to them.”

“Some say a camel is a horse designed by a committee,” replied Ganelon. “Could it be that the Devil is a committee?”

“He has faces enough to be many committees.”

At the other end of the table, Thorwald had just pulled a bottle of Vieux Gaspard’s Ointment from his coat pocket. “For Scandinavia, may I suggest one small change for the label?” he asked. “This old man smiles and kicks his heels in the air. But health is a serious business.” As he spoke, Thorwald drew on the label with a pencil and sent the bottle around the table. “Conceal the smile thus. Now his eyes challenge us and say, ‘I can do this. Why can’t you?’ ”

When the bottle reached him Ganelon thought the penciled moustache on Gaspard’s lip bore a striking resemblance to Gruber’s. He handed it off to Hardacre, who burst out laughing. The German leaned over to look, turned red, and jumped to his feet. “Are you mocking me, sir?” he demanded of the American.

“Don’t blow your stack, pard.”

“Watch your words, sir,” answered Gruber. “Your bowie knives and knuckle-dusters hold no fear for me. I eat uncouth boobies like you for breakfast!”

Hardacre was on his feet. “Watch what you try eating, friend,” he warned, pulling up his coat sleeves. “Remember the Yankee oyster so big it took ten Germans to swallow it whole? I am that oyster, sir. I can handle shooting irons, too.”

But seeing their outburst had distressed the baron, Hardacre sat back down. He forced a smile, rubbed the back of his neck, and added, “Not like another member of our hunting party.”

Gruber barked out a laugh and sat down, too. “Yes, I hope the rest of the Indian Army shoots better than you do, Major.”

“I believe I have already offered you gentlemen my apologies for the peppering,” replied Sowerby.

“I forgave you when you ran off Cipriani,” Gruber assured him. “Mollycoddles belong by the fireside, charming the ladies.”

“Claimed I meant to murder him,” protested Sowerby.

“You did shoot the hat off his head,” said Hardacre.

The major scowled down at his plate.

“A borrowed hat,” added Gruber. “Imagine tagging along on a hunt with a borrowed hat and stick.”

“Stick or not, I think he shot as many birds as I did,” observed the Nawab.

“It’s your spanking-new hunting outfit that scares off the birds, your excellency,” suggested Hardacre. “Our Henry Thoreau says beware of enterprises that require new clothes. Now, I’d happily sell you my old buckskin jacket.”

As the table laughed, the Nawab wagged a mock-scolding finger and replied, “And I say, beware of enterprising used-clothes salesmen who quote Thoreau.”

In the music room, after dinner, the baroness played the piano for their entertainment. There was talk of a game of whist. Thorwald chose to sit in a corner with his book. Gruber shook his head. “I shall retire shortly,” he said, adding an ominous, “I am accustomed to rising before dawn.”

While the card players were making up their game, Ganelon went over to turn the music for the baroness. “I always considered the Phantom Balloon cut from the same cloth as the emperor’s new clothes,” he remarked. “You have proven me wrong.”

The baroness gave a sigh. “If you must know, I didn’t see the blasted thing and never said I had. I was out on the lawn when Signor Cipriani burst from the woods, eyes like saucers, babbling about a great brown bag in the sky. It had to be our local phenomenon, the Phantom Balloon. So I raced back to the house shouting the news with Cipriani on my heels. Charles just assumed I’d been the one who’d seen it.”

“And you never corrected his thinking?”

The baroness smiled without taking her eyes from the music. “Every wife wants her husband to believe her heart is pure, Monsieur Ganelon. Besides, Cipriani came to me later. His eyes must have been playing tricks on him, he said, and asked I not tell Charles, lest he be judged too excitable to be a Vieux Gaspard representative. I rather like dear, dithery Cipriani. I suspect he colors his hair.”

Leaving the piano, Ganelon watched the men play cards for small stakes. He noticed that when Major Sowerby dealt, the Nawab got excellent cards, which he played very badly. After a bit, the detective bade the company good night and retired.