Нэнси Пикард - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 128, No. 6. Whole No. 784, December 2006

“And he may be right. When the winter wind works their twigs and branches I’ve started to believe I can read something of what the trees are dreaming. They are not happy dreams. The willows may be the unhappiest, though I haven’t yet learned the cursive script of their branches. The trees fear for something. I think it is the Cairo to Cathay Railroad.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The Chinese say a train journey of a thousand miles begins with a single wooden railway tie,” said the priest. “Railroads devour forests. Oh, trees are as innocent as children. When they saw their first woodman’s axe they said, ‘Look, look, part of it is one of us.’ But like children their anger, when it comes, can be a terrible and mindless thing.”

Father Sylvanus stopped. “Leave me now,” he said. “I have much to do.”

On the threshold of the hermitage Ganelon turned back to ask, “What did Father Boniface mean when he said this was a very special Saint Magnus Day?”

“Our founder rose from his deathbed, went outside, stuck his head in a hollow tree, and shouted a last prayer. Ever since we’ve had stories of monks meditating alone in the woods on Saint Magnus Day hearing a muffled voice speaking to them. From records kept we have discovered that this phenomenon occurs once every seventy-five years. Today is such a special day.”

As Ganelon approached the retreat house he saw a man in a tweed suit and hat, leather gaiters, and a narrow Malacca cane under his arm hunkered down examining Shypoke’s body as Father Boniface looked on. Inspector Nestor Flanel, a third-generation policeman, had a personality so grating his superiors gave him every suburban assignment just to get him as far from the prefecture as possible. This explained the gaiters and cane, useful for investigating crime scenes in long grass. Flanel saw Ganelon and made a cold what-the-hell-are-you-doing-here face.

Ganelon’s two-fisted image would suffer if Flanel suspected he was a student of the Happy Way. The detective decided to pretend he’d come to Willow-Walk-Behind for spiritual refreshment. He turned abruptly and entered the retreat house chapel.

The little church was famous for its unusual windows. The one toward the retreat house depicted Saint Magnus Preaching to the Trees of the Forest in bright stained glass. The window’s mate on the forest side was of clear glass, as if inviting the trees to peek in.

Ganelon paused as he had many times before to admire the stained glass. There was the saint shaping his fingers into the twiglike runic characters the forest understood. Crowded around him were trees of every size and description. Even the oak had come and brought his friend the pine. Conveniently, the window had an inch-wide border of clear glass so he could also keep an eye on Flanel at the millpond.

When Ganelon’s eyes grew accustomed to the chapel’s dim he discovered he was not alone. Khalila stood nearby, staring up at the stained glass.

“Sorry to intrude,” he said.

“My people told me to be sure not to miss seeing this famous window,” she said without turning. “It’s very impressive. And, oh, I know now why you didn’t want to get involved in Mr. Shypoke’s murder. Inspector Flanel is a very unpleasant person. He made it quite clear he didn’t want amateurs or private detectives interfering with his investigation.”

“There’s more to it than that,” said Ganelon, explaining how, over the years, his family had driven every competent criminal from San Sebastiano. So its police force no longer attracted minds of high caliber. Men like Flanel blame their lackluster careers on the Ganelons and spurn their help. He didn’t tell her that his family’s reputation had driven his own business away as well. Sometimes, after reflecting on his father’s and his grandfather’s brilliant achievements, there was nothing left for Ganelon to do but visit some low bar and pick a fight with the biggest and meanest guy in the place.

Then he heard himself say, “I’m surprised your people would trust the Cairo to Cathay business to—” He hesitated over the right words. “—someone so young and good-looking.”

She laughed. “I thought you were going to say to such a flirt,” she said, using the word allumeuse, which went back to gaslight days. Then it meant a female lamplighter. Today it was a woman who lights the boys up and walks away.

“Being friendly does help me with my task,” she admitted. “I’ve been sent here with a tentative proposal for the Cairo to Cathay principals. But my people also want to know if Persia is stable enough for a railroad to be built across it. I think the guests here at Willow-Walk-Behind can answer that question. Being friendly helps.”

“Why the interest in the railroad?”

“My people are reclusive, industrious, and astute in the way of business. They must think it a solid proposition,” she said, adding with a smile, “though China has always fascinated my people. If I repeated some of the China stories our elders tell you’d have to laugh.”

Wondering if she’d found Shypoke an unsettling presence, Ganelon asked, “Did you see Shypoke last night?”

“Now you sound like Inspector Flanel.”

“Flanel can make a real shambles of things. When he’s around, a parallel investigation never hurts.”

“I saw Shypoke at dinner,” she said. “That’s it.”

“What did you do last night?”

“I took a walk with Captain Jerome,” she said. “Along the way we met with Ivanov, the Russian pilot. He walked with us for a bit. After that I went to my room. I came down later to Father Boniface’s office. He lets me use his telephone to keep my people in the picture. But somebody else was using it. I believe it was Baron Waldteufel. So I went to bed.”

Having answered his questions, Khalila left the chapel.

Ganelon remained where he was, watching Flanel oversee the loading of Shypoke’s body onto a coroner’s gurney. Then Khalila appeared at the millpond. A moment later Jerome and Timmons came around a corner of the retreat house, standing aside as the gurney trundled by.

Suddenly an excited monk came running out of the woods, shouting and pointing back the way he had come. Flanel and the others followed him back into the woods.

Ganelon came out of the chapel to find out what was happening. As he passed the millpond Baron Waldteufel stepped from behind a willow tree. “Still lurking, are we, Baron?” he said. In aerial action over the trenches the German liked to creep up on an enemy aviator by flitting from cloud to cloud until ready to pounce.

The Baron stared at Ganelon through his monocle before giving a smart click of his heels and a short bow from the neck. Then he said, “Two monks on a work party in the woods discovered a second body in a crashed airplane. The others have gone to investigate.” He pointed to the path they had taken.

“Then I think I’ll join them,” said Ganelon. “Care to come along?”

The Baron shook his head. “It’s the Russian, Ivanov. Yesterday he buzzed the retreat house, no doubt hoping to impress General Massoudi with loop-the-loops and barrel rolls. He didn’t know Massoudi had been held up in Alexandria by a sandstorm. This morning the Prentiss-Jenkins people had us all over at their facility for a champagne brunch and a walk-around to show off some newly arrived aircraft. Miss Assad was invited, too. Ivanov stayed on after we left. No doubt he meant to repeat his aerial display for Massoudi today.”

Then, as if he knew Ganelon’s next question, Waldteufel said, “Inspector Flanel asked when I saw Shypoke for the last time. I said at dinner. But on reflection I think I heard him later that night. I was using Father Boniface’s telephone. I’m pretty sure somebody was outside listening at the window next-door where the Anglo-Persian Oil people and Timmons were meeting. I believe it was Shypoke.”