PREVIOUSLY ON POP CULTURE MYSTERIES…
Part 1
AND NOW THE POP CULTURE MYSTERIES CONTINUE…
I positioned my body in front of the door, preventing Yakubovich’s and Bellavenuti’s attempts at a swift exit. My intervention gave the Countess enough time to produce a key from her pocket and lock the door.
Tempers were flaring. I knew I had to restore order lest the group turn 
into an angry mob and maul the Countess for the key.
“Remain calm and return to your seats,” I said as a I raised my hands. “As the only detective here, it is my duty to preserve the crime scene until this matter is resolved.”
“A crime?” Yakubovich asked. “You’re being ridiculous, aren’t you? Surely, someone in this room has committed a breach of social etiquette but I highly doubt it would constitute a jailable offense.”
“I’m not talking about the antagonizing aroma,” I said. “I’m referring to the underlying offense that the stench was intended to quench, or cover up, as it were.”
The countess held a vial of smelling salts underneath Professor Fremont’s nose. He began to stir.
Meanwhile, across the table, Muffy was in her chair, curled up in the fetal position, babbling on and on about her grandpappy Guillaume.
Lord Blackburn, who’d spaced out for a bit, managed to regain control of his senses.
“That was the most vile smell to have ever transgressed the depths of my nasal passages,” the Lord said. “And in that assessment, I include the time I slit open the belly of a bull elephant and hid inside its guts for three days whilst trying to evade a predatory pride of lions who were hot on my trail.”
“Wow,” I said. “Three whole days? No, no matter. People, I had a check from the Hotel Rondileau in my jacket pocket for the sum of twenty-five grand and now it is nowhere to be found.”
Professor Fremont, now awake, sipped a glass of water.
“Are you sure you looked everywhere for it?” the uptight intellectual asked.
“Of course.”
“Because it’s always in the last place you look, which seems like an ironic statement because of course, if you find it, then obviously that would be, by default, the last place you look. Why would you continue the search for a found item? But you know, Descartes once said…”
“Ugh.”
Looking back on it now, Bellavenuti’s “ughs” were the highlight of the evening. She always went out of her way to make it known whenever someone was displeasing her.
“Signor Hatcher,” the fashion designer said. “You embarrass yourself with this petty accusation. Look around you. You are surrounded by people of high class and stature. No one would lower themselves to abscond with your winnings.”
“Wouldn’t they?” I asked. “My dear, Signora Bellavenuti, one would ALSO presume that a gas attack so obscene in its approach and violent in its execution could NEVER occur in a room occupied by such a resplendent cadre of characters and yet here we are, are we not?”
For once in the evening, the good Signora was speechless.
“He’s got you there,” Fremont said.
“Oh, stifle yourself you pathetic creature. You have been leering at me with that evil eye of yours all evening!”
“I was kicked in the face by a goat on my uncle’s farm when I was five years old,” the scholar said. “I can’t help it!”
The Count was back in his chair, watching helplessly as the duo of diplomats continued to eviscerate one another.
“We shall burn London to the ground!” Charbonneau declared.
“We’ll knock over the Eiffel Tower and pick our teeth with it we will!” Rupert replied.
“Hatcher,” the Count said as he rested his head in his hands. “Perhaps there are more pressing matters to attend to than your precious payday? Such as, the preservation of peace, perhaps?!”
“You know you did it!” Charbonneau said.
“Oh yeah?” Rupert said.
The Brit stood up, leaned over the table, and prominently announced, “WELL, HE WHO SMELT IT, DEALT IT!”
A hushed panic embraced the group. Gasps. Whispers. We were all descending into madness.
Charbonneau got on his feet. He scratched his head, causing that dead animal he was trying to pass off as a wig to flop about, until finally he arrived at the perfect comeback.
“Sir. I shall have you know that, HE WHO DENIED IT, SUPPLIED IT!”
And thus, the verbal joust began. The scene became like a tennis match. One diplomat would levy an accusation, the other would knock a denial straight over the net.
“He who detected it, projected it!” Rupert proudly declared.
“He who refuted it, tooted it!” was the French ambassador’s entreaty.
Back and forth. Back and forth.
“He who sayed it, sprayed it!”
“He who refused it, abused it!”
“He who bemoaned it, foamed it!”
“He who withdrew it, pooed it!”
“He who squealed it, congealed it!”
“He who said “no,” made it go!”
“He who announced it, pounced it!”
“He who doubted it, touted it!”
“He who flaunted it, taunted it!”
Two men. Both masters at diplomacy, skilled in the art of debate. They continued to attack and deflect for an hour.
They grew sweaty and weak. They removed their jackets, loosened their ties and each man’s voice grew hoarse with exhaustion.
“Sir Rupert,” Charbonneau said. “I have made accurate points. You have returned with commendable counter-propositions, but even you surely must agree that….”
We waited for it. It was on the tip of Charbonneau’s tongue. He tapped a finger to his chin as he selected his words carefully.”
“…he who shunned it, BUMMED IT!”
“No!” Rupert said, slapping his knee. “That is off-rhyme, Ambassador! ‘Shunned’ and ‘bummed’ are close together in sound, but close is not the name of the game here. Relent sir, for you have been matched!”
“Preposterous!” Charbonneau said.
That rug was barely hanging onto the Frenchman’s head now and he didn’t even notice.
“At no time was that made a rule of this contest.”
“It is an unwritten rule,” Sir Rupert said. “Concede your loss!”
“Never!”
“Gentlemen,” I said. “This is getting us nowhere.”
Copyright (c) Bookshelf Q. Battler 2015.
All Rights Reserved.
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