by Jim Jennings
Virgil once wrote that of all the ills there are, rumour is the swiftest, gathering strength wherever she goes, a huge and horrible monster. The rumour that was currently spreading itself through the streets of Paris and out into the tabloid newspapers of every major country in the world was similarly quick to develop in its size and meaning, and no less monstrous and huge in its proportions. It was complex, shocking, always elaborated upon and getting more fantastical with each passing day. The rumour was initially dismissed as idle prattle, but was passed on by those who heard it anyway to the next group of gossipers, who then upgraded it to minor gossip before it was taken seriously and classed as ‘definitely possibly maybe true’ and those who believed it often added to it. The rumour concerned Paris’ newest resident, who had recently acquired a summer house high up in the scenic Parisian hillside. His move had got the whole of Paris playing Chinese whispers; people said the gates of the house were made of solid gold and were protected by an invisible laser system. It was said that the walls of the garden, which ran, supposedly, to over thirty-five acres, were adorned with gargoyles of bronze and statues of marble depicting famous fascist dictators that the occupant of this most mulled over palace admired. It was protected, so the rumour continued, by bloodthirsty Dobermans and Rottweilers and there was also apparently an army the size of a small country at the owner’s beck and call. The gardens were populated by glamorous women; one from every country in the world who did nothing but sunbathe, swim and sing. Furthermore, it was believed that beneath the house lay a secret nuclear bunker and a tunnel that opened out somewhere in Munich.
Then there were the rumours concerning the man himself. Some said he was so muscular and toned that he was a medical experiment constructed by the Soviet Union during the Cold War. Some said he was more of a machine than a man. Others believed that he was the descendant of some ancient line of kings and was in fact, a demi-God. Many just said he was very good-looking and that he was far too exuberant in public. No one really knew who he was or what he did; he was an enigma, a riddle, a mystery, and the truth was that even Giorgio Carraciolo himself did not truly know who he was pretending to be.
Giorgio Carraciolo did indeed now own a very majestic and luxurious mansion that was located in the Parisian hillside, but it was not protected by lasers or vicious guard dogs, nor populated by exotic beauties. In truth, though he had been married five times and had numerous flings with women, every detail of which was documented extensively in glossy magazines and newspapers, he lived a life of solitude with only his dog, Al, and his butler, Tim, for company. And Giorgio was certainly no robot; he was passionate and outspoken, giving his opinion to any who listened, and those who did not, on every topic under the sun, from unilateral nuclear disarmament to who should be voted off Strictly Come Dancing. He had a reputation for being an angry and violent individual, and even at thirty-five he had created for himself the persona of a power hungry, mad recluse who was famous for being famous. His father was a very good and very successful barrister, and Giorgio had not only inherited his very healthy bank account but also his supreme intelligence and cunning as well. Though his mansion did not lie above a nuclear bunker, it was filled with many ingenious and sophisticated gadgets that were as ludicrous as they were inventive. He had proved himself a very shrewd businessman in real estate and property, adding to his already not inconsiderable wealth. This had proved to be a double-edged sword, as not only did it result in financial rewards, but on occasion brought about his short fuse and ruthlessness for which he had become so famous, or rather, infamous.
Aside from his fondness for gadgets, his tantrums, his wealth and his tabloid exploits with seemingly every woman under the sun, Giorgio’s real passion however concerned the antiquities of the Ancient world. It was this fascination with the Ancient world that had led Randall to believe Giorgio had stolen Pandora’s Box from within his grasp. In Giorgio’s hometown of Sorrento, the people had erected a small statue in his honour that he himself had designed and paid for; the statue was an exact replica of the Laokoon group, but the face of the Trojan priest had been replaced by Giorgio’s own, and instead of wrestling with vicious serpents, Giorgio was shown to be grappling with large piles of money. But Giorgio had a modest side as well, and he had found many wonderful artefacts at his own personal expense, which he then proceeded to donate to smaller museums so that those people who weren’t lucky enough to live in a major city were able to view them. He had also invested in a number of museums, set up a number of art galleries, all of which were free to visit, and donated money to help modernise the site of Pompeii. He also made sure he visited Rome at least twice a year; once, to view all the city’s miraculous architecture, and secondly to run the marathon. In his mansion he had amassed such a spectacular array of artefacts and relics that even the late Randall Johnson would have blushed.
Presently however, Giorgio was sitting on the elongated L-shaped porch of his mansion looking at the wonderful metropolis of Paris that could be viewed in between the clusters of trees that surrounded the walls of his mansion that formed yet another barrier to the modern world. Giorgio preferred to live in and amongst the past. Even as he stared into the distance he was using an eighteenth century apple peeler that was said to have belonged to Marie Antoinette, while he reclined on a chaise longue that would not have looked out of place at an Athenian symposium. His dog, Al, who was very much enjoying chewing on a tennis ball, looked up towards his master for a moment, angling his head in curiosity at the cutting sound of metal on apple, and returned to his ball. As Giorgio took a sip of his Gin and tonic, allowing a few cooling chunks of ice to flow down his throat with the liquid, he felt a change in the air and turned to view the doorway where his butler, Tim, was standing in dignified silence. Looking the epitome of calm and self-assurance, Tim gestured for Giorgio to come inside, the latter accepting the former’s prompt with a nod. He folded his newspaper, let out a short whistle for Al to follow him, which he did, and entered the glorious inner sanctum that was his mansion.
‘Thank you for reminding me, Tim.’ Said Giorgio. Tim was a former Olympic gold-winning martial artist who had retired at the relatively young age of twenty-nine to care for his ailing mother. Having read the story in the paper, Giorgio, who was a huge fan of Tim’s, pledged to finance her medical fees, and Tim in turn dedicated his life to work for Giorgio as his butler and bodyguard. Their relationship was far from one of employer and employee; the two were like brothers.
Giorgio’s mansion was much more sophisticated in its decoration and state-of-the-art in its furnishings than Randall’s had been. In place of the creaking floorboards and cobweb-covered chandeliers were pristine wooden panels and sophisticated lighting systems operated by touch sensitive panels that were placed on sleek black walls. The art and architecture of the Ancient world however still pervaded throughout the house; paintings influenced by Homeric epic and Greek myths hung down from the ceiling in nearly every room, while the amount of Roman weapons that lay in his drawing room were so numerous that one might think he was a gladiator preparing for battle in the arena rather than an obsessive antique collector.
As aforementioned, Giorgio had spent much of his fortune on gadgets around his house. As he entered his living room he headed to the bookcase that was at the end of the room. Taking leather bound book out of the case, the whole book case rotated 180 degrees, revealing a metal door, which Giorgio took, closely followed by Tim and Al. Behind the door a staircase spiralled its way up to a private chamber. This was Giorgio’s private study; in fact it was so private that even he barely ever used it. The wall on the far side was punctuated by a window that allowed the room to be flooded with light. Beneath it was a writing desk, the top of which was barely visible, covered as it was by books and scatterings of paper. The room also featured a fireplace that was protected by two medieval suits of armour that were positioned with a hand each resting on the mantelpiece. By the adjacent wall was situated an old grandfather clock. Giorgio twisted the big hand co
unter clockwise to the seven. This was greeted by a noisy click and suddenly the fireplace split into two, shifting horizontally to reveal a lift.
The journey in the lift was a quick one that ended with a sudden crash, but it brought Giorgio, Tim and Al to a large open dining room. The wall to Giorgio’s right was bare save for a single portrait of Giorgio himself, looking refined in a dinner-jacket and bowtie. The opposing wall was decorated similarly. Between the two walls was an exceedingly long dining table, at which two places were set, one at either end. Tim shifted the chair back that was before him and Giorgio, and the latter eased himself into it, unfolding his napkin and laying it onto his lap. He peered down towards the end of the table where his guest was sitting. Dressed in all new clothes, with his hair slicked back and the makings of an unexpected beard forming, Laurence Swift was tucking into some dinner with great enjoyment.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Swift. Are you enjoying your steak?’ Giorgio asked politely. As polite as he was, Laurence thought to himself, there was a mysterious and sinister air to his host with the most delicious steak he had ever had in his life. Laurence studied him as well as he could from so far down the table. Giorgio looked like your stereotypical Italian; long, thick strands of hair black as tar that curled below the ear. His skin glowed with a brown hue, a golden chain hanging about his neck and he wore such stylish clothes that Laurence was not surprised that so many women were in love with him. Giorgio also had a Don Quixote esque moustache that he twirled about constantly with his thumb and forefinger. And yet despite his attractive features and generosity, Laurence couldn’t completely relax in his surroundings. Perhaps it was the fact that he was recovering from the major shock of seeing Randall’s mansion go up in smoke, or that Randall himself, the man who had given him a most miraculous opportunity, was now dead. Or maybe it was because Randall had cast a sinister net about Giorgio’s character. Moreover, Wesley and Ruby were missing. Ultimately however, the feeling of uneasiness and confusion was undoubtedly due to the shackles that bound his ankles to the legs of his wooden chair. What did Giorgio want with him?
‘It needs more salt!’ Laurence raised his fork to his mouth, oblivious to the fact he was dripping gravy down his shirt.
‘Tim, please bring our guest more salt and another shirt.’ Giorgio ordered, and Tim nodded in acknowledgement of the request. ‘You are perhaps wondering what you are doing here, and who I am.’
‘I know who you are. You’re Giorgio Carraciolo!’ said Laurence proudly with certainty. Hearing no immediate confirmation, doubt flooded his mind, ‘You are Giorgio Carraciolo right?’ Giorgio blushed at the mention of his name and nodded. Laurence continued, ‘And though I may know who you are, I think, what you want with me is a complete mystery. But I tell you, if you touch one hair on Ruby’s head, you rat, I’ll...I’ll…’ He surged from out of his seat, forgetting his legs were tied to the chair and he fell into his plate of food, tipping over his glass of wine and covering himself in gravy and Merlot. Giorgio pushed a button positioned under the table and in an instant several men in black garb, the same strangers who had arrived at Randall’s house just minutes after demise, appeared with Tim. They stood Laurence up, untied his feet and changed his shirt for him, all the while aiming their guns at him.
Giorgio let out a brief frown before waving his hands in dismissal at Laurence’s actions. He paused momentarily, and then began to walk over to where Laurence was currently being cleaned up and brushed down. ‘Allow me to explain myself, Mr Swift. As you may already know, Randall Johnson and I were once great friends. We were inseparable for a time at college. When we graduated we went our separate ways, but we both kept in touch with each other and discussed our respective enterprises. After a while my stock began to rise; not only the stock I had bought in various companies across the globe, but the interest of the tabloid press in my social life. They built me up to be a kind of playboy philanthropist and I got swept away with all the attention. As the paparazzi persisted with their pursuit of me, my friendship with Randall dwindled. After five marriages and numerous other misadventures, he and I were about as acquainted as strangers on the street. And then when I heard of Tim’s situation and, being the kind and generous person I am, helped him and employed him into my service, my relationship with Randall was at an all-time low. Soon I was always with Tim and Randall couldn’t stand it. He grew jealous and withdrew himself from all possible interaction with me. I tried reaching out to him, but it was no use; he was as stubborn as a mule, and even worse conversationalist. He was convinced that I was fonder of Tim than I was him. As the years passé the only contact I had with Randall was when we feuded bitterly over antiques and archaeological finds. We two titans of the business and museum industry were soon reduced to nothing more than two petty schoolchildren squabbling over who owned what. A most bitter war of words developed between us. Every day we threw barbs and insults back and forth at each other in the press and then, about a year ago, it all went completely silent. I worried about him constantly. My concern became so great I even asked my girlfriend to spy on him for me and find out what he was up to.
‘Then news broke about Pandora’s Box. I remembered how we used to read about it back at school and felt the need to call him. Obviously, I knew he would not speak to me; it was far too late for us. I spoke to him under an assumed identity, but when I did, I was terrified. He sounded like a man possessed; it had consumed his every thought, it was all he spoke about. He told me that he was going to find whoever had taken the box from him and do whatever it took, whatever it took, to get it back. He believed it was his. He was talking about offering a most incomprehensible sum of money, about the same amount I spent on having this place done up, to buy the box back over whoever had it but alas, it was too late. When it was announced that the box was to be unveiled here in Paris, I feared that Randall might try and steal the box from the museum itself! Artefacts, as you know, belong in museums; I couldn’t let Randall throw away his reputation, his money, his life on the box. My attempts at persuading him to let go and give up his claim to the box were in vain. So, I decided that if Randall could not be convinced to stop this madness, I would have to stop him myself.
‘Taking extreme precautions, I sent my men, the charming armed guards who have just changed your shirt, to take Randall in, bring him to me and make him see sense.’
‘How would taking him to view some aftershave stop him from wanting the box?’ Laurence asked, confusion etched across his face.
Giorgio stopped to down a glass of wine that Tim had just five seconds previously brought to him, ‘Of course as you know, I was too late and now Randall Johnson, our mutual friend, is dead.’ He placed a hand on Laurence’s shoulder and sighed deeply. He turned on his feet and headed back to his seat. It had been an impressive performance, Laurence thought to himself as his finished the last of his roast potatoes, and not for the first time in his life Laurence didn’t have a clue what was going on..
‘What about the explosion?’ Laurence snapped.
‘What about the explosion?’ Giorgio snapped back, clearly annoyed by Laurence’s accusatory tone. He pursed his lips together.
‘I asked you first!’ Laurence protested.
‘I have no idea. I certainly played no part in that. After all, I wanted to help Randall, not kill him. My guess is that Randall left the gas on and, as he lit one of his numerous cigars, accidentally blew himself up. It was an unfortunate accident but an accident nonetheless.’
Laurence finished his steak and folded his arms across his chest, admiring his newly-acquired grey shirt as he did so. He had found himself embroiled in one messy situation. He had come to Paris under false pretences to view Pandora’s Box. He had been told by Randall that Giorgio was a crazy man who wanted to steal the box. Giorgio had told him the same about Randall. Randall was now dead and Laurence was now all alone again, with no clue what to do with himself. Randall suspected Giorgio was the one who had stolen Pandora’s Box from him in the first place a
nd donated it to the ‘Paris Museum of Ancient History’. But Giorgio had just claimed that he wanted to stop Randall from potentially stealing the box himself. Both men had made strong cases, the only problem was that Randall was no longer around to defend himself against Giorgio’s claims, claims which were certainly feasible, but if true, cast a mysterious light over Laurence’s former employer. Pushing his plate to one side, he rested his hands on the table and began to speak,
‘Well, that was a lovely steak and I enjoyed your story, if indeed it was a story. But one thing still annoys me, and that is the location of Wesley Gilliand and Ruby Swift! I mean, Ruby Holland.’
Giorgio’s calm expression turned into a suspicious and jealous scowl. ‘Mr Swift, I have a favour to ask of you. You have heard what I have had to say. You know that I, like Randall, adore the Ancient World. Well, I want you to work for me.’
Laurence’s heart sank from his chest down to his stomach. A strange sense of déjà vu struck him and as it did he rolled his eyes and slumped in his chair. He had already had one billionaire philanthropist offer him employment, what did this one want? Was this one going to lie to him as well and, as soon as presenting him with the greatest opportunity of his life, vanish into smoke filled air? He thought of home. He recalled the familiarity and comfort of his job. The enjoyment he garnered from his daily commute. The beautiful flat he called his home. The great friend with his charming partner who so enriched his life and then he snapped out of his daydream. He had never had these things. If he returned to London, he would find himself with no job, no flat and no adventure. Here he was faced with yet another brand new chance at life, and he wasn’t going to turn down the opportunity of messing it up in a new and exciting way. He asked to hear more of Giorgio’s ‘favour’.
‘Seeing that the mansion was in the midst of destruction, I gathered you and your friends and brought you here as my guests, as you can see. Now, while you were happy to acquiesce to my demands and join me here for lunch, Mr Gilliand was adamant that he should be freed, as if he were in some sort of captivity. Earlier this morning, when I went to Mr Gilliand’s cell, I mean room, I was told he had somehow escaped and injured two of my guards. I am worried for my reputation. What if he goes from here to the tabloids or to my friends around the world? He would tell them how I killed Randall and stole Pandora’s Box from him and then locked him up! Think of the scandal! Do you think…?’
‘Rarely, but I’m trying.’ Laurence interrupted.
‘Please let me finish,’ Giorgio’s voice was irritated. ‘Do you think you could track him down for me and bring him back here, so I can explain the situation to him before he starts painting me out to be a monster, rather than a man of honour.’ If Giorgio’s opinion of himself was through the roof, then his request was out of this world. How could Laurence be expected to find a private detective in one of the biggest cities in the world?
‘Look, I just want to go home and forget this horrible trip ever happened.’ Laurence answered calmly. An awkward silence invaded the room. Giorgio looked astounded, and leant back into his chair. He was a wealthy and powerful man and he was used to getting what he wanted. He had negotiated deals with some of the most arrogant and belligerent men in the business world, but now he was being refused by the unemployed Laurence Swift.
‘So be it. I guess I will therefore have to return to more pressing issues.’ Giorgio smiled smugly as he pressed the top of the pepper shaker. Suddenly, the large painting of Giorgio on the wall shot up and revealed a glass chamber. In this chamber, with her hands and ankles bound to a metal pole, was the delectable but detained Ruby Holland! Her mouth was producing what looked like words of desperation and protestation but the glass kept them from Laurence’s ears. He turned angrily towards Giorgio.
‘You mad fiend! Untie that angel or I’ll...’ Laurence rose out of his chair, but remembering that his ankles were still tied to the legs of the chair earlier mistake he slowly sat down again.
‘As you can see, Mr Swift, Miss. Holland is a little...tied up at the moment.’ And Giorgio laughed a self-congratulatory laugh at his own pun. ‘If you do not convince Wesley Gilliand to return here then I will have to deal with Miss Holland in a manner you will not like.’ Laurence was furious and also extremely full. He wasn’t up to the challenge of storming the place and rescuing Ruby. He thought it best to agree to go along with the plan, and then contact the police at the earliest opportunity. He smiled at Giorgio and agreed to his demands.
‘Oh, and please do not bother to contact the police. One whirl of their annoying sirens and I will remove Miss.Holland from her chamber, and also from her life.’ Laurence gulped. Ruby’s life was in his hands and he didn’t have a clue what to do.
‘I suggest you begin your search at the buffet lunch that is due to begin in an hour at the museum.’ Giorgio declared, producing a ticket from his breast pocket. ‘Please, Tim, give Mr Swift his weapon.’ He gestured to Tim, who paced down the room and presented Laurence with a rectangular silver box. Laurence lifted the lid and pulled out a small black handgun which he immediately pointed towards Giorgio.
‘Let Ruby from that chamber or I’ll tear you limb from limb with my bare hands. And this gun might come in handy too!’ Laurence roared. Al barked and he dropped his gun on the floor. Tim rolled his eyes and bent down to pick up the gun, undoing Laurence’s chains at the same time. Giorgio smiled, walked toward him, and said,
‘Tim, please give Mr Swift the other box containing the ammunition.’ Laurence looked down at the ground in embarrassment. With reluctance he accepted the fact that all his efforts or plans to rescue Ruby were in vain and he would simply have to go along with Giorgio’s
‘favour’. With a last look towards the damsel in distress in the chamber, he shook Giorgio’s hand and, with a heavy heart, headed toward the exit.
Chapter Five
Tour de Laurence
