by Jim Jennings
***
Having been asked to leave the museum, something that was becoming a weirdly regular occurrence, Laurence trudged past desperate photographers and gossip-hungry journalists. But though he was depressed at yet another display of total incompetence, he was not to be deterred from his mission to find Wesley. All that was needed, he decided, was to find another way into the museum. He strode purposefully around the corner of the museum and down a side street, observing the main drainpipes and ladders that were latched onto the east side of the museum. As he prepared to shimmy his way up some guttering in the hope of finding an open window, he heard a thunderous clatter further down the alley. Curiously and cautiously, Laurence edged toward the origin of the sound and found an open doorway. He poked his head inside and immediately heard hushed voices. This seemed to be the only chance now open to him if he wanted to find Wesley and so he entered. What he found was a sea of cardboard boxes and wooden crates stacked as high as a giraffe’s eye surrounding him on all sides. Bubble wrap and packaging lay strewn about the floor in all directions; as he stood on some, he thought it was a gun and threw himself down onto the floor. Crawling on the floor, he made his way about the maze of crates and toward the voice that kept on shouting ‘Avanti!’ in a nervous tone.
‘Germans!’ Laurence muttered to himself suspiciously. Laurence’s fine clothes were now caked in dust and woodcarvings and his poor knees were now beginning to feel like lead as he continued to traverse the makeshift path that the crates made. Still the voice kept barking that same word over and over again, but it was now accompanied by the rattle of metal on metal, heavy, exhausted grunts, the sound of a garage door opening and then, right on cue, the familiar beep of a car reversing. Eventually, Laurence was able to lift himself into a kneeling position with his back resting against some crates. Slowly, he peered around the edge of the crate; two men wearing gloves and possessing guns in shoulder holsters were stood with crowbars, though only one of them was actually using his. That man was pouring forth all his strength into busting the lid of a box open and, when it finally relented, lifting the contents out. Laurence could only see the back of it, but it looked like some sort of small urn, that was doubtless very valuable. Suddenly the two men were joined by another two who clambered out of the lorry Laurence had heard reversing into the room, with the same accoutrements, and after sharing brief greetings with each other, they began to inspect some of the other boxes and lift them into the back of the large lorry that had just arrived. The two newcomers rushed past the spot where Laurence was hiding and so he ducked back down and crawled out of sight. He looked at the box that lay opposite him; in the top right corner there was a small sticker bearing a date, the stamp of ‘The Paris Museum of Ancient History’ and a description of what was inside, in this instance, a collection of wine glasses recovered from the site of Nero’s Golden House in Rome. As Laurence looked at more of these boxes he saw they all contained artefacts for show, and he concluded that this must be the museum’s storage room. It suddenly all made sense to him; the men who had shown up were planning to steal the artefacts of the museum while there was a loud party going on in the same building. With this realisation he became aware of a terrible stench in the room and it wasn’t the smell of freshly lit tobacco; it was the evil smell of skulduggery! But what was he going to do about it?
All of a sudden there was a crash and his thinking was shattered, as too was the replica Prima Porta statue of Augustus that one of the thieves had just dropped onto the floor.
‘Careful, you numpty!’ Urged one of the voices, a heavy Cockney accent that reminded Laurence of London. ‘Some of this stuff’s ancient you know.’
‘All of this stuff is ancient, you idiot! Relax, my friend, everything is going according to schedule. Where is Harrison?’ This second voice, which Laurence identified as being the same one that had earlier been shouting ‘Avanti’, was a deliciously smooth Italian accent, but as sweet sounding as it was, it also carried a sinister note.
‘He’s getting the box with Carmelo. Let’s finish up here and get the truck loaded.’ The box? Laurence’s ears pricked with alarm. Were these men planning to steal Pandora’s Box? He peered again around the corner. The two men could not have been more different in appearance; the Italian man, who Laurence presumed to be in charge as he was the one shouting orders and asking questions, appeared to be in his mid-forties and had long wisps of silver hair that barely stretched across his head. He was as thin as the pinstripes on his indigo suit and his skin was as brown as a walnut. The other man was stocky, with thick legs that resembled barrels and arms the width of pudding bowls. Laurence’s study of these two strangers was interrupted by the emergence of the other two men who were struggling with a huge crate. They slammed it down onto the floor before the Italian and the cockney.
‘Here it is,’ Called the bigger of the two, a very muscular and handsome man, with penetrating, malicious eyes. His voice was similar to the Italian man who had spoken before. He was greeted with congratulations and hearty handshakes from his comrades. His name was Carmelo, and by the camaraderie he shared with the Italian man, Laurence guessed they were either related or best friends. They certainly looked very similar. The large, blandly-coloured crate was heaved with Herculean effort into the back of the truck and Carmelo pulled the back door of the truck down. So the box was being stolen for a second time, this time from the ‘Paris Museum of Ancient History’, and the only person who could stop it was Laurence! What was he to do? He had to stop this, but how? He was just one man, and there were four crowbar-wielding criminals, two of whom were titans, stood not four feet away from him.
Suddenly, Laurence heard the unmistakeable click-clack walk of a woman in high heels and turned to see a beautiful, tall, and elegant woman in a long, maroon dress that flowed all the way down to her ankles. The colour of her dress complimented her magnificent silk-black hair that was held together by a silver butterfly hairclip and ivory skin. Judging by her fine dress, she had just emerged from the party downstairs, alarmed by the noises the unsubtle raiders of the lost archives of ancient history had been creating.
‘What the hell’s going on in here? Who are you?’ The woman exclaimed in a ferocious tone that wasn’t in keeping with her delicate, English rose appearance. She was clasping a glass of wine in her right hand whilst her left arm was held aloft in exasperation. Carmelo nudged his ‘brother’, his name Federico, who produced a gun from the back of his belt.
‘Excuse me, pretty lady, for interrupting your party, but this is of no importance to you. Take some advice from me; enjoy your party, forget you ever saw us and don’t, whatever you do, scream for help, or Federico here will shoot.’ At this, Federico pointed the gun at the unwelcome woman who was about to protest until Carmelo shook his head at her and drew his finger across his throat in the gesture universally acknowledged around the world to mean death. The other two men got into the driver and passenger seats of the truck. Laurence continued to gaze up at the woman, who stood as a powerful figure above him, but who was in fact powerless as some of the museum’s most wondrous artefacts, including Pandora’s Box, were about to be stolen. Just as Federico and Carmelo, who walked backwards to maintain sight of the mysterious woman, went off in the direction of the passenger side doorway to join their compatriots, Laurence span round the boxes in a moment of madness and pointed his gun towards the two Italians.
‘Stop right there!’ Laurence commanded in such a surprising tone of authority that even he halted in his tracks. The two startled goons were similarly stunned; Carmelo dropped his crowbar in alarm whilst Federico relaxed his grip on the gun. It fell to the floor with a crack. They looked perplexed at this strange man who had appeared from a box and was holding them at gunpoint. Laurence stared at them, unsure of what he was doing or indeed what he was going to do next. Sweat emerged on his brow as he pondered his next move, if there was to be a next move. Carmelo and Federico stared back at Laurence, unsure whether they were facing an experi
enced combatant in the fight against a crime or a negligent novice. Trembling as he paced slowly forward to where the woman was standing, he attempted to assert his authority on the situation with these words,
‘So! The beagle has caught the very thing that he was intending to catch and now the things that he has caught are now caught by the catcher!’ Laurence paused trying to think if he had just made an icy cool remark worthy of an Arnold Schwarzenegger action film, or a complete fool of himself. He feared the latter and he was right. He maintained his strong position with a keen desire not to come across as a foolish fop but, sensing that that was exactly who they were dealing with, Carmelo and Federico began to edge backwards as the engine of the truck started up. Laurence re-aimed the gun and the duo steadied themselves. The hero turned to the amazingly stunning woman and, though momentarily taken aback by her beauty, told her to call for security.
‘Who are you?’ She asked, giving Laurence a look that hinted of admiration, surprise and concern all at the same time.
‘I’m Laurence Swift.’ As the two exchanged pleasantries, Carmelo and Federico made to leave but Laurence cocked the gun in their direction.
‘Hold it right there!’ It wasn’t Laurence who spoke, but the Nymph-like woman, and he was stunned at how the woman’s sweet, resonating voice had suddenly transformed into a booming, terrifying voice, like an angry schoolteacher telling off two errant boys for being disruptive in class. The lorry took no notice of her order however, and as it struggled into first gear and roared out of the garage, Laurence realised that he needed to act and fast. He laid eyes on a fine yellow bicycle that looked like it belonged on display in the museum propped up against the wall on the nearside of the room. With the truck getting ever further away, Laurence decided he would have to follow suit and asked the woman to take the gun.
‘What are you doing now?’ She asked, staggered at how things were developing.
He turned to face her and said, ‘I‘m going after that truck.’ With that, Laurence hopped on the bicycle and cycled away at a furious pace, leaving the well-dressed lady to phone for security, but not without maintaining the gun’s aggressive stance toward Carmelo and Federico.
