by Jim Jennings
The garage from which the robbers had stolen nearly half the stored belongings of the Paris Museum of Ancient History was now surrounded by policemen and seemingly endless reels of black and yellow tape. Journalists were trying hard to talk to anyone in the vicinity of the museum about what exactly had happened; as far as most people knew there had been a burglary of some sorts. They didn’t realise that one of the world’s most renowned mythological artefacts had been stolen; its capacities unknown, its captors unknown and its whereabouts unknown. As Laurence came towards the museum and saw the spectacle of spectators and Police inspectors he couldn’t help but feel guilty at the thought of the mess he had created. If only he had been stronger when he had first seen the robbers, instead of cowering behind a crate! If only he looked more formidable, and had scared the thieves into submission! If only he hadn’t insulted Michele Vivant and been thrown out of the museum in the first place. When Laurence turned down the alley, bicycle in tow and spirit resoundingly downtrodden, he was immediately turned away by a very dismissive French police officer and Laurence was too tired and too empty to put up a fight. What was he to do now?
He slumped down against a wall and let the bike crash down to the ground, just as his spirit was similarly plummeting. The clatter alerted a bright young woman whom Laurence had met with earlier in the day, the woman who Laurence had left in charge as he scampered after the truck in vain. She saw him, and immediately found herself drawn to him both physically and emotionally; she felt sorry for this man, this courageous and confusing stranger, and after a moment’s pause in which she questioned herself on what she was about to do, she crouched down beside him. Laurence tilted his head upwards and gazed at her beautiful face and admired every detail; she looked sincere, concerned and so effortlessly lovely. Her ivory skin was crystal clear and her facial features were so perfectly in proportion with each other that it was as if she had been sculpted by a master craftsman. Slim, investigative eyebrows sat above forget-me-not blue eyes. Her cheeks looked soft and supple, and when she smiled, as she did when she realised that Laurence was becoming mesmerised by her, delightful dimples. Her lips were subtle and the colour of strawberries. As aforementioned, she was wearing a maroon dress that showed off her voluptuous figure and her hair was exquisitely held together by a magnificent butterfly hairpiece. Laurence could barely speak in the face of such miraculous beauty, but he offered these words
‘I’m so sorry Madame for abandoning you back there and leaving you in that awful situation. I just wanted to catch the robbers you see. But to make matters worse, I didn’t even do that. It’s my fault they got away, I’m sorry. I failed.’
‘Don’t beat yourself up about it, as you might say. Allow me to introduce myself, my name is Brigitte, Brigitte Girard, and I am a big fan of yours.’ Brigitte sat down beside him. She spoke in fluent English with a French accent.
‘A fan? Of mine?’ Laurence scratched his head in disbelief that anyone could be a fan of his. He turned his head toward hers.
‘You are Laurence Swift, are you not? Author of “Archaeology: The Past’s Buried Treasure” and “An Idiot’s Guide to Greek Mythology”’. I simply adore them!’ Laurence was dumbstruck and Brigitte was star-struck. That was two fans of his work that Laurence had met in a week! He couldn’t believe his luck! Here he was, faced with a woman who was as beautiful as she was intelligent and for some reason she had read (and enjoyed!) his books.
‘Well, thank you very much, Madame Girard.’ He said, exceedingly chuffed at her words.
‘Mademoiselle. I’m not married.’ She corrected him, though she felt rude doing so.
‘I thought you said your surname was Girard? Thank you very much then, Madame Oiselle.’ Laurence asked, once again showing how well he was acquainted with the basics of French vocabulary. Brigitte fluttered her eyelashes and shook her head in embarrassment. Laurence continued, ‘I’m sorry if I startled you earlier but someone had to stop those criminals. Well, not stop, but try and stop! Speaking of which, where are those men...’ Laurence turned his head to survey the crime scene and saw Carmelo and Federico being escorted into a police van. They were grumbling and grimacing about their misfortune and flashed furious glances in Laurence’s direction.
‘Mr Swift those two men have been arrested and taken for questioning by the authorities here in Paris. It seems they are working for someone in order to steal the museum’s artefacts for their own selfish gain.’ Laurence ignored most of what she was saying; not deliberately of course, but because he was so entranced by the sound of her voice. She was like a Siren, luring Laurence on to the rocks, but she did not appear at all dangerous or cruel.
‘I’m sorry to say, Mademoiselle Girard that this was no simple robbery or heist. One of the items taken may have power beyond your wildest dreams.’ Laurence tried to make himself sound intelligent and important.
‘You are talking of course about Pandora’s Box, which was due to be unveiled today.’ She retorted incredibly quickly in her delightful accent. ‘You see, Mr Swift, I was placed in charge of the party today. It was my responsibility to make sure everything went according to plan. I failed, not you.’ A shroud of sadness descended upon her once happy face and Laurence felt sorry for her.
‘Now look, we can’t just sit here and wallow in self-pity. I’ve done enough wallowing to last a lifetime. We need a plan of action! We’ve got to find out where the truck was heading and who is behind this. But, I don’t know how!’ Laurence sounded confident and assured, but his heart was full of terror and self-doubt. Brigitte could see that he was trying to put on a brave face in a bad situation and she admired him for it.
‘After calling the police, I questioned the two men. Although they would not tell me who they were working for, they did, after some time, eventually reveal to me where that truck was headed.’
‘And where is that?’ Laurence was excited now. Hope was rising in his heart.
‘They are taking the truck onto a ferry to Greece that leaves from Nice tonight. That was all they would tell me.’ Laurence was bemused. Well, he always was when in a conversation with a beautiful woman, but in this instance he was bemused as to why they were taking the box to Greece. Were they taking it on holiday? Unlikely!
‘If we hurry, we can catch a train to Nice this afternoon.’
‘How nice!’ Laurence quipped, attempting to make Brigitte laugh, but to no avail, for Brigitte was not an idiot, (unlike Laurence, who was an idiot) and knew that Nice and nice were pronounced differently. She merely smiled her winning smile and rose to her feet. Laurence joined her and checked his watch; it was now two o’clock in the afternoon, the sun was bathing the cosmopolitan buildings in glowing amber light. If he hastened he could get a train to Nice and catch the ferry in time. It was a risk, but it was a risk worth taking, and it was a risk worth taking alone. He couldn’t endanger this angel’s life any more than he already had. It was sad to say farewell to this French beauty so quickly after having met her but he was too focused on the Box. What if it fell into the wrong hands? He must return it to the museum, in the name of archaeology, of mythology, of justice! With regret he turned to Brigitte and held her hands in his affectionately.
‘Mademoiselle Girard, I’m going to have to leave you. It’s a long story, but I have to get my hands on that Box and return it here. Maybe one day when, if, I return we can meet up and get to know each other better. But right now I have to continue the search for Pandora’s Box.’ As cheesy as it sounded, Brigitte blushed and felt a flutter in her heart. Had she fallen for Laurence at first sight? She wouldn’t have been the first! (Actually, she would have been.) But she knew she couldn’t let him go off on his own.
‘Don’t be silly, Mr Swift. We can search for it together.’ She said cheerfully.
‘Now, no, don’t cry, there’ll be…what do you mean ‘we’?’ He exclaimed.
‘I’m coming with you. Look, I was in charge of this afternoon’s party and when was the Box stolen?
‘During this afte
rnoon’s party…’ Laurence admitted, reluctantly. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to spend time with Brigitte, quite the opposite. It was just that he was worried enough about his own chances of survival, and he didn’t want her to get hurt.
‘Exactly, so it’s my responsibility to get it back. And, please forgive me if this sounds rude, but I’d fear for your safety and that of other people if I let you go to Nice on your own. Let me come with you, if for no other reason than to help you with your French, which, if I’m honest, could do with a little polishing. And so could your shoes, come to think of it.’ She looked him up and down and he did the same. He realised now what a mess he must look, having crawled on floors, cycled hard and fast through crowded streets, crashed into skips and onto floors, been doused in petrol fumes and flew through the air. His trousers were ripped in no fewer than three places and his once stylish grey shirt was now the colour of coal. Nevertheless, he was about to refuse her once more but, just as he felt the words forming, she gave him one powerful look as if to say ’You better not refuse!’ and Laurence knew he had no choice but to accept. He realised that having a beautiful, intelligent, resourceful, French-speaking woman might not be a disadvantage. She reached out her right hand toward him and Laurence met it. They shook in agreement with broad smiles and the two of them headed off from the museum and in the direction of the Gare du Nord.
