.jpg "The Chase for the Sapphire Cross")
Marcel was in England. Authorities from three nations had tracked the notorious criminal from Ghent to Brussels, then to the Hook of Holland. They suspected he’d exploit the chaos of the Ecumenical Conference in London, perhaps posing as a minor official or clerk. Laurent couldn’t be sure—nobody could predict Marcel.
Years had passed since this titan of crime had quieted, leaving the world in a hush, as if a storm had ceased. In his prime, Marcel was a legend, as bold and global as an emperor. Newspapers chronicled his audacious escapes daily, each crime more inventive than the last. A Gascon of towering stature and reckless courage, he was the subject of wild tales: flipping a judge upside down “to clear his thoughts,” or sprinting through Paris with a gendarme under each arm. His strength was used in bloodless, if humiliating, spectacles; his true crimes were masterful thefts. He once ran a phantom London dairy company—no cows, no carts, just thousands of subscribers whose milk cans he redirected to his clients. He photographed secret messages onto microscope slides to woo a lady whose mail he intercepted. His simplicity was audacious: repainting street numbers overnight to trap a traveler, or planting fake postboxes in quiet suburbs to catch stray letters. An acrobat despite his size, he could leap like a grasshopper or vanish into treetops like a shadow. Laurent knew that finding Marcel was only the start of the chase.
But how to find him? Laurent’s strategy was still forming.
Marcel’s height—six feet four—was his one unmaskable trait. Laurent’s keen eyes scanned for a tall figure: a lofty vendor, a towering soldier, even a statuesque noblewoman. But the steamer held no such giant, nor did the six passengers who boarded at Harwich: a short railway clerk, three stocky gardeners, a petite widow from Essex, and a diminutive priest from a nearby village. The priest, Father James, was quintessentially rural—round-faced, dull-eyed, clutching brown paper parcels he kept dropping. His shabby umbrella fell constantly, and he fumbled his ticket, explaining to everyone he had to be careful because one parcel held a silver cross with sapphires, a relic for the conference. Laurent, a skeptic by nature, pitied the priest’s simplicity but had no fondness for clerics. He warned Father James not to broadcast his treasure’s value, then turned his gaze elsewhere, searching for anyone over six feet.
At Liverpool Street, Laurent checked in at Scotland Yard to formalize his authority, then wandered London’s streets, cigarette in hand. In a quiet square near Victoria, he paused. The square was a classic London nook—tall, empty houses around a deserted garden, silent as a forgotten island. One side rose higher, like a stage, broken by a charmingly misplaced restaurant with potted plants and yellow-white blinds, its steps climbing from the street like a ladder to a loft. Something about its quaintness stirred Laurent’s instincts. He lingered, smoking, senses alert.
Miracles, improbably, occur. A cloud forms an eye’s shape; a tree mimics a question mark. Laurent had seen such omens recently. Chance, as Poe might say, demands we expect the unexpected. Laurent was French to his core—logical, not mechanical. His successes came from relentless reason, not paradox. Yet he knew reason’s limits. Without a clue, Marcel could be anyone—a tramp on Wimbledon Common or a toastmaster at the Savoy. In this void, Laurent followed the irrational. Instead of banks or police stations, he sought empty houses, dead-end alleys, and crooked lanes—places Marcel’s theatrical mind might favor. The restaurant’s odd charm, its steps rising like a dare, beckoned him. He climbed them, sat by the window, and ordered black coffee.
It was mid-morning, and hunger gnawed at him. Breakfast dishes littered the tables, prompting him to add a poached egg to his order. Sipping his coffee, he mused on Marcel’s escapes: once with nail scissors, once via a burning house, once by paying for an unstamped letter, once by distracting crowds with a fake comet. Laurent’s mind matched Marcel’s, but he knew the criminal’s edge: “The thief is the artist; the detective, merely the critic,” he muttered sourly. He sprinkled sugar into his coffee, tasted it, and spat it out—salt.
The sugar basin was unmistakable, yet held salt. Two salt cellars nearby contained sugar. A dark splash marred the white-papered wall. Intrigued, Laurent summoned the waiter, a bleary-eyed young man, and asked him to taste the “sugar.” The waiter jolted awake, stammering that it was a mistake. The proprietor, equally baffled, joined them. Then the waiter blurted, “It’s those two priests!”
“What priests?” Laurent asked.
“Two priests came in early,” the waiter said, pointing to the wall. “One threw soup at it.”
“Threw soup?” Laurent echoed, skeptical.
The proprietor confirmed it. “Two quiet priests had soup at opening. One paid and left; the other lingered, then threw his half-empty bowl at the wall before bolting. I chased them, but they vanished around Carstairs Street.”
Laurent was on his feet, hat on, cane in hand. He paid and dashed to Carstairs Street. A greengrocer’s stall caught his eye—nuts labeled as “tangerine oranges, two a penny,” oranges as “Brazil nuts, 4d. a pound.” He pointed out the error to the sullen shopkeeper, who swapped the signs silently. “Why,” Laurent asked, twirling his cane, “are mislabeled fruits like two priests, one tall, one short?”
The shopkeeper glared. “If you’re their friend, tell them I’ll thrash them for spilling my apples!”
“Did they?” Laurent asked, feigning sympathy.
“One did,” the man growled. “Knocked them everywhere. I’d have caught him, but I had to clean up. They went up the second road left, across the square.”
Laurent vanished, finding a policeman. “Seen two priests in wide hats?”
The constable chuckled. “One seemed drunk, standing dazed in the road. They took a Hampstead bus.”
Laurent flashed his badge. “Get two men; we’re pursuing.” He sprinted to a yellow omnibus, his men joining him atop it. The inspector asked, “Where are we going?”
“If you know a man’s path, lead him,” Laurent said, lighting a cigarette. “If not, follow. Watch for anything odd.”
The bus crawled through North London’s endless suburbs, past dreary taverns and garish hotels, as if crossing a patchwork of cities. Dusk fell, and the policemen dozed, but Laurent stayed vigilant. At Camden Town’s edge, he leapt up, pointing to a pub’s shattered window, a black star in the frosted glass. “Our clue!” he shouted, halting the bus.
Inside, over a late lunch, Laurent asked the waiter about the window. “Two gents in black—foreign priests,” the waiter said. “One paid too much. I told him, and he said, ‘Sorry, but it’ll cover the window I’m about to break,’ then smashed it with his umbrella and ran to Bullock Street.”
Laurent bolted, his men trailing through dim, tunnel-like streets to Hampstead Heath. At a sweetshop, an angular woman mentioned a priest leaving a parcel, posted to Westminster after he inquired about it. “Fifteen minutes to the Heath,” she said. Laurent ran, emerging onto the open common under a peacock-green sky, stars glinting like jewels. Amid scattered couples, he spotted two black-clad figures—one tall, one short.
The tall one stooped like a scholar; the short one was Father James from the train. Laurent, crouching behind trees, closed in, hearing their theological debate. Father James said, “...the medievals meant the heavens were incorruptible.”
The tall priest replied, “Modern skeptics lean on reason, but in vast universes, reason might be unreasonable.”
“No,” Father James countered, “reason is always rational, even at the edge of existence. The Church alone makes reason supreme, binding even God.”
Laurent, fuming behind a tree, thought he’d chased a wild hunch to hear priests prattle. But the tall one said, “Other worlds may transcend reason. Now, hand over that sapphire cross. We’re alone—I could tear you apart.”
Father James turned slightly. “I’m Father James.”
“Yes,” the tall priest said, “and I’m Marcel.”
“Give me the cross,” Marcel pressed.
“No,” Father James said simply.
Marcel laughed. “You won’t, you stubborn little cleric? I’ve already got it in my pocket.”
“Are you sure?” Father James asked, puzzled.
“Certain,” Marcel roared. “I swapped your parcel for a fake. I’ve got the jewels.”
“I’ve heard of that trick,” Father James said. “A penitent told me—he lived twenty years on fake parcels. I suspected you from the start, so I watched you swap them, then swapped them back.”
Marcel froze. “Suspected me? You, a country bumpkin?”
“Your sleeve bulged—thieves often hide spiked bracelets there,” Father James said. “I learned that in Hartlepool. I ensured the cross was safe by leaving it at the sweetshop, mailed to Westminster.”
Marcel tore open his parcel—only paper and lead. “I don’t believe you!” he roared. “You’ve got it!”
“No,” Father James said, standing. “And we’re not alone.”
Marcel halted. “Behind that tree,” Father James said, “are two policemen and the greatest detective alive. I led them here, testing you with odd acts—salt in sugar, a wrong bill, a splashed wall, spilt apples, a broken window. I saved the cross.”
Marcel, an artist at heart, bowed to Laurent as he emerged with the policemen. “Don’t bow to me,” Laurent said. “Bow to our master.”
They stood bareheaded as Father James fumbled for his umbrella, the sapphire cross safe in Westminster.
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