Laurence arrived in Paris almost 24 hours after his meeting with Randall Johnson, tired and weary, but full of childlike excitement about the prospect of viewing something he had loved since he was a young boy. He waited, giddy with anticipation, in the Air France waiting-room until he was greeted by a pale, balding whisper of a man no younger than sixty, whose job was to escort Laurence to Randall’s summer house in Saint Denis 6 miles away from the centre of Paris. Laurence was led to a silver Rolls Royce that stood out like a sewing kit in a male student’s flat amongst compact Renault Espace’s and Suzuki Alto’s. The old man gestured to Laurence to get into the car with a simple grunt, and Laurence, though slightly perturbed at the man’s lack of courtesy, entered and sat silently and comfortably in the sleek leather seats of the long, charcoal coloured vehicle, which proceeded to jaunt along the Paris streets.
After an hour, an hour which passed by with no conversation and no sightseeing due to the stubbornness of the driver, the car halted outside a grand, handsome-looking building with impressive pillars and gates, surrounded by a beige and grey stone wall. The closely cropped grass was divided by a stone pathway that slalomed from the imposing front door to the street. The windows were barely visible, hidden as they were by a mass of wavy conifers. Laurence was impressed; before him stood a medieval chateau with a pale roof covered in ivy that crawled all over the building like a shadow on a moonlit night. Laurence entered through the huge wooden doors and into an inviting, overcrowded hallway. On the walls were landscapes of the English countryside, and copies, so Laurence assumed, of Greco-Roman paintings. The floor was covered with several selections of beautiful wild flowers potted around. The vast entranceway was completed by a spiral staircase in the corner and two doorways, either side of the hallway. Laurence elected to take the left doorway, taking him into a large, cold living room, filled with priceless vases and other ornaments. There was a 19th Century armchair before a grand piano, a few modern settees dotted about the room and on the wall were mounted heads of wild animals, all of which were either exotic or extinct. The carpet on the floor had an ornamental garland pattern on it. The tables that were next to the wall on the far side were adorned with chess sets and African wildlife statues, which were in good need of a dust and polish. There was more furniture in the room, doubtless these were antiques too, but they were covered with great cloths and Laurence was left to guess as to their exact form and finesse. On the wall behind him, magenta painted walls were pictures of ancient sites; the Pharos Lighthouse, obelisks, The Hanging Gardens of Babylon, a painting of Alexandria, and the Pyramids of Egypt and Mexico. He paced around the room, taking in the grandeur and wealth of his surroundings. He stood admiring a replica of the Alexander mosaic. Before he could fully appreciate the spectacle, he heard great thundering footsteps pounding down the stairs like a mountain avalanche, and he turned to see the beaming face of Randall Johnson in the doorway.
‘Mr Swift! I’m so happy you could make it! Hello my friend!’ Randall Johnson, wearing a shocking Hawaiian shirt with pink chino shorts, rushed over to Laurence like a small child on Christmas morning and gave him a big hug that lifted him off the ground. Laurence, overwhelmed by the large man’s vice-like grip, somehow managed to squeeze out the words,
‘Yes, I’m here! Thank you, Randall. After that grumpy butler of yours I needed a lift. So when’s the unveiling? Let’s go and see some sites!!!’ The former tour guide beamed with delight, partly at the prospect of seeing Paris’ many tourist attractions, but mainly because Randall had dropped him back on the ground.
‘Well, hold your horses, Mr Swift!’
‘I didn’t bring any horses, just a few bags and my camera!’ Laurence informed Randall, who gave him a bright smile while he rested his hand on his shoulder.
‘Now just hold on, Mr Swift. There are some people I would like you to meet; the members of my team who attempted to find the box. Please come this way.’ Randall left the room, bringing Laurence with him by seizing his arm. He pushed open some bright red doors that were opposite to the doorway Laurence had taken earlier, revealing another room. It was decorated in a similar fashion, with an eclectic mix of modern colours and furnishings, completed by archaic art and impressive artefacts. There was one key difference however; this room was populated by four people.
‘Mr Swift,’ Said Randall kindly, ‘I’d like to introduce you to the members of the team.’
He swept his arm across the room, bringing Laurence’s attention to its four occupants. The first person Laurence studied was a man who was standing in a relaxed manner, with one arm situated on the mantelpiece on the room’s far side and the other arm bringing a cigarette to and from his mouth as he wished, and with his left leg tucked behind his right leg. His back was turned to Laurence initially but he turned round and offered his right hand forward in greeting. As the huge log fire burned and the flames parried off each other, Laurence observed a well-dressed man in his mid-thirties with long, jet black hair that was parted in the middle and ran to the collar of his bomber jacket, which was only a shade lighter than his hair. Beneath the hair lay a slightly concerned forehead, inquisitive eyebrows, and a few days’ worth of stubble that covered roughly handsome cheeks, which were separated by unemotional green eyes, a thin nose and small lips. The nameless man, his hand still outstretched, wore a plain white t-shirt beneath his jacket and denim jeans that covered leather boots. In short, he looked sharp.
‘The name’s Wes, Wesley Gilliand to be precise,’ said Wesley, in a strong, confident Sheffield accent. Laurence shook his hand firmly but looked on Wesley with curiosity.
‘Wesley fought in the Gulf War. An injury forced him to pull out and ever since then he’s found himself drawn into the world of private detection. I hired him to find someone who knew a lot about the box, someone with a flair for writing. After a long time, and several rejections, he found you!’ Randall explained Wesley’s role in the team as he lit a cigar. Laurence choked on the waft of smoke that came his way.
‘Wesley, isn’t that a bit of an unusual name for a private detective?’ Laurence asked, supposedly to himself so as no one would hear.
‘Sorry it offends you, blondie.’ Wesley replied sharply as Laurence blushed at his new moniker. Randall tried to move the focus away from this little spat and took it in turns to introduce all of the team in turn. The first member was the greying and cranky Alan Washington, a translator who worked for the European Parliament and was a close friend of Randall. He wore a knitted tank top and was clutching a large notebook. The next man he was introduced to was Bruno Cavilliere, the Italian professor of Classics at the Turin Museum of Ancient History who was also a very competent and experienced scuba diver.
The one person Laurence wasn’t completely disinterested by and was in fact, amazed by, was coincidentally the only woman in the room. She was one of the most beautiful people Laurence had been lucky enough to see in his life and he gazed upon her with incredible adoration. She was sat down on a cream coloured-settee, looking serene and perfect. Her long bronzed legs were crossed and Laurence’s eyes traced them up to the hem of her grey skirt. Her white blouse complimented her pale skin. Her perfect chest spoke volumes to Laurence’s beating heart. He thought his jaw was dropping as he studied the beauty’s face; she had brown eyes like hazelnuts, freckles mapped about her face like stars on the night sky and long flowing hair that trickled down the sides of her face like a waterfall down a rock face. Laurence found her intoxicating and as she turned to look at him, her gaze held him transfixed, motionless, like a gormless statue.
‘Hey Florence, what’s the matter with you?’ Wesley asked, noticing and mocking Laurence’s temporary infatuation. Not that you would have to be a private detective to deduce from Laurence’s face that he was overwhelmed by Ruby’s beauty.
The upper class goddess rose from her sedentary position and held out her delicate hand to him, ‘Lovely to meet you, Mr Swift. My name is Ruby, Ruby Holland. I’m a profes
sor of archaeology at Oxford University. Randall is funding my research on the Terracotta army of Qin Shi Huang in return for my participation in his project.’
‘L-l-lovely to greet you, Scooby.’ Laurence blurted out fumbled pleasantries as he gently shook Ruby’s hand. Bruno and Alan exchanged amused faces, Wesley rolled his eyes and started to eat an apple, and Ruby returned to her seat and stared at her shoes. Randall put out his cigar and lit a fresh one, positioning himself next to Ruby. Laurence regained his composure, and sat down in an armchair by the fireplace.
‘So Mr Johnson, perhaps you can explain what we’re doing here? What’s the next step?’ The angel spoke in a melodious voice that was music to Laurence’s ears.
‘Yes of course, my dear. Mr Swift, as I’ve already explained to you, Pandora’s Box has been discovered and is due to be unveiled next week at the ‘Paris Museum of Ancient History’. I still protest that we found that box first and that makes it rightfully ours. I don’t know how, but somehow we’ve got to make our case to the powers that be and get our hands on it.’
‘But why? You were going to give it to a museum anyway right? And in a museum is where it is! So what’s the problem?’ Wesley Gilliand asked the question.
‘Certainly, Wesley, you are quite right. But the people should know who found it in the first place i.e. US!! Why should someone else get the credit for what I have achieved?’ Randall replied, visibly irritated by Wesley’s inquisition. The mood in the room had transformed from tranquillity to tension. Laurence surveyed the characters in the room. Alan Washington was sweating profusely, Wesley had lit himself a cigarette, and Ruby was being beautiful.
‘I sent Bruno into the water to recover the object and deliver it to me. Once it was on shore, Miss Holland and Mr Washington could study its authenticity. But as you know, Mr Swift, the box wasn’t there.’
‘We searched the whole God-damn crater for it, but it wasn’t there’ moaned Alan, revealing a high-pitched Irish accent.
‘Disappointed but not to be deterred, I enlisted the help of Mr Gilliand, who attempted to track down those who had stolen the Box from me!’ continued Randall.
‘I got a lead on some tourists who’d been diving around that area during the second day of Randall’s excavation, the day the box went missing. I wanted to ask them whether they’d noticed anyone lurking around that area, whether they’d seen anything suspicious. They were staying in a modest Bed and Breakfast on the coast of Greece called ‘Poseidon’s Alcove’. I went to their hotel room and found them. They were dead. They looked like they were sleeping. There were no marks, no sign of intrusion, nothing. A very professional job done, no doubt, by experts.’ Wesley stated pragmatically.
‘Who did it?’ asked Ruby.
‘Or whom?’ said Laurence, glancing over at Ruby to try and impress her with what he believed to be his excellent grammar.
‘You mean who?’ Ruby corrected him, graciously.
‘Who? You? Not you?!’ Laurence was even more confused than usual. Ruby looked shocked as Wesley slapped his forehead with his palm in frustration.
‘Anyway, if we can return to the matter at hand, I want that box back. I don’t know how, I just know that I want it.’ Randall extinguished his cigar and perched on the edge of his sofa.
‘But who on earth had discovered it?’ Laurence asked.
Randall grunted. A wicked expression came over his face. ‘Oh, I have my suspicions; Giorgio Carraciolo, for instance.’
‘Who?’ Laurence had heard the name, but couldn’t remember why.
‘Giorgio Carraciolo. The most famous nobody in the world! He used to be my friend, but now he is my rival. We went to University together, our fathers were friends and we used to holiday on Lake Como together. We shared everything, not to mention a mutual love of Classics and a competitive nature. We both come from wealthy backgrounds and give away some of our wealth to charity each year. But more than that, he and I are both collectors of rare antiquities and give what we find to museums. It is a sort of game we like to play. He has a whole wing of the Pergamum Museum in Berlin named after him in his honour. I suspect he heard about my project to find Pandora’s Box and took it for himself, donating it to the museum here in Paris, where he also has a house, to earn yet more glory for himself. He’s most famous throughout the world as a kind, good-willed philanthropist, living off a trust fund his billionaire father put together for him before his death. He lives a very, very wild lifestyle. A celebrity of sorts; he indulges in flash cars, expensive watches, gorgeous girlfriends. His name is never out of the newspapers! It’s infuriating that I do the same amount of good work as him and yet it’s he who gets all the glory!’ Throughout his speech, Randall’s voice had grown louder and louder and beads of sweat had begun to emerge on his brow. Then, in a flash, he was cheer personified with a smile a mile wide on his round face.
‘I’ve read about him. He gives millions to charity each year. I hardly think he could steal the box from you! He’s such a nice guy. He’s a legend! I like the look of him.’ Laurence commented enthusiastically.
‘He’s gorgeous…’ Ruby muttered. The quiet comment caught Laurence’s attention,
‘We can’t rule him out though! But I still don’t understand why you’ve brought me here? And what do you expect us to do?’ Laurence asked.
‘Good point Goldilocks’ Nodded Wesley in Laurence’s direction. Laurence smiled at what he perceived as a compliment, oblivious to its true mocking connotations.
‘Firstly I want to see the box with my own eyes next week. Don’t tell me you don’t want to. You’ve been writing about Pandora’s Box for years. It’s been a fascination for you since your childhood. I want you to document the events of the next few days i.e. my attempts to convince the authorities in Paris that I found it first. Moreover, you can interview the members of the team here and start work on the greatest story of our time, how I found Pandora’s Box! Besides, it’s not as if you’ve got anything else to do is it?’
Laurence considered things in his mind for a moment. Randall was right; he had no job, he could use the money, not to mention the holiday. There was also Ruby to consider and contemplate and admire from every angle. A few more days in her company and he could work his magic on her or borrow someone else’s magic and use that instead. He agreed and shook Randall’s hand.
‘Excellent. Now over the next two days there are a series of events to mark the unveiling of the box next week. Tomorrow there is a special buffet lunch for members of the museum, benefactors, and some very important persons in the archaeological world. Tonight also there is a cocktail party and dinner at the museum for specially invited guests.’ smiled Randall.
‘Well, that sounds very pleasant. What should we do?’ Laurence was clearly oblivious to the fact he was also invited.
Randall ignored the ignorant Laurence ‘If you go up the stairs each of you will find in their room a suit or, in your case, Miss. Holland, a dress to wear tonight. We shall re-convene here in thirty minutes and leave to go to the museum together.’
At this announcement the room emptied and the guests drudged their way up the twisting staircase to don their formal attire.