Joel McNamara nee Francois Dujardin, stared at Alex, confusion etched across his handsome face.

The antithesis of Alex Ryder, Francois Dujardin was the consummate European gentleman, with attractive soft features, that made him more beautiful than handsome.

A strong patrician nose, high brow and luscious, wavy brown hair perfectly complemented the square jaw that had just the right amount of scruff.

He was impeccably dressed for a man on the run, with an expensive dark brown waistcoat, that contrasted well against his bone white dress shirt. The trousers matched the cut and colour of the waistcoat, and Francois had added a turquoise kerchief to the breast pocket.

In his frozen right hand, was a French crime book by Pierre Lemaitre, whilst his left hand grasped a Cabernet.

The differences between the gaunt Alex and the healthy Francois was like making a comparison between charity and welfare.

The only similarity they shared, were the intensity of their eyes, Francois’ sapphires matching the piercing quality of Alex’s emeralds.

“What the hell do you want?” shouted Francois with indignation, as he placed the book and wine glass down gently on a table to the side of the luxurious bed.

Alex looked at Francois coldly.

“A View of Auvers-sur-Oise, if you don’t mind.”

Francois’ eyes widened further, and he gasped “How do you know?”

“A goddess showed me.” said Alex drily.

“Merde.” whispered Francois under his breath. Recovering from his shock, Francois tried to re-establish the equilibrium.

“You have me at a disadvantage, Mr …. Ryder was it? If you don’t mind, starting from the beginning, as to how you found me, and who sent you, I would much appreciate it.”

Francois looked at Alex’s expression and hastily added “I won’t run, I swear.  You’ve caught me. I just want to know who sent you.”

Alex relented, but he kept his guard up, worried that Francois was hiding some kind of weapon in the drawer next to him.

“Eveline Winston.”

“Eveline …” whispered Francois. “Of course …”

Francois leapt off the bed and advanced towards Alex. Alex held his ground, prepared for an attack.

But instead Francois took him by the shoulder and urgently asked. “Is she alright? The Jackal hasn’t killed her yet has he?”

That’s the name of the mercenary thought Alex.

“No. She’s safe.”

“Thank God.”

An awkward silence descended on the room. Francois looked away from Alex’s unwavering gaze and began to pace the room. Alex, on his part, stayed silent, preferring to sweat Francois.

After what seemed like an age to Francois, he seemed to arrive at a decision and looked directly back at Alex.

“Do I have your word, you will not harm me if I show you the way?” implored Francois.

“Depends on whether you actually have it or not.” replied Alex.

“Believe me I do. It’s not here. I’ve hid it somewhere close and safe. But I can tell you the whole story behind this accursed Cezanne.” said Francois ruefully.

Alex checked his watch. He wanted to get Francois back towards Eveline, but a part of him wanted to hear the story of one of the most daring art thefts before the turn of the century. Giving in to his curiosity, Alex grabbed a chair from a baroque desk and motioned Francois to sit on the bed in front of him.

Francois, confused, sat down and was astonished when he heard the words; “Go on. Tell me.”

Francois found himself resisting at first, after all, who was this stranger to demand such information from him? But suddenly the urge to boast and tell a story he had kept hidden for years overtook him.

He had kept it within him for so long. It needed an appreciative audience. What better audience than the man who managed to crack and solve the secret vault he had made? Any man who had worked out his Venus de Milo secret was worthy of this tale.

But more importantly, it would also buy him time to formulate an escape plan. The private investigator may have earned his respect, but he would never deserve the prize.

Francois grabbed the Cabernet from the desk, swirled it in his mouth and swallowed. His voice was deep, articulate and wistful.

“I was much younger then. Younger and more skilled. By the time I was 25, I had already stolen lesser art from 7 museums around Europe. The papers called me le renard. For a time, I was famous. Everyone was looking for me, but none ever came close. I miss those days still.”

Francois saw the intent concentration on Alex’s face and knew he had him captive.

“But I longed for a bigger prize. My collection was not complete, without a master’s work. I love art, you see. I steal art because I obsess over them. I still remember being entranced by a lesser artist when I was much, much younger. I loved the brushwork, the serenity that comes with staring at a beautiful picture. My cravings only demanded more, after I stole my first one. I couldn’t stop at one painting. I need more to fill my bare private room.”

“It was then, I heard about a Cezanne being exhibited at the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford University. The wonderful Paysage d’Auvers-sur-Oise. My collection was crying out for a landscape and a Master. This ticked all the boxes.”

Francois’ voice dropped slightly. He was walking down memory lane now.

“So I flew to England, along with two of my crew. Throughout our entire career, nothing had ever gone wrong. We didn’t use guns. We didn’t knock out guards. We went in, sliced the paintings out the frames and went out, with people none the wiser.”

“Security in the 90s could be defeated easily. I mean they let terrorists onboard planes with guns, so why wouldn’t they let a man with a box cutter into a museum?” laughed Francois.

Sipping his wine, Francois felt himself come alive as he relived the fateful night.

“This job was probably the easiest thing we had ever done. It was like stealing candy from a baby. We could not have found an easier mark. Everyone was out, celebrating the turn of the century. It was New Years Eve …”

“This gave us cover and would overwhelm the security guards. The Ashmolean at the time, was also undergoing repair works. So there was a scaffolding that we could climb to get to the roof.”

He paused, a smile creeping across his face. Alex stared intently at Francois, mentally matching the plan he had read on the Excel sheet to what he was hearing.

“We left our safehouse at 11pm, and took the bus to Oxford. Have you ever been Mr Ryder?”

“No? It’s a lovely campus. Lots of gorgeous old buildings and green grass everywhere. No matter where you look, it’s impossible not to be distracted by the history on display.”

“The Ashmolean Museum is equally attractive. I must say, whenever I think about iconic Museum designs, I always revert to that place. The walls, the columns, the frames they use … are exquisite. It’s the classic museum. If there were pictures in dictionaries, the Ashmolean would be next to the word museum.”

“But I’m getting off topic … forgive me. Where was I?” asked Francois, to the silent Alex.

“Oh yes … we were mingling with all the university students who were out and about ready to celebrate the New Year. We had all our equipment in our bags. We didn’t need much. Just a good hammer, a pick, a sharp Stanley knife, a rope ladder and a flashlight. One of my crew managed to source a smoke grenade from a mate of his in England. You know, those surplus stores?”

“Anyway, we partied with everyone else, and had a good time. We were meant to blend, and my God, did we blend. I think we all drank a bit too much. But it didn’t stop us.”

“At exactly 11.45, we made our way to the scaffolding, after jumping the fence. There were crowds of people everywhere, so no one noticed we were gone.”

“One of us stood guard outside, while the other guy would support me, as I made my way down through the skylight via the rope ladder. There was a very convenient air-conditioning unit that we tied the ladder to, so that made our life even easier.”

Francois’ voice was picking up in speed, his body excited to be reliving such drama.

“Boom!” exclaimed Francois with glee.

“We smashed the skylight with our hammer when everyone was lighting their fireworks. My comrade lit the smoke grenade and threw it inside. The smoke would obscure my movements, my face, the alarms and the cameras. I had walked the Ashmolean a hundred times before, so the moment my feet touched the ground, I knew exactly where to go.”

Francois mimed his movements.

“I ripped the painting off the wall and smashed the frame on the ground. This popped the priceless Cezanne right out from the frame and I barely had to cut anything.”

“Alarms were going off, but I didn’t care. Our plan was flawless. People who saw the smoke would assume it was a fire. Fireworks and crowds would delay the security response and cover all our noise.”

“All I had to do, was literally shove the painting in a large briefcase, clip it to my belt and climb up the ladder.”

“The whole job, took me 3 minutes. It was flawless. A masterpiece of thievery” exclaimed Francois.

“Security had no idea who or where we were. By the time they investigated and found out what we had done, we were already on a bus back to our house. We disappeared into the crowd, like a fox before dawn.”

Francois sat back and finished his Cabernet, a smug smile on his handsome face.

“It was that simple. 3 minutes was all it took for a Cezanne to end up in my hands. I often think back to that night and truly the stars aligned for me. It seemed like fate that, that Cezanne would end up in my possession.”

Alex sat back and evaluated the vain, arrogant Frenchman before him. A reality check was needed.

“So why do you want to sell it to the Jackal? What happened to you?”

Francois turned away in disgust, shame suffusing his face.

“One of my crew ratted me out. The cowardly bastard revealed where I was. The Jackal tracked me here. He was the one who killed Candice because I … messed up.”

“How?” asked Alex with more concern than he wanted to admit.

“You saw the CCTV footage on the SD card yes? We met, but I didn’t bring the painting. I thought I could fool him. I bought a poster instead.” groaned Francois.

“He saw through my stupid ruse straight away, he told me that I could either bring the real Cezanne, or watch another one of my girls die.”

“Eveline.” whispered Alex.

“Yes. Candice died because of my miserable stupidity.” breathed Francois. Anger ran across his blue eyes as he paced the room furiously.

“I refuse to see Eveline die for another one of my mistakes. The Jackal, gave me two weeks to bring the painting. But I need the SD card that I hid in my Venus. Unfortunately, I have been unable to go home, because of the murder case built against me.”

“But …” Francois continued “You saw it didn’t you? Do you have that card with you?”

“No” admitted Alex. “But I made a back-up.”

“Please, show me.” implored Francois.

Alex paused a beat, considering his options.

“No.” said Alex coldly.

Francois stared at Alex incredulously.

“No?”

“Not until you come with me, to meet Eveline. Then, we shall hunt for the Cezanne.”

“Wouldn’t that just put her in more danger?” asked Francois.

“If you love her, you’ll protect her.” replied Alex, struggling to keep his own feelings in check.

Francois sighed. “Very well. Let me get my coat.”

Alex waited, and without losing sight of Francois, he texted Eveline.

MEET ME ON COLLINS ST AT THE DOME. I FOUND HIM. 7PM.

Francois, now layered up with a long coat, walked out in front of Alex, and they both bid farewell to the Pink Palace, as Francois fired up the gold Renault and drove to the city in silence.

Pulling up into the central business district, Alex noted that the rain that had plagued him this entire case was still prevalent, its’ rhythm forever etched into his mind, as he looked up and down Collins street, wary of Flat Cap and Liverpool. There were hundreds of people everywhere, most of them eager to get home and out of the rain.

All sorts of colours were represented by umbrellas, as they bobbed up and down, weaving to and fro, avoiding people, avoiding other umbrellas and street furniture.

A tram buzzed past the pair of them, its’ plaintive bell pealing at jay-walkers who crossed the street with reckless abandon. Taxi cabs honked at each other, as a poor newcomer to the Melbourne struggled with the concept of hook turns at a busy intersection.

The Dome on Collins St, was an architectural marvel. The mosaic-tiled floor, was already arresting enough, but it was the Domed Chamber that stole the breath away, with its Baroque and Italianate elements, the arches, windows and pillars cascading together to create elegant, intricate symmetry.

Beneath the natural shafts of dying grey light that came through the windows, stood Alex Ryder and Francois Dujardin, two men whose fates were now connected by a woman and a painting.

As they waited to the side of the main doors, Alex kept a watchful eye on the elegant surroundings; the distinctive flooring of the Dome issuing a sharp clacking noise as women in heels strutted past the pair.

The distinctive soundscape soon became mundane, as Eveline walked in from the other side of the Dome, her beauty apparent, as yellow lights from old-fashioned lamps reflected across her pale skin.

Francois’ breath caught in his throat, while Alex did his best to control his jealousy. The night of passion they shared must have meant little to her, as she walked towards them, her blue eyes fixed on Francois.

Francois ran towards her and held her tight, her arms wrapping tightly around his torso, as they hugged under the Dome. Alex noted that the kiss was equally rapturous.

They make a beautiful couple thought Alex traitorously to himself. He allowed himself a rueful smile, and began to mentally shove his feelings into a box, to be processed later or perhaps even better, never.

Francois turned back to Alex and and motioned, without letting go of Eveline’s hand.

Alex wordlessly handed over his phone. Francois smiled in triumph as he opened the excel sheet that he had designed, before glaring at Alex to step back.

Alex hesitating, relented and stood out of earshot.

Francois turned back to Eveline, and began to whisper urgently, not knowing that Alex had activated a voice-recorder on his phone and was currently listening via a bluetooth headset.

“I created this map years ago, using a simple encryption system, that only I know. I didn’t trust my comrades back then, but I trust you, Eveline. I am so happy that you are not hurt. I’m truly sorry that I bought you into this whole mess of mine.”

Eveline, nodded, not trusting herself to say anything.

“This is the key to this map, all you have to do is remember’s Caesar’s Box. Always place everything in 4 grids and it is very easy to solve. OK? Now, we have to lose this detective. You must come with me. I can take you to the painting and we can run away together my sweet.”

Eveline looked over at Alex, who was looking back at her, with an open expression. She tried to convey something to him, but it was futile.

Looking back at Francois, she nodded.

“What should we do?” she whispered.

“Distract him, then run out the door. I will have the car ready for us.” promised Francois.

Eveline nodded and was about to walk over to Alex, when he held up a hand and tapped the headset to the side of his head. They both stared at him, shocked.

Alex smiled coldly at the pair before running out, shoving the great doors open and disappearing into the street.

Francois swore and grabbed Eveline, and they ran out, but it was too late. Alex had already disappeared into the rush-hour crowd.

Author’s Note

This was difficult. You take 2 days off from the story and suddenly you feel like your writing is awful.

When your hand is off the rhythm, suddenly a lot of things don’t flow, and your morale takes a hit.

It wasn’t until I reread and edited certain parts, I actually realised, that it wasn’t as horrible as it seemed.

I apologise for the delay in the delivery of this part. But I got my hand back on the throttle and things should be a bit quicker now.

The main focus of this part was to flesh out the main antagonist, and make him oddly endearing. Francois turned out to be a very difficult character to write, as I wasn’t quite sure how to make his dialogue smooth.

But I tried and I keep forgetting that this is my first attempt to write a short story in a very long time. It’s not meant to be perfect. It’s just designed to get me writing again, consistently and fluidly every day.

So apologies if the quality of each part varies a lot from shite to decent, and then back to shite again.

~ Damocles. 

It was the next day, and Alex found himself alone, cold and sleep deprived. 

The passion that had fuelled last night had worn off and Alex found himself longing for the warmth of Eveline’s slim body as his body shuddered in the cold dark, and he padded naked to the shower to restore some heat in his body.

She had disappeared shortly after they made love twice, citing that she needed to prepare for work the next day.

“Promise me, you won’t keep me in the dark, Alex.” she had whispered as they laid intertwined on his small single bed, pale moonlight shining through, and illuminating her blue eyes.

Alex had silently nodded, his paranoia still screaming in his mind. He didn’t trust himself anymore. Things were moving so rapidly that he wasn’t sure how to feel, behave or act.

Eveline sealed his lips with a kiss, before slipping her clothes on and walking away with her laptop.

Alex didn’t sleep at all, choosing to stare at the ceiling and just appreciate sex for the first time in many years.

When he felt energised to move again, he booked a PC at the local internet cafe and went through the footage, making a phone call to trace the garbage truck’s route with an irate operator.

By the time it was 5am, Alex was jumping onto a train, to the city where he would walk the rest of the way to South Melbourne.

He had passed through the suburb earlier, on his tram trip to St Kilda, but he was venturing on the elite side of the neighbourhood, with its’ high rises, corporate buildings, and brothels.

The entire area, was split by St Kilda Road, in which multiple tram tracks and roads ran down, into the centre of the Melbourne CBD. On one side, it was dominated by the Royal Botanic Gardens, a beautiful parkland that was guarded by the Shrine of Remembrance, a stunning replica of the ancient Wonder, known as the Mausoleum at Halicarnassus.

It’s presence, a sobering reminder of the ANZACs that fought for Australia since its inception, a place all too familiar to Alex.

However Alex was walking on the other side, a strip that boasted luxurious apartments like the Melburnian, with its sweeping, ultra modern sleek design, and another reminder of his past, the Victoria Barracks, its tall stout brick exterior betraying nothing within.

However, the true undercurrent that always accompanied the military, were the numerous brothels hidden and scatted amidst all this honour and prestige. They could be found tucked next to tall buildings, their single storey design, unassuming and innocuous, barely risque signs at the front, with vague promises, like The Cherry Blossom. 

Alex, already harbouring suspicions about Francois’ whereabouts, had already googled the Pink Palace, and noted that it was not on the route that the garbage-men took. However, the brothel was only less than a kilometre away at certain points.

Candice the Collateral thought Alex, as he recalled the image of the slain prostitute whose services Joel nee Francois frequented. She was attractive in a heroin chick sort of fashion. Her features were similar to Kate Moss in her hey-day, with sharp cheekbones, straight blonde hair, doe-eyes and a sensual mouth that was perfected by a small sharp chin.

The similarities between Eveline and Candice’s facial structures were striking, however Eveline’s eyes were far too cold and intelligent, giving her a razor-sharp maturity and mystery. Her figure was a classic hourglass, the silhouette strong and curvaceous.

Candice’s eyes, even in death, were tragic and soft, her body more girly, with smaller breasts and a slimmer profile hinting at innocence and purity, an irony considering her job.

The two women provided a fascinating dichotomy in Francois’ taste and an insight into the man himself.

It also solved the mystery as to who the red Agent Provocateur bra belonged to. It was Candice’s.

Wondering what she might have been like, Alex kept walking along the garbage truck route, as the rain slowly intensified until it reached its zenith, before subsiding into a soft mellow rhythmic pitter-patter that coincided with his footfalls in puddles.

His peacoat soaked through, Alex ignored the water that sluiced its’ way down his neck, and kept following the route, until he finally came across an alleyway.

The emerald eyes widened in recognition as he recalled the work car that was parked behind, and the angle of the bins.

Taking a brief look at the front, the shop that had all the drama, revealed itself to be Alan Grant’s Antiquities, a store that specialised in European furniture and French decor.

Alex smiled to himself, and wandered around the back, looking for clues.

The footage from the video played constantly in his mind, as he mimed it, in the drizzling rain, and paid extra care as to whether he could see any tracks left behind by Francois’ Renault.

Determining there was nothing he could discern, Alex looked hard at the rear door and the size of the alleyway. Making a face of consternation at the mental calculations he performed in his head, Alex moved away and began to make a beeline to the Pink Palace.

He took the most direct route, pretending that he was driving a gold Renault, and to his shock, after 15 minutes of walking he saw such a car parked at the Pink Palace.

Incredulously, he walked closer to the hatchback, and confirmed the number plate.

9KM 87L – Victoria The Place to Be.

Was this really where Francois, the man who was accused of murdering his mistress, was hiding?

Was the art thief on the run from a shady Mercenary, cavorting his way through women?

After all this searching, had Alex really found the notorious owner of a Cezanne?

Alex, remembering his encounter with Flat Cap and Liverpool, kept ambling past the Pink Palace, painstakingly checking his tail for a solid walk around the block, before walking back to the Renault, which was parked at the rear entrance of the Palace.

Alex, shaking his coat to get it something akin to dry, walked in and was assailed by 70s nostalgia and neon pink.

Disco was playing softly, the music giving a fun and energetic vibe to the brothel, emphasising the carefree nature of the transaction that was about to take place.

Amber striped walls, with erotic photos and artwork were accented by honey coloured lights and neon lava lamps. The carpet was a psychedelic cascade of circles, swirls and spirals, that reacted crazily to the lighting.

Even the smell of the Pink Palace, hinted at its unique groove; sweet, sharp and citrus, the neon orange diffuser in the corner of the reception desk pumping out its sensual mist into the foyer.

A neon pink sign hung behind the attractive receptionist, clad in the stereotypical sexy secretary garb.

TRY NOT TO BLUSH

“How can we help you today stranger?” said the receptionist sexily.

“I would like to see the Madam of the house, if you don’t mind” replied Alex.

The receptionist lost her smile, replacing it with a frown of confusion.

“OK,” said the receptionist recovering, “just give me 5 minutes.”

Alex nodded and looked around, noting the thick book on the table, which allowed visitors to look at bios and photos of the girls they wanted for the night.

About a third of the way through, there were empty sleeves, no doubt the bio for Candice removed and the Madam of the Brothel unable to find a replacement girl just yet.

“How can we help you?” said a husky voice coldly.

Alex turned around, and saw the receptionist standing behind the Madam of the Brothel, a pale, tall curvaceous woman with dark eyes and even darker hair. The Madam looked like a pin-up woman come to life, the thin eyebrows perfectly arched, the red lips wrapped around a cigarette and the curly sable hair parted just so.

“Don’t you recognise me?” said Alex with a smile.

The Madam stared at Alex for a moment, before her lips curled upwards in a smile.

“Alex Ryder. I haven’t seen you in over 4 years. Now here you are, even skinnier and closer to death than when I last saw you.”

“It’s good to see you too” remarked Alex drily.

“Now what trouble are you bringing to my establishment Mr Private Eye? You scared Tilly here a bit with your attitude.”

Alex made an apologetic face to the receptionist who pouted prettily back.

“I’m here about Joel McNamara.”

The Madam raised a perfect eyebrow. “Joel?”

“Joel.”

The Madam stared at Alex’s emerald eyes, questioning his motives, looking for any signs she could actually trust him to do right by her and her girls.

“You can trust me. I helped you once, that wasn’t just a one-time thing. I can help you again. Let me help you. This isn’t just about Joel. It’s also about Candice.” said Alex gently.

The Madam sighed in an exasperated manner. She turned to Tilly. “He was exactly the same way when we first met. I can’t deny him when he talks like that.”

“Very well Alex.” sighed the Madam, relenting. “I had a feeling someone was going to come for him sooner or later. Better you than some asshole who wants to hurt one of my girls. Take this card. You’ll find him in the Pink Room. Tilly, show Alex the way please.”

“Thank you.” said Alex gratefully. The Madam nodded and blew a kiss his way, before walking back to her office, disappearing behind a curtain.

Alex followed Tilly up the affectionately named “Stairway to Heaven”, Tilly taking the time to study Alex’s gaunt features and his intelligent attractiveness. She smiled to herself. If only all clients were so unique looking.

They passed down the hallway, filled with alluring pictures, warning posters about condoms and the rules of the brothel.

The hallway itself was hazy, dim and alluring. The sounds from the speakers was rhythmic and throbbing.

It was the music of improper girls, doing naughty things to bad, bad boys.

Alex thought he could hear soft moans, but ignored them, keeping his eye open for fire escape doors and quick exits. Tilly paused outside a beautifully crimson door, with the words The Pink Room labelled in cursive script.

“Here it is, Mr Ryder. Knock first and then slide the card the Madam gave you OK?”

Alex nodded his thanks and she pouted prettily at him, before flicking her blonde hair over her shoulder and making her way back to the reception desk.

Alex looked at the door, and found himself shaking his head.

A French art thief caught in a brothel. How novel.

Alex knocked twice and entered, using the keycard. He stood in the doorway, a barrier for any escape and looked cautiously in the room.

Designed after the infamous Red Room in Twin Peaks, the floor was black and white, with scarlet curtains covering the walls. The bed was black to match the couch in the show and beside it stood two simple lamps. Much to Alex’s surprise, another replica of the Venus De Milo statue was also staring at the bed, mirroring Joel’s house.

Joel McNamara himself, was sitting on the bed, reading a book.

Alex wondered whether he was in some surrealist dream. Shaking himself out of his paranoia, Alex shut the door behind him gently and introduced himself.

“Mr McNamara. The name is Alex Ryder, private investigator. You’re a hard man to find.”

Author’s Note

The story is being made up as I go along. But I can definitely feel the world starting to become more real in my mind.

In this part, I wanted to add a few more layers to the subplot about Francois being a suspect to a murder, but I will be the first to admit, it’s a weak one and I kind of want to remove it. However this is what it’s all about, making mistakes and learning to tighten things in future stories.

So I tried to flesh out Candice, the murdered girl more. But it is very weak and probably my least favourite part of writing this story so far. I wanted to show that Francois was possible of loving two girls, hence the similar facial structures, but he had to want more than just what Eveline offered to him, hence the variance in body style and shape.

I might find a way to strengthen this subplot, but I get the feeling, it’ll be too much of a distraction to the real plot, regarding the Cezanne.

I also wanted to just subtly hint at extra parts to Alex’s past. I won’t mention any details, as it is important to me, that you, the reader, have your own image of Alex and fill him out with your imagination.

Your interpretation of him, is just as important as me writing him.

The featured picture is an legit photograph of The Pink Palace in South Melbourne. However, it has long been sold and renovated into something else. I was struck by the interior design, as it was built during the 70s and knew I had to incorporate it into my story somehow.

I also hoped the details about interiors have helped you, the reader, better picture the place in your mind. I really wanted them to stand out as unique locations in this story. The idea for Joel’s French-centric design was born out of a pure random flash of inspiration as I wrote it, and that literally let to the idea that he was an retired art thief, who adored his home country and wanted to own a piece of artwork from his culture.

I will get into more detail about the Cezanne robbery in the next chapter, but note it will be a fictionalised version of the real heist itself.

Part 5 will come soon.

~ Damocles.

Eveline Winston looked at her rear-view mirror and pressed her lips together. 

The crimson stained her lips and turned the natural pout into a more sensual gloss.

Sighing, she looked over at her outfit, the same uniform that she was wearing yesterday, the only difference being the dark grey turtleneck she was sporting underneath her coat.

Touching her neck, Eveline ignored the tired look in her blue eyes, before flicking back her onyx hair and opening the door to her BMW sedan.

Opening the latch to the small fence at Alex’s house, Eveline saw that the door was open and she slowly creaked it open, knocking as she did so.

“Alex?” she half yelled to the empty house.

As she moved to take off her shoes, before venturing further, she looked down and saw a thin trail of blood.

Fear blossomed rapidly in her mind and Eveline found herself morbidly curious as she followed the trail into Alex’s kitchen.

~ Earlier

Alex was sitting in his office, entranced and desperate to see whether the CCTV footage would reveal anything of use.

Looking down at the program, he noted that he was only an hour and a half in. He had already poured through the damning excel spreadsheet, his mind abuzz with Joel’s ingenuity and the prospect of a proper Maltese Falcon hunt. Excitement was rampant and Alex could not believe he had scored such a case.

Alex, as he stared at the video, noted the hour and time when a garbage truck arrived in frame and two men began to go about their business, their actions looking small and decisive as they threw bag after bag into the back.

Looking down at his note pad, Alex placed down a question mark regarding the number plate. If he could pull the plate off the truck, there was a good chance he could track down the route and work out where this footage was taken.

However, it was around the 2 hour and 45 minute mark, that Alex finally found why Joel had kept this footage.

It was his alibi to the current crime he was accused of. However the only problem was … it showed Joel doing something else that would raise a lot more questions, and thus lead to the discovery of the elusive Maltese Falcon gambit that now everyone was looking for.

Joel, casually dressed in a polo and slacks, had pulled up in his gold Renault Megane and gotten out, his hands grasping a rolled cylinder. Opposite him, unseen off screen, another car’s lights were extinguished and a man stepped out, large and muscular, dressed impeccably in a suit and overcoat.

The two were seen animatedly talking, Joel using many hand gestures and casually waving the large cylindrical roll in his hand. The muscular stranger was much more tense, his body language still and taunt, hands buried deep in his pockets, his face overcast by the night shadows of buildings.

Alex, wishing he could hear what was going on, paid close attention to the proceedings and the damning date, time, camera type information in the corner of the screen.

The conversation, went on for a full 3 minutes, Joel gesticulating and placating, the stranger menacing and frozen. Joel, exasperated, made a fruitless gesture with his hands, before shouldering the cylinder and walking away.

The stranger stared at Joel’s retreating Renault, before taking out a phone and making a brief 30 second call and then spinning around to his car off-screen.

Alex looked at the time and his emerald pupils widened at the implications it did to his mental timeline.

They widened further still, when he heard a knock at the door.

Alex, assuming it was Eveline got up and opened the door.

The door swung inward violently, breaking Alex’s nose.

Instantly disoriented and stumbling backwards, Alex barely felt the hand that grasped his shirt and register the second blow, which cracked into his cheek and sent him tumbling to the floor.

A boot came and smashed into his abdomen. Alex would have vomited, but there was nothing to give in his wretchedly empty stomach.

Dazed and in more agony than he could remember, black gloved hands lifted him up from under his armpits and Alex could see the yellowed wooden floor of his house lift away from him, in a bizarre surreal experience, as he experienced weightlessness, his feet dragging along the floorboards.

He felt his arms being strapped to a chair in his kitchen, the ripping sound of duct tape burning across his hands and wrists, the sensation followed by a resounding slap across his other cheek that knocked him back into a painful reality instead of a haze of stars.

The two men that stared at him, looked liked modern gangster gentlemen. Both had professional, cold miens that showed, despite their youth, they were confident and experienced at their jobs.

Undercut haircuts, three-piece suits and tattoos that sneaked past their expensive watches and cuff-links, indicated that these men weren’t your average run-of-the-mill street gangsters.

They were adept and proficient. Apex predators that had risen up the food chain and were now in command of everything … sartorially and criminality. They viewed Alex as a means to an end. Nothing more. Nothing less. Nothing personal mate. It’s just pure business.

On Alex’s end, his mind was furiously berating him for not spotting these two men who were most likely watching Joel McNamara’s house. His paranoia was only going to be ratcheted up further by this incident.

“Alex Ryder. Private Investigator.” stated the professional with a flat cap on his shaven head, his tone hinting at derision.

“It’s a cool name innit?” inflected the professional whose Liverpool accent came thick, strong and proud.

“Not bad at all. Myself, I would have gone with Private Detective. But, I’m old fashioned that way.” critiqued Flat Cap.

“Aaah well. Either way, little cunts like you always end up running into guys like us. Nosy little buggers aren’t you?” smiled Liverpool.

“Ain’t that the truth” intoned Flat Cap.

“Look mate, between you and me? I’m not really into this sort of stuff. Myself? I’m more a whiskey and cigar man. These hands?” Liverpool smacked his right tattooed knuckles into the palm of his left.

“They prefer to cut the tips off Cubans, not widdle fingers like yours, eh?

Flat Cap punctuated Liverpool’s speech with a dry and bored statement “So give us what you found.”

“And any notes you might have made yeah? We really prefer not to have this sort of shit whizzing around the suburb.”

Alex coughed and tasted the metallic tang of his own blood. Defiance still glittered behind his emerald eyes, as his mind raced to salvage the situation.

“Look mate” said Liverpool gently, “We’re professionals you and I. Just give us what we want, and we’ll be on our way, like the darkness before dawn. We’re not gonna hurt ya. You don’t have to say nuthin if you prefer it. Just point, and we’ll take care of it for you. Easy as that sunshine.”

“By Order of the Peaky Fookin Blinders and all that rubbish” said Flat Cap with amusement.

Alex, stared at these two men, confused and wondering what the hell they meant, by Peaky Blinders, until it clicked that it was a pop culture reference.

“Mate, you’ve confused the bloke by that last statement” despaired Liverpool.

“Sorry mate. Thought it was a cool line to say.” demurred Flat Cap.

“Come on man, a bit of professionalism here.” tutted Liverpool.

Flat Cap raised his hands in a placatory manner.

“Right, so Mr Ryder. Where is it?”

Alex, feigning defeat, nodded to the study and Flat Cap went inside. Alex hid a smile,  remembering that he religiously backed up the files on his personal google account whenever and wherever he could. Everything he worked on was always on the cloud. Even the CCTV footage and the Excel spreadsheet.

To his regret though, the laptop was probably going to be lost forever. Just another financial loss that he would have to live with. Perks of the job.

Flat Cap came out with the laptop and the notes that Alex had written down about the case. Thankfully the manilla folder that Eveline had given him was hidden in a hollowed desk drawer and he couldn’t see it in Flat Cap’s hand.

“Anything else?” said Liverpool to Flat Cap.

“Unlikely. His office is more sparse than a monastery.”

“Well, Mr Ryder, this is your first and final warning. Please don’t go peeking about again yeah? If you do, you’ll probably run into us again. I hate being a proper twat about it, but this is our job yeah? Here, as a gesture of good will, I’ll reset your nose.”

Liverpool grabbed Alex’s nose and with a sickening crunch, slammed it back into its proper place. Tears sprung to Alex’s green eyes and he kept the groan that was coming up, down in his throat.

“Next time, I’m afraid we won’t be so judicious OK? So please mate, for your own sake, just stay out of this.”

Liverpool placed a placating gentle glove hand on Alex’s shoulder and patted him gently.

“It’s only business mate. Perks of the job yeah?”

Alex nodded and agreed. “Perks of the job. Right.”

“Attaboy. I knew he would understand. Well, these tapes should loosen up soon, so keep struggling lad.”

Liverpool and Flat Cap gave Alex mock salutes and silently exited the house as suddenly as they came in.

Alex could only watch them go and wriggle uselessly against the duct tape.

“Shit” muttered Alex before he cynically decided that there wasn’t much point to struggling. After all, Eveline said she would be coming soon. So Alex allowed his head hang down, and took a nap.

It felt like ages later, but when he woke up, he saw Eveline staring at him, and her arm shaking him violently awake. He glanced at the elegant silver TAG Heuer watch on her arm and noted that he had only been sleeping for 25 minutes.

“Oh my god Alex. Are you OK? What happened? Who did this to you?” rushed Eveline as she checked over him, her hands running over his face and body.

“First things first. Can you get a knife and cut me loose first?”  said Alex, exasperatedly.

“Right. Sorry.” Walking over to the kitchen, Eveline pulled out the first knife she found in the knife slots, and cut Alex loose, who gasped as blood rushed back into his hands, pinpricks of pain erupting all over his nerves.

Eveline watched as Alex tore off strips of duct tape from his wrists and winced as he took a glass of water and rinsed the blood out of his mouth, the pain evident on his face.

Alex looked at her and shrugged. “This comes with a lot of jobs. I’ll explain everything soon. You got a laptop? They took mine.”

Eveline nodded and went back to her car, and took out her work laptop.

Powering it up, in Alex’s office, she listened as Alex explained what happened, why he was tied up and what he found in Joel’s house.

“And so that’s the basics. Did you know anything about where Joel was on the night of the murder?”

Eveline thought back to the case and replied “He said he had an alibi. That it was impossible to link him to the murder case, because he was somewhere else at the time. Joel even mentioned that he think he could get evidence that he wasn’t there, the night that Candice died.”

“Do you know what time Candice died?”

“It was 8.10pm. Reports stated she died with 4 stab wounds in her abdomen. The knife that was used apparently corresponded to the ones in Joel’s kitchen.”

Alex frowned and checked the virtual gallery he took. Sure enough, there was an empty slot in the knife holder on the bench.

Angered that he had missed it, Alex stayed silent for a moment.

Eveline, with a hint of nervousness in her voice, asked “What did you want to show me? Why did you need my laptop?”

Alex, still angered missed the tone. “When I was searching Joel’s house, I found something. It was in my laptop, but I backed it up on my google drive. It was an SD card with just 2 files on them. An excel spreadsheet and CCTV footage. I’ll show you the footage first, because that is what proves Joel’s innocence. He was meeting someone the same night that, the prostitute Candice died.”

“Which reminds me, what’s so special about Candice?” queried Alex.

“She was his favourite.” replied Eveline with a strange quick dismissiveness.

“Do you know which brothel she belonged to?”

“The Pink Palace.”

Alex raised an eyebrow and made a note on his phone.

“OK, well, here …” Alex spun the laptop around to the point where Joel was wielding the cylindrical sphere and he frowned when he saw Eveline gasp at the footage.

He waited for her to finish, and crossed his arms before asking her direct.

“What do you know about the Cezanne?”

Eveline looked down.

“Enough” she said softly.

“I don’t need to show you the excel spreadsheet do I? Joel already told you about it all already.”

“What excel spreadsheet?” asked Eveline confused.

“It’s the blueprint to the Ashmolean Job.” said Alex with a smile on his face. “I didn’t know I was chasing an art thief. It’s very bizarre that he kept this kind of evidence. But then, it was his greatest job. A proper turn of the century heist.”

“But what I can’t figure …” said Alex wonderingly, “is where you fit in all of this, Eveline. What’s your real relationship to Joel? If that is, of course, his real name.”

Eveline stayed silent. Alex, stared at her, questioning why all the sudden, he was feeling more and more attracted to this sad woman in front of him, her hands in her lap, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Damn it thought Alex. Every time. 

He stood up, grabbed his peacoat and placed it over her shoulders.

He sat on the desk in front of her, his face close.

“Tell me the truth Eveline. I can’t help you, if you don’t.”

Eveline sighed and looked up at Alex. His green eyes piercing through hers.

“I don’t know his full name. He just goes by Francois.”

Eveline’s voice became softer as memory grew stronger.

“I met him a year ago through a mutual girlfriend. I had just gotten out of a 5 year relationship and was desperate for something new …”

“At first, he was shy and awkward, but once I got to know him a bit better, he showed me that was all an act. The real Francois, is genuinely confident and smart. He’s … everything a European man is meant to be.”

Alex’s eyes narrowed in slight jealousy.

Eveline gave a bitter laugh. “He promised me a lot. Some he delivered. A lot he didn’t. But on our first holiday together to Europe, he showed me the Ashmolean Museum in Oxford and made jokes about the security of the place. I remember being so confused as to how much he knew about the place. So later that night, I googled it and put two and two together.”

“Did you confront him straight away?” interjected Alex.

“No” replied Eveline. “I knew I had this on him now. I wanted to save this for the right moment.”

Alex scoffed to himself. “What a lawyer you are.”

“I’m a good one” shot back Eveline. “I didn’t work my way out of a shithole for nothing. You don’t know what I’ve been through to make it to where I am now.”

Alex raised his hands in an act of surrender to calm her down and concede the point.

“Anyway, you would have done the same.” said Eveline defensively. “Francois opened a new world for me. There was no way I would have shut it down early. I had everything I wanted for the first time in my life. I didn’t care he was an art thief. I just wanted him to love me.”

Alex looked around at his sparse house, the lack of trappings and decor and privately agreed. He would have done the same. Living on the edge of ruin wasn’t a lifestyle, it was a cycle that never ended.

To break free of that cycle would be liberating.

“Anyway, about a month ago, he came to me, telling me about a mercenary that knew about his past. Francois desperately needed money and he only had the Cezanne left. The mercenary offered him 11 million. Francois agonised over it for days. He really didn’t want to part with the painting.”

“Did you know who the mercenary is?” asked Alex slightly urgently.

“Francois never told me.” said Eveline. “He just said that somehow the mercenary tracked him down somehow and that if Francois didn’t do as he was told, he would kill someone close to him.”

“When Francois heard about that, he told me to go into hiding. So I went to Brisbane to stay for a while with my aunt before coming back. But when I did, Francois had disappeared and his case actually turned up at my legal department. He was contacting us remotely, saying that he did not kill Candice, the prostitute he must have been seeing behind my back.”

Eveline said with hatred “I didn’t know about Candice of course, but …”

“You were too far in.” said Alex quietly.

Eveline nodded. “What Francois did, doesn’t matter anymore. All that matters is that Cezanne. So I investigated the case for a week. But I couldn’t find anything.”

“And that brings you to my doorstep, promising money you don’t have.” said Alex amused.

Eveline looked up at Alex. The feminine sapphires locked into the masculine emeralds with a strange intensity.

“You need to help me find it Alex. If we find the painting, then we can both be free.” Eveline grasped Alex hands imploringly. “I promise you, if we find the painting, then the money will allow us to disappear. We won’t have to worry about anything.”

Alex felt his resolve weakening. His paranoia screamed at him, but he cast it aside. He wanted to feel liberated. He needed a break from the prison he had created for himself.

Alex searched for words to answer Eveline’s pleas. “OK. Let’s find this Cezanne.”

Eveline gasped and hugged him, her arms tight around him. Alex’s mind flashed an image of a pen signing another contract, in servitude to this beautiful, desperate lawyer.

“Thank you Alex.” she whispered.

Then, in a moment of desperate spontaneity, she kissed him.

Alex, reeling from the recent injuries, emotions and revelations, pushed her back momentarily. Looking at the half closed eyes, the sensual lips and the glistening tracks that her tears left down her cheeks, Alex gave in and pulled her close.

They scrabbled at each other, tearing clothes off in a frantic bid to release something that they both held tight within.

Author’s Note

At 3088 words, this is the longest chapter I’ve written. This was done, because I needed to follow the structure I’ve written for myself, as well as believably build up to the final climax of this chapter (pun fully intended).

In particular, this is Eveline’s chapter. I wanted to flesh her out as a character, to give her motivation and go beyond the cool, cold professional that I originally set her out to be.

She had to be vulnerable, yet manipulative, as per the femme fatale style that she always was meant to inhabit in this narrative. For those fans of film noir if you read a bit deeper into her actions and words, it should all be familiar tropes.

I was going to delve deeper into writing a proper sex scene, but I liked how I ended it too much, so I decided to scrap it, in service to the story.

Part 4 will be coming soon.

~ Damocles.

Alex stared out of the 96 tram, the smooth electric light train cresting a small hill to reveal the beach and the iconic ivory St Kilda Sea Baths building.

It was the day after he had received the investigative case from Eveline Winston, the lawyer who he suspected was in love with her client.

But such qualms were not any of his business. So instead of pondering further, Alex spent the entire night reading and rereading the dossier that she had given him, memorising the details and feeling the old excitement of a new job slowly take over his thoughts.

It was so infectious, that Alex ended up only getting 2 hours of sleep, before jerking awake and taking a quick warm shower and walking to the tram stop to change onto the 96 at 4am in the morning.

In the early hours of the morning, St Kilda was a sleepy and lonely place, with morning mist rolling in and grey clouds adding to the strange surreal atmosphere. Beaches were emptied, with only a few early risers walking their dogs along the footpaths of the beach, their thoughts wrapped in woolly beanies and puffer jackets, little puffs of breaths fighting to escape the chilly air.

Even on board the tram, the vibe was quiet and still, Alex leaning his head against the glass, mirroring the forlorn look the other 5 passengers had.

Deciding to stop by the McDonalds for a quick brekkie, Alex got off a stop earlier, atop the hill and looked around, admiring the Esplanade, the huge mouth that was Luna Park and the classic art-deco exterior of the Palais Theatre.

Checking behind him, to ensure no other lawyers would ask him for business, Alex crossed the empty road and along the lawn, remembering the childhood dreams he had of owning one of these beach apartments when his parents used to take him here often.

After making a quick stop to grab a couple of Hash Browns, Alex left the McDonalds and continued his way deeper into St Kilda, towards the true heart of the suburb, the strip at the end of the Esplanade.

Dressed the way he was, with his all black outfit; peacoat, chinos and dress shoes, Alex might have looked out of place in other parts of Australia, but in Melbourne, such was the norm; overdressing for the beach.

Victoria … the only state where the beach is an optional extra to the Australian lifestyle.

Alex wandered slowly past the bakeries that sold fresh Turkish delights and baklava, the thrift stores that had discount retro hippy clothes and the cafes that were slowly opening up for brunch. He peered into shops and made mental notes about everything and nothing, as he slowly ambled his way down the street, familiarising himself with the lay of the land.

By the time he reached the end of the street, the time was nearly 7am. The morning dew and mist was beginning to clear, and people were beginning to awaken and start their daily routine.

Alex, deciding he had enough acclimatisation, began to pick up his pace and start for the address of Joel McNamara, the missing innocent man.

Located only a few blocks away from the heart of St Kilda, Joel’s house was a handsome affair down Foster Avenue. With its handsome limestone exterior, the home was accompanied by a small palm tree that stood guard on the front lawn. A single-storey affair, it reflected the beach vibes that was prevalent across the entire block, and after picking the lock, Alex discovered the interior was equally affluent.

A strong French motif was prevalent across all the interior design choices. Joel was clearly a Francophile, with multiple tri-colour themed decor and mugs. Taking the centrepiece was a large model of the Palace of Versailles on a coffee table.

Alex found himself, remarkably confused and impressed. On the wall, were several Monaco Grand Prix inspired posters, the eye-catching use of colour and fast cars adding more talking points about the living room.

Treading carefully through the living space, Alex slipped on cheap latex gloves and began to examine the L-shaped couch that framed the Palace of Versailles. Noting there were no rise or indentation in the soft rich leather, Alex moved to the kitchen. The sink was meticulously clean, with all the dishes placed away and even a layer of dust on the metal basin itself.

With the obvious hot-spots not providing dividends, Alex decided it was time to move to the bedroom.

Cracking open the door, Alex frowned when he saw the state of the bedroom.

It was ransacked.

Clothes were strewn everywhere, from coats to shirts to pyjamas. Underwear was heaped over the side table, a post-modern lamp thrown casually on the floor, the cable reaching desperately behind it to the socket. The double sized mattress was flipped off its bed-frame and was leaning against the wall.

The wall was open, the large mirrored sliding door agape, revealing a cavernous wardrobe that had all of its content on the floor or haphazardly strewn against one another on the hanger.

Alex was standing in the only clean corner of the room, with the only other relatively intact item being a life-sized replica of the Venus de Milo, a pair of grey and white Calvin Klein underwear over her head, leaning provocatively opposite to him.

Alex stared at the room, trying to deconstruct the mess and piece together what the room might have looked like before it was ransacked.

The bed was central and against the wall, with the large mirrored wardrobe opposite, next to Alex and the Venus. When the ransacker had come in, they had flipped the bed first, assuming whatever it was that Joel was hiding, was under there. Once it was obvious nothing much was there except mothballs, the ransacker had torn through the wardrobe and probably left empty handed.

Alex wondered whether any other room was trashed. He stepped out and saw that the house had one extra room, the study, in which a large ornate mahogany desk had its drawers opened, but was relatively undisturbed. None of the books on the shelves were on the floor, and things were ruffled but still neat.

Confused, Alex walked back into the bedroom, thought hard and long for a good few minutes, before smiling.

Walking over to the Venus, he flicked off the underwear and looked at her, admiring for a few seconds the workmanship of the sculptor that did such good work for a replica.

Running his hand over the marble, Alex found what he was looking for.

A switch, in the area just beneath her navel, and beautifully disguised as part of her robes.

The Venus statue’s knee popped open.

On a very small tray, was a SD card.

Alex peered at it and frowned at the myriad of questions it raised. Pocketing the SD card in his coat, Alex closed the tray and waited for the responding click before walking out, leaving everything as exactly as he had found it.

As he stepped into the hallway, he took out his phone and began snapping photos. He had just finished collating a gallery on the living room, when he saw a strange clue tucked to the side of the couch, in the corner of the room.

Walking over, he found a red brasserie. Checking the label, he noted the Agent Provocateur label and the bust size. Taking a photo of the bra, he placed it gently back where he found it and continued his work, doing his best to stop his wandering mind from delving further into possibilities and suspicions.

A half hour later, satisfied with the gallery he had built in his phone, Alex walked back out the same way he came in, quietly and unobtrusively, another voyeur capturing the essence of a person without their knowledge.

As Alex waited for the 96 tram to take him back to the city, he pulled out the business card that Eveline had left in the dossier, and punched in the numbers.

Eveline’s cool, professional voice came through after the second ring.

“Eveline Winston speaking.”

“It’s Alex.”

“Alex. Why did you call me?” queried Eveline coldly

“I paid a visit to Joel’s place. Found something of interest there. Care to meet me at my office?”

“You what?” Eveline asked incredulously. “What did you find?”

Alex milked the moment for a second unnecessarily. “Just meet at my office.”

“I’m tied up at work. But I’ll come straight away when I’m free.”

“OK.” stated Alex bluntly, before hanging up.

Alex spent the tram ride home, looking through the pictures he had taken on his phone, combing through the house, recreating a virtual tour in his mind and realising a little too late, that he hadn’t check whether Joel had owned a car. He flicked over to the front of the house photos and noted, there was nothing in the driveway.

Wherever Joel was, he had taken his car with him. Recalling the details of the dossier, Alex knew that Joel owned a bright honey gold Renault Megane hatchback, with the registration number being 9KM 78L. Thinking back, Alex knew that he hadn’t seen any such vehicles along the road either whilst walking there.

The ransacking would have taken place between the period when Joel went missing, so within 2 weeks. Alex patted his peacoat’s pocket to reassure himself that the SD card he had found was still there.

Back at home, Alex turned on his laptop and glanced at his cheap watch. There was still a good 2 hours before Eveline could arrive at his house. Plugging in the SD card, Alex felt a brief moment of panic about password protection, when to his relief, the files aboard could be opened without any security.

To his surprise, there were only 2 files onboard the card.

The first, was a long CCTV footage reel, that went for 4 hours. Black and white, with heavy grain, the camera was locked to the back entrance of some restaurant, showcasing dumpster bins, and staff cars. It was largely still footage, with the occasional movement of staff throwing things in the bin, and curious feral animals wandering around.

Alex stared at the grainy footage, for the first half hour, trying to figure out why this footage was on the SD card, and where this could be, before restoring it into a small window, and leaving it aside for him to occasionally peer at while he looked at the next file.

The second was an excel spreadsheet, that when Alex looked at it, seemed to be encrypted. Numbers,symbols and letters were juxtaposed, smashed and joined together in seemingly random combination with each cell seemingly more incoherent than the next.

However, when he looked at it closer, he noted that there was a full stop at the end of each row. Indicating some kind of sentence that could be made.

There were 4 of these sentences, of varying length, at the top of the excel sheet, and then when he scrolled further down, a large block of white empty cells appeared, accompanied by a caption that ended with an exclamation mark.

Alex stared at the sheet before flicking over to the next 3 sheets, which to his shock, was un-encrypted and instead displayed details of a heist. Names of associates with their contact numbers,

“Joel, Joel, Joel. What the hell were you up to?” asked Alex to the air.

Author’s Note: 

Part 2 of 7 part series, proved to be a much smoother write for me, now that I’ve established some basic rules about the world I am building. I’ve made a couple of basic character traits for each of the main players, and I admit, I am now starting to fall in love with the world I’ve built.

It probably also helped that I am assisted by some excellent dark/noir jazz playlists on Youtube that provide par excellence ambience for me to write.

Part 3 will be coming very soon. Hopefully later today.

Please note that a recurring theme will be exploring a new part of Victoria in each part of the series.

~ Damocles.

The Private Investigator cradled his precious cargo on his lap as the green and white tram rattled along the wet road.

Hot, warm, protein and carbs heavy, the cheap Chinese meal was a luxury that his bank protested. But the P.I. was sick of living off board-like pasta and failed disasters in his kitchen. 

He needed this meal, like an addict needed his fix. It would keep him sane enough to function for a few more days, before he would relapse again. To hell with financial consequences when there were a lot more pressing matters at hand like his growling stomach. 

The P.I. was readjusting the meal on his lap, finding a spot where it wouldn’t burn him, when a woman sat next to him. 

He shuffled inwards towards the window, the Melbournian in him eager to get away and establish some personal space.  

Briefly checking her over, he noted the expensive cut of her coat, the thigh high boots that were slightly splattered by rain and the heady scent of her perfume. 

The face was angular, with sharp cheekbones, gaunt cheeks and heavy kohl applied across her piercing blue eyes. Dark raven hair cascaded down her long neck and buried itself deep into the collar of her coat. 

Blocking out the attraction that stirred his heart, the P.I. turned up the music on his phone and looked out the window, the jazz accompanying the rain drops that splattered the glass and casting the world in hues of blurry grey. 

The rhythm of the tram’s movement was sleep-inducing, the slow acceleration that would briefly propel the wheels, creating a soothing mechanical cacophony that dulled the senses. 

Then a bell would chime, as one of the weary, cold and self-occupied passengers would pull the string that ran along the upper handrail and indicate their stop was next. 

The tram driver would gently apply the brakes, letting the tram slow to a strangely abrupt stop that would make everyone lurch forward a little. The doors would issue their strange rattle and vibrate as they shook open in their hinges and passengers would shuffle off and more would waddle on, their faces a similar moue of quiet isolation to everyone else. 

Occasionally the P.I. would hear a muffled curse, as a passenger door refused to open, courtesy of an older model tram, and the driver would begrudgingly unlock the door to his cabin, straggle down to the door, undo a latch and force it open with a twist of a key. 

The P.I. ignored most of this, a familiar routine on the 59 Airport West route, and instead watched the suburban landscape roll past, the classic houses with their brick roofs and square windows slowly being encroached by tall eucalyptus trees and vines that crept ever upwards. 

As the tram climbed the hill, the P.I. sensed, rather than felt, the woman next to him, begin to shift a little uneasily. He looked at her out of the corner of his eye, and deduced that this tram ride was alien to her. She was peering out his window more, checking the number of the stop, and slowly counting down. 

To his concern, as the 59 tram slowly came to a stop, near the Church where it would turn past the Royal Children Hospital, it seemed like she was getting off at the same stop as he was. 

The P.I., suspicious and paranoid, decided that he would get off one stop early, even if it risked getting his precious dinner cold.

The tram rattled onwards, oblivious to the tension that was being ratcheted inside of it. 

As it serenely passed another tram, a long number 57 to Flinders Street Station, emblazoned with advertisements for a new Marvel film, the P.I. saw the iconic highway that stretched overhead, it’s circular frame illuminated by thousands of LED lights that shone red and yellow.

As the lights passed over his head, he wondered whether he was being overly paranoid. The woman might just be lost. She might not have any relation to him. Hell, he should ask her, where she was going. Be polite and offer her guidance.

But the P.I. did none of those things. He had been burned too many times now, to afford to make any mistakes.

The amber and crimson glow awashed over both of them and he waited for the tram to roll to a stop at the Flemington Community Centre, near Debney’s Park. 

Getting off a stop early, but knowing that he could cut through the park and make it to his small home on Princes St Street, the P.I. waited for traffic to pass, before running through and jumping the low fence that separated the park and the footpath.

He instantly regretted it, as the grass turned to slush and mud under his foot, and began to kick up flecks of mud on his pants. Scowling at the laundry disaster that awaited him, he kept running anyway, his dress shoes squelching with every step. 

The rain only grew stronger, as a wind berated him for being outdoor and paranoid, nearly sweeping the dinner out of his hands. But he held on tight and was grateful when his feet finally hit pavement.

Rushing up High Street that adjoined his home’s street, he took out his house keys from his peacoat and ran left of the first roundabout, trying to ignore the sensation of water running down his neck, as the rain intensified. 

Undoing the latch at his small red and white picket fence, he held the dinner plastic bag between his teeth as he ducked under overgrown trees and opened the door, before setting down the bag on the hall-table and starting to shrug out of his wet shoes. 

Kicking them off, he stripped off the wet black chinos he had on and threw it in a washing machine, before wriggling out of his peacoat and dress shirt.

Now nearly naked, he grabbed a towel and began to dry his hair, before slipping on a fresh polo shirt and chinos and addressing his dinner.

He kept a paranoid eye on his front door, afraid that, at any second, the woman would come through and ruin his life with her problems.

Plating the combination noodles, he had just gotten through 4 bites, when he heard the dreaded bell at the front door ring.

The P.I. looked forlornly at his dinner, the habit that kept him sane every week, and sighed, before pushing it aside and walking to the front door.

There, standing in the doorway of his home, with an umbrella over her dark hair, was the woman from the tram.

Her eyes widened in shock, as she recognised him. He was the man sitting next to her on the tram, who kept glancing over at her in suspicion. The gaunt guy who, in another lifetime, would be considered handsome, but instead was unhealthily skinny and tired, his sharp cheekbones a knife’s edge across his face and his thin mouth more of a slash than anything attractive.

But despite his emaciated appearance, the emerald eyes were still alert, sharp and intelligent. They pierced hers like a spotlight shining on a stage.   

The P.I. on his part, acted as if all his dreams were turning into boring hellish realities, and motioned her in.

“How did you … I’m sorry, I …” she started, confused and surprised.

“It’s OK. My name is Alex. Come on in to my office.”

The woman nodded silently, and placed her umbrella off to the side of the door, and began to take off her shoes. 

Alex nodding, walked through the tiny hallway that led to his kitchen at the rear and instead opened a door off to the right, which had a tiny study room.

Bare and clean, with a simple desk, notepads and a laptop, the office was Alex’s domain, where he ran his P.I.’s business, a venture that had seen very little clients.

The jobs were scarce, but there was just enough money to ensure that bills were paid.

It was fortunate that the house was already paid off. If it weren’t for that happenstance, he would be homeless.

Pulling out a chair for the woman, Alex sat down on the other side of the desk and powered up the laptop and arranged the notepad. He turned on the nearby CD player, and inserted a custom CD that had mellow songs to induce better memory recall.

Whether it worked, was up to debate, but it was a tip given to him by a friend who was no longer around, and he was doing it out of habit and remembrance now.

The woman from the tram peered around the door and sat down gratefully when Alex gestured.

Sparing one last thought for his Chinese dinner, Alex pushed the regret away and looked attentively at the attractive woman who, in the span of less than 20 minutes had steered his life in another direction. 

“So, what’s your name?” started Alex. 

“I’m Eveline Winston. I work as a lawyer at the local magistrate court. I need your help with a case of mine. “

“A lawyer huh?” said Alex dismissively. “Don’t you guys usually have your own in-house investigators for these sort of situations?”

“We do, but this case is … different.” replied Eveline coolly. 

Alex raised an eyebrow and raised his pen in anticipation. 

“My client has gone missing. He’s been away for 2 weeks and we suspect he’s on the run. But the evidence all suggest that he’s innocent of the crime he’s supposedly guilty of. So we’re not sure why he’s disappeared.”

“I’m going to need a name Ms Winston.”

“Call me Eveline. I’ll give you the name once you agreed.”

Eveline reaches into her coat and hands him a piece of paper. 

Alex, looking down at it, scans it quickly and finds his heart racing a bit quicker. It’s a sizeable amount of money. At least 9 months worth of bills paid off here. He could eat out more often. Afford better clothes. Live like a person with a stable income. 

But the fine print says a voice in Alex’s head. Reading further, Alex isn’t allowed to market this case if things go well. He’ll have to make this case a first priority. 

At first, Alex refuses to accept the job. He hates conditions and stipulations and strings attached to a job. And there are many on this contract. But … he was poor and when would be the next time he would see this amount ever again? 

Alex gritted his teeth and took out a pen and signed the dotted line on the bottom. To hell with financial consequences. He also provided the bank details for his account. 

Handing it back, he watched as Eveline kept the carbon copy and handed him back the original. 

“Thank you, Alex. Here, this is my dossier on the case. Read through this and it’ll explain everything.” Eveline passed him a manilla folder and made to get up. 

“Hold on”, said Alex, raising his hand in a stop gesture, “I want to hear it from you first.”

Eveline sigh. She’s a busy woman. She would rather be elsewhere than here, in a stranger’s office. But Alex’s green eyes compel her to stay. 

“Fine. What do you want to know?” said Eveline with exasperation. 

“Tell me your client’s name. I also want his stats. The usual like, height, weight, eye colour, hair colour.”

“It’s all in the bio I gave you.” said Eveline coldly. 

“I want to hear it from you. You’re a lawyer aren’t you? Surely your memory is as good as they say.”

Eveline rolls her eyes and recites mechanically “His name is Joel McNamara. He is 176cm tall, with blue eyes and sandy coloured hair. He weighs around 80 kilograms and his main distinguishing feature are a pair of winged tattoos on his arms.” 

Alex scanned Eveline’s blue eyes. She was acting like every other professional doing their job. But the way how she answered, seemed to hint at something more. 

He didn’t like it. 

“What’s Joel like?”

“What do you mean, what’s Joel like?” 

“As in, he’s a nervous kind of guy? A funny larrikin? A sarcastic prick? That’s what I mean by what’s he like?” 

Eveline pauses for a second and Alex continues to scan her eyes. He senses there’s something more to this. 

“He’s sweet. But also shy and awkward. He’s an innocent man accused of doing something he didn’t do.” 

Alex grunts, his suspicions confirmed. But now that he has deduced it, it’s of no more interest to him. 

“Where was he last seen? I’m also going to need his address.” 

Eveline skips a beat again. Alex doodles a small love heart next to her name. She’s fed up with this interrogation. 

“He was last seen at the courthouse. His address is in the dossier. Read it. Give me a call when you got something.”

Standing up, she glares at Alex and walks out, pausing only to put on her shoes and collect her umbrella. 

The sound of rain pitter-patter and the smell of petrichor wafts through the open door, before being punctuated by the front fence’s gate being slammed shut.

Alex, watching her from the doorway, made no mental apology for his paranoid questioning. No courthouse would offer the sum he had just signed just to get some random Joel back. They would let the police handle it. This was Eveline’s doing and she was doing it out of love. 

Scoffing slightly, Alex closed the door and remembered his cold Chinese meal. Grimacing at the taste, he endured for 5 bites before tossing the rest of it into a bin, his appetite gone. 

The Twilight Samurai nee Tasogare Seibei (2002)

The train lost momentum through the frozen country. 

Snow descended like a beautiful rain, as it dusted the the myriad of buildings around the train station.

The father looked out, his breath misting the shinkansen‘s window as he stared at an elegant woman in a traditional kimono slowly shuffle her way onboard.

The vibrant colours of the kimono, crimson and ivory with a rich lilac sash reminded the father of the one he had at his home, forever untouched for over a year now.

Hung on a wooden frame, it was the centerpiece of his cupboard at home, and with his two daughters, they regularly brushed and maintained the kimono, ensuring every strand of fabric was shimmering in its splendour.

The father felt his breath catch, as he beheld the beautiful woman in the elegant kimono, slowly walk past him, her alabaster skin, nearly matching the perfect bone-white make-up, and the deep rose lips. Her brown eyes were sculpted to an inhuman level, the deep dark pencil stroke accenting the shape of her eyes and brows.

The raven hair was held up in a fan-style, supported by an ornate lacquered comb, an the father found himself catching and inhaling the soft feminine perfume as she  moved past him and sat down.

The beauty of the woman caught in his mind, the father found himself lurching forwards, as the shinkansen began its slow acceleration again, before flinging itself headlong past the city outskirts and into the countryside proper.

Peering out, he watched as the landscape change from countless buildings, to  natural scenery, as bamboo groves flashed by, their green leaves tempered by snow, frozen lakes resting dormant at the base of mountains and the ever shifting snow, as it fell in the distance, and on the window, only to be whisked away by speed and replaced by another flake.

The father saw the reflection of the beautiful woman in his mirror, and pondered on her ghostly appearance across the landscape of his country, the woman perfectly still as she sat on mountains, trees, lakes and hills.

To his surprise, her face slowly morphed and he was reminded of his great love, his wife of years ago.

Tears welled in the corner of his eyes and the father felt himself short of breath, as he stared out at the woman of his dreams, her serene smile haunting him.

His hand touching the glass, he longed to hold her, but knew such a desire was impossible to fulfil.

So he held it up and stared out at her, the glass barrier invisible to them both and he imagined what she would say, when he met her again.

But her voice, silent for so long, did not come to him.

All he remembered was her shy giggle and the way how she used to make soothing sounds when they slept together in their small cold apartment.

The father’s reverie was broken, when he felt his phone vibrate in his coat pocket.

Shaking himself out of it, he looked at the script across the tiny screen and a smile replaced the haunted look on his face, as he read his daughters’ text messages.

He missed them terribly, the long winter having separated them for months now, and both of them looked after by a kind neighbour.

At 12, his eldest daughter was almost a grown woman, her maturity belying her years, as she learned to be a responsible and serious mother to her baby sister, at 7 years of age.

She tidied up after her sister, would whisper soothing songs to calm her when she was afraid or hurt, and when they missed their father, the eldest sister would do her best to imitate his deep, soft voice and both would invariably hug and stay together as they slept the loneliness away.

She even knew how to cook rudimentary meals and would do her best not to bother her father when he was working, only doing so when she truly struggled with something, like a particularly bothersome maths sum or how to respond politely to the mailman when he delivered their father’s gifts to them.

The father looked down at his wallet and took out the cheap Polaroid he had taken of his daughters, and he kissed his fingers and pressed them to the faces of his children.

The shinkansen sped its way through the countryside, and the father stared out, his brown eyes slowly losing their tired and haunted edge, as he began to recognise more and more landmarks of his hometown

When the train finally slowed to his stop, he picked up his bags and stumbled out, pausing briefly to acknowledge the presence of the beautiful woman, who silently stared out at the station.

The chill clapped his cheeks and the father pulled his jacket lapels closer to his neck, as he pulled up the handle on his suitcase and shouldered his overnight bag across a shoulder.

Rolling his shoulders into his jacket more, he made his way down the old staircase of the station and slipped the ticket stub into the gates and began to make his way through the provincial town.

His feet crunched softly under the snow, and the father kept his pace steady and calm, as he nodded in recognition to the friendly street vendors who called out his name and welcomed him back.

Stopping briefly by a convenience store, he purchased his daughters their favourite candy, ignoring the forlorn lack of notes and coins in his wallet, and placed them in his pocket, alongside hand warmers and the origami paper figures he had made.

Walking back out into the snow, the father saw an elderly man struggle in his garage with boxes and bins.

Looking at his watch, knowing he was late to meet his daughters, the father sighed and set down his bags on a relatively dry patch of ground and offered his assistance, the old man smiling in toothy appreciation as the father lifted the heavy box and set it down, labouring quietly to help the clean up.

The old man placed a hand on the father’s shoulder and offered him a bowl of miso soup but the father politely deferred and promised he would come back to help. The old man, nodding understandingly, let the man go and waved goodbye as the lonely figure of the father trudged his way through an empty street, the white snow blanketing him.

The eldest daughter, sat in the pristine old apartment, the lamp glow casting an amber light across the room, as she and her sister fussed over the simple meal of grilled cod and warm rice and the small cup of sake that she had heated up for her father. Worried, that he was so late, the eldest daughter had just finished reheating the sake, when she heard the the doorbell ring.

Placing the small cup down gently, she and her sister ran to the door and watched as the door gently opened and their father came in.

Both of them bowed low and the father laughing, gathered them up and they both laughed and squealed in joy.

Kissing them both and holding them in his large arms, the father deftly shut the door behind him and set his bags down, his happiness restored as he beheld his beautiful daughters, the very images of his long great love, proof of their time together.

As per his custom, whenever he walked through the apartment, he stared briefly at the beautiful kimono that was hers, and always made the same vow again and again to protect and care for his daughters, the same way he did for her.

Author’s Note

A slightly different approach to writing, I wanted this piece to be a bit more poetic in its word use and reflective in its style. I strive for “slice of life” moments, like when you notice something that is strikingly beautiful amidst a lot of common things. Such things could be a beautiful woman who just happened to put a bit more care into her style and thus stand out from everyone else.

Or when you notice something interesting amongst a lot of boring things.

This was largely inspired by the movie The Twilight Samurai, easily one of my all time favourite samurai films, and I tried to emulate that realism approach the film had to an ordinary man who misses his wife but loves his children dearly.

~ Damocles.