The Vase By David Hollander

IT HAS BEEN SAID THAT A GREAT CITY only comes truly alive in the wake of a sensational catastrophe. If this be true, then New York could never have been as busy, as watchful, or as alert as it was the day after the purloining of the Pilliat Diamond, boldly purported to be the most valuable gem in America, if not the world. Its estimated value was over fifty million dollars.
Just after midnight, a lone burglar had entered the Fenlow Security Bank, and braving the security alarm, broke open the vault, forced a security box, and made off with the diamond — all in less than two minutes. It was a daring feat that few criminals would have attempted.
Captain Brinker, the detective in charge of the case, was reticent to reveal any details in the early morning press conference, but dawn found the city abuzz with rumor. Some had heard that the notorious Curtis Crime Ring was responsible for the heist and some had heard that the Mafia was involved. Some even went so far as to accuse the janitors. But most people believed a mixture of all three accounts and had worked themselves into a great state of excitement.
This group of respectable citizenry had begun pouring into Main Street hours before daybreak to look at the now-famous crime scene and to be on hand if anything exciting turned up. The congested mass of humanity driven on by insatiable curiosity seemed to overflow the banks of the street. A cloud of anticipation hung thickly in the air as thousands of people stared, mused, wondered, speculated, and shouted, while venturing as close to the police line as they dared. The chaos seemed complete.





THE FENLOW SECURITY BANK CAST a large shadow in the cold, early-morning light, but a rebellious ray of sunshine peeped over the building and streamed over the heads of the turbulent crowd, through a window bearing the ornate lettering Samly’s Antiques, and laid itself to rest on a newspaper lying on the counter. The blaring headline “Pilliat Diamond Heisted” elicited a sigh from the reader of the newspaper who was incidentally the shop’s only occupant. The proprietor of Samly’s Antiques was a young man who was short but not necessarily stout. An infectious smile and twinkling eyes gave Mark Samly a friendly, likable appearance. His eyes were not twinkling today, though, and the shop’s nonexistent customers were in no danger of being infected with his smile.
Mark Samly laid down the sun-warmed newspaper and gave another sigh. One would have expected that the charged atmosphere would have infused him with energy but Mark felt listless this morning. The Pilliat Diamond meant nothing to him for he was only a little person trying to make his way in the big world and such things did not concern him.
“What am I doing here?” he wondered aloud, “I might as well close up the shop and join the rabble outside. Nobody will be buying antiques today.”
But he did not convince himself. Absently stirring his steaming coffee, he gazed out the window toward the tightly thronged crowd. He could see dozens of policemen swarming in and out of the bank and he could even pick out the busiest of them all, his friend Captain Claude Brinker. The reporters were confined to an area just inside the police line but chafed at their restrictions like restless animals. And still the crowd roared. No, he wanted no part in that fracas; he realized that he appreciated the solitude and refuge that his shop provided.
Mark had an active mind that shunned lethargy, and shaking off his dark mood, he jumped to his feet. Making his way around the cumbersome desk, he strode toward the back of the room to file an imposing stack of postcards. The shop was small, but Mark had used the space wisely. The walls were lined with shelves, and the shelves with curious knickknacks and gadgets. Some were old, others were valuable, and a rare few were both. In the center of the room stood a glass case that contained Mark’s most valuable possession: a vase. It was by this that his attention was arrested.
The vase was beautiful, but it struck Mark that today it looked almost resplendent. The vase was more than 200 years old and had decorated the White House during John Adams’ Presidency. It was two feet high and six inches wide at the base. The neck of the vase narrowed slightly and then widened again at the top. The exquisite black porcelain was elegantly glazed in a spiraling rippled pattern that still shone with its original beauty.
Mark had never quite known why he had gone into the antique trade. When he turned 18, Mark did not want to go to college and when a friend offered him a job in the antique store he could not pass up the opportunity. Mark had soon become the manager and now he owned the store; but his ambition had been architecture and he had no passion for the antique business. The vase was worth well over $20,000 and he hoped that one day he would sell it and be able to move out of this miserably slow life. The postcards forgotten, Mark wandered over to the glass case, and unlocked it with the small key that always hung at his waist. He slipped on a white cotton glove, and ran his hand smoothly down the vase’s sweeping form. The white glove against the vase’s black ripples created a startling impression on Mark and he quickly drew the glove off his hand. It was in that moment that he realized that the vase in itself meant nothing to him but its attraction lay in what it could provide for him. Was that the way it was with everything, he wondered?
Mark was so absorbed in his thoughts that he failed to hear the faint tinkle of the little bell that hung over the door. He gave a start when he heard a voice and looked up to see a matronly woman of not more than 60. She looked to be a strong, even athletic lady and her cheeks were flushed from the exhilaration of the excited masses in the street.
A slow smile began to creep over Mark’s face until he was beaming as brightly as the renegade ray of sun. He greeted the newcomer with a cheery “Hello Mother!”
She collapsed into a chair and breathed deeply as if to clear her thoughts. “It is a madhouse out there! What a fuss old Fenlow’s burglary has created.”
Mark looked at his mother kindly. She seemed out of breath, but considering the crowd outside, that was not surprising. “You look winded Mother. Would you like a cup of coffee?”
She considered for a moment and then replied, “That would be nice.”
Mark left the vase and disappeared into the back room. After pouring the coffee and collecting the sugar and cream he returned to his mother. Her cheeks were still pink but she seemed to have regained her breath.
She gratefully accepted the coffee and the mother and son talked together for several minutes. Finally she rose to leave, “Well, I’m off to Jersey to visit Aunt Debbie. I wanted to stop in and say goodbye before I left. Thank you for the coffee, Mark.” She kissed him and with a parting wave, was gone.
Mark watched her open the door and heard the tremendous roar from the still-growing crowd. When the door closed and the room again grew quiet, it seemed as if a seal of silence was replaced on the room. Mark watched his mother elbowing through the bedlam and finally disappear from view.
Mark and his mother were close friends. Ever since his father’s mysterious disappearance in Europe when Mark was a young child, she had worked hard for a living. Mark knew that his mother had poured her life into him. He was her boy, her only child, and she was fiercely proud of him. Mark hoped that she enjoyed her vacation for she had certainly deserved it. As he locked the case which contained the Adams Vase a whisper escaped his lips. “Thank you Mother. Thank you for everything.”





TWO DAYS LATER, CAPTAIN BRINKER and his constabulary crowd had come no closer to solving the mystery. As he said to Mark when they met for dinner, “That blasted crook has covered his tracks immaculately!” The crowds had by this time disappeared and business was continuing as normal. In fact, the Fenlow Security Bank would re-open the next day. Mark’s business had not improved, however, and only one or two people straggled into his shop.
He was therefore pleasantly surprised when a tall, polished gentleman made his appearance. His fine black hair was parted in the middle and the slender nose that gave way to an aristocratic mustache reminded Mark faintly of someone, just whom he could not remember. Keen dark eyes surveyed the room and returned to Mark with a pleasant gaze. He pulled a card out of his vest pocket and presented it to Mark with a flourish. The card read, Mr. Alexis Páregueux, Curator, Versailles Museum of Art, France.
“Bonjour! I seek a vase that belonged to Thomas Jefferson. I hear it is very rare and I want to add it to my collection at Versailles.”
“Well, sir,” faltered Mark, for he was a little cowed by this man’s urbanity, “I don’t have the Jefferson Vase, but I do have a vase that was given to John Adams by Napoleon Bonaparte. It was a symbol of peace after the French conflict with America in 1799. The vase was displayed in the White House until the War of 1812.” He led Mr. Páregueux to the case in the center of the room and unlocked it. “This vase was hand-crafted by Chinese masters in Ching-te-Chen in 1780 and has sustained not a scratch throughout its entire life. It is a unique treasure in that its surface contains no decorations as did most vases from that time period.”
Alexis Páregueux was lightly tapping his foot, but seemed to be anxiously shunning any appearance of impatience. “Well,” he said slowly “I have done much research on the vase myself. It is even more beautiful than I could have imagined.” As he said this, his eyes sparkled with a look of intense interest — the look of an archeologist who has just found an ancient parchment.
After closely inspecting the vase for several minutes, Páregueux finally turned to Mark with a smile on his face. The smile seemed so familiar. Where had Mark seen it before?
The excitement that had been slowly building in Mark’s heart suddenly leapt into his throat and it was with great difficulty that he restrained a shout of excitement.
The words he knew would come next filled him with what he thought was joy to overflowing. “What is the cost?”
“Sir,” answered Mark, making a great attempt to keep his composure but grinning widely, “The Adams Vase is worth well over $27,000, but I am selling it for $25,000.”
“Ca c’est bon,” Páregueux almost shouted, “I never cheat anyone. I give you its true worth and lagniappe, $30,000.”
Mark’s mouth must have been hanging open in surprise for Páregueux burst into unrestrained laughter. In an instant, Mark came to himself and hurried to the back room. After retrieving the packing crate that had been waiting expressly for this day, Mark donned the white gloves and gently packed the vase in the crate. Páregueux removed from his pocket a fine leather wallet and ponderously counted out 30 one thousand dollar bills. Mark took the crisp currency with a sense of reverence and stared at the man.
Alexis Páregueux picked up the crate as if it were a baby and with a parting au revoir, was gone.
Mark realized that he had no attachment to the vase because instead of being sad at seeing it gone, he felt as if his life were being fulfilled. He hurried to the safe in the back room and placed the money inside.





MARK WAS STILL IN A DAZE WHEN he closed the shop. He hurried down the street and turned right. Two blocks later he turned into Margie’s Café where he was to meet Captain Claude Brinker. Several minutes later his friend joined him but Mark was too drunk with his own joy to notice his disturbed expression.
After ordering, Mark began to tell Claude what had happened to him that day.
“Mark,” interrupted Claude in a serious voice, “I have some bad news.”
Mark was instantly alert.
“I almost had to bring you in for questioning today. You see, we are 90 percent sure that your mother is involved with this burglary and now she has skipped town. Since she works as a janitor at Fenlow’s and doesn’t have an alibi for that night, she has become the prime suspect.”
The words hit Mark like a wall of bricks. Mother?
“But there are a lot of janitors that work at the bank,” he spluttered.
“Yes,” replied Claude, “But they all have rock-solid alibis. Plus, your mother was seen in the vicinity of Fenlow’s very early in the morning.”
The waiter brought out their food but Mark didn’t think he would be able to stomach anything.
“If she was the burglar,” Claude was saying, “she would have passed the diamond on within hours of stealing it so there is no point in searching her house. She could easily have passed it to you, and that is why the chief wanted me to bring you in.”
Suddenly, like the pieces of a puzzle fitting together, Mark began to understand what had happened. “Claude, I think I know how the diamond was passed.”
His friend stared at him but remained silent as Mark continued. “The morning after the burglary she came into my shop. I went to the back room to get her some coffee and she must have slipped the diamond into… the vase. And…” Could it be?
Claude’s mind was working at lightning speed, “It would be easy to pass the diamond that way. Has anyone bought the vase?”
“Yes,” returned Mark ruefully, “A Mr. Páregueux bought it today.” He pulled the Frenchman’s card from his pocket and passed it to his friend.
“The Museum of Art in Versailles,” said Claude with a wry smile, “is commonly known as the Louvre. I think we’ve been had.”





THE CRIME WAS NEVER OFFICIALLY solved, for no real evidence could be unearthed, but both Mark and Claude knew who was responsible. The best efforts of the police department could not locate Mr. Alexis Páregueux or Mark’s mother.
A month after the burglary, Mark received a postcard from his mother. It read “Dear Mark, Your father and I miss you terribly. Use the money from the vase to get an education and follow your dreams. We love you!” It was postmarked from an obscure town in southeast France.
After twenty-five years, Mark’s father had reappeared to reclaim his wife and bless his son. And now he had again disappeared into France. He and his wife would probably live there for the rest of their lives. In his mind’s eye, Mark could see his parents sitting in their parlor, talking of their only son. Strongest in his vision, though, was a table in the center of the room on which stood a sleek, black vase that glittered and sparkled in the early-morning ray of sun.

© 1997, David Hollander

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