Michael Prescott and The Case of The French China

 This is Part One of a short mystery that I wrote for my school’s literary magazine that ended up getting rejected for being too long. Enjoy, and comment down below if you want to see more! 

Prologue 

The French China. Mysterious, rare, intriguing, fascinating, famous, exotic, but most of all, extremely expensive. Some of the most respected art historians had estimated it to be worth more than 10 million dollars, and that was just from the rare photographs. Owned by the influential Baraclough family, who lived at the Baraclough-Compeau Manor on 5th Avenue. The French China was considered so rare, so precious, that only those with the utmost trust of the Baracloughs were allowed to even see it, but now, the Baracloughs decided to allow it to go on display at the Metropolitan Museum of Art for a limited time. Placed in a bulletproof, smash-proof, state-of-the-art display case, it was placed in the lobby, just behind the information dais. Many people wondered why the Baracloughs had allowed the China to go on display, with rumors ranging from “It’s to show off their wealth” to “They're becoming more philanthropic” to the flat-out outrageous “They need money, so they’re loaning it out for a hefty price”. In reality, it had nothing to do with any of the rumors. The truth was, it was to flaunt it to their rivals, the Fuerstenbergs. Many thought that with all of the security, the French China would never be stolen. However, the night of October 20th-21st, those who thought this were proved wrong. The so-called “unstealable” French China, was stolen. 

 

1 

The night that the famous French China set was stolen, private detective Michael Prescott was at a bar. The Bleecker Street Bar down in Lower Manhattan, to be specific. He had discovered it during a case that forced him to live down in the area, and he always came back. It was “The best bar in all of Manhattan” he declared one night. After this, he quickly became a regular. If you could consider a responsible drinker a regular. But he paid well and hadn’t quit yet. His normal moods were annoyed, delighted, and frustrated. However, that night, he was purely flat-out miserable. All he had said was “The usual, barkeep” and “Another one, just put it on my tab.”. By the time he left at 11:46, he had had 3 stiff drinks and could barely walk straight. When he left, he took a taxi to his place on 6th Ave. The taxi had to take a massive detour due to construction for yet another office building, so it went past the Metropolitan Museum of Art where the rare French China was on display for a special occasion as it took Michael Prescott home for the night. When he got inside his place, he passed out on the floor as the door swung shut behind him. The time was 12:26 AM, on Tuesday, the 21st of October.  

 

When Michael Prescott woke up the next morning, he had a lingering hangover. But he shook it off, as he had learned to do, prepared a cup of coffee (black, no sugar), and went to open the morning paper when he got an unexpected phone call. “Hello?” he asked, annoyed at being interrupted from his morning routine.  

“Prescott! This is Commissioner Thompson!” the voice rang out from the receiver, loud enough that Michael had to hold the phone away from his ear.  

“What is going on over there? We’ve got a major theft over here at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and WE NEED YOU NOW!’’. 

“On my way, but give me a couple of minutes. I just woke up.” Prescott replied, annoyed that his usual morning routine was going to be set aside. The time was 8:28 AM, Wednesday, October 22nd. 

 

10 minutes later, Prescott showed up ready for business in a suit, fedora, and trench coat, along with an unlit cigarette in his mouth. As he tried to walk up the steps of the museum, a police officer tried to stop him. “Sir, I’m afraid the Museum is shut down today, but it should be open soon.” the officer tried to tell him. 

“Move along kid, I’ve got an appointment here-”. Prescott tried to tell him but was cut off. 

“Your appointment is going to have to wait another day, sir, as I already told you,-” the officer repeated, but Prescott intervened. 

“The Museum is closed today, yeah I got that! If you would like to let me finish what I was saying kid, I have an appointment here with Commissioner Thompson, darn it!” Prescott exploded, “So get going and let me do my job, and I’ll let you do yours!” 

“Ok, sir.” the officer replied meekly. 

“Dang hotshots. Always trying to gain promotion by taking their orders to the extreme.” Prescott, who was ticked off, grumbled under his breath as he entered the building while lighting the cigarette. 

“Prescott! There you are. We’ve got a big problem. You know the prized French China?” Commissioner Thompson asked breathlessly. 

“Yeah. I’m a detective. Why would I not know about it? They pretty much held a ticker-tape parade down to the museum. Didn’t sleep for a week afterward, people kept going to the museum across the street from me every stinkin’ half hour, thinking that the darn China set was there.” Prescott replied as he blew a smoke ring. 

“Well, have you read the paper for this morning?” Thompson inquired. 

“I would have if someone hadn’t interrupted me.”. Prescott replied with an annoyed tone in his voice. 

“Well to catch you up, the French China was stolen last night. The owners are livid. You know who the owners are, right?” the Commissioner asked grimly. 

“Sort of. The Barraclouds, isn’t it?” Prescott answered mindlessly, half-listening as he surveyed the area, looking for something that had caught his attention.  

“Baracloughs.”. Thompson corrected, “And they’re one of the biggest names in Manhattan. Them and the Fuerstenbergs.” 

“Fuerstenbergs.” Prescott spat, disgusted, “One of the slimiest names in the business. Not my favorite type of people.” 

“Enough about them. The family Don, Alejandro Baraclough, wants the China set returned in 2 weeks from today.” the Commissioner continued, “ So I immediately brought you in. After all, you’re one of the best detectives in Manhattan.” 

Just as Michael Prescott was about to answer, a deep, European-accented voice boomed from the entrance hall. “Commissioner Thompson! Where is this detective of yours?” the voice called out, “I would like to meet him!” 

“Come on out of the shadows, Mr. Baraclough. We can’t see you.” Thompson replied. 

As the Commissioner spoke, a large, stocky, well-dressed man with numerous jeweled rings came out of the shadows, and as he walked across the tiled foyer, his black cane clicked on the tiles. As he got closer, Michael could tell that this man was exceptionally wealthy, as his cane’s ruby-encrusted silver handle glinted in the dim mid-morning sunlight that came in through the windows. 

“Where is the detective, Commissioner? I would have thought that he would have been here by now, as you made it seem like he lived close by.” 

“Mr. Baraclough, the detective I told you about is right here.” Commissioner Thompson told him, “Mr. Baraclough, meet Detective Michael Prescott. Prescott here is a private eye. I like to call Prescott in for larger cases, like this one.” 

“A private eye?” Baraclough replied, skeptical, “Commissioner, I thought your police force could handle this on its own!” 

“They can, but I-’’ Thompson began, but was cut off by Prescott. 

“What, you don’t think a measly private eye like me can’t solve a big case?” Prescott asked. 

“No, I just thought- ” Baraclough began but was interrupted by Prescott. 

“Then let Thompson choose his detectives. If he thinks I can do it, then I can do it.” Prescott answered curtly. 

Turning his attention back to Commissioner Thompson, he asked, “Now where was the exhibit for the French China set?” 

“It was right there, in that case. The case was supposed to be bulletproof, but several casings were lying on the floor several yards away.” Thompson explained as he gestured where the casings had been found, along with the shattered case. 

“What type of casings were they?” Prescott inquired, “Handgun or rifle?” 

“Handgun.” Thompson confirmed, “They appear to be from a Smith & Wesson .38 revolver. There were 3 casings.” 

“Did you line up a shot or try to track the bullet’s path?” Prescott asked, “Because if not, then we may have a whole different crime.” 

“You don’t mean-” Mr. Baraclough began queasily, unsettled by the notion that was coming to be in his head. 

“Yes. One that may involve murder.” Michael Prescott answered back with a grim expression on his face. 

“Well, based on the path of the bullet from the casings, they were fired at the case. But when you take a look at the case, it looks like-” Thompson began. 

“Someone took a crowbar or a blunt weapon to it.” Prescott finished. 

As he finished his sentence, he walked over to the case. As he surveyed the remains, he took note of the dust that glinted, even though the case itself was in the shadows by at least 2 feet. When Prescott walked around the case, he noticed a small scrap of paper sticking out from a crevasse under the polished gold placard with the inscription: The French China set, made circa 560 BCE, Beijing, China. “Now, what’s this here?” he asked, half talking to himself, half not. 

“What is it?” Baraclough asked breathlessly. 

“A note.” Prescott explained, “I found it tucked in behind the placard.” 

“Hot dang.” Thompson whistled, “My crew looked all over that case and came up dry. Then you show up and find a clue right off the bat.” 

“What does it read?” Baraclough pressed. 

“It reads one word: Rache,” Prescott answered. 

As Baraclough slumped in defeat, Prescott held up a hand. 

“I don’t know if you speak German by chance, do you?” he asked. 

When Baraclough shook his head, Prescott continued. 

“The German word for revenge is ‘Rache’,” Prescott explained, “so whoever stole the China was out for revenge.” 

“Who could have stolen it?” Thompson asked, “Who might want to get revenge on you, Mr. Baraclough?” 

“That’s my job. To figure out who stole the prized French China.” Prescott answered back.