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“Mr. Blanc,” the plucky journalist, Stefani Kent began with an air of determination, though her face didn’t quite reflect that confidence. “I’d like to close our interview with the one case you couldn’t solve.”
Blanc stared at her over the rim of his teacup before gently placing it back down in its saucer.
“London. 1997.”
Her eyes shone with recognition.
“Yes, that one,” her head darted down to her notes before catching his piercing gaze. “It’s my understanding that early on in your career, you were brought in to consult with Scotland Yard about a local cat burglar. Nicknamed—”
“The Gentleman Thief,” Blanc finished with a slight shake of his head. “I always found that name mighty ridiculous, if I’m honest. The other ones too.”
Stefani shuffled through her notes.
“The Robin Hood of Highbury, Camden’s Cat Burglar, Notting Hill’s—”
“Yes, yes, he was renowned for robbin’ London’s most elite blind all over the city and gained a newfangled moniker every time,” he interjected, barely restraining himself from rolling his eyes. “He was mainly called a ‘gentleman’ for how he left his crime scenes. Immaculate, like he never disturbed a thing. As if he cleaned up after himself. It was almost polite, if not for the thousands of pounds worth of items pilfered from every home for months.”
He shifted in his seat, crossing his ankles as he cast his mind back to the case from nearly three decades ago as if it were yesterday.
“It was a compellin’ case. Millions of pounds in cash, trinkets, and jewelry stolen from the one percent, only to show up as anonymous donations to charities all across the city. I was a young man back then, just shy o’ thirty,” he chuckled, folding his hands in his lap. “It was my first overseas case and I was eager to dip my toes into international crime solvin’. I don’t think I ever coulda expected to be huntin’ an honest-to-God, real-life, rob-from-the-rich-and-give-to-the-poor bandit. And yet, there I was. A wet behind the ears foreigner stickin’ my nose in Brits’ business, surrounded by stumped ‘bobbies’ and Detective Inspectors demandin’ answers.”
A heavy pause followed that.
Stefani gnawed on the lid of her pen, enraptured.
“And did you give them any?”
Blanc stared out the window for a moment, before meeting her gaze again.
“I surmised a few theories. But I’m not in the business of guessin’, Ms. Kent. I deal in hard facts and evidence and, loath as I am to admit it, I came up short on both.”
She leaned forward in her seat, quite literally on the edge of it.
“But you did narrow it down to a profile, right? Something the police could go off of because you caught him in the act once.”
“More tea?”
They both looked up to find Blanc’s husband, Phillip, refilling their cups and placing another plate of sandwiches and cookies on the coffee table.
“Thank you, Mr. Thacker,” Stefani grinned before redirecting her attention to Blanc. “It is rumoured that you caught a glimpse of him once, but he escaped you.”
Blanc took another sip of his tea, nodding at Phillip in thanks, their eyes meeting across the room, a private smile passing between them.
“Hmm. Yes. The Gentleman Thief,” he murmured, placing the teacup down. “I did catch up to him once. Just barely. But he was more of a shadow, a suggestion of a man than anything concrete. Tall, strong build. No notable features to be seen in the dim light.”
Stefani scribbled something down in her notebook before glancing back up, face pensive.
“He wasn’t seen again after that night. What do you think happened to him?”
Blanc drummed his fingers on his knee, mulling it over.
“Oh, there are plenty of fanciful stories. Like any good mystery, everyone has their theories. Some say he was spooked by my pursuit so he moved his operation out of the city and trained others in the art of thievin’. Others say he fled to the Americas, fell in love, settled down under a new name, and left his life of crime behind him. Though, that’s not me speculatin’, mind ya. I don’t dwell on what ifs and maybes.”
“Of course.”
She made another note, the scratching of her pen filling the quiet, sun-streaked living room.
“Is that all, Ms. Kent?”
She looked up, offering him a pleased nod.
“Yes, that’s enough for my piece. Thank you, Mr. Blanc. You and your husband have a lovely home. I look forward to hearing your testimony on the events in Greece at Bron’s trial.”
They shook hands and exchanged final pleasantries before Phillip appeared once again.
“I’ll walk you out, Ms. Kent.”
“Thank you, Mr. Thacker,” Stefani beamed as Phillip held open the front door for her to step out into the hallway.
“My pleasure. I look forward to reading your article next month,” he grinned back, before nodding goodbye and beginning to shut the door.
“Oh! Mr. Thacker!”
Phillip pulled the door back slightly ajar, puzzled.
“Yes?”
The journalist looked a little abashed before shrugging.
“I was just wondering if it would be okay for me to ask a little about you too? Nothing too invasive, or anything that would violate your privacy.”
Phillip glanced over his shoulder briefly before nodding. “Alright, fire away.”
She whipped her notebook back out.
“You’ve lived in the States for over twenty-five years now, correct?”
“Yes. I arrived from London in the late nineties.”
“And, having studied to be a lawyer in London, you set out to qualify to practice US law?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“And you met Mr. Blanc in…?”
“1998. At a fundraiser for the homeless.”
She looked up from her notes, their eyes locking.
“Has your and your husband’s philanthropy always been important to you? Looking out for the less fortunate?”
Phillip nodded firmly.
“Yes. Blanc and I have always had that in common. It’s what first drew me to him.”
Something crossed over Stefani’s face at that but she said nothing, merely holding out her hand for him to shake.
“Great. Thank you for your time, Mr. Thacker.”
He took her hand.
“Phillip, please.”
“Phillip, pleased to meet you,” she smiled before dropping his hand, turning on her heel, and making her way down the hallway toward the elevators.
He watched her go until she disappeared around the corner before finally closing the door with a snap.
“I know you wanna look through that peephole.”
He jumped at the sudden, very close voice just over his shoulder.
“Ben, Jesus! Don’t sneak up on me like that.”
Blanc’s lips gave an amused twitch as he took another step closer, reaching out and pulling Phillip into him, hands encircling his waist.
“There was a time when I couldn’t sneak up on you at all,” he half-whispered into his ear, resting his chin on his shoulder.
“Hmm. Those were the days,” Phillip muttered as his hands fell to his hips, squeezing.
“Smart journalist that Stefani Kent. She’ll go far,” Blanc remarked lightly, leaning up to peck Phillip’s jaw.
He couldn’t contain his slight shiver at the press of those clever lips against his skin, even after all these years.
“Hmm. Very smart indeed,” he agreed before tensing. “You think she knows?”
A quiet beat passed between them.
“She might suspect,” Blanc mumbled into his neck, peppering it with comforting kisses. “But if she does, she has no proof.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Blanc drew back slightly, his eyebrows drawn together.
“You’re not worried, are you?”
A predictable scoff escaped Phillip.
“With you here? Never. Besides, it was sort of nice to take a trip down memory lane,” he smirked, his tone suggestive as he wound his husband back into his embrace, mouths brushing between words. “That ‘just shy of thirty, wet-behind-the-ears foreigner,’ did leave quite the impression on me.”
Even after twenty-five years, his imitation of Blanc’s accent was still wonderfully woeful. And Blanc loved him all the more for it.
“Well, the ‘just over thirty, wily gentleman with impeccable manners and even better penchant for philanthropy’ made quite the impression back,” Benoit murmured in an equally-awful English accent before leaning in for a proper kiss.
Phillip stopped smiling so he could deepen it, nipping at his bottom lip playfully before pulling back to look him in those striking eyes of his.
“I have to say, I did like your tale of what could have happened to him. Sounds nice. Like the best possible outcome. ‘A master thief falls in love with the dapper detective hired to catch him.’ It’s like something out of an Agatha Christie novel.”
Blanc trailed his hands up to clasp his shoulders.
“Hmm, but you know what they say. Truth is stranger than fiction.”
“That it is,” Phillip agreed. “It was fun chasing each other around London back then. Like the most adrenaline-fueled foreplay ever. I almost miss it.”
Blanc reached up to clasp his jaw, his thumb trailing his cheek.
“Well now, there are other ways to ignite adrenaline-fueled foreplay that doesn’t involve grand larceny, darlin’.”
“Oh, really?” Phillip asked, his innocent tone undercut by the spark in his gaze. “What do you suggest, then, Detective?”