Skip to main content

The Sapphire Mystery


Photo by: Robert Weldon
“Meet me at the airport in Atlanta this Saturday,” was the text message I received on my iPhone early that morning in my study. It was still dark; about 4:30 a.m., I knew Hercule Peridot kept odd hours. I immediately texted Peridot back - “Que se passe-t-il?”

Instantaneously an email from Peridot popped up, “We will review the facts on the flight – we're off to India. Click the attached link in this e-mail; Your flight is confirmed.”

My name is Adamas Bontemps, Graduate Gemologist (G.G.). I'm an avid student of gemstones and the lost art of deductive observation. My heritage is French. However, my formative years were spent in the Midwest, the Chicago area. My home is in California; as you will see, the nature of my work allows me the freedom to travel the world extensively. My good friend and mentor, who you will come to know through our adventures, Hercule Peridot, always had a surprise up his sleeve - but this one was more mysterious than usual. What could we possibly be doing in India? Obviously, there was no time to waste; the resolve in his e-mail demanded immediate action. I gathered my things, verified my electronic boarding pass, arranged for a taxi, and sped off to the airport.

When I arrived in Atlanta, I found Peridot savoring the scent of his espresso at the airport coffee shop, his mustache a slight hint of foam from his beverage. He was impeccably dressed, as always, with a fine vest, a subdued necktie, and polished shoes.


“Monsieur Bontemps, my dear friend, won't you join me for afternoon coffee?”


Oui, merci, how are you Peridot?”


“Fine, just fine - have a seat, my boy . . . This app is simply delightful; when I arrived, I had absolutely no idea where the coffee shop in this airport was located,” said Peridot. “Not only was I able to locate six in the vicinity, but the GPS in this enchanted phone gave me step-by-step directions through this labyrinth of hallways.”


As an afterthought, Peridot commented, “We absolutely must find a way to use this technology in our pursuit of the 
Gem Identification process. I’m just so smitten with this “Siri,” her voice is simply charming. How do you find her, Bontemps?”

In a dismissive manner - frustrated, motioning with my right hand, “Yes, yes, charming - so, what’s this about going to India? You brought me all the way to Atlanta to expound on the virtues of your iPhone?” After a short pause, I tried again, “My apologies Hercule, allow me to repeat my question - why are we going to India?”


In his aristocratic bravado, he raised his cup to his lips as he leaned back in his chair and smiled, “Patience my boy, we have a long flight ahead of us. We will review all the facts of the case at that time.”


A few hours later, we were aboard our flight to Mumbai, India. We settled into our first-class accommodations. While swirling, a vintage Bordeaux Peridot began; “Our assignment is to recover a Ceylon Sapphire that was believed to be switched from a Paris boutique just last week. My thread of a lead is a text alert that an unusually large fine quality sapphire was submitted to a lab in India for an origin report. It’s a personal matter, Bontemps; for years, I've tried to pin down my adversary Dee Davies, a swarthy Welsh gentleman, who has tormented me. Through my observations of international activity from this amazing device, I’ve discovered the client who submitted the stone is none other than master Davies himself.”

“Are you sure it’s a Ceylon sapphire?”


“That is what the origin report will confirm. As I'm sure you are aware, Bontemps, the most celebrated sapphires globally, come from Sri Lanka - from the old English name Ceylon. The Kashmir region is another location of top quality sapphire which has long since been exhausted of the gem."


"Yes," I replied. "It's my understanding that sapphires also come from Australia, Thailand, Madagascar, other locations in Africa, even Montana.”

Peridot paused a moment to savor his Bordeaux, “This particular stone has been on display in Paris for many years. It lacked a pedigree, and my suspicion is Dee Davies has a potential buyer he’s meeting in India.”

“So, the stone is not in a mounting, it's loose?”


“Yes, the original mounting is still intact - most assuredly, the stone in Paris is an imitation.” A French colleague of mine, inspector François Vidocq, has confirmed that nothing appears to have been disturbed at the gallery.”


Upon our arrival at Mumbai's International airport, we were walking to our car service when Peridot suddenly stopped abruptly, “There he is Bontemps - that man just getting into the taxi, it's Davies! So, he is in Mumbai . . .”


. . .  To be continued.

Comments

Most Popular of All Time

Sunflowers, French Steel, and the Yellow Jersey

Watching Le Tour de France this year, I found myself transported back to August 1983 as the Peloton in Stage 10, Bastille Day, flowed through the French countryside like a brightly colored ribbon. I was in my twenties, visiting family in the Charente-Maritime region of France, completely obsessed with bicycle racing—and convinced I was much stronger than I was. My connection to cycling—and to France—runs deep. I was born in France, and my very first real road bike, at age fifteen, was a Mercier . To me, it wasn’t just a bicycle; it was a work of art made from beautiful French steel. I rode that bike for miles, through high school, into college, and until the day someone decided they needed it more than I did. I hope they at least appreciated the craftsmanship. Its untimely disappearance led me to a Schwinn Voyageur, and later, when I started racing around Illinois, to a Raleigh Competition . But during that summer of ’83, while staying with my Uncle Jean Paul in Lagord, just north of L...

Morning Coffee

In this episode, Morning Coffee . . . Now, I’m not saying everyone needs coffee. Some folks get by just fine on, I don’t know, sunlight and positive thinking. Me? I’m pretty sure I started drinking the stuff sometime around the Reagan administration. Reading John Gierach’s "Ode to Campfire Coffee" in Trout Bum (a book that should be required reading for anyone who sees sleeping on the ground as recreation) got me thinking about how we’ve managed to complicate something as fundamentally simple as boiling water and adding grounds. Taste, you say? Look, black coffee is an acquired taste, like tequila or cilantro. I just don’t get it. Gierach, bless his heart, mostly drinks his java streamside, probably while wearing wool socks and waders and contemplating the mysteries of the universe. As for me? My outdoor coffee experience is a bit different. Picture this: the High Sierra, where campfires are banned (to avoid agitating Smoky Bear), and I’m huddled over a Whisperlite , coax...

The Endless Work of Wisdom

It always makes me smile. The moment people learn I've officially entered what I like to call the Great Un-Working (retirement), they almost immediately ask the same question: “So . . . What do you do now?" I think they're expecting me to say I'm restoring a vintage sports car, hiking the John Muir Trail, or finally becoming fluent in French.   Instead, I tell them: "I live life deliberately." That's usually the point when I get a polite nod, followed by the unmistakable look of someone wondering whether I've simply found a more sophisticated way to say, “I’m becoming a bum.” Apparently, "living deliberately" sounds suspiciously like unemployment, just better branding. The truth is, what living deliberately looks like for me right now is taking time to synthesize a lifetime of experiences into these weekly reflections. It's slowing down long enough to ask what those experiences have taught me, while keeping the door wide open to the poss...

A Tucson Typewriter Tale

One of the great joys of wandering without much of a plan is that the universe occasionally rewards your lack of organization. During my recent visit to Tucson, AZ, Robert and I were strolling through the Annex this afternoon, doing what tourists and newly minted retirees like me have elevated to an Olympic sport: meandering. The Annex is one of those places where every few steps there's another handmade candle, artisan coffee, or vintage object someone rescued from a garage sale and convinced the rest of us was always destined to become art. Then I saw something that genuinely stopped me. A young woman standing quietly behind a manual typewriter. Not a laptop designed to look like a typewriter. Not a quirky Bluetooth keyboard. An honest-to-goodness mechanical typewriter—the sort of machine that once announced every sentence to the entire office with a satisfying clack and enough force to wake nearby pigeons. With an iPhone 16 sitting in my pocket in an age when people write novels...