This is AU, Clark has no powers. The story is set in the mid 1950s, principally in Monte
Carlo, playground of the very rich.
Clark is a retired WWII hero in the French resistance, who as the war was drawing to a
close saw an opportunity to help others, and admittedly himself, by stealing from the rich
and sharing his spoils.
He has since retired, living the life of a single country gentleman, with his villa, his
gardening, fast cars, similar women, a cat named Noir, and a subtly nagging thought that
he is missing something…or someone in his life.
Lana Lang, and her aunt Nell had come into an enormous some of money from the shockingly pleasant surprise of finding oil on their farmland. So, money was no concern, but navigating the gigolo infested waters of Monte Carlo was a challenge for 27 year old
Lana. And meeting Clark, aka The Cat, did not seem to offer a solution…at first.
Adapted from the motion picture screenplay by John Michael Hayes. Directed by Alfred
Hitchcock.
Chapitre Une
A single ray of moonlight falls between the drawn curtains, illuminating a long
rectangular shape on the expensive rug. Resting on the top of a finely crafted vanity is
an open jewel case lined with black velvet. Nestled inside is a collection of women's
jewelry. There are necklaces, bracelets, rings, wristwatches and an expensive
assortment of emeralds, rubies, diamonds and sapphires. They are in a random
arrangement, as though the owner had just taken some of them off the night before and
had been too tired to put them away in a place of safety.
Slipping through the shadows is a shape that stops in front of the jewelry display. A pair
of black-gloved hands is revealed by the shaft of moonlight—with expert dexterity, the
hands remove the jewelry from the case, depositing it in a soft satchel. The dark shape,
with feline grace, quickly turns and noiselessly makes it way to the window, steps onto
the balcony, and reaching above the window, it seems to disappear into the night.
Bright sunlight nudges its way into the well appointed hotel room. This light is in sharp
contrast to the silent moonlight of the night before. Across the room is a middle-aged
woman. Her face is covered with night cream to help her retain youthful skin elasticity.
Her nearly black hair, her naturally grey well hidden, is tied up in a chiffon scarf. She has
immaculately maintained teeth, which are easily seen in her wide open, screaming
mouth. Still screaming, as she looks down at the empty jewel case.
Clutching her robe around her full figure she begins running around the room in a
helpless panic. She sees the open French windows leading to the balcony. She dashes
out through the window doors, into the sunlight, needing to tell someone.
She leans over her fourth floor balcony rail and starts to scream to the world at large.
Beyond her is the whole curving sweep of the sea-front at Cannes. The mid-day
pedestrian and car traffic is heavy . Some of the passersby turn to stare up at her.
The woman shouts down to the street, first in French and then switches to English.
Au secours! Appelez la Police! On m'a volé mes bijoux! On m'a volé mes bijoux! Help!
Call the Police! They stole my jewelry!
Later that day, as night falls. A darkened room in a different hotel has a night-time visitor.
A dresser drawer is silently opened, offering a glimpse of another collection of expensive
jewelry. The same two black-gloved hands move in, and they scoop up the entire
collection of jewels.
The next morning one of the hotel windows is thrown open as a woman's scream is
heard in German: Mein juwelen! Mein juwelen! Ist verschwunden!
As the sun brings light to this third theft we see the comings and goings of the police.
as they enter the expensive hotel located on the sea-front at Nice.
On the third consecutive night there is a black shadow stealthily moving across a slate-
tiled roof in the moonlight. An enveloping darkness shrouds this hotel room, as the
moonlight is less so tonight. The back of a woman's head rests on a fluffy pillow, snoring
gently. A pair of black-gloved hands skillfully slide under the pillow, and reappear with a
suede bag. The hands open the bag which contains an assortment of brilliant jewels.
The black shape moves with cat-like agility across the hotel roof.
Early the next morning. The facade of this elegant hotel has one of its many windows
thrown open. And from the window is heard a long, hysterical scream.
Across town, Lana Lang is lying on an ornate chaise lounge on the balcony of an
expensive hotel, one bedroom slipper dangling from her small foot. The pink peignoir
she is wearing is open and not covering her shapely lightly tanned legs, leaving them
bare to catch the morning sun. Holding her porcelain coffee cup in one hand, her hair
cascading to her graceful neck, she bends the newspaper she's reading to get a better
look at the article on "Le Chat".
She reads of the recent wave of bold, night time robberies:
'Today's date, "The Paris Herald Tribune". The leading paragraph is in a Chloe Sullivan
Column. The column suggests that the famous, supposedly retired jewel thief called The
Cat—or, as he is known in France, Le Chat—has now become active again on the
Riviera.' Lana is interested to learn that this series of stealth crimes bear The Cat's
trademark style of never being seen, never hurting anyone, but yet getting away with,
what is rumored to have been a small fortune.
She continues reading, 'It was thought that he had reformed after becoming a hero in
World War II, helping to spirit many refugees to safety. Apparently, he has decided not
to let well enough alone and has come out of retirement.'
Lana takes a small sip of coffee as she reads that 'It has been reported that the local
police had adopted a live and let live attitude toward Le Chat when it appeared that he
had withdrawn from the world's stage, that he was no longer a menace to society. "That
attitude may now change, "said a member of local law enforcement.
Lana considers this The Cat character for a moment, allowing that he sounds interesting,
with the possibility of his having just a smidgen of gentleman thief charm. But, she's
certain that he will turn out to be an over-the-hill, ex convict with the wear and tear and
brutal attitude to prove it. She wonders what kind of person has the audacity to steal
from people while they are peacefully sleeping in their room? It is so easy to romanticize
exploits like this when there are certain to be some very crass motivation behind them.
Motives that usually involve drugs, loose women, gambling an extravagant life style, or
all of these.
She muses aloud, "Can a person like this be anything but a scoundrel, the dregs of the
earth?" But, what if this one were different. She thinks, quickly dismissing the thought.
"What's that Lana, are you talking about another of your charming dates from hell," said
her elderly aunt Nell, walking out onto the sun-drenched balcony, as she tries to rub the
sleep from her eyes. She quickly bends and kisses her niece on the cheek and turns to
get herself a cup of coffee from the carafe.
"Morning, Nell, did you sleep well, " a small smile on her face as Lana well knew that
Nell had drunk just a wee bit too much last night, as she was being regaled with stories
of adventure and romance by two of the aforementioned poor royalty. The two
gentlemen in question were in fact quite charming, with many amusing anecdotes to
share. However, it was clear to Lana, that their principal interest in Nell was the interest
on her principal
"I slept like a befogged log, dearest. What's that you were talking to yourself about just
now?"
"This article about this famous, or infamous, jewel thief. He apparently has just come out
of retirement and taken up his midnight crawls again, stealing jewelry from rich,
eccentrics like you."
Ignoring the 'eccentric' remark, Nell says. "That's probably what you need, Lana, a
dashingly handsome, gentleman thief to visit you in your boudoir in the hopes of
ravishing you, "a knowing smirk on her face as she reached for a croissant. "It might be
worth a few of your baubles to find a man you think worthy."
"Nell, you are too kind. But, I am quite capable of finding my own visiting a$$holes, as
my last 4 or 5 dates will attest, without the need to resort to dipping into the pool of
common thieves. I mean, where are all the interesting gentlemen…who are in fact
gentlemen, I ask you?
"Is that a serious question requiring an answer at this ungodly hour, or are you simply
venting your spleen?
"Hmm…more the latter…but if you have an answer I'd be willing to hear it. And, by the
way, this ungodly hour is nearly 11AM. So nice of you to join the living, auntie,"
exchanging smiles with Nell.
"…lucky I got up now, as my body was requesting another hour. But, speaking of the two
royal gentlemen last night…one was a count and the other a duke, I think, Nell added."
"And lord knows I have seen quite enough of the inbred stupidities or avariciousness
amongst the impoverished royalty here in this town, those two were a perfect example.
Do you not realize that they hope to marry you, or god forbid -me, for our money," she
said, with a small sigh of exasperation.
Nell and Lana had, just three years ago, come into an enormous some of money from
the shockingly pleasant surprise of finding oil on their farmland. The oil find quickly
awarded them a multi-million dollar buyout, with the deal including a monthly dividend
that was ten times more than the average American's salary. So, money was no
concern, but navigating the gigolo infested waters of Monte Carlo was a challenge for 27
year old Lana Lang.
Although her aunt thought she was watching over Lana, protecting her from the cruel
world, in fact it was Lana's modestly cynical outlook that had kept both of them out of
serious situations.
Had Lana not one penny to herself she would have still been compelled to turn away
suitors, as her charms were many. Most recently she had put behind her the dire
flirtation she conducted with her weight, allowing it to dwindle to what Nell called the
"scary bones" stage. Too many angles and lines to best complement or lithe, petite
figure. She had somewhere picked up the absurd notion that she was carrying around
too much adipose. Something, at the time of this supposed excess, many men would
have prostrated themselves to have simple seen, much less touched.
Being the bright young lady that she was it soon became apparent to her that she looked
best, indeed felt best, with a couple of pounds less than her 'baby fat' weight. Once she
regained, what was a very modest amount, weight that was advantageously distributed
by nature art over her body and face, the attention of men increased.
She had the kind of beauty that did not vanish with the clothes or setting or weather,
remaining constant. But, like the well crafted setting for a precious stone, even natural
beauty can be enhanced.
And so, yet another cliché was debunked as she had realize that in fact you can be too
thin…but…perhaps not too rich.