Cracking the Code

Cracking the Code

by Steven R. Struthers

Jacques Bissonet was finding life to be rather agreeable, particularly on this warm and sunny spring day. He was sitting outside a cafe in Lyons, the city of his birth, and drinking a glass of Veuve Cliquot, his favorite wine. Things were going well; he had no worries, and his bank account, while not exactly flush with cash, was in a healthy state.

Raised in Lyons, he plied his trade as a boulanger, or baker, in the patisserie that his parents had owned and handed down to him and his brother Gaston, about 20 years ago.

Jacques had a regal, almost Edwardian slim profile, with an aquiline nose and a shock of dark, lush hair that was a little on the long side and beginning to go a little grey at the temples. He had a long, sallow face that complemented his slender torso, and blue-grey eyes that scintillated with a penetrating brightness that reflected a considerable intellect.

He loved his life in Lyons, but after the death of his mother several months ago and his father a few years before that, he decided that it was time for a change. He had considered moving to Nice, in the south of France, to enjoy the frequently equable weather and sunshine. But his heart drew him to Paris, where he’d spent many a summer visiting a beloved aunt and uncle when he was young.

He liked the full-tilt pace of life in Paris, particularly the nightlife. But what regularly drew him to Paris with an unquenchable fire in his soul was Marie, the petite, captivating redhead with blue eyes he’d met one summer in the Louvre when he was 19. Over the next several summers he continued to visit her, for a week or two at a time when business at his parents’ bakery was a little slow.

The relationship was at turns fiery and idyllic, and left him thinking he could not ask for more. Even so, he still wanted more. After all, the one thing that made him such a skilled baker was his tendency not to settle for mediocrity, or less than he thought he deserved. One day, Marie had simply vanished, without warning and without explanation. Jacques was despondent for weeks afterwards.

Now nearing 40, he wondered where Marie was, and what she was doing with her life. While considering the move to Paris, he searched his soul, wondering if his desire to move there was really an attempt to recover his lost youth, or driven by the vague hope that he would find Marie.

As he drained the last drops of Veuve Cliquot from his glass, the decision to move to Paris was crystallized. It mattered not whether he would find Marie, or revisit the pleasures of his younger days.

The next day, he told Gaston of his plans. He was crestfallen with the news. “But dear brother, how will I manage the bakery without you? Your skill as a baker is the glue, the mortar that holds everything together.”

“Gaston, I understand. However, my heart is telling me to go live in Paris and it’s one of those now-or-never, once-in-a-lifetime moments. You know I’ve always wanted to live in Paris, and I’d be kicking myself forever for not seizing the opportunity while I had the chance. So I’m happy to sell you my share of the bakery. You can always replace me with some young hotshot apprentice who is champing at the bit to show the world how good he is. Besides, the profits will go up a bit because you won’t have to pay me as much, not with an apprentice working for you.”

Gaston looked at him, with a visible mix of sadness and resignation in his eyes. He loved his brother and admired his skill, which was such that it was something he felt he could never even begin to match. He knew that this moment would happen someday, given all the times Jacques waxed so poetically about Paris and Marie.

In the morning, Gaston and Jacques drew up an agreement to sell Jacques’ share of the bakery. A bit reluctantly, Gaston handed over a check for the agreed-on buyout figure and Jacques departed for Paris the next day.

After a couple of weeks of diligent searching, Jacques found a ground-floor apartment in the Sixth Arrondissement of Paris. It was perfect. It was spacious too, with large windows that let in a lot of light and a basement that he could access at will. A basement was important to him, as he needed to set up a workshop where he could engage in his second passion, which was woodworking. His hobby was more of an avocation than anything that could replace his culinary pursuits.

He quickly settled into his new abode and one Saturday morning, set about cleaning the basement after having his usual breakfast of croissants, cheese and coffee. The stairs leading into the basement creaked and groaned a bit with every step he took, reminding him of how old his new home in Paris was.

He reached the basement and surveyed the mess that lay before him. It was large and daunting. The basement was dusty, too and had a bit of a musty smell. Jacques suspected he would stir up even more dust as he began his cleaning efforts.

He walked over to a pile of half-painted boards that were sitting in the middle of the floor. Next to the pile of wood was an old trunk, with a small wooden clock sitting on top. The glass on the clock was cracked and the paint was peeling. A plain white envelope was wedged underneath the clock.

He reached over to the trunk and lifted up one end of the clock with his left hand, and carefully pulled away the envelope with his right. On the face of the envelope were the words, ‘A qui ce droit’ (To Whom it May Concern), written in blue ink.

After studying the envelope a little more, Jacques opened it. Inside, he found a letter, which he began to read avidly. It began with: “I am an old man, and by the time someone reads this letter, I will be dead, possibly long dead.”

Jacques continued to read, his interest piqued by the writer’s certainty of impending death.

“When I was younger, I amassed a small fortune. Sadly, I have no family to bequeath my fortune to, and no living distant relatives. I had considered giving it all away to the church, but felt that the money could be better spent by some random person.

I was once the owner of this apartment you now find yourself living in. Somewhere inside the apartment is a small black notebook that contains a message that will tell you how to claim the fortune that was once mine. I will not tell you exactly where the notebook is located, or how you can find it. It’s your job to figure that out.

The message is coded. Solve the code, and the fortune is yours. Good luck!”

Jacques wondered how the letter had managed to go undiscovered for so long. Excited by the possibility of putting his hands on a large amount of money, Jacques immediately rushed upstairs to look for the little black notebook.

He searched high and low, rummaging through closets and cupboards, and looking at every nook and cranny or imperfection in the walls in hopes they might reveal a hiding place for the notebook. Several days passed and Jacques still hadn’t found it.

One night while getting ready for bed, Jacques noticed that one of the floor boards near his bed seemed to be a little weak. It seemed to give way too easily.

He bent down to more closely inspect the area that seemed questionable. He noticed a large gap between the weak floorboard and the surrounding boards. Carefully, he pried the board up. Beneath the board, and covered in dust, was a small black notebook. He picked it up and started flipping through the pages, where he found many notes and sketches.

Finally he came to the coded message, which read as follows:

“Kinila eloishpo p bo Hbwc.artyefcatgse wuenehe guoitioocchbrt el.7 er5lh i tii rsn rT t iuefut ilvAirnl tuor ohiaio h naiurd enc,soainoyi iethfamn e hranwunl ieEtnn iofnrTwsf theyeokntrhs,s lumeo euh yrm otousaehoe setotActo nms.

oe9 t MtdrneuueeGoohu ida,soktonPii,st sooati cndeaet ms s ro rkoae is uenreeI M n rdlnyw nunM ernfitadb seosuarhnaoo aoa tbotohhaeTa nrk GDarhhadlni um gssc omnt bn yenfly so1o tccseho. te uucsxetd leouux,epe Af e.ytwro’eemabwoeyreS mg e imn eiaelni ewfrfmyyseno eoptfugeleo o e wuiid.h rnmcergv 0686579014.

a,AexelpsaddMlr

ieagnSn“

Jacques was intrigued by the challenge of cracking a code. As a child, he liked to play with ciphers and coded messages and enjoyed sending his friends secret messages for them to decode. He attacked the task with a genuine sense of relish.

Initially, he was puzzled by some of the numbers found in the coded message; they didn’t seem to make sense or relate to anything in particular. He then realized that the numbers were a red herring, thrown in to make cracking the code more difficult.

After several tries, Jacques had decoded the message. It read:

“This message was written in a Moleskine notebook. To claim your fortune, visit Etienne Giroux at 7519, rue Montmagny, where he runs an insurance agency. Present the notebook to him and show him the coded message with your solution for the code. Also tell him where and how you found the notebook. If your solution is correct, Monsieur Giroux will give you a bank draft in the amount of my entire fortune, made payable to you. Telephone him first before you show up at his office. His telephone number is 06 86 57 90 14.

Signed,

Alexandre Malpas”

He called Etienne Giroux and arranged an appointment to come and see him.

Once inside Giroux’ office, Jacques presented him with the little black notebook and his solution to the coded message. He also told Giroux where and how he had found the notebook and showed him the original letter from Alexandre Malpas.

Giroux was short and a little stout, with a round face framed by pince-nez glasses and brown hair.

He took the notebook and set it down on the desk. He then retrieved a piece of paper from one of the drawers of his desk. He read it and compared it with the coded message in the notebook. Looking up at Jacques with a smile, he said, “Congratulations, you cracked the code.”

He then reached into another desk drawer, retrieved a sight draft, printed Jacques’ name on the face of it and then filled in the amount of the draft for 1,150,000 francs. Giroux then gave Jacques the draft. He took it and then started to turn away, as though getting ready to leave.

“Wait a moment, Mr. Bissonet. There’s more to the fortune than just the bank draft I have given you. There is a message from Monsieur Malpas that will also bring you good fortune if you put the message into practice.”

“And what is the message?”

“Always be excellent to others, and they will repay you with excellence.”