The message came into Keith's phone right after a large bite of bun. Gravy dripped over his finger and splatted on the plate, and he reached frantically for one of the many serviettes that came with each order. Hastily wiping his fingers, he took out his phone and read the long text.

"Yes! Yes, yes, yes!" He pumped a fist, and looked up at the counter where Davy was waving a thank-you. Keith grinned and waved back.

"He thinks I meant his sandwich."

Barbara was too busy wiping gravy from her own chin to answer, but she knew it was a break in the case for him.

"The call Tewksbury made from the hotel in Marrakesh was traced back to a source known to the French police. He hired a hit man, Barbara."

"If they know about this source, how come he's still active?"

"The French have no authority there, and I guess the Moroccans have no cause – seems he doesn't do any work at home. I hate to rush you, but my deadline is today and I have to find Tewksbury yet."

She looked at the mess on her plate, her expression doleful. The sandwich actually was amazing and she didn't want to leave it. She looked up and Keith was holding two fingers up toward the counter, and a moment later Davy, grinning widely, arrived with two Styrofoam bowls with lids and a bag.

"A habit it seems," Davy laughed, transferring their lunches to the bowls and placing them in the bag. "Oh for the life of a policeman."

"I need to change my lunch hour." Keith joked, as they slid out of the booth and headed for the door, Barbara uttering compliments and apologies to the smiling Davy.

****

Edward Tewksbury lived in a rambling, California ranch style bungalow, popular in the fifties. A paved, medium long drive that led up to a double garage door, anchored the right side of the structure. A narrow cement walk led across the front of the railed porch, flanked by potted cedars, to the main entrance. Keith used the heavy knocker to announce himself, and stood back from the door, waiting.

The door opened, and the man stood at ease in the entryway. A head of styled, salt and pepper hair topped the tanned face, and the neatly trimmed moustache twitched as he learned Keith's business.

"I've already spoken with the police and told them everything I know. I have no other information."

"If I may come in, I'd like to discuss your recent trip to Morocco."

Edward blanched and stepped back automatically.

Was this the Canadian cop in Nice? "I don't see what my personal business travel has to do with—"

"Let me enlighten you. Gregory Snelgrove." Keith saw the recognition immediately as the tan seemed to fade and he started forward when Edward began closing the door.

There was a brief struggle, with Keith shouting his police warnings, then he fell forward into the vestibule when there was no more resistance. Tewksbury was running toward the back of the house and Keith saw him grab a door frame and skid to the left. He ran down the hall after him, still calling out police instructions to halt.

Rounding the same corner, Keith instinctively ducked and dove to his right as Tewksbury fired a shot into the wall. He bounced to his feet, his own gun out and aiming.

"Drop it! Don't make this worse than it is already. You cannot win here, Tewksbury, now drop the gun."

The weapon came slowly around toward him, and Keith felt his finger applying pressure. "Don't do it. Just drop the gun and step away."

The tension was almost tangible as both men stared at one another, then Keith felt his breath let go as the gun fell from Edward's hand. He moved quickly and retrieved it, advising Edward he was under arrest for the attempted murder of a police officer, with other charges pending.

****

"You went over your deadline." The Chief's face was locked in a frown.

Keith gawked at him. "Are you serious, sir?"

"No." The laugh was scratchy. "Good job, Detective, and on a case that will have a lot of people talking for some time."

"I'm just happy it's over and that my gut was right."

"You know I'm retiring shortly and this will make it all the sweeter. For that I thank you, and in return, I'm putting in for a commendation."

Keith held up his hands, head shaking. "Sir—"

"No argument, Detective. It is deserved."

"Well, I won't argue then and I hope your retirement is one of happy days and fond memories." Keith stood to leave and paused. "There is one thing. Can I return the scroll to Galbraith, they are really antsy about its safety and want to get back to work on it."

"You know where the evidence locker is. You signed it in, you can sign it out."

****

Keith stood by with Arthur and Barbara while Melvin Dysart unpacked the scroll and did a thorough examination. Satisfied, he packed it away again and placed a high resolution copy on the light table.

"Was it alright?" Arthur asked nervously.

"Yes, it's fine. Thank you, Detective, you kept your word."

Keith let the remark pass and allowed as how he was happy to be able to return it.

"Now what, Melvyn?" Arthur again.

"Now nothing, Arthur. I've spent the last while conferring with colleagues all over, as well as a special pair in the U.K. and in Nigeria, and the conclusion reached by everyone is the same. Yes, the ink and paper are authentic and very old. No, the writing is a fake."

"A fake! But how is that possible?"

"There have been a number of fake documents uncovered over the years, usually the paper or the ink gives them away. In this case what we think we have – what we believe we have – is a very skilled chemist who was able to duplicate, close enough anyway, the ink the text is written with."

"Why? Do you know what it says?" Arthur was mopping his brow.

Melvyn turned on the light table and centred the copy. "People always assume that archaeological items, or anything from antiquity, are important, serious discoveries. Little thought is given to the possibility that our ancestors might have a sense of humour, or may even have been pranksters, although in this case it wasn't an ancestor."

Barbara gave a small snort. "Are you saying that's what this is, a prank?"

"The special pair I mentioned, a cipher specialist in Nigeria, and her counterpart in the U.K. between them, after some amazing work, discovered a hidden message in the writing." He beckoned them to the table and pointed to the image.

"You won't see it, they took this writing all apart - like a jigsaw - and ultimately discovered this message, grammar notwithstanding. "It's incomplete but they decoded enough to get the drift." He removed a slip of paper from his lab coat and began to read.

'In a dwimmer-crafty manner, ............ to excogigate a sweven, a galimaufry that could be used ....................... result in a hugger-mugger. .............. contumelious to embarrass ....... puissant with all their twattling. They could waste .................... the equipollence of this scroll ........................ sensation of apricity, knowing ......... played the ambodexter successfully.'

"Sounds like it still needs decoding to me." Keith stood back frowning.

"It's very clever and unique actually, and probably still worth a hefty amount to a collector. Whoever made this was truly devious. They deliberately used those archaic words to conceal the message even more. Frankly I'm amazed that the two cipher specialists were even able to find this, it makes being in this profession all the more satisfying."

"How could they possibly figure that out?" Keith asked.

"It's definitely a skill that requires infinite patience. They work on small sections at a time, finding nouns and consonants to build a pattern and eventually a picture – my jigsaw analogy, if you will. Many decipherments have been challenged by further, intense investigation. Who knows, maybe even this is not totally correct, although my money is on these two professionals in this case."

"So it's all just a hoax?" Barbara sighed. "Still, they had to get the paper somewhere."

"Possibly stolen. Even in this field, souvenirs go missing." Melvyn stood up and shook Arthur's hand. "Don't feel bad my friend, this was a grand chase – expensive – but grand."

Arthur winced.

"But why? I mean, that's a heck of a lot of trouble just for a prank." Keith said.

"You have to consider the interpretation of the message," Melvyn said. "Embarrass puissant with all their twattling. Puissant is an archaic word for influential or potent, and twattling is idle chatter - twaddle. You can Google the others if you wish. It's definitely from someone with a dislike for certain members of the archaeology community. Equipollence of this scroll, is the suggestion of its validity. It admits to being a deliberate ruse to embarrass. It may even be a form of retribution for some slight."

He laughed as they all filed out of the lab. "You might say it was an archaic version of today's Twitter."