The quiet chaplain

Hana stepped out, her phone in her hand. "The police are on their way," she said. Her voice shook only a little.

Duval looked at the girl, then at the short man, and slowly sat down again.

"The cross is safe," said Mr Brown. "I posted it this morning, from the post office next to the bookshop. By now it is at the museum."

Hana had a sudden epiphany. The salt, the milk tea, the wrong prices, the broken glass: each strange event had been a message. "You wanted someone to follow you."

"I hoped someone would," he said. "I'm glad it was you."

In hindsight, it all made sense. The clumsy librarian had been the most shrewd person in KL that day. His unassuming manner was not a disguise; it was simply who he was, and that was why nobody saw him coming.

"How does a man like you understand all my duplicity?" Duval asked.

Mr Brown answered with real humility. "For thirty years, people have told me their troubles. You learn how hearts work, the good and the bad. I am not clever. I just listen."

When the police arrived, Duval bowed to him before they led him away. It was a surprisingly magnanimous gesture from a man who had just lost.

On Monday, the blue cross shone in a glass case at the museum. Mr Brown stood before it in reverent silence. Then he went back to look for his umbrella.