The Evolution of Man

A sun-bleached Riviera palace of mirrors and money becomes the stage for a three-way danse macabre: two tuxedoed tricksters, their pockets stitched with sleight-of-hand, and a lacquered simian prodigy whose opposable thumbs tickle the tumblers of safes faster than any human picklock. Jewels vanish like dew, each disappearance a staccato note in a jazz score only the chimp seems to hear; diamond chokers slip from clavicles, ruby earrings melt from lobes, leaving bare skin tingling with the phantom weight of lost sparkle. Detectives—greyhound-lean, chalk-striped, perennially one beat behind—chase shadows through pergolas of bougainvillea until a single sequin, torn from a soirée gown, glints atop a balustrade and unspools the whole silk skein of crime. The chase catapults across terra-cotta rooftops, laundry lines snapping like harp strings; the ape vaults cornices, somersaults through laundry billows, his eyes reflecting the moon like polished onyx. When the net finally cinches, the human partners are left clutching empty air, cuffs gleaming colder than the gems they will never caress again, while the chimp—now a reluctant star—offers the camera a mute, almost philosophical blink before the cage door clangs shut.