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Authors: Chris Ewan
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smell of its interior.
I climbed on. If anybody stopped me, I would simply act as if I was lost or senile or American, and allow myself to be directed back down to my room on the second floor. I might even stretch out on the bed for half an hour, if I dared, and try again later. But as it turned out, I had no need to concern myself with back-up plans because I reached the very top of the building without encountering another soul and, once there, I made my way through a flimsy, poorly hung door and out onto the mansard roof.
The view was quite something. I could see an entire world of haphazard rooftops and chimneys and television aerials and clotheslines and church spires and skyscrapers. It was one of those seemingly common spring days in Paris, when the light has a peculiar clarity to it that makes every edge and angle appear absolutely distinct. I lowered my suitcase and stood with my hands on my hips and took in the warm air, perfumed with the scent of freshly cooked pastries and ground coffee and mouldy cheeses, and enjoyed the weird super-focus my eyes seemed suddenly capable of. Way to the north, I could just glimpse the pimpled cream dome of the Sacré-Coeur and to the south-west I could see the glistening onyx windows of the Montparnasse Tower. Off to the west, the gold dome of the Invalides stood out in bright relief against the greys and whites and tans of the office buildings and apartment blocks, and nearer still the dark turrets of the Conciergerie were topped by a fluttering Tricolore. In that brief moment, I felt like I’d been gifted my own private city, and I must confess it was with more than a little reluctance that I finally turned from the scene to get back to work.
Fortunately, I didn’t have to do my cat-burglar routine and use a rope to climb up or lower myself a couple of storeys because the hotel and the apartment building were both exactly the same height. There was just a lip of tarred walling between them and I had only to step over it. Well, that and tackle the padlock on the door that led to the stairwell of the apartment building.
So from the back pocket of my jeans I removed a pair of very fine, disposable latex gloves and blew into the gloves to open them. That done, I slipped my left hand into the left glove and, being an orderly type, my right hand into the right glove. And winced. Hell, even the weight of the sheer plastic was enough to torment my gouty knuckles. Very carefully, I lifted the plastic away from the inflamed sores on my fingers, aiming to give them some respite. It didn’t help a great deal and part of me was tempted to ditch the gloves altogether and just give the padlock a good wipe clean when I was done. But the truth is I’ve never really believed in that approach. Why risk leaving a print at all?
No, I didn’t like it, and so I persisted with the gloves and reached for my spectacles case, quickly selecting a rake that happened to be slightly more compact than the one I’d armed Bruno with. I rested the padlock on my thigh to give myself something to lever off and inserted the rake. And a few moments later, the padlock was open and I was able to remove it from the rusting clasp and set it to one side, where it wouldn’t get lost. Then I opened the door and made my way into the same stairwell I’d negotiated just two days before.
And although it was quite literally a pain, I paused and removed my gloves. True, all I planned to do for the next few minutes was make my way to the apartment I was interested in, but if someone happened to pass me and spot my gloves it might look suspicious. For that matter, I don’t suppose the suitcase was such a great prop to have along with me either. It was very large, certainly big enough to be memorable, but I hoped that if anyone did happen to run into me carrying it, they’d just assume I was visiting a friend or hawking encyclopaedias. And besides, I needed something to transport the painting away in.
Mind you, it was
I climbed on. If anybody stopped me, I would simply act as if I was lost or senile or American, and allow myself to be directed back down to my room on the second floor. I might even stretch out on the bed for half an hour, if I dared, and try again later. But as it turned out, I had no need to concern myself with back-up plans because I reached the very top of the building without encountering another soul and, once there, I made my way through a flimsy, poorly hung door and out onto the mansard roof.
The view was quite something. I could see an entire world of haphazard rooftops and chimneys and television aerials and clotheslines and church spires and skyscrapers. It was one of those seemingly common spring days in Paris, when the light has a peculiar clarity to it that makes every edge and angle appear absolutely distinct. I lowered my suitcase and stood with my hands on my hips and took in the warm air, perfumed with the scent of freshly cooked pastries and ground coffee and mouldy cheeses, and enjoyed the weird super-focus my eyes seemed suddenly capable of. Way to the north, I could just glimpse the pimpled cream dome of the Sacré-Coeur and to the south-west I could see the glistening onyx windows of the Montparnasse Tower. Off to the west, the gold dome of the Invalides stood out in bright relief against the greys and whites and tans of the office buildings and apartment blocks, and nearer still the dark turrets of the Conciergerie were topped by a fluttering Tricolore. In that brief moment, I felt like I’d been gifted my own private city, and I must confess it was with more than a little reluctance that I finally turned from the scene to get back to work.
Fortunately, I didn’t have to do my cat-burglar routine and use a rope to climb up or lower myself a couple of storeys because the hotel and the apartment building were both exactly the same height. There was just a lip of tarred walling between them and I had only to step over it. Well, that and tackle the padlock on the door that led to the stairwell of the apartment building.
So from the back pocket of my jeans I removed a pair of very fine, disposable latex gloves and blew into the gloves to open them. That done, I slipped my left hand into the left glove and, being an orderly type, my right hand into the right glove. And winced. Hell, even the weight of the sheer plastic was enough to torment my gouty knuckles. Very carefully, I lifted the plastic away from the inflamed sores on my fingers, aiming to give them some respite. It didn’t help a great deal and part of me was tempted to ditch the gloves altogether and just give the padlock a good wipe clean when I was done. But the truth is I’ve never really believed in that approach. Why risk leaving a print at all?
No, I didn’t like it, and so I persisted with the gloves and reached for my spectacles case, quickly selecting a rake that happened to be slightly more compact than the one I’d armed Bruno with. I rested the padlock on my thigh to give myself something to lever off and inserted the rake. And a few moments later, the padlock was open and I was able to remove it from the rusting clasp and set it to one side, where it wouldn’t get lost. Then I opened the door and made my way into the same stairwell I’d negotiated just two days before.
And although it was quite literally a pain, I paused and removed my gloves. True, all I planned to do for the next few minutes was make my way to the apartment I was interested in, but if someone happened to pass me and spot my gloves it might look suspicious. For that matter, I don’t suppose the suitcase was such a great prop to have along with me either. It was very large, certainly big enough to be memorable, but I hoped that if anyone did happen to run into me carrying it, they’d just assume I was visiting a friend or hawking encyclopaedias. And besides, I needed something to transport the painting away in.
Mind you, it was
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