Kevin and Jennifer, a nice couple from Ohio, were angry.  This trip to Europe was a 15^th wedding anniversary present to themselves, and they had spent extra to stay in a better hotel.  So there was no excuse for the people next door crashing around and laughing like maniacs at four in the morning.  Finally, Kevin, a no-nonsense HR manager, had had enough and took his fist and banged on the wall.  Startled by the sudden thumping, the people next door, Emily and Dreyfus, desperately swallowed their euphoric “we-did-it” laughter and got up off the floor.  Clenching his teeth, Dreyfus put his finger to his lips and Emily, both hands over her mouth, nodded her head.  They stopped — tightening the muscles in their neck to fend off the giggles — took a couple of laboured big breaths and looked down at the bed.

Even in the grey hotel light, the paintings rose solemnly into the room.  They were beyond magnificent.  They were lost moments, forever captured on canvas, the immortality of genius — and Emily and Dreyfus were completely overawed in their presence.  They just stood there like inarticulate animals.

Finally, Emily took a step back. “So what happens now?” she whispered.

Hypnotized by the power of the paintings, Dreyfus wasn’t actually able to string together a coherent thought.  He sat down on the floor again to put them out of his sight.  Emily sat down beside him, and like two campfire conspirators, they looked into the middle distance for possibilities.

“I need to call off Sydney’s people.  And the driver.” Dreyfus turned his head, “How did you get them in here?”

“Like I showed you, in my sweater.  I just walked in.”

“They saw you?”

“Just the night manager — and he’s probably seen worse than a Duchess in her underwear.  He won’t make any connections.  But we need to get rid of my clothes.  I may have left fibers or something.”

“Gloves?”

“Of course, but I have a motor scooter.  Sydney got it for me.”

“Sydney?  You used Sydney?”  It was almost an accusation.

“You did, too!”

Dreyfus thought for a minute.  It was time to go to work. “Alright, call Sydney.  He’ll get rid of everything.  Just tell him it all has to disappear.”

“Now?”

“Soon.  What time does the gallery open?”

“Nine, I think, but the security guards change at seven.”

Dreyfus looked at his watch.  It was nearly 4:30.  He closed his eyes and calculated. “Now.”

Emily crawled over to the bed and did a long reach under it to get her purse.  She took out her telephone and tapped Sydney’s number.  Dreyfus stood up and pulled the telephone he’d been given out of his jacket pocket.  He went into the bathroom.

“Good morning, ma’am.”

“Good morning, Sydney.  Don’t you ever sleep?”

“Certainly, ma’am.  More than my share,” Sydney said — and waited.

“I know it’s early, but I need you to come and get the motorbike you got me, and I have a bag of clothes.  I’d like them both to disappear?”

“Where is the scooter?” Sydney’s tone changed slightly.

“On the north corner, by the hotel.  Across from the church.”

“Go set the bag by the scooter, and leave the keys under the tire.  I’ll take care of it.”

“Thank you, Sydney.  You’re a gem.”

“Yes, ma’am.  Anything else?”

“No, I don’t think so.  I’ll see you back in London.”

“Certainly.  Good-bye then.”

“Good-bye.”

A couple of minutes later, Dreyfus came out of the bathroom.

“Alright, I’ve got someone coming for the paintings.  He’ll be right away.”

Emily stepped back to the bed.

“Not this one.  The Modigliani’s mine.”

“What?”

“I stole it, fair and square.  It’s mine.”

“No, that’s not part of the deal.  We’re giving these back when they let Marta out of prison.  We’re not thieves.”

Emily gestured at the bed, smiled sarcastically and nodded her head.  “I think we are.  At least, I am.”

“Oh, no!  Don’t try and twist the ….  Nobody asked you to get involved.”

“That’s my painting, Sinclair.  You want a painting — go steal your own.”

“I was going to, but somebody beat me to it.”

“Miss your chance; lose your turn.  Besides, I’ve already given you four.  Why do you need mine, too, you greedy bastard?”

Dreyfus laughed.

“Shhh,” Emily said, with her finger to her lips, “You’ll wake the neighbours again.”

Emily started to collect the things she’d bought over the last few days. “I’m going to go and leave this stuff for Sydney,” Emily said, pulling down her black slacks and stepping out of them.  She took off the sports bra.  She rolled them together and put them — with everything else — into the one-on-every-corner Tati bag.  Then she put on jeans and a t-shirt.  She picked the bag up.  It was bulgy big but not heavy.

“And my painting better be here when I get back,” she said, opening the door.

Later that day, the police were called to the Musee d’Art Moderne.  Before the end of the day, fifty officers and support staff were assigned to the robbery.

Across town, at the Picasso Gallery, the staff wondered why no one had showed up to continue working on the upgrades they’d been promised.

In the afternoon, several French government departments were given videotapes of a group of stolen paintings with a ransom demand that Marta Demonta be released from prison before the paintings were returned.

That evening, in the Clichy-sous-Bois district of Paris, there was a street fire.  A mattress, a chair, a motorbike and a Tati’s bag of clothes and tools were burned.  Nobody called the fire department because there are always street fires in the banlieue.

In a more affluent part of the city, a tall South Asian man and a tailored bank associate locked a large leather portfolio in a safety deposit vault at a private bank building.  The man declined the usual retina and print security scans and simply asked for an access number.

On a bridge over the Seine, a young man dropped a gun into the river.

Further downstream, on a cruise boat, Kevin and Jennifer Becker were enjoying one of their tour’s Add-On dining experiences.

And at a Montparnasse restaurant, Dreyfus, Emily and Simon DeMonta opened a second bottle of wine.  They were celebrating.

The End

This is a work of fiction.  Any resemblance to real people or a real robbery on May 20^th 2010 is purely coincidental.

—

Emily And Dreyfus – 1

Paris may be called the City of Light, but it’s also a city full of shadows.  There are many dark places lurking in the Parisian night, and Emily was sitting comfortably with her back to a tree in one of them.  Dressed in the black sweater, slacks, gloves and crepe-soled shoes she’d bought at Tati’s the day before, and with her hair neatly tucked into a black hair net, she was virtually invisible.  She was waiting, and despite the nagging itch in the back of her mind that she’d forgotten something, was quite calm and confident.  In fact, this was the most relaxed she’d felt since Simon DeMonta had telephoned the loft over the river … what seemed like a month ago.

She knew the Musee d’Art Moderne.  She’d been through it a hundred times.  She’d worked there.  She knew which paintings were where.  She knew there were dim floor lights to show her the way.  She knew the control room and the staff room were two different places.  She knew there were only three night guards.  She knew how she was going to get in and how she was going to get out.  But, most of all, she knew the alarm system was broken.  She’d discovered that the first day when the motion detectors on the walls, in the doorways and on the paintings didn’t change from green to red when people walked by.  And without an alarm, she knew that, as long as no one was watching the CCTV monitors, no one would ever know that Emily Perry-Turner, Duchess of Weldon, had walked away with 100 million Euros worth of irreplaceable art.  And that was what she was waiting for.

A few minutes later, at almost exactly 2 A.M., she heard the sound of a single vehicle rise out of the white noise of the deserted city.  She watched it pull up to the door she’d knocked on the night before, saw the driver get out with a basket and ring the bell.  Less than a minute later, a bold shaft of light cut through the darkness when the door opened.  There was talk that Emily couldn’t hear.  The driver opened the basket, closed it and handed it to the security guard.  Then he turned around and got back in his van.  The door closed and the light was gone.  A long minute later, the van drove away and Emily moved.  She picked up her black backpack, walked calmly across the street, up the wide stairs and along the concrete balustrade to the red line of graffiti where she was invisible again.  She stopped, playing the scene inside the gallery in her head.    The question, the note, the retold story of the damsel in distress falling out of her dress, a couple more rude jokes, the decision, and fingers crossed/fingers crossed, all three guards leaving the control room to eat their very expensive lunch.

Emily walked in a straight line to the window from the night before.  She took the electric screwdriver out of her backpack and, once again, unscrewed all six screws top to bottom — but this time she just let them fall.  She took the weight of the window in her hands and on her knees, moved it sideways, then slid it down the wall.  She twisted the lock she’d broken the night before, off its hasp and pushed the metal grate open.  She put the screwdriver back, picked a wooden wedge out of the backpack and stepped neatly through the open window.  She knew there was no CCTV in the service hall, so it wasn’t until she opened a door to the actual gallery that she put a second black hair net over her face.  She wedged the door open and, without hesitation, stepped into camera range.  She stood there, ready to run.  Out the door, down the hall, through the window and gone.  Out the door, down the hall, through the window and gone.  She rehearsed it in her head.  Out the door, down the hall, through the window and gone.  Two minutes.  Three minutes.  Out the door, down the hall, through the window and gone.  Five minutes.  Nobody came.  Eight minutes.  They weren’t coming.  Now, it didn’t matter.  The cameras would record her but with the hair net over her face and the sports bra and sweater flattening her silhouette, all they would see was a grainy, faceless, smallish man – because women don’t rob art galleries.

Emily worked easily and didn’t hurry.  She knew she had at least twenty minutes, maybe more.  First, she took all four paintings off the wall.  Then she took two of them out the door, down the hall and through the open window to the red mark on the concrete balustrade.  She went back into the galley and got the next two — out the door, down the hall and through the open window.  She set them down with the others.  She exhaled.  She was clear of the cameras, out of range, halfway home free.  She opened her backpack for the tools to remove the paintings from the frames.  In a couple of minutes she’s be on her motorbike and gone.  But … but … She stopped.  She wanted the Modigliani.  It wasn’t part of the bargain she’d made with herself.  It wasn’t part of DeMonta’s deal.  It wasn’t anything, really.  But she wanted it.

“No, don’t be stupid.  It’s in a different room.  It’s too late.”

“It’s not that far.”

“No, leave it.  Don’t push your luck.”

“You’ll never get the chance again.”

Without another thought, Emily stood up and ran back to the gallery — in the window, down the hall, through the door and across the gallery.  She grabbed the Modigliani off the wall.  She could feel the electronic eyes on her, but she was either caught or not, so she just kept moving.  At the door, she pushed it with her shoulder and picked up the wedge.  It glided shut.  She ran down the hall and out through the window.  She stopped to close the grate and carefully walked the straight line to the balustrade – just in case the security guards were back in the control room.  She set the Modigliani down with the others and stood there to catch her breath.  She pulled the hair net off her face and looked around.  The night was dark and deserted — empty — and it calmed her again.  She knelt down, and with the tools she bought at the art shop, she removed the paintings from the frames.  She’d done this kind of work a thousand times, so even in the dark, it didn’t take her very long.  Less than 10 minutes later, she had a stack of empty frames and five priceless canvases at her feet.  It wasn’t even 3 A.M., yet and she was ….

“Son of a bitch!”

Emily suddenly realized what she’d forgotten.  She had no way to carry the paintings.  They weren’t that heavy, but they were all different sizes — awkward and unwieldy – certainly impossible on a motorbike.  Even if she rolled them, she’d never be able to hold them – her hands were too small.  She needed a wrapper — something strong enough to keep them together.  A five Euro cardboard mailing tube would work if she’d thought to buy one.  Shit!  Shit!  Shit!  She thought about stashing them somewhere.  Maybe come back later.  Not a good plan!  The minute the security guards did their rounds – any minute now — the whole place would be knee-deep in policemen.  She thought about leaving the big ones and taking the smaller ones — maybe sticking them up the back of her sweater.  Maybe?  Sweater?  Emily pulled her sweater over her head.  She took the framing tool and cut the neckline straight across.  She carefully rolled each painting, one inside the other, and pulled her sweater over all five.  They expanded, but the material held them in place.  She picked them up by the sleeves.  Nothing showed.  Nothing fell out.  It would work.  Emily put everything back in her backpack, grabbed the sweater full of art and ran down the wide steps to the trees on Boulevard de New York.  She got on her motorbike, put her sweater in front of her and kept the sleeves in her hands on the handlebars.  Twenty minutes later, she was back at the hotel.  She walked through the lobby.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning, Madame.” As if every guest walked in in their underwear, carrying their clothes.

At the room Emily switched on the light.

“Wake up, Sinclair!  I’ve got something to show you.”

—

Emily And Dreyfus – 1

Dreyfus was half awake, sitting on the side of the bed, when Emily came into the room.

“Who won?” he said, rubbing one finger in his eye.

“What?” Emily shot back, more than a little irritated.

“You look like you were in a fight.  What happened?”

“I fell.”

“Out of a building?”

“For God sake, Sinclair!  I’m tired: leave me alone.”

Emily was tired and still stomach sick from the adrenaline rush.  And what the hell was Sinclair doing awake at this time of the morning, anyway?

“Okay, okay,” Dreyfus stood up and went into the bathroom.  He turned the cold water on in the sink and threw in a towel.  When it was soaking wet, he grabbed another dry one and went back to Emily.

“Sit down, and let me see.”

Emily was pulling her dress over her head, so Dreyfus didn’t hear the “I’m fine.”

“Come here.  Sit down.”  Dreyfus offered his hand.

Emily took it, sat down on the bed and Dreyfus knelt in front of her.  He reached his hand to her calf and brought her leg forward.  Then he put the cold, wet towel on Emily’s knee and squeezed.  It was an icy shock and it stung.  Emily instinctively flinched.

“OWW!”

“This might hurt.’

“Thanks for the warning.”

“Seriously, what happened?”

“Oh-h-h, that’s cold!”  Emily shivered.  “I just fell.  My heel broke and I fell.”

Dreyfus lifted the towel to look.  The water had washed most of the dirt away.  He carefully used the towel to sponge away the last bits.  Emily’s knee was numb by then, so she didn’t really feel it; and after a few touches, Dreyfus was satisfied.

“Okay, let me see your hands,” he said, folding the towel.

“What?”

“Let me see your hands.  People fall; they land on their hands.  Let me see your hands.  Clean them up.”

Emily took her hands off the edge of the bed and turned them, palms up.

Dreyfus tilted his head and shifted his eyes to look at Emily.

“What was it?  A suicide attempt?” he said sarcastically.

Emily crinkled her nose.

“No defensive wounds?”

“My God, Sinclair, I’m not a murder victim.  I fell.  No big investigation.  I fell.”  Emily stood up.

“Okay, okay.  You want the shower first?” Dreyfus said, standing.

“No, I’m tired.  I just want to go to bed.”  Emily leaned up and kissed Dreyfus on the cheek, “Sorry I’m grouchy; I had a wretched night.  Thanks for the Florence Nightingale.  It feels a lot better.”

Emily stepped back and reached behind her to undo her bra.  Dreyfus collected both towels and went into the bathroom to shower.

When Dreyfus got out of the shower, he could hear Emily’s deep sleep breathing.  He dressed as quietly as possible, turned the Do Not Disturb sign on the door handle and put his boots on in the hall.  Then he went off to find an early morning coffee somewhere and meet the first team on Boulevard Raspail.

Emily slept for eight hours and woke up worried that she’d forgotten something – and she had.  On the other hand, Dreyfus’s day was going better than expected.  The manager at the gallery hadn’t questioned anything: he’d signed the work orders, notified the staff and even offered the lunch room.  The three-man team knew exactly what to do.  They’d set up the barriers, opened the grates, and by noon, the vertical shaft was connected to the sewer.  Two hours later, they’d found the junction box, identified the various wires and installed the splices.  Now, there was nothing left to do but hang around and look conspicuous.

Emily spent the afternoon shopping.  She bought a sports bra that was uncomfortably tight and a package of black hair nets.  She found a public telephone and called the caterers she’d talked to the day before.

“I have a delivery tonight.  Yes, that’s correct.  Could you add a note, please?  Yes.  ‘Merci beaucoup! Sandy.’  Could you make that big enough so they don’t miss it, please?  Thank you.”

Then she went back to the hotel, put the things she needed in the black backpack, left a note for Sinclair at the reception desk and went off to have a very early meal and see a movie.

At the end of the day, Dreyfus came back to the hotel.

“Excusez, monsieur.  You have a package, and Lady Weldon has left you a note.”

Dreyfus took the package and put it under his arm.

“Thank you, Sydney,” he thought and opened the note.

“Gone night shooting with Antony and Beth.  See you in the morning.”

Dreyfus was used to Emily’s erratic comings and goings, but he decided he was going to look into this Antony and Beth at the first opportunity.

—

Emily And Dreyfus -1