I crept into the sub-cellar and closed the door behind me. On my way through, a bottle of wine caught my eye. It was a 1964 Bordeaux from Saint Emilion. I shrugged and grabbed it. I had room in my pack. Old habits die hard, as they say.
Quickly and as silently as possible, I ascended to the cellar and made my way across to the stairs leading up into the house. Now came the tricky part. I wanted to be on the fourth floor before I signaled Ashna in order to give myself as much time as possible. I would have to climb the stairs and pass by the entry hall. I removed my boots which were crusted with tan, silty mud from the catacombs, replaced them with a pair of soft soled sneakers from my backpack, took a deep breath, and started climbing the stairs, leaving the boots behind.
Ascending to the first floor landing I saw that the door to the entry hall was open a crack. I could see the guard seated in a straight backed chair facing the door. He was playing a game on his phone, tipping his body back and forth as he raced some imaginary car or spaceship through virtual obstacles. I tiptoed past the door and continued up, placing my feet at the edges of the stair risers to reduce the inevitable creaking of the old wood. At the top of the stairs I paused for several deep breaths, then texted Ashna.
—We should go out for a drink when I get back.—
Her reply came back quickly:
—Stop stalking me, idiot.—
That meant the internet was down. I turned the nineteenth-century doorknob and pushed. It was dark on the fourth floor but enough light filtered in from the street to see that I was in a short hall between two rooms. To the left, a luxurious office space with a large desk, old oak filing cabinets, shelves, big, modern paintings on the walls, and a grand piano near the back by the windows. Directly ahead through an open door, a bathroom. To my right, the library with floor to ceiling bookshelves, a fireplace with a stone mantel lined with small sculptural objects, big squishy chairs arranged in a seating group in the middle of the room, and velvet curtains pulled back from the arched windows. I hurried through the library, breathing in the smell of leather bound books and oiled wood. There were several sections of bare wall between inset bookshelves where paintings were hung. None of them were the one I was looking for. They were not bad though. The interior decorator had a good eye for composition. I couldn’t tell much about the color in the dim light. It struck me suddenly that the office would be where he kept the painting. The brief psychological profile Petru Ortoli had provided meant younger brother Carlu would want to look at the painting when sitting at his desk, bitterly conducting his business that was not the family business.
I continued into the other room and almost jumped out of my skin when something moved in the darkness, jumping down from the desk to the floor with a soft thud. I stood absolutely still while the feline shaped shadow prowled toward me. When it was two feet away, I crouched down and held out a hand. It was a Bengal, the most beautiful of house cats. With an insouciant meow, it sniffed my fingers and turned away, heading to the library.
I turned, scanning the room, and saw it—mounted on the wall opposite the desk. It had to be Petru Ortoli’s painting. Stealthily, I crossed an expanse of Persian rug and inspected it with my flashlight. It was not bolted to the wall. I lifted it carefully, shining the light behind—no alarm I could see. With a soft cloth from my backpack laid out on the desk, I removed the painting from the wall, wrapped it carefully, then slid the bundle into my pack.
Back at the door I stopped, listening. A voice from below spoke loudly—a one sided conversation it seemed, probably a phone call. It was the guard. He was in the stairwell. I couldn’t make out the words. Then I heard something that sounded like ‘fouille la maison’. Search the house! They must suspect an intruder. I crept softly back into the library. The casement windows at the back of the house overlooking the yard opened out and were big enough for me to squeeze through. I pushed one open and looked down. Ortoli’s yard backed onto the Paris Observatory. There was a ten foot wall but I saw a place where a raised flower bed would give me a leg up. When I knew I would be breaking into a multi-story building, I always carried a length of six millimeter high strength aramid rope with me. It didn’t take up much room and often came in handy. Forcing myself to work carefully, I tied the rope to a leg of Ortoli’s grand piano. The thing had to weigh eight hundred pounds. It didn’t budge when I yanked. I had my backpack on and was out the window in a moment, rappelling down the exterior of the house. My rope was not quite long enough. I hung, feeling the warmth of the friction as I let the rope slide through my gloved hands. The drop was about six feet. I landed with a crunch on top of a shrub. Hearing a call from above I glanced up and saw the guard hanging out the window. I waved
