The Parisian Codex

31 - The Burglary

The problem of the 21st century is CCTV. You know the legend that you can't photograph or film a vampire? That's a load of crap. Otherwise, Mathieu wouldn't have found anything to blackmail me with, and my life would have been much simpler.

In the early days of photography, I stayed away from cameras because of the silver fumes. Now everything is digital, and there are cameras everywhere.

I contemplated the one fixed to the colonnade on Rivoli Street, just opposite the Richelieu wing and the window I was interested in.

I'd left my favourite coat at home, dressed in black and concealed my wild hair under a beanie. My leather gloves would prevent me from leaving fingerprints. I didn't know if the files from the '50s had been integrated into the current database, but I didn't feel like taking any chances. In my sleeve, I concealed a crowbar. In my left pocket, an electric lamp, and in my right, a lead box fashioned from an old pipe from my bathroom.

A century ago, I'd have taken the trouble to sneak through the roofs, silently enter the museum, cut the display case with a diamond, and leave discreetly. The next morning, the newspapers would have carried headlines about the mystery of the stolen ring. But the cameras, motion detectors and alarms had complicated the game. I was too keen on avoiding the police to pursue a career in burglary. As a result, I'd lost my edge. I would settle for acting like a barbarian on a day of looting.

At nearly 4 a.m. in the soft snow, Rivoli Street was almost deserted. I let a marauding cab pass me by and crossed to the window I was interested in.

This façade of the Louvre Palace has low windows on the mezzanine floor, and above them, high windows raised two yards off the sidewalk. I jumped up to gain a foothold at the base of the window, clutching the façade's stonework with my left hand. With my right hand, I smashed the window with my crowbar.

The glass was reinforced, of course. It's amazing what progress glassmakers have made since I was young. Four layers of glass between sheets of awfully strong plastic. It took me thirty seconds to break through the layers and almost another minute to clear a path. By this time, the alarm was already tearing at my eardrums, and I was tempted to smile for the cameras.

But I'd done the hard part.

I made my way into the museum. The display case was just to my right. A few strokes of the crowbar did the trick, and I pocketed the ring. Red and blue lights illuminated the display case, announcing the arrival of the first police car under my window. No time to escape down the street.

The beams of two flashlights approached from the Khorsabad courtyard: security guards.

No choice.

I stuck my head out the window, and three voices ordered me to stay put. As if I'd do anything that stupid. I leaped from the window onto the roof of one of the police cars, and from there to the colonnade across the street.

I clung to a column, expressed my thanks to the architect for his raised ornamentation, and set off up the front of the building. The wrought-iron balconies were almost as practical as ladder rungs.

Below me, the customary summons sounded, soon followed by a gunshot. Too late: I gained a foothold between two dormers, and in two leaps I was already on the roof. The half-melted snow made the zinc slippery, and I stumbled over the edge of a flat skylight. The heavy clouds robbed me of moonlight but reflected the lights of the city, enough to see as if in broad daylight.

From the street, the building appeared to be a single block. In fact, it was an assembly of several buildings separated by courtyards. I stepped onto the roof of a building linking Rivoli Street to the parallel Saint-Honore Street. I slid down the rounded edge of the roof, landed on the first cornice, and descended in a few leaps. I missed my last grip and hit the sidewalk harder than I'd intended. No time for pain: I sped off again into Croix-des-Petits-Champs Street, veered right into Bouloi Street, and lost myself in the Halles district. The first part of my plan had unfolded—almost—flawlessly.