Indiana Jones and the Lost Painting

Chapter 10

Opening the window from the outside didn't take much effort, only a crowbar and some patience. The trick was prying the window quietly so that he wouldn't wake Martin or his wife. Once inside, Indy began exploring the house. He snuck from room to room, careful to close the door before taking out his flashlight to rifle through closets and drawers.

He slunk around the first floor like he was exploring an ancient ziggurat, but instead of setting off traps, he had to worry about the still living inhabitants. With its pots, pans, and metal cooking utensils, the kitchen posed the more obvious danger. It's not that he believed Martin would have stored his precious paintings under the sink. But he thought there was a good chance that they could be stored behind a lock, and he hoped to find a key or even a safe combination, perhaps written down as insurance against an aging memory.

He had no such luck on the first floor but hesitated before heading upstairs where Martin and his wife were sleeping through the twilight hours. Once heading up there, he wouldn't have to worry about accidentally knocking over a lamp. Stepping on a loose floorboard would be enough to wake the homeowners.

Indy navigated the stairs carefully, testing out each step to make sure it didn't set off a creak, and changing where his foot landed when he started to hear a sound. Upstairs, there were three rooms and a second bathroom. The master bedroom was obviously off limits, but Indy explored both the guest room and the office. Moving at a snail's pace, he again checked every drawer, closet, and corner of both rooms. He hesitated before entering the bathroom. After all, it didn't seem like the most likely place to hide anything of worth, but he knew that if he didn't look, then it would weigh on him afterwards.

While riffling through the medicine bottles behind the mirror, Indy heard the haunted moan of a door opening. If he left the bathroom, he would be quickly spotted in the hallway, so Indy stepped into the shower and pulled the curtain across the tub. He sat down with his knees pulled to his chest, feeling a little like a child hiding from his parent's wrath after breaking a household rule.

Indy could hear Martin stumble into the bathroom. It took him a couple of tries to turn on the light as he groggily slapped at the switch and then he relieved himself. Indy kept his breathing light and steady, for fear that any sound could be heard in the twilight stillness.

Even after Martin had turned off the light and left the bathroom, Indy sat hunched in the bathtub another five minutes, hoping that Martin will have drifted off to sleep. The upstairs held no more secrets anyway. Unless there was something hidden in the bedroom, there was nothing to find up here. And there was one last place Indy planned to look.

Carefully stepping down the basement stairs, Indy continued using his flashlight. Although it was safe to turn on the light without Martin noticing, he didn't want to alert any neighbors who might see lights turned on in the basement windows in the middle of the night as signs of an intruder. The finished basement served as repository to all sorts of boxes, all those items that you accumulate over time, and perhaps no longer need, but can't quite let go of. They were carefully arranged around the basement borders, but there was one particular container that stood out. Among the cardboard boxes there was a perfectly square wooden box.

Using the same crowbar he used to unlock the window, Indy began undoing the nails, which landed on the floor with a ping like a drop of water on metal. When he had finally removed all the nails, Indy stood over the box for a moment. If the artwork wasn't here, then he wasn't sure he would have time to search the rest of the basement.

Inside, the ghostly white image of Trude Steiner lay on top of several other paintings. Indy carefully removed the Klimt painting, leaning it delicately against the box, and found at least a half a dozen painting lying underneath. Klimt and the Steiner family weren't the only victims of Martin's avarice.