Peril in Paris

Ch 1

I am passionate about art. I can't remember a day when my profession wasn't consuming the depths of my mind. The kind of art I practice probably isn't the kind you are familiar with, for I am heavily involved with the arts of thievery, stealth, and cunning. I know I know. I'm a no-good thief, but not your pathetic Phillipsburg NJ "Gimmee yo munny or else" kind of guy, I'm more of a "Darn it! I only robbed the stock market of 30 billion instead of 35!" The story that will soon be shared with you is the story that changed my life forever.

It was a few years ago when I arrived in Paris via jet, to meet my boss, Captain Hans Stein, a former Nazi who had stolen art when the Germans invaded France in WWII. I had recieved a text message to meet at the Fantaisie Cafe for lunch, and as I strolled nonchalantly in my trench coat, I raised my head to see Stien and Reggie chowing down on baguettes. Captain Stien Had both shaking arthritic hands wrapped around the hard bread, and his scarred, scowling face looked oddly out of place in the bright sunlight, as I was used to seeing him only in dark alleyways and in candlelit rooms. Reggie, our very own professional hacker, looked exactly opposite the Captain. He had a large, round childish face, and looked like someone who would spend all his life in his mother's basement, only creeping out for comic con. He could've been Stein's great-grandson.

"Have a seat" The German's deep, scratchy, accented, voice was barely audible. I tripped on a chair leg, righted myself, sat down, and saw Reggie was furiously typing away at his enormous laptop. The old man started tapping on the table with his twisted, gnarled, brown hand. My brain immediately understood it as Morse code, and I relaxed when I realized he was just going over the plan for the millionth time. When the dots and dashes stopped, and silence once again returned to the deserted french street, Reggie enthusiastically stuttered out "S-s- So didya hear a- a- about the, um hackercon last week?

" Huh?" About this time last week I was brutally beating a thug with a bar of gold while skiing down the Swiss alps.

"Oh, well, well, some g-guy figured out how to hack into the breaks o-of a car electronically, and and another one can digitally make your laptop catch on f-f-fire. Oh oh oh and you know those pacemakers-"

"-I dont care!" I screamed a Reggie "Can't you see I'm trying to get in the zone? See you guys at the Louvre at 23 hundred." And with that I left, breathing in the spring air, going where my feet led me. Eventually my aimless stroll led me near the Eiffel tower, and I was so busy staring at it's grace and beauty that I nearly clotheslined into yellow police tape that read "precaution."

"Regarded ou vous allez! Watch where you are going!" The voice carried such authority that I thought it must be the President of the French Republic, but when I turned around I saw a solidly built French Inspectar frowning at me. I ignored his annoyed glare and scrutinized the crime scene. My eyes swept carefully over the area, taking in the unfinished painting on the easel and the chalk outline on the sidewalk.

"What happened?" I asked a younger, slightly more friendly looking police officer.

"It seems our beloved Benoit-Gaston Barbier had a natural heart attack or stroke of some sort while painting a portrait of the Eiffel Tower, but Barbier, as you know, has many enemies, and rivals, so we are checking this place over." I walked around the scene again, making the officers nervous. Finally I realized what had subconsciously been getting under my skin. I looked at the Painting on the easel again. The grass underneath the tower had been flawlessly crafted, while the sky and the top of the tower were still white canvass. I knew from years of experience that Artists always painted from the top down, so that they wouldn't get paint on their arms while doing the upper parts.

When I shared this piece of information with the first man, Inspector Casavant, He raised his eyebrows and murmured in a hushed tone "OOOh OOOh OOh, that does seem quite, ah, suspectes. Thank you monsieur. You are such a nice Bloke. Thank you very much." And with that he quickly kissed both of my cheeks, a custom that was strange, but not unfamiliar to me. I smiled, and quickly spun around in the opposite direction. Once a reasonably safe distance away, I took out the pocketwatch I had swiped from the Frenchman as he kissed me. I turned the watch over in my hand. It appeared to be Victorian era, solid gold, and had a design I couldn't make heads or tails of in the twilight. I could, however, see the hour hand, and showtime was creeping up on me. "I better get to the drop zone" I muttered under my breath.