The Good Thief's Guide to Paris by Chris Ewan

poetry but, from what I could tell, it didn’t appear as though anyone was listening.
    At the end of the corridor, Paige climbed a new and altogether more dicey staircase. The treads were much thinner than before and we stepped on dirt-encrusted paperbacks for most of the way up. When we reached the top, Paige checked over her shoulder to make sure I was still following her and then she led me into a large room with a stained, unplumbed toilet bowl positioned in the far corner. There was nobody else in the room and from the lack of cushions and chairs and tables, I assumed the space was rarely used. The area behind the doorway was filled with yet more crates of books. There was an unmarked door on the opposite side of the room and Paige approached it and rattled the handle.
    “A woman from Estonia was working here until a little while ago,” she explained. “Her name was Sophia. When she left, I think she took the key to this door. And no matter what I say, Francesca refuses to pay for a locksmith to come around or to allow any of the guys who live here to kick the thing through.”
    “Just as well,” I said. “Kicking a door through isn’t as easy as it seems. And in here, well, you might bring half the building down with it.”
    Paige smiled and looked up at me from beneath lidded eyes. “You think maybe you could get us inside?”
    I swallowed. “I could try.”
    She stepped aside and hovered over me while I assessed the lock. It was one hell of an old thing. The keyhole was so large I could almost see the internal pins with my bare eyes. I glanced around and screwed up my features in what I hoped was a bashful way.
    “Would you mind giving me a few minutes?”
    “Stage fright?”
    “Something like that.”
    “I guess I can wait out in the hall.”
    “Actually,” I said, “do you have a city telephone directory I could borrow?”
    “You need a phone book to pick the lock?”
    I grinned. “Nope. I was just hoping you might have one and I forgot to ask before.”
    “Downstairs,” Paige said, with a heft of her shoulders. “I’ll go find it.”
    While she was gone, I reached into my jacket and removed my trusty spectacles case and then I selected a likely pick and the largest screwdriver I carried. I could have done with a can of spray lubricant too, something that’s always handy on a lock that hasn’t been turned in a while, but I didn’t have one to hand and, since I couldn’t face the prospect of heading downstairs to ask the wannabe poet if there was any cooking oil in the building or the Italian if I could run my fingers through his glistening hair, I decided to press on with just my tools and my own innate talent.
    I dropped to my haunches and peered into the lock, then inserted the screwdriver blade with my left hand and started to probe away with the pick in my right. By the time Paige had returned with the city telephone directory, I was in a whole new space.
    It was a small room, perhaps the size of your average family bathroom, and unlike the other rooms in the bookshop it had some semblance of order. There were three genuine, well-crafted bookshelves, each neatly stacked with a collection of hardback and cloth-bound books. A leather-inlaid desk faced the opposite wall, and an electric spot lamp and a vintage telephone with a rotary dial were positioned on it. The final item of furniture was a soft-sprung reading chair beneath the narrow window. The window was partially obscured by a grimy rug that had been pinned up as a makeshift curtain. The room smelled musty and dank.
    “Francesca’s study,” Paige said, in a hushed voice. “Isn’t it awesome?”
    “It’s certainly unique.”
    Paige inhaled deeply and stretched out her arms, turning on the spot. “I think it’s special, you know? There’s a vibe.”
    “There’s a smell.”
    Paige gave me a skewed look. “You always have to do that? Try to be funny?”
    “Just try?”
    Paige thought for a moment, casting a quizzical gaze