The Good Thief's Guide to Paris by Chris Ewan Page B

and broke into that apartment and everything went wrong? Or are you calling to gloat?”
    “Not everything went wrong,” I replied, returning my attention to the directory.
    “Oh God. You haven’t been arrested, have you?”
    “No, nothing like that. Everything went like clockwork, in fact. Only, the painting was already gone.”
    “Aha! Just like I said. I bet Bruno took it. And I bet he didn’t even live there.”
    I pulled the telephone away from my ear and frowned at the receiver. “Looks that way,” I managed.
    “Well, I told you.”
    I didn’t respond straight away because I was looking down once again at the telephone directory. There was a C. Ames listed at Rue de Birague in the Marais. Maybe, I thought, I could give her a call and ask her if she had any idea where her painting had got to? Perhaps I could even offer her a share of my fee.
    “Told you,” Victoria said again.
    “Oh, yes. Sorry. Stupid me – I only made ten grand from the job, I suppose.”
    “But something wasn’t right about it. You have to admit that.”
    “If it’ll make you happy.”
    “Very.”
    I glanced up from the directory and stared at the back of the door. A knitted cardigan was hanging from a rusty nail and I could see a cigarette packet poking out of the cardigan pocket. I considered lighting up for just a moment but then I dismissed the idea. I wanted our conversation to remain private, so it was best not to do anything that might draw attention to myself.
    “Then, yes, something was wrong,” I said. “But I couldn’t very well turn Pierre down without a good explanation. And, as it turns out, there was no harm in me going back to the apartment.”
    “Hmm. So what are you going to do now?”
    “I’m not altogether sure. It’s not exactly a scenario I’m familiar with.”
    “Failing?”
    “No-o. Finding that someone else got there first. Especially when that someone else was me.”
    Victoria began to say something but I could tell from a change in her tone that it wasn’t intended for my ears. It sounded as if somebody was trying to get past her on the train. I closed the telephone directory and sat with it on my lap, waiting.
    “Sorry,” Victoria said, once she was back on the line. “I’m trying to remember where we’d got to? Isn’t this the part where I tell you to leave everything alone and count your blessings only for you to try to convince me there might be some reason why you should stir things up?”
    “Wow. It’s almost like you don’t need me for these conversations any longer.”
    “Maybe I don’t. Maybe I’m all too familiar with your next move.”
    “Ah, like my nemesis.”
    “Indeed.”
    “Except, I’m not going to try to convince you of anything,” I said, resting my chin on my fist. “Because really, there’s not all that much I can do. I did think I might try to find Bruno, but I have a feeling that won’t be terribly straightforward.”
    “Because Bruno won’t be his real name.”
    “Most likely. And if that’s the case, I can only think of two possible options. The first is to find out if anyone at the bookshop knows him.”
    “And the second is the letter from the bank.”
    I nodded to myself. “I think so. If, as you so brilliantly speculated, it’s a forgery, there’s a chance he has some connection with the bank, which would explain how he was able to get the headed notepaper and the credit card. And it might explain something else.”
    “Oh?”
    I made a humming noise deep in my throat. “I found some personal documents in the apartment in the Marais,” I confessed. “The place belongs to a woman called Catherine Ames. She happens to keep an account at the same bank.”
    “Wait – there’s only one branch?”
    “No, it’s a multinational – the Banque Centrale. So it could just be happenstance.”
    “Or it could be a clue.”
    “Or even a red herring. Which would you prefer?”
    Victoria took a deep breath. “I’m not altogether sure,” she