by Robert Wise
Michel edged into the hallway, his hand trailing against the bannister. A spill of light lingered at the end of the corridor, falling just before the birth of a half open door. Conversation grumbled from within, muffled words made unclear by the short distance. Two rooms sat to his left, both doors slightly ajar, no light coming from within. Nudging the toe of his boot at the closest door Michel peered in, retreating into the hallway instantly as his eyes crossed a bath and wash basin. He did the same with the next, hitting his boot against the frame and peeking inside, this time satisfied with the possibilities within. He ignored the light switch and swung at the curtains. He waited for the moonlight to settle and sure enough it’s bright glare sought out every silver and gold item in the room. From the bend of his belt Michel took out a folded sack and began grabbing anything he could see; picture frames, jewellery, medals… anything that’s sparkle spoke of wealth. He drew the curtains and took a quick peek into the corridor before heading towards the next room. It sat further on down the hallway, a few strides away from the illuminated doorway. Michel ducked down, hoping that his approach would be muted. The floorboards groaned restlessly underneath his careful steps. He looked back towards the staircase, then at the room of hushed voices. He edged closer to the door to his left and took the handle within his palm. It shuddered against his fingers before coming to a stubborn halt. His fist clenched around the neck of the sack in frustration, a curse bounced around his mind but never left his mouth. He thought about returning into the misery of darkness behind him but the light setting across the bridge of his nose was incredibly enticing. His boot edged forwards, his heart thumping in a race of hurried beats. A cupboard took up a vast majority of the wall opposite his stooped form, the darkened insides stuffed with jackets and long, draping trench coats. Just beneath the hanging fabric sat a row of satchels and briefcases. Michel let the thought toy with him for a few seconds, wondering if he should pass across the corridor and risk being seen for what was no doubt a briefcase filled to the brim with paper or documentation detained within a cardboard press. It clicked, a resonating shudder echoing throughout his mind. With immediate effect Michel slinked back a few steps, blindly plunging a hand into the bag of goods sitting beside him. His finger tips searched for something small, something unique, something he should have questioned. A point nudged against his thumb and he closed his grip, bringing the tiny item up into the warm orange glare. A medal, a crafted star of silver and red, a signature award, given to those who serve within the German military basked proudly in the second hand light. The voices became clearer. The muffled dialogue started to sound smoother and more precise. Beyond Michel’s crouched stance, through the gap in the doorway, laughing and joking in a drunken stupor, sat a room full of Germans.
He battled with his curiosity and slid his heel backwards, seeing the illuminated crossing as too much of a threat. It was only when he glanced back at the coat cupboard that his surging interest resurfaced and he knew he would not be going anywhere anytime soon. Gathered along the bottom of the wooden frame, jammed amongst a horde of leather satchels sat a briefcase, its golden clips twinkling with enticing distinction. It couldn’t be, he thought.
‘Michel,’ hissed a voice. Spinning around with a brandished fist Michel gasped a sigh of relief as he saw Stefan’s face appear behind the wooden spindles of the staircase.
‘What are you doing?’ Stefan mouthed. Holding up a hand, Michel focussed his stare and began to advance gently, his eyes fixed to the golden shimmer. An orange glow blazed over his arm and then over his shoulder. The floorboards threatened to creak beneath his nervous crawl. Stefan watched on, his teeth grit together in a tight lock. A segment of the room came into view, a chest of drawers, a heavy set of purple curtains. The inhabitants were still hidden, their voices now muffled, almost silent. Michel stretched out a hand and grazed the leather bind with his fingertip. A heavy set of footsteps began to thud across the floor from inside the room and it wasn’t long before a band of fingers curled around the door. Using the leg he was perched on Michel thrust himself towards the hanging assortment of jackets and coats, slumping to a seated position against the wall beside the cupboard. The door swung open and a set of boots clunked clumsily into the incandescent hallway. Stefan’s face disappeared into the darkness, clambering quietly back down the stairwell. Michel clenched every muscle in his body, afraid that even a heavy breath would reveal his hiding place. Oblivious to the sheltering thief huddled beneath him, the officer stumbled on down the corridor before eventually barging into the bathroom and disappearing behind the closed door. Michel didn’t waste any time. He grabbed at the suitcase, running his hand over its taught leather shell before stuffing it gently into the sack. He wouldn’t bother with the rest. He had to escape. There was only a matter of time until the drunken officer returned. Michel had to be quick.
Stefan found himself on the landing once more, a bead of sweat lingering above his angered scowl. He watched as Michel crept carefully across the corridor, a hefty bag trailing behind his hunched form. A sound rattled from within the bathroom and Stefan’s worried glare fixed to the door handle. Michel froze, staring back at the doorway behind him.
‘Come on,’ urged Stefan with a whisper. Tiptoeing towards the edge of the bannister Michel passed the bag down into Stefan’s out stretched arms before following him down the stairwell. The surrounding walls began to groan and the pipes that were tangled within wisped to life, startled by the sudden rush of water sweeping through their narrow channels. From behind them the two thieves heard the bathroom door swing open and the bemused officer stumbled out into the dark corridor, none the wiser.
The lockup wasn’t far from their latest heist. They arrived in a patter of hurried footsteps, not in fear of being caught or discovered but to escape the sting of blossoming midnight frost. Michel could not contain his excitement. He couldn’t wait to unveil the treasure he had pursued so ferociously. The only downfall was that Gerard wouldn’t be there to see it. The lights fizzed and the small room became cast within a shadow of dim light. Michel edged in first and set his bag of loot down upon a work top in the centre of floor. Stefan followed, his glare fixed to the crinkled neck of fabric that had just departed from Michel’s grasp. The door shut behind the others and Michel turned around, his arms spread, his grin brushing the curves of his cheeks.
‘If you’d all like to gather round,’ he announced superciliously. Stefan, Jacques and Patrice neared the table and watched inquisitively as Michel began pulling his takings away from the poorly stitched sack. An abundance of clutter met the wooden table top; a gem crested candelabra, a bundle of bronze and silver medals, a second tier snatch compared to the mystifying briefcase. Michel stalled and attempted to build upon the ongoing suspense but was soon nudged and hounded by a swarm of grunts and smarmy comments from his peers. With his fingertips curled around the two back corners, Michel slowly pulled the briefcase away from the bag and set it down, glowing with superiority.
‘That’s it?’ Patrice smirked.
‘This isn’t just any case,’ Michel snapped, ‘this is the case from the cafe.’
‘What cafe?’
‘Never mind,’ said Michel, ‘the fact is, I know there’s something special in here.’
‘You’d better open it up then,’ Jacques said, sharing a look with the others before returning his gaze to the golden latches of the case.
‘These things always have a simple code,’ Michel said, sliding down the golden combinations and pressing down on the latch keys once they read 1,2,3,4. Nothing happened and Michel tried once more. Again, nothing.
‘Hand me that chisel,’ Michel requested, clearly agitated, ‘the mallet too.’ With a careful press Michel nudged the tip of the chisel into the narrow edge of the briefcase.
‘Careful,’ Jacques murmured.
The mallet curved into his palm and he brought it down upon the chisel handle with a forceful strike, causing the case to shudder open with little resistance. His peer
ing audience leaned forwards, desperate to discover what lay inside. Michel felt at the gap, gently raising the leather edges until the hinges twanged, fully supporting the chisel bitten lid. A nervous flutter grumbled from within Michel’s stomach as his eyes fell upon a heap of pristine documents. In a hurried rush he began to sift through the case, pushing each Nazi marked letter head to one side. The butterflies within his stomach expanded, transforming into a horde of giant moths. A smile flourished across Michel’s face, a series of hushed whispers simmered behind him.
‘I-Is that what I think it is?’ Jacques muttered.
‘Yes,’ Michel grinned, ‘I do believe my dear friends... that this is a bomb.’
For a few moments the room fell silent. All eyes fixed to the case. Over the years they had pinched countless objects that were unique and rare and scarcely seen but this was something else and none of the four thieves standing around it were sure of what to make of it. Stefan would be the first to speak.
‘We can’t keep it here, it’s not safe.’
Michel turned around, his hands held above his belt, as if to shield the case from a pack of scavenging marauders,
‘Hold on a second,’ he protested, ‘you’re telling me after years of nabbing trinkets and kettles and worthless paintings... you’re telling me you want to just throw this away?’
‘Not entirely,’ Patrice began, striding across the room towards a large bank of wooden draws, ‘we were hoping to sneak it into your pillowcase first. Don’t think we’ve forgotten where you found this.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning that box right there belongs to a band of drunken Nazi’s who are most probably wondering where their bomb has gone.’
‘Don’t be so stupid,’ Michel defended, ‘they won’t be worrying about the case until about nine o’clock tomorrow morning.’
‘That being so, don’t you think if we try and sell this thing they could trace it back to us? Like you said, we’re not talking about some jewellery we pinched from an obnoxious banker, we’re talking about a bomb owned by the SS or the Wermacht or even worse the Gestapo.’
‘Patrice is right,’ Stefan mumbled, ‘the risk is too high, Michel.’
‘Hold on,’ Jacques said, ‘shouldn’t we at least see what Gerard thinks? We did agree that everyone should have their say.’
Michel was torn, instinct told him to decline. Once Gerard knew about the briefcase Michel knew he would almost certainly want it but on the other hand, this bought him some time.
‘Fine,’ Patrice conceded, ‘we’ll wait for Gerard. Let’s see what else we’ve got.’ Michel closed the briefcase and carried across it the room, tucking it carefully into a small cabinet below the chest of drawers. The others sieved through their plunder, stopping every so often to scan the table and see what everyone else had obtained. Michel wasn’t concerned. Taking one last, reluctant look at the briefcase Michel closed the cabinet door and walked over to the hustle of conversation in the centre of the room. A large grin sat across his lips. Tomorrow couldn’t come any sooner.
THE PROMISE
‘I’ll give you eleven for it.’
Jacques raised his eyebrows in disbelief.
‘Excuse me?’
‘I will give you eleven for it,’ repeated the bloated merchant from behind the counter. Jacques relaxed his bemused expression and tapped his finger upon the curved base of the pocket watch that sat above a square stretch of burgundy fabric.
‘This is fourteen carat,’ he said, ‘try fifty.’
‘Huh,’ sniffed the merchant, taking a sip of coffee, ‘try ten-fifty.’
‘Look old man, this here...’
‘Probably belonged to a gentleman in the marketplace, who up until five minutes ago thought he was carrying a priceless pocket watch, no?’ The merchant grunted softly, offering an arrogant grin.
‘Are you sure that’s only coffee in that cup, old man?’ Jacques retorted.
‘Listen,’ spat the merchant, ‘you steal you pay the tax, you bring stolen goods, watches, necklaces whatever in here, you pay the tax. Nine, that’s the highest I’ll go. Take it or get out.’
Jacques looked at Gerard who shrugged, offering nothing but a purse in his lips.
‘Ten.’
‘Nine,’ muttered the merchant, ‘and I won’t ask where you got the money to buy the watches and expensive leather jackets you’re always wearing.’
‘You’re a hard man to bargain with, Albert Hardy,’ Gerard sighed, ‘but you’ve got a deal.’
A band of notes passed across the counter and the pair left, heading out into the busy bustle of the marketplace.
‘So what was the take last night?’ Gerard asked as they passed through the square.
‘Not spectacular,’ replied Jacques, his hand hovered over his lips, ‘the place turned out to be a Nazi safe house for a bunch of Generals.’
Gerard shot him a look of concern.
‘A Nazi safe house?’
‘Qui.’
Their words vanished as two uniforms passed, their black boots clattering against the cobbled street.
‘There was one thing we, well... Michel found. It’s a funny thing actually. It’s future lies in your hands.’
‘So what is it?’
‘A briefcase,’ Jacques said.
‘There was me expecting something... spectacular.’
Jacques waited until a couple of townspeople passed before replying, his words edging past a wide smirk.
‘We found some kind of bomb inside.’
The sentence halted Gerard for a few moments and when he caught up with Jacques he found a thousand questions spilling from his mouth. They would have to wait, something big was about to come up.
‘Anything else, Sir?’
‘Four more my beauty... and how about one for yourself.’ The waitress smiled politely and collected the empty glasses before rushing hastily back into the cafe. The group of four, polished uniforms joined each other in a chorus of bellowed laughter. Michel and Patrice watched from across the terrace. The four young men sitting a few tables away from them had stuck around for a good few rounds, kicking and laughing and joking within a beer induced stupor. The sun had persuaded them to throw their heavy leather jackets over the back of their chairs.
‘Aha,’ yelled the uniform who had ordered the latest round, ‘thank you my dear.’ The waitress set a cold glass of froth topped beer down in front of him and rounded the table, smiling uncomfortably as each set of piercing blue eyes followed each graceful move.
‘One moment,’ spoke the soldier once more, ‘would you be so kind?’ He took a cigarette from his breast pocket and placed it upon his lips, offering the intimidated waitress a tiny box of matches. She uttered a response but it went unheard and as the quartet continued to glare at her hesitance she pinched gently at the box and shakily struck alight one of the matches. Settling the flame carefully at the head of the cigarette the waitress pulled away quickly as a cloud of smoke seethed away from the soldier’s crooked grin.
‘Thank you,’ he said. Nodding courteously the waitress handed back the match box and began to turn away when the soldier grabbed fiercely at her wrist. Her eyes became swollen with fear. The table fell silent and his peers sniggered at her expense. Offering a wink the soldier chuckled and released his grip, allowing the waitress to skip inside, tears battling to tumble across her cheeks. Michel took his sunglasses away from the bridge of his nose and looked over to Patrice who shook his head.
‘Pigs,’ he grumbled. The four yellow-haired soldiers set down their empty glasses and gathered their effects. A tip clattered onto the table top and the stumbling Nazi’s passed through the busy terrace, excusing themselves as they carelessly bumped and stumbled into a cemetery of silent customers. Michel glared at them from behind the darkened lens of his glasses. The last to leave extended his outstretched arms until they slinked into his jacket sleeves and shot the two Frenchman a smirk doused grin before heading out into the street. Their presence
lingered for a few moments and it took a while before conversation blossomed once more.
‘Look at these people,’ Michel grimaced, ‘running scared, afraid to cough.’
‘Did I miss the part where you took on the first three with your fists, shot the fourth and then carried the blushing madam to your sports car?’
‘Funny,’ said Michel.
Stretches of pale grey cloud drifted over the square. The beaming sun had lost its warmth and its bright rays felt cold and bleak. Stefan locked the shop doors behind him and headed out, shielding his hair-raised neck with the curl of his jacket collar. Rain threatened to fall and the citizens of Paris already held their umbrellas high. Stefan checked his watch. He figured he had enough time to go home and change before he had to meet the others later. A flock of squawking pigeons flustered overhead, searching for a dry haven as the first few drops began to plummet. Stall keepers rushed around the pavements, scampering at cover hooks and dissembling the array of poles dotted around each pitch. Stefan’s heels stepped off the curb. The cold began to niggle at his dust smothered knuckles. The rain was steadily building up to a heavy shower. A crackle of sound caught his attention. Squinting against the downpour Stefan turned, almost certain he had heard someone call his name. He took a few more steps.
‘Stefan!’ There it was again, this time sharp and clear. Stopping at the corner of the street Stefan shot another sheltered look back into the crowds of rushing people. Amongst the sway of tall coats a pale face emerged.
‘Henry?’ Stefan questioned, swiping a web of gathered rain away from below his eyes.
‘Stefan!’ the young boy called again as he finally fought through the curtain of rain soaked coats, ‘Stefan you have to come quickly.’