Stile Maus (13 page)

‘Mr and Mrs Lagarde should be in first thing to collect it.’  The bell at the front of the shop twanged to life sending a hurried shrill through the workshop doors. 

‘I wonder who that could be at this hour,’ Mr Morel said, pushing away the cuff or his shirt so that he could check the pale dial of his watch.              

‘Yes,’ Stefan huffed, ‘I wonder indeed.’  A muster of conversation could be heard making its way through the shop and it wasn’t long until Michel edged through the doorway.

‘What is this?’ he said, tapping a finger over the face of his watch.

‘We said nine, at the usual place,’ replied Stefan.

‘We said eight and we got bored waiting.’ 

‘We?’

‘The others are outside,’ Michel concluded, fetching Stefan’s jacket from the coat rack before thrusting it towards him.

‘It’s fine Stefan you’ve already stayed longer than you should have,’ Mr Morel joked, thanking his apprentice once more,

‘Don’t be getting into any trouble out there,’ he said, shuffling through the doorway, ‘Paris is not as safe as it once was.’

Michel smirked.  Shushing him Stefan began to assemble the array of tools gathered upon the workbench, placing them carefully into each designated station. 

‘So, what’s the plan for tonight?’

‘You tell me,’ Michel retorted, sarcasm poised at the edge of his tongue, ‘you sure you don’t want to hang around here, polish a few door handles, dust down a wooden birdcage?’

‘Keep it down,’ Stefan couldn’t help but smile. 

‘Here, hand me that sheet.’  A cover of dust bitten white curled over the newly carved chair and settled against it’s structure.  After switching off the lights and bidding farewell to Mr Morel, they left, ready and armed for an evening of subtle thievery.       

Stealing wasn’t something that Stefan enjoyed.  The time of his first pinch came when he was aged just ten and torment and guilt racked at his mind for days.  For a while he studied the heap of coins grossed from the sale and considered slotting each silver piece into the metal box that sat inside the chapel not three streets down.  In the end he tucked the stack carefully into his father’s chest of drawers hoping he would mistake it for his own.  The coins were a produce of an old pocket watch worn by some kind of lord or chain of royalty.  Stefan recalled he wore a tall hat and a burgundy jacket that was lined with black tassels and a belt buckle that could pass itself off as a gold tinted mirror.  While Michel pulled at his hand, begging for a scrap of food, Stefan snuck around to the lord’s side pocket and carefully lifted out the watch by its silver chain.  There was no thrill, no ecstasy, just the guilt fuelled adrenalin that toyed with him for what seemed like an age.  When the jeweller asked where a group of ten and eleven year olds had acquired such a piece they said they had found it and when the jeweller asked where, there answers were iron clad.  They split the earnings and it spiralled from there.  It began with lords, now it was lord’s mansions and town houses.          

‘What’s the story with Stefan and the carpenters?’
Ludivine asked as they crossed the street.

‘Well,’ Gerard began, checking that Stefan, Michel and Patrice were out of earshot, ‘believe it or not Sanso De
Lorme was Mr Morel’s apprentice one upon a time, he even helped the old man build the place.’ 

‘They put their hearts and souls into the business,’ Jacques took over, ‘up all night, never an unhappy customer, he was a great man.’

‘So what happened?’

‘He fell ill,’ muttered Gerard, ‘and Stefan promised his Father that he would do anything he could to make sure Mr Morel didn’t lose the business.’

‘That’s why he’s in there most nights, working for almost nothing.’  Ludivine looked ahead, her eyes glazed in sadness.

‘He’s the only
one who has a good heart out of all of us,’ Gerard joked, kissing Ludivine’s sleek, brunette hair.  Up ahead Stefan, Patrice and Michel had stopped and now signalled to the rest of them. 

‘Come on,’ Gerard said, ‘it’s about time I got you back home.’  Waving goodbye Gerard and
Ludivine turned away and set off down the path leaving Jacques to meet up with the others.  Michel leaned against a tall stretch of red brick that hosted a door not far down.  Behind the wall sat a house, the lights down and curtains drawn. 

‘You ready?’ said Michel.  Stefan looked at the others before nodding and taking a step back.  With a kick in his stride he plunged a boot into Michel’s cupped palms and heaved himself onto the summit of the wall.  Gaining his balance he looked down at the pitch black terrace below. 

‘I can’t see anything to land on,’ he hissed. 

‘Try the door further down,’ Patrice whispered, ‘you might be able to hold onto the frame.’  Slowly shifting onto the soles of his boots Stefan edged carefully towards the middle of the wall.  His jacket scraped at the jagged brim as he dangled his leg down into the darkness.  Soon enough his boot hit against a solid stretch of metal and after a few cautionary taps Stefan allowed
himself to descend, gripping at the frame as he fell.  His heart raced and his fingers began to grow weak through nerves.  Once he established that the door handle was just beside his hanging ankle he dropped the remainder of the fall, landing upon a paving of hidden stone.  The lock latched underneath the force of his elbow and it swung open allowing the others to file onto the gloomy terrace. 

‘Through here,’ Jacques whispered from across the garden.  His shimmering silhouette stood at the birth of a doorway, light burning at his shoulders.  They embarked into a tiny kitchen, the work tops crowded with pots and pans and half empty glasses.  Voices seeped through the floorboards above as Stefan followed Patrice into the living room.  Candles fizzed beside the curtains, their orange flames ducking and folding in the evening wind.  Jacques and Michel began rooting through the kitchen cupboards, careful not to make a sound.  Ornaments sat across a grand fireplace, a mixed display of sculptures and small ivory animals.  A large couch took up the space beneath the curtains.  Dissatisfied with his find Michel crept past them and headed towards the main stairwell.  A dim light flickered across the landing, voices danced within its warmth.  Pushing his back against the wall Michel took to the stairs, slowly advancing one step at a time.

‘Check this,’ Patrice whispered, throwing a cushion Stefan’s way.  He yanked back the zip and ripped aside any lingering fabric before emptying the contents onto the rug below. 

‘Nothing,’ Stefan replied, catching another launched cushion.  A blast of light scuttled across the room.  They both froze.  The shudder of bright white simmered across the floor before running across the walls and ceiling.  Stefan edged towards the curtains and peeked outside.  The red brake lights of a car trundled off into the darkness. 

‘It’s okay…’ he began to say.  His words were suddenly ceased, caught up within a choke in his throat. 

‘What is it?’ murmured Patrice, sensing his distress. 

‘Get the others out,
now
.’

‘What’s wrong with you?’ Patrice persevered, joining Stefan’s trembling shadow at the window.  His eyes met the front of the house.  A host of cars were parked out front, their long black snouts stretching across the street, glimmering below a flattering glow of moonlight.  Patrice didn’t see it at
first, his eyes searched the darkness, scanning a hedge that sat across the way and the empty windows of the houses opposite.  It was only when he came back to the cars that his eyes finally widened with fear.  Attached to each side mirror, dangling before the front grill, sitting between a weave of red, white and black fabric sat the criss-crossed mark of the Nazi’s.       

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.