Free The Art of Stealing Forever by Stella London Page A

goes blank. What do I do?
    “My
apologies,” Marie
says, turning back to me. “Now,
are we all set here?”
    St.
Clair gives me a look. Time’s
running out. I have to think fast.
    I
look around and see a bottle of restorer’s
chemicals on the table –
right
beside St. Clair’s
painting. I recognize the label: it’s
a gentle water-based cleaning fluid that can be used on even the most
delicate canvas.
    In
other words, it’s
totally harmless.
    “What’s
that?” I
ask loudly, pointing to the painting. “That
dark smudge?”
    “What?”
Marie’s
head whips around.
    “There,
in the corner.”
I
lean in, clumsily knocking the bottles over –
spilling
cleaning fluid all over the painting.
    “Oh
my God!” I
yell as the liquid spills over the canvas. “I’m
so sorry!”
    Marie
gasps. “Merde!
No!”
    Our
cries draw attention. Everyone turns to look. “George!”
she calls in panic. “The
fix-it kit!”
A
small man runs over with a small bag in hand.
    “Out
of the way,”
he
barks.
    “I’m
so sorry!” I
apologize again loudly. “Can
I help?”
    Marie
and George busy themselves over the canvas until George realizes that
the bottles that spilled are harmless. “It’s
fine,” he
says, glaring at me.
    “Oh,
thank goodness! I can’t
believe I did that,”
I
say, playing the part as best I can. “I’m
not usually so clumsy!”
    Marie
says, “I’m
so sorry, Mr. St. Clair. We don’t
usually leave open bottles of chemicals lying around. We will get
this into the secure storage room right away to keep it from…”
she
glances at me, “to
keep it safe.”
    St.
Clair is charming, as always. “No
harm done. Thank you for being so quick to assist.”
    “It’s
a priceless piece of art,”
she
says. “We
will do everything we can to ensure its pristine condition.”
    “I’m
sure you will,”
he
says.
     
    I
manage to keep it together until we’re
back in a cab, speeding away from the gallery. Then I lean in and
whisper, “Did
you get it?”
    “Yes,
security code swiped.”
He
takes my hand and gives it a squeeze. “Good
job on the distraction, by the way.”
    “Really?”
My
heart skips with pride.
    “Already
a pro,” he
nods. “But
tonight is when the real fun starts. We’ll
come back and deal with Crawford’s
piece before the opening.”
    “But
won’t
everyone know it’s
gone? The police will be all over the gallery. And once Lennox knows
we were there…”
I gulp.
    St.
Clair smiles. “Don’t
worry, I had a replacement painted. I packed it into the back of the
crate we used to transport my painting –
it’s
right there waiting in the storage area. We’ll
swap that with the real one tonight and no one will be the wiser.”
    I
glance through the plexiglass divider up at the cab driver, who
doesn’t
pay us any mind. Even if his English is impeccable, he still wouldn’t
know what we’re
talking about. I relax into St. Clair’s
shoulder. “Nice
work, Robin Hood.”
    He
puts his arm around me. “Would
Maid Marian like to have dinner with Robin this evening?”
    I
smile. “Only
if he doesn’t
dine and dash.”
St. Clair laughs, his full out genuine laugh that I love so much.
“There’s
a place I know just up a few blocks. You’ll
love it. Trust me.”
     
    We
arrive at a tiny hole in the wall on the second floor of a small
building where the maître’d
knows St. Clair by name and seats us at a window table overlooking
the Seine. It’s
gorgeous, with dusk settling over the city, the blue-black sky just
lighting up with the twinkle of white stars, and across the river,
the Eiffel Tower.
    I’m
so thrilled I actually clap. “The
Eiffel Tower!”
I
take in its perfectly structured form, the tapered metal tower
illuminated with golden lights shining brightly against the dark
inkiness of the sky. “I’ve
wanted to see this my entire life,”
I
say, feeling a little lost for words. “Ever
since I saw a painting of it in a gallery with my mom.”
    St.
Clair smiles. “I
thought you