The Poor Thief

   Pierre Le Gran was a starving but brilliant young man living on the outskirts of Paris.  Desperation and abject poverty had driven him to make a decision to improve his life by turning to a life of crime--  a single crime-- that would change everything.  He was determined to pull off the greatest art heist in history, more daring than the 1966 Old Masters robbery in London, more brilliant than the loss of Klimt art in Italy, even more breathtaking than the kidnapping of the Mona Lisa in 1911. He would clean out the most important chamber in the  Museum of Impressionist Masters on the far side of the Seine, drive out of Paris, bury the paintings and demand a ransom of hundreds of millions of Francs from the Museum's board of directors.

    He planned every step carefully, observing over several months that the pre-dawn hour was best to put his plan in motion because the guards on duty would be at the end of their shift and sleepy and the switch over in personnel and the day-time alarm systems would give him a clear ten minutes to use a razor knife and free the paintings from their frames. His van would be parked close by in an alley, the motor running, ready to throttle back across the bridge and whisk him beyond the city limits before the loss was discovered. He was working in his shabby room inside his shabby boarding house putting the final touches on the plan when there came a loud rapping on the door. He opened it to find himself facing his landlord, Mdm. Fournot whose cold marble face was exceeded only by the coldness of her heart. “You are two months behind in rent,” she said. “You will pay me by tomorrow evening or you will be evicted.”

    Pierre pulled himself up to his full height--- which was still a little less than that of his landlord--- and replied, “ Madam, tomorrow I shall pay what I owe you, AND I shall be leaving.” Mdm. Fournot made a hissing sound and waved her hand derisively as she turned and plodded back down the stairs from whence she came.

    Returning to his rough hewn desk and using a ruler and a hand-held calculator as his tools, Pierre went through each step of his plan for the hundredth time with the centimeter markings of the ruler simulating the distance he would have to travel from his auto to the riverside wall of the museum, and then on another map the precise steps he would take when finally inside.

   The only thing that gave him the slightest of misgivings was his transport. Granted his vehicle was serviceable but it was old. It  would have to get him to the Boise d' Balogne where he had prepared a bunker among the trees that would be impossible to spot from the air or via ground search. Here the famous works would be settled and snug. His burner phones would guarantee he couldn't be traced as he made his demands and an electronic modulator would add another layer of anonymity by distorting his voice.

    In the quiet and chill of the March night Pierre made his move. Things went exactly to plan, each step falling into place like the tumblers of a vault as he jimmied the service door which had no camera suspended above it and with a slight push watched as it swung back on its hinges. He then entered the museum and went about his business,  creations of master after master  sliced from their moorings until, in less than the allotted ten minutes, the large burlap sack he carried was squared and stiff with the world’s most renown Impressionist paintings jammed inside. He retreated, listening to the click of shoes against the polished stone floor behind him as the new crew of guards moved along and prepared to start their day. With the stealth of a cat Pierre scampered through the service portal and reached his vehicle. He swung open the well oiled double doors at the back  and placed the sack on the floor, then  slipped behind the wheel, engaged the gears and drove slowly away from the museum with his heart pounding but disciplined not to speed for fear of  drawing  unwanted attention.

    The sun had just touched the uneven tops of the apartment buildings on the far side of the river and he was at the middle of the Ponte when the auto shivered and shook and then came to a gasping  stop.  Pierre cursed as he turned the ignition off and on, off and on without success. The engine gave a final whine and then nothing more. In the rear view mirror he watched the approach of the winking of red and blue lights from a line of police cars. Ahead of him, the bridge was being blocked by a half dozen others. Then Pierre looked at the dashboard and saw the fuel gauge needle, which  never registered accurately, had doomed him. Uniformed officers were running at him from both directions as the eee-aaa eeee-aaaa of the sirens tolled in the weak light of dawn.

***

     At police headquarters an hour later he sat across from the Chief of Detectives, a large man in a rumpled brown suit  who entered the interrogation room and assumed a seat opposite  Pierre. He studied Pierre silently while sipping coffee from a large paper cup. For a moment the two men sat like a pair of mannequins, staring at each other without speaking. Then the Chief of Detectives said, " Monsieur, I must salute you. Acting alone you almost got away with it all. Had your auto not stopped on the bridge I imagine we would be left with few clues as to who you were or where you went. Yet you failed in the simple task of filling your vehicle with petrol for your escape… why?

    Pierre shook his head. "I did not overlook it," he said.

    “Then you were willing to chance this outcome?”

     Le Gran shrugged and gave a sigh. “I had no choice. You see, I am very poor. I believed I had enough petrol to get out of the city. But I simply had no Monet to buy Degas to make the Van Gogh...”