A STOLEN OIL PAINTING

 As soon as I entered the room, I knew that there was something wrong, even though the lights weren’t switched on and it was impossible to see in the dark.

The room was totally silent, but I had a strange feeling that something ominous was about to happen, or had already happened.

There was nothing odd or wrong about the lights being turned off or the room being entirely silent, as it was the middle of the night and the building had been closed for some hours.

I’d felt uneasy since the start of my shift as a night security guard at one of the most famous and prestigious art galleries in the world. The home of many of the most expensive and priceless masterpieces, painted by several of the great masters, including David, Claude Monet, Edouard Manet, Raphael, Michelangelo, Van Goch, Caravaggio and my particular favourite: Charles Joshua Chaplin.

I turned the lights on and looked around the room and everything looked normal, but then I looked again and spotted it, or rather I didn’t spot it. There was nothing there.

All I saw was a blank space on the wall, where there should most certainly have been something, but there wasn’t. 

To be exact, though, there was something. An area where the colour of the wall was much lighter than the surrounding area.

And it wasn’t just something that was missing, it was something priceless that was missing.

I just couldn’t believe it and I rubbed my eyes, in disbelief, before looking at the wall again, but it was no use, the painting had definitely gone.

It had been there when I did my rounds earlier that evening and it had been there the night before and the night before that and for many nights, months and years previously.

But now it was gone.

It was an absolute catastrophe and I walked towards the wall unable to believe what I was seeing or rather not seeing, for there was no doubt that the Bronzino Agnolo di Cosimo was missing.

As I stared at the empty space on the wall, it was obvious that some villain must have taken it down and stolen it.

On my watch, as well.  I would never be able to live down the ignominy of it. My career as a night watchman was finished and my reputation would be ruined.

 How could it be possible? How could anyone have broken-in and stolen such a valuable oil painting. The room had the latest and most high-tech alarm systems in the world. Every inch of the room was covered with security cameras, floor pressure pads, infra-red and sonic motion detectors, which would automatically shut and lock all the doors, if any sensor was triggered, making it impossible to get into or out of the room undetected?

‘Oh no,’ I suddenly thought, if it’s impossible to get in or out undetected, the police are bound to suspect that it’s an inside job and everyone would think that I had something to do with the theft, especially as everybody knows that the Bronzino Agnolo di Cosimo was my favourite painting in the entire gallery.

My reputation won’t just be tarnished, I thought, I’ll be branded a thief and I would be imprisoned for ever!

My mind was in a whirl. What should I do? I was too shocked to think straight.

Should I pretend I’d not noticed that the painting was missing? Would any-one believe me?

I looked at the blank space again. It was obvious that the painting was missing. Who could fail to spot it was missing? 

There was a ruddy, large gap where it should have been, but wasn’t.

No-one would ever believe me. They would think that I’d stolen it and was trying to cover up my crime and what a feeble denial it would be in anybody’s eyes – including mine.     

What should I do, what should I do? 

I must focus, I told myself, but I was incapable of thinking. My brain just wouldn’t function.

Perhaps I should just go home and then tell them that I’d been sick and hadn’t turned up for my shift?

 Oh, no! That wouldn’t work. It was a stupid idea. In fact, it was worse than stupid. It would be like signing my own death warrant and putting the rope around my own neck and pulling the lever that worked the trap door, as well.

I had already signed in when I’d arrived earlier and such a less than flimsy alibi would soon be shown to be an utter fabrication. A downright lie that would only serve to make my guilt even more certain and nobody would believe that I hadn’t stolen the painting, even though I hadn’t, especially as every-one knew that I’d once said it would look great over my fire place.

I know I thought: I’ll open all the doors, throw the keys outside and then knock myself out and when the police arrived they’d think that I been attacked by the person whoever had actually stolen the painting.

The only problem was that my injuries would have to be convincing and what if I’d hit myself too hard and lapsed into an irreversible coma, before the police arrived.

No that wouldn’t do. It wouldn’t do at all. There’s only one thing I could do. 

I’d have to tell the curator. And I’d have to tell her straight away.

I went back to the security office and, after looking up the curator’s home phone number, I telephoned her and waited anxiously. The phone seemed to ring for ever, but it was eventually answered.

“H… hello, is that the… the curator?” I asked, nervously.

“Yes, who’s that at this ungodly hour,” she replied sharply.

“It… it’s the night security officer at the art gallery, ma’am, and I’ve just been doing my rounds…

“You’ve woken me up to tell me that you’re doing what you’re supposed to be doing,” interrupted the curator, somewhat tersely.

“Er… no, not exactly, ma’am.  I’ve woken you up to tell you that one of the paintings has been stolen.”

“What,” she exclaimed, loudly. “One of the painting has been stolen. How? Have you called the police?”

“Er… no, not yet, ma’am. I thought I should phone you first.”

“Well, you thought wrong, didn’t you, you moron? Do it now.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Which painting is it?”

“The, Charles Joshua Chaplin’s ‘A Song Silenced’, ma’am.”

“You really are an idiot. Didn’t you read the daily report book, when you started your shift? The painting was taken down this morning and sent for restoration.”