A Heist for All Ages

Ellie’s teachers had always told her that the final minutes before a job were the most critical. A chance to centre yourself, to review your plan, to run the numbers. So, as she waited for the National Gallery to open, Ellie mentally calculated how much C4 it would take to blow those massive doors off their hinges. Hypothetically, of course.

She was not a regular visitor, or much of a fan of art per se, but the homework criteria was specific. For her presentation tomorrow, she had to produce a painting worth no less than $200,000 and discuss its origins and method of removal. As a diligent student of the Cecil Ramekins Institute for Meticulous Evil, a reprint or fake simply would not do. You could only take forgery as an elective in 6th year.

There had been an entire month of classes dedicated to this important topic and looking back, she really wished she’d paid more attention. However, she was sure the plan she’d come up with the previous night would work. It was straightforward and hinged on a simple theory: that no one would expect a 12-year-old to remove a painting from the wall and stick it in her suitcase in broad daylight. She wondered why no one else had ever thought of this before.

Although she was in second year, this was her first solo project. It was intimidating without her classmates by her side, not that she’d ever tell them that. Nevertheless, she squared her shoulders, applied a firm grip to the handle of her suitcase, and made her way toward the Gallery entrance.

The foyer was completely empty as she made her way inside. Broad shafts of light flung themselves across the floor through the massive panes of glass that pierced the ceiling. Her polished black shoes click-clacked as she traversed the large empty space, the echoes rolling out to the far corners before being tossed back to land in her ears.

Ellie kept her head down, her school beret shielding her face from the cameras. Her hair (dyed black for the occasion) was bound in two pigtails. It was a style totally out of keeping with her character and would, she was sure, protect from future enquiries.

Her first move was to walk straight past her target, feigning a desire to hurry further into the museum. Having proceeded a safe distance, she sat on a nearby bench and surveyed the area. From her suitcase, she pulled out her workbook “Helpful Hints for Handy Heists” and turned to the page labelled “My First Art Heist”. She scanned her checklist.

Area Clear? Check.

Initial walk-by of target? Check.

No security presence visible or suspected? Check.

With the workbook in one hand, she walked over to stand in front of the painting. She scanned the bottom of her list.

Are there any witnesses?

Make sure.

Make sure again.

Make absolutely sure there are no witnesses in the current vicinity.

Ellie rolled her eyes. Check, Check, Check. Check.

Paperwork complete, she stood for a moment, arms crossed, eyeing her prize. Luckily the Institute had a vast library of information about notable buildings like the National Gallery. Her parents had also insisted on extra tutoring in general security systems analysis. Ellie had been vehemently opposed to this in case the other kids found out; getting extra help for your heists was so uncool.

She had chosen this painting for two reasons. Firstly, she liked the man’s moustache and his funny little cap. Secondly, the painting was attached to the wall by a d-ring and screw system, so removing it would be a simple matter. The museum relied instead on three magnetic contact switches between the frame and the wall. These would sound an alarm as soon as the painting moved even a millimeter.

She mentally reviewed her plan one last time:

Step 1: Quickly remove painting.

Step 2: Place painting in the suitcase.

Step 3: Walk approximately 50 metres to the other side of the room

Step 4: Look suitably scared and wait for security to arrive.

Step 5: Explain to security that a masked man had run through and grabbed the painting.

Step 6: Leave

The plan did rely heavily on them not reviewing the cameras right away, but she was confident about that, at least. Only the Head of Security, Carl Roundtree, was a stickler for camera monitoring and this was his day off.

#####

Carl, the Head of Security, sighed as he made his way across the foyer of the Museum. It was bad enough he had to cover sick leave on his day off. On top of that, if he could believe what he had just seen on the cameras, his morning routine was about to be rudely interrupted.

He had taken this role because it promised endless days of mind-numbing monotony, just the way he liked it. As he walked, he reminded himself to adhere to the strict policy that HR had brought in for dealing with 'the youth'. He shook his head as he walked. You mace one loitering teen and you’re treated like a lunatic. At least he was still able to activate the building-wide lockdown before exiting his office. No one would be leaving until he had resolved this whole mess.

When he came into view the little girl moved towards him eagerly, her arm raised as if to point down the hall towards the back of the museum. She was wearing what appeared to be a school uniform; wine coloured shirt and ankle length skirt, topped off with a little beret. Her expression was one of great concern, eyes round and sincere. He then witnessed a very strange transformation as she finally got a good look at him. Her progress came to a stuttering halt, her expression flipping to one of extreme surprise. If he didn’t know any better he could have sworn she recognized him. Her hand dropped to grab the handle of the large suitcase at her feet and her gaze darted left and right. He put that thought to one side for now and forced a HR-approved smile onto his face.

“Good morning, Miss,” he began, doffing his cap, “sorry to intrude, but would you mind showing me the contents of your suitcase?”

She stopped fiddling and looked up at him, her expression once again the picture of innocent confusion.

“My suitcase?” she asked. Carl continued to smile in what he hoped was a reassuring and corporately-aligned manner.

“Yes Miss, I would like to check your suitcase, as I believe inside it I will find “Pilot Sligo River” by Jack B Yeats, the painting I just witnessed being taken off the wall, over there, by you.”

The girl took a deep breath and replied, “Oh, well, you see I need it for a school project, I have to make a presentation tomorrow”. Carl’s smile froze as he tried to absorb this.

“Doing your homework is very important Miss, but I’m afraid you’ll have to find something else. I’ll take the painting back now and then we’ll call your parents”

The girl nodded dejectedly and undid the clasps of the suitcase. However, what she revealed was not an Irish masterpiece, but a shiny black revolver, which she immediately levelled at Carl.

“I’m very sorry Mr. Roundtree. I was hoping to avoid this as I only got a C+ in my last shooting exam. Will you show me to the back door please?”

#####

Carl had been sitting in this room for so long, it felt like the metal chair had leached all of the warmth from his body. He tried to make himself more comfortable, but as imperceptibly as possible. The last thing he wanted was to look shifty, given he was currently one of three occupants in an interview room at the local police station. It was like something off the television, everything in dark grey, all the furniture bolted to the floor, a large mirror taking up most of one wall. There was a faint odour, which he could only describe as a mixture of stale coffee and fresh confession.

Across from him sat two large men in shirtsleeves. The younger one had just returned and placed a small cup of water in front of Carl, who was extremely grateful. His throat felt like sandpaper after having to retell his story to at least six different detectives. This had taken a while, due to one of the detectives suffering from numerous fits of coughing. Carl seemed to be the only one not amused by this.

“Thank you for your patience Mr. Roundtree, and thank you again for agreeing to help us with our enquiries”

“Yeah, no problem.” Carl hadn’t been aware that participation was optional.

“We know you’ve given your statement to a few of our colleagues already, but we just want you to walk us through the end of your story again and get it on the record, okay?” Carl nodded wearily. The officer pressed a button on the recording device in front of him.

“Recording has started. Detective Inspector Bradley and Detective Armstrong are present, along with Mr. Carl Roundtree. The time is 8:15pm and it is the 7th May 2020”

“Now, Mr. Roundtree, just to recap, you were telling us how you witnessed a small girl take a painting off the wall of the museum. When you confronted her, she held you at gunpoint and... well...forced you to help her escape?”

“Yes, why are you both looking at me like that? If you don’t believe me, check the security footage!”

“We’re working on that, Mr. Roundtree, we’re working on that. Now at this point, you’re standing outside at the back of the museum, with a small child pointing a gun at you, after using your set of keys to disable the back door alarm, yes? So, what happened next?”

“Right, well, we’re standing there and I’m pleading with her to reconsider and give me back the painting. She just pulls out a phone and types something. Next thing you know, a minivan pulls up beside us and there’s more children inside. One of them was driving!”

“I see. Right. So, what happened next?”

“The little girl picks up the suitcase”

“The one with the painting?”

“Yes, the one with the painting. She apologised for the inconvenience, stepped into the minivan and they drove off. Oh, they were all wearing the same uniform as well, so they must all attend the same school, or cult, or something. Why haven’t you found them yet? How hard is it to find a minivan, full of kids, being driven by a ten year old?”

“You think it would be easier wouldn’t you, Mr. Roundtree, it’s almost like they never existed! Now, can you go back to the very start and walk us through the whole thing again?”

The sun was rising before they finally allowed Carl to leave, promising they’d be in touch very soon. He couldn’t decide if they thought he was innocent, or just needed to laugh at him without the inconvenience of him actually being present.

The walk home gave him plenty of time to realise he was probably out of a job, facing a potential prison sentence and very likely going insane. It all swirled around in his head until he could barely take another step. He returned to his apartment, waved off his anxious wife’s many questions and dove fully dressed into bed.

He awoke to the sound of his phone ringing. Groggily he groped in his pockets until it revealed itself. “Mr. Roundtree I presume?” The voice on the phone was baritone, smooth and cultured. He’d never heard the “Round” part of his name pronounced that way before.

“Ah, yes, speaking,” he replied. The voice continued.

“Good afternoon, my name is completely irrelevant at this time. Let’s just say I am in charge of an organisation that instructs certain youth in mildly irregular activities. I believe you met one of our young proteges only yesterday.”

Carl sat straight up in bed “I knew it! That school project she mentioned.” The voice on the line gave a sigh. He could almost hear glasses being adjusted in a disapproving manner.

“Yes indeed and on behalf of my organisation, I would just like to apologise for this whole incident”.

Carl nodded and replied, “As well you should, what kind of place are you running that the kids think it’s ok to steal?” There was a pause before the voice responded.

“Mr. Roundtree, I am not apologising because the artwork was stolen, that was indeed the assignment. I am apologising for the unprofessional manner in which the heist was conducted. The student’s approach does not reflect the best practices and standards to which we aspire. I mean, a gun? Honestly...”

There was another sigh. Carl was almost certain he could hear fingers pinching the bridge of a nose,

“Sometimes you wonder where the youth of today will lead us. What next? Bank robberies? With those funny masks and AK47s waving in the air? I really despair sometimes, you know?” There was a moment of silence, as Carl searched for something that even mildly resembled an adequate response. This same silence seemed to knock the voice out of its reverie.

“Listen to me go on! My apologies, Mr. Roundtree, I forgot myself . Now, needless to say, we cannot let this little incident mar our school’s fine reputation or create any further interest in our very existence. Therefore, we’re going to make it all go away. You will find a package at your front door. It contains an item of interest to you and a small, shall we say, donation, to your personal affairs by way of apology.”

Carl rose from his bed and made his way down the hall. The voice seemed to beckon him along,

“At the same time we will be exerting our significant influence with the police, and other affected parties, so your innocence will be a foregone conclusion. All you have to do is never mention this to anyone and your life will go back to normal.” Carl just stood in the hall, staring at the small manila envelope that lay upon his doorstep.

“So apologies again from all concerned, Mr. Roundtree, and have a lovely day.” There was a pause and then the voice came back hurriedly

“Oh, and if I were you I would put this phone down immediately. It will self-immolate in ten seconds.” There was a click of the call disconnecting while Carl stared in disbelief at his phone. Then came a yelp as it started emitting smoke, followed by a thud as he dropped the device on the ground and hopped away, shielding his face. The phone sparked and popped for a moment, before settling into a burnt plastic mess.

He tore his eyes away from that to pick up the envelope. Inside were two items; a polaroid showing a familiar painting hanging in its usual place and balance statement from his bank account. When he saw his new balance he gasped and quickly stuffed the picture and statement into his back pocket, looking around nervously.

It was then he noticed the small card on the ground. It must have been hidden by the envelope. In neat round letters written in pink ink it said ‘Mr. Roundtree, apologies for all the trouble I caused you. I will learn from my mistakes and not use a gun next time. Yours sincerely, Ellie (Not my real name)’

Carl flipped the card over. On the other side it simply said 'This will catch fire ten seconds after you touch it'. There followed a frantic period as Carl desperately flung the piece of paper away and panicked as a breeze sent it directly into his face. He spent the next few seconds desperately flapping at the air and screaming just a little bit.

The paper did not catch fire. Carl let out a small giggle and then clapped his hands over his mouth. His mind teetered between wordless acceptance and a complete mental breakdown. He desperately leaned towards the former and clenched his hands by his sides until his knuckles creaked.

It had all been a big misunderstanding. There was no school for criminal youth. He had not been held at gunpoint by a little girl less than twenty fours hours ago. There was certainly not a head wearing a wine coloured beret peeking out from behind the rubbish bin across the road.

He took a few deep breaths, pulled the bank statement back out of his pocket and nodded to himself. He was Carl Roundtree, Head of Security for the National Gallery. A painting had never been stolen under his watch. He decisively turned and made his way back inside. If he didn’t hurry he’d be late for work.