some distance away from the fire exit but it was protected by a set of iron bars. And since I didn’t happen to have a blowtorch with me or a guaranteed hour without interruptions, I wasn’t going to be gaining entry that way either. The other windows were too high for me to reach without a ladder or a serious growth spurt and I already knew the delivery door at the side of the building opened onto the concierge’s desk. And . . . well, that was it. Those were my options. And since none of them were viable, I was going to have to look elsewhere.
Like next door for instance. Not at the greengrocers but at the two-star hotel. From the look of the tatty curtains hanging in the rear windows and the flaking render on the back wall, it was in no danger of improving upon its accommodation rating in the near future and I guessed the security would be relatively lax. It certainly appeared as if I could get in through the back readily enough. There was a rear service entrance that appeared to be permanently unguarded and I didn’t doubt that it would connect with a guest staircase before very long. But then again, it was mid-morning on a Wednesday and there was no compelling reason for me to risk getting caught. And besides, I’d already had a much better idea.
The gentleman I found behind the hotel reception desk might well have felt more at home swinging from the rafters in Notre Dame Cathedral. He didn’t have a hunched back, but he did have a quite enormous belly and if he’d bothered to shave at all that morning, then his razor was in dire need of being changed. He hunkered down over my passport as he copied the personal details into his ledger, the filmy drool on his lips threatening to drip onto his handiwork.
I say my passport but actually that’s a little misleading. The passport in question belonged to an expat lawyer called David James Birk and the truth was I’d relieved him of it during a visit to his studio apartment some months beforehand. At the time, Mr Birk had been unavailable, something I was fortunate enough to know because a mutual friend had invited us both to the same production of Madame Bovary at the Palais Garnier Opéra. I’d declined, feeling more in the mood for a spot of thieving, and I’d come away from the night with a respectable bundle of cash and a nifty new wrist-watch, not to mention the passport. Normally, it wasn’t the kind of item I stole, but when I’d flicked by chance to the back page I’d been surprised to discover how alike we looked. According to his date of birth, David Birk was just one year older than me and his hair was perhaps a shade darker and certainly cut in a more business-like fashion, but I still felt confident that anyone casting just a quick glance at the photograph was unlikely to challenge me. As it happened, I’m not sure the hotel receptionist even looked at the picture. He was really just interested in Mr Birk’s passport number so he could claim back the relevant tourist tax.
My room cost a little more than I’d expected, and that surprised me because the interior of the hotel was far scummier than I’d been anticipating. The lino in the reception area was covered in a fine layer of grit and dust, and although the lighting was poor, it was difficult to ignore the grime that adhered to almost every surface. Even the tourist brochures on a nearby stand looked out of date, the ink on them faded as though they’d been stolen from an outdoor display at some point in the late eighties.
There may have been an elevator, but I wasn’t directed to it when Quasimodo handed me my room key and returned my passport, so I hefted the empty suitcase I’d brought along with me and began climbing the stairs. The threadbare carpet was gummy underfoot and the banister was loose and shaky. I went up two flights and paused to see if I could hear anybody moving about. I couldn’t. There was only the peculiar hum of a seemingly empty building and the stale, musty
Like next door for instance. Not at the greengrocers but at the two-star hotel. From the look of the tatty curtains hanging in the rear windows and the flaking render on the back wall, it was in no danger of improving upon its accommodation rating in the near future and I guessed the security would be relatively lax. It certainly appeared as if I could get in through the back readily enough. There was a rear service entrance that appeared to be permanently unguarded and I didn’t doubt that it would connect with a guest staircase before very long. But then again, it was mid-morning on a Wednesday and there was no compelling reason for me to risk getting caught. And besides, I’d already had a much better idea.
The gentleman I found behind the hotel reception desk might well have felt more at home swinging from the rafters in Notre Dame Cathedral. He didn’t have a hunched back, but he did have a quite enormous belly and if he’d bothered to shave at all that morning, then his razor was in dire need of being changed. He hunkered down over my passport as he copied the personal details into his ledger, the filmy drool on his lips threatening to drip onto his handiwork.
I say my passport but actually that’s a little misleading. The passport in question belonged to an expat lawyer called David James Birk and the truth was I’d relieved him of it during a visit to his studio apartment some months beforehand. At the time, Mr Birk had been unavailable, something I was fortunate enough to know because a mutual friend had invited us both to the same production of Madame Bovary at the Palais Garnier Opéra. I’d declined, feeling more in the mood for a spot of thieving, and I’d come away from the night with a respectable bundle of cash and a nifty new wrist-watch, not to mention the passport. Normally, it wasn’t the kind of item I stole, but when I’d flicked by chance to the back page I’d been surprised to discover how alike we looked. According to his date of birth, David Birk was just one year older than me and his hair was perhaps a shade darker and certainly cut in a more business-like fashion, but I still felt confident that anyone casting just a quick glance at the photograph was unlikely to challenge me. As it happened, I’m not sure the hotel receptionist even looked at the picture. He was really just interested in Mr Birk’s passport number so he could claim back the relevant tourist tax.
My room cost a little more than I’d expected, and that surprised me because the interior of the hotel was far scummier than I’d been anticipating. The lino in the reception area was covered in a fine layer of grit and dust, and although the lighting was poor, it was difficult to ignore the grime that adhered to almost every surface. Even the tourist brochures on a nearby stand looked out of date, the ink on them faded as though they’d been stolen from an outdoor display at some point in the late eighties.
There may have been an elevator, but I wasn’t directed to it when Quasimodo handed me my room key and returned my passport, so I hefted the empty suitcase I’d brought along with me and began climbing the stairs. The threadbare carpet was gummy underfoot and the banister was loose and shaky. I went up two flights and paused to see if I could hear anybody moving about. I couldn’t. There was only the peculiar hum of a seemingly empty building and the stale, musty
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