The World House by Guy Adams Page A

she could peer through the glass and see if anyone was inside. The doors led to an indoor courtyard, walls covered in paintings and tapestries. No doubt when Garcia was entertaining he would open the doors and let his guests mingle between the gardens and his expensive works of art. He was a man who would enjoy showing off. She tried the handle and heard a panicked moan build involuntarily in her throat as the door opened. Now it was real. Now it was breaking into a man's house. A koi carp straying from its pond. She slipped around the open door and stepped inside.
      Two women laughed raucously in a nearby room and Kesara looked for somewhere to hide. The gallery held a wide marble staircase and she ran up it, the stone cold beneath her feet as she raced upwards. The two women were talking with the sort of freedom that only comes from having your employer out of the house for a few hours. Their voices bounced off the high white ceilings and chased Kesara up the stairs. She peered over the banister, glimpsing the black uniform of a woman in the room. The cleaner laughed again, flicking at the back of an armchair with a feather duster.
      Now the stupidity of Kesara's plan – or rather her complete lack of one – began to pick at her nerves. She had no idea where Garcia might keep the box. Would it be on display? Hidden away in a bedside drawer? Sitting on a desk? Now she was inside, it all seemed absurd and she was tempted to run out of the double doors and back to the safety of the port. But dreams are strong and hers were already built on the money she hoped to She ran on up the stairs. The landing stretched itself around a thick Persian rug, and the spaces between the heavy wooden doors were filled with busts and sculptures. Kesara checked the length of the corridor in case the box was out in the open. There was no sign of it so she opened one of the doors and stepped into a large and lavish bedroom. In the far wall she could see the balcony where Garcia and the woman had stood earlier. The bed was piled high with cushions and thick cotton sheets, a mountain range of bedlinen that she would have loved to roll in had she not been so nervous. She went to the cabinets by the side of the bed, pulling the drawers open and rifling through them, finding some of Garcia's underwear (she turned her nose up at that), a bible – unread and unheeded – and a selection of watches. Deciding she might as well swing for a collection of stolen goods as for a single item, she grabbed one of the watches -– the smallest, its pearlescent face suspended on a black leather strap – and fixed it on her wrist. It was a quarter to nine. Looking out of the window, she could see the darkening sky as night prepared to push away the blue for another day.
      She moved across the room to a large dressing table and searched through more drawers. There were women's things this time, pearls and glistening stones, gold chains and bracelets. Again she was tempted to fill her pockets but a noise from downstairs stopped her. She ran back to the open door, listening out for someone coming. All was quiet – it was probably just the housemaid shifting furniture. Her appetite for jewel theft had been chased away by the panic and she left the room for the one opposite.
      It was Garcia's office. At the centre was a heavy desk inlaid with leather, its thick legs twisted in ornate carvings. She looked over the objects on the surface, a marble penholder, a brass cigar cutter… the humidor got her excited until she opened it and realised her mistake looking at the thick rolls, piled like sawn timber, waiting to be smoked. She tried to check the drawers but they were locked and there was no sign of a key. She moved over to the window and looked down on to the roof of the covered terrace. She could climb out here, make her way down from the terrace roof and be away, a watch on her wrist to prove it hadn't been a wasted journey.
      There was another noise