This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2012 Christophe Paul
Translation copyright © 2013 Jennifer Adcock
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Previously published as El ladrón de céntimos by the author in Spain in 2012. Translated from Spanish by Jennifer Adcock and previously published in English by the author in 2013.
Published by AmazonCrossing, Seattle
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ISBN-13: 9781477828779
ISBN-10: 147782877X
Cover design by Mark Ecob
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014919485
To anyone who has ever suffered the arrogance, greed, and injustice of the current financial system
CONTENTS
CHARACTERS
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR
CHARACTERS
Henri Pichon
. . . .
Protagonist
Odette Lambert
. . . .
Henri’s aunt
Maurice Lambert
. . . .
Henri’s uncle
Jean-Philippe Maillard
. . . .
Bank IT director
Natasha (Tash) de La Valette
. . . .
Jean-Philippe’s daughter
Pierre-Gabriel de La Valette
. . . .
Tash’s husband
Marcel
. . . .
Waiter at Relais de la Butte
Etienne
. . . .
The boy with the bicycle
Yvette
. . . .
Etienne’s mother
Monsieur Bernard
. . . .
Baker at Fournil du Village
Madame Bernard
. . . .
Monsieur Bernard’s wife
Valérie
. . . .
The girl with the scooter
Naël
. . . .
Valérie’s boyfriend
Morgane Duchène
. . . .
Risks director and Jean-Philippe’s lover
Herbert Lenoir
. . . .
Private detective
Silvano Garibaldi
. . . .
IT expert
Olivier Loiseau
. . . .
Police inspector
1
As the water rolled gently down his body and swirled around the drain in a frothy whirlpool, Henri Pichon gazed through the tiny bathroom window at the rooftops of Montmartre, which were soldiering their way through the last remnants of the night.
The bells of Saint-Jean-de-Montmartre cut his musings short.
It was 7:00 a.m. Time to get back to reality.
He turned off the faucet with a quick flick of the wrist; drew open the daisy-print shower curtain, careful not to sprinkle a single drop on the floor; and stepped gingerly out of the tub, placing his 203 pounds onto the bath mat. He shook the water from his abundant hair and searched his reflection in the mirror for some trace of the man he used to be not so long ago. As usual, he thought about needing to get rid of the extra weight. He’d only recently entered his forties—there was still time to take charge of the situation.
He’d never quite understood why his aunt had installed a bathtub instead of a shower; she hadn’t used the bathtub once. Apparently it used to be some sort of status symbol.
Now that she was gone, he had to bring the place into the modern age.
Henri had been thinking about changing the apartment for a few years—redoing the kitchen, repainting the master bedroom, and tearing down the walls of his old room to expand the narrow living area. He’d get rid of the humdrum hallway, pull up the creaky parquet flooring and replace it with bright, modern floorboards. The warped windows distorted the outside world and were impossible to close completely, turning the house into a veritable hurricane at the slightest sign of wind. And the furniture, gloomy from layers upon layers of wax, would have to go, too.
Henri had even drawn up plans.
The house was more than a century old, and everything in it had been there from the beginning. He’d keep only the beautiful moldings, ten feet above the floor, and the two small but opulent fireplaces that harkened back to the warmth of another era. The building stood on a corner of Place Émile Goudeau, a meeting place for painters and writers in the early twentieth century. He knew that when his aunt moved in, Montmartre had been a very poor neighborhood, but these days it was one of the most expensive and sought-after districts in the city.
Henri was ready for the day. This time, the mirror offered up the reflection of an elegant and respectable man dressed casually in light pants, a beige cotton sweater, and a matching polo shirt. When he stretched, you could hardly tell he was overweight—he could even pass for slim. Most important, he looked under forty, especially with all that dark, unruly hair unblemished by a single strand of white. With his characteristic sprightly attitude, Henri grabbed his canvas jacket from the sofa and went out.
He carefully closed the rackety, ancient bolt on the door and took the old wooden stairs with their red threadbare carpet, making his way down the four flights separating his apartment from the street.
He was greeted by fresh air. It was 7:20 a.m. on the last Sunday in spring. The dense, leafy
trees covered the cobblestone square in darkness, and the sun was barely breaking in the east. The sky was clear and Henri smiled, thinking it was going to be one of those perfect Parisian days with that unmistakable light that flatters the grand architecture of the city and brings smiles to people’s faces. Thankfully, it was too early for the tourists to be out causing a nuisance.
He took a deep breath, crossed the square with its empty green benches, and trotted down the ten stone steps leading to the esplanade bordering Rue des Trois Frères. Marcel, the waiter at Le Relais de la Butte, was leaving the bakery on the corner, his arms loaded with croissants and other sinful pastries to serve for breakfast in the restaurant. The terrace was all set up for the day, and Henri was the only customer.
“Bonjour, Marcel.”
“Bonjour, Monsieur Henri. The usual?”
“The usual, thanks.”
Marcel was old enough to retire but couldn’t stand the thought of being stuck at home twenty-four hours a day with his wife, Armande, and her nonstop chattering. Marcel had known Henri since he was a little boy. He remembered when Henri first arrived in the neighborhood, moving in with his aunt and uncle, Odette and Maurice Lambert, after horrific events that shook the nation more than thirty years ago. The Lamberts had no children, so they had dedicated all their affection and care to Henri.
Henri sat in his usual spot at the outer corner of the terrace, at one of those little brass-rimmed bistro tables with classical matching chairs. He contemplated Paris as the sun came up, revealing the city. Rue Ravignan opened up before him, continuing from the esplanade and widening toward the Seine to reveal the golden dome of Les Invalides, which housed Napoleon’s tomb.
Henri worked every day of the year as a programmer at one of the major French banks—sometimes by night, other times by day. He didn’t have a degree. Back when he started out, information technology degrees didn’t exist. Candidates simply learned on the job. Once you’d signed on with a firm, the computer makers came in to teach technical training courses, so IT department staff—from systems engineers to lead programmers—could have a certain degree of autonomy.
After finishing high school with excellent grades, Henri was hired into banking IT alongside his uncle Maurice.
Maurice Lambert was an industry veteran. He studied electronic engineering in the United States and worked at IBM before returning to France, having been hired by Jean-Philippe Maillard, the young, recently appointed director of IT at a large French bank. Jean-Philippe didn’t keep his promises or make Maurice’s life any easier when Maurice was diagnosed with cancer and died soon after—but not before offering some of his wisdom to his nephew.
Jean-Philippe was a few years away from retiring and thought it was perfectly normal to demand that his employees work every single day. Henri didn’t complain, as he was allowed to keep whatever hours he liked, and nobody checked up on him.
The smell of coffee and pastries announced the arrival of Marcel, who was carrying a steaming café au lait and croissants fresh from the bakery. He placed everything delicately on the table.
“It’s almost time!” said Marcel before leaving discreetly, the empty tray under his arm.
Henri nodded, his dreamy gaze fixed on Les Invalides. It was 7:30 a.m., and the first rays of the sun were touching the rooftops in the east, illuminating the golden dome.
He was perturbed only by the sound of a distant motorcycle.
2
“Etienne, honey, it’s seven, and the bells of Saint Jean just chimed. Are you ready?”
“Yes, Mom.”
“Have you washed your face and combed your hair?”
“Yes.”
“Come here and give me a kiss.”
The boy entered the kitchen like a whirlwind and gave a loud kiss to his mother, who contemplated him with love and admiration. Etienne was an adorable ten-year-old rascal.
“You’re so tall. You grew some more last night! At this rate, we’ll have to change all the doors in the house.”
“Mooooom,” moaned Etienne.
“Grab your bike and run to get the croissants while I wake up your sister. When you come back, we’ll have breakfast, then we’ll go see Grandma.”
The boy rushed off, and she added, “Go slow! And don’t go down the stairs. Remember your last fall?”
But the door had already slammed shut. She shook her head helplessly and went to the children’s bedroom.
Etienne ran out of the apartment, opened the door to the maintenance room in the courtyard, and pulled out his shiny blue bicycle. It had been a birthday present from his mom a few months ago. The old one hadn’t survived his last fall down the stairs of Montmartre. It was the bike’s fault for not growing with him and causing his knees to knock the handlebars. It was no surprise that the boy lost control, and the two of them ended up tangled on the ground. Fortunately, an old man out walking his dog noticed the catastrophe and called for help. The incident resulted in a sprain and a few scrapes and bruises.
Now, with the new bike, he knew there wasn’t a staircase in Montmartre that would put up a fight—especially so early in the morning, when the tourists weren’t out yet.
Etienne maneuvered carefully through the little gate that led out to Rue Girardon. There were no cars and not a living soul. He took a left and pedaled hard to tackle the little hill. A few minutes later he passed Le passe-muraille, the famous sculpture of a man walking through a wall, and stood up on the pedals to take the next hill, which grew steeper and steeper. When he reached the top, he looked out onto Le Fournil du Village—home of the best croissants in Montmartre, according to his mother.
Etienne preferred the croissants at Rue des Trois Frères not because they were better, but because getting there involved riding down two sections of stairs, one of them very steep and narrow, the kind that doesn’t allow any margin for error. But first he had to go to Monsieur Bernard’s bakery. If his mother found out he had gone to the wrong bakery for no reason and ridden his bike down the steps, he would be grounded for at least a week.
After leaning his bike against the front window of Le Fournil du Village so that he could keep an eye on it, he went inside, praying that the batch of croissants would not be ready or that they’d already run out.
“Bonjour!” said Madame Bernard, her smile huge as she tidied the counter.
“Bonjour, Madame Bernard,” replied Etienne, eyeing the glass case for the croissants, hoping not to see them.
Madame Bernard’s surname was not Bernard; in fact, that wasn’t Monsieur Bernard’s surname either. He was called by his first name instead, and Madame Bernard followed suit, either because she was his wife or out of empathy. It was something Etienne still didn’t understand, and it had caused more than one confused discussion at home.
Le Fournil du Village was a remnant of the past. It was a nice, peaceful place with a few tables where customers could sit and have coffee, a sandwich, or a salad, but it was always empty at this time on a Sunday.
“Were you looking for croissants?” asked Madame Bernard with an expression that gave the boy hope.
“Yes, six, please.”
“It’ll be fifteen minutes before the next batch is ready.”
Seeing the boy’s joyous expression, which she didn’t quite know how to interpret, she said, “You could go down to the bakery on des Trois Frères and maybe get lucky. You’ll be there in no time with that bike.”
“Thank you very much, Madame Bernard. Au revoir!” answered the boy as he took off, smiling from ear to ear.
Madame Bernard opened her mouth, but it was too late to say good-bye; the little bell above the door had already jingled. Kids were like that. This one, at least, had good manners.
Etienne jumped on his bike and pedaled straight down the street to Place Jean Baptiste Clément. When he got there, instead of cycling down Rue Lepic, he took a shortcut and dived
down the steep stairs of Rue de la Mire without braking, trusting blindly that no pedestrian, dog, or cat would be in his way.
“Yes!” exclaimed the boy when he reached the bottom in one piece.
He continued his dizzying descent toward Rue des Trois Frères. On the wide side of Rue Ravignan, he caught a fantastic view of Paris. The pharmacy on the corner must have been open, because the pharmacist was outside smoking in his white lab coat. He yelled to the boy, “Where are you going so fast? You’ll break your bones!”
But Etienne had more urgent things to tend to, such as dodging the stone posts that guarded the square, the trees, the famous Wallace Fountains, and the green benches in order to reach his destination without losing speed. He would take a leap down a flight of ten stone steps, ride across the esplanade, and skid to a stop in front of the bakery.
The bike reached the top of the stairs, shooting out like a missile. Everything was in its place: the esplanade, completely clear; the open bakery; the terrace tables of Relais de la Butte perfectly positioned on the left; the view of Paris opening up from Rue Ravignan. But something seemed new to Etienne—the sun seemed to ignite the golden dome of Les Invalides, and the boy took in the fantastic and unreal spectacle.
The sound of a motorcycle brought him back to reality.
3
Valérie was finishing breakfast, still dreamy and half-asleep. Today was a big day—she had finally agreed to let her boyfriend, Naël, introduce her to his family. They’d been living together for two years, and despite some ups and downs, they seemed to be moving forward.
She came from a liberal Catholic family that never went to church and didn’t express any shock when others criticized their church.
Naël’s family was different. They were devoutly Jewish. He had explained to her that the Jewish religion is passed down on the mother’s side, that he was very close to his family, and that he knew they would be upset by his Catholic girlfriend. But headstrong Valérie didn’t want to jump through hoops, whether they were Catholic or Jewish, and was adamant that she would accept only a civil marriage.
The Penny Thief Page 1
