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After being thrown out of the Birtwhistle Museum, Dr Gilles Lafarge had taken up position in a coffee shop across the street.

As he ordered a small espresso, his eyes did not leave the museum entrance for a second; the barista’s attempt to engage him in perfunctory conversation failed. Lafarge then sat at the window, stroking his short beard, his devious mind a whirl of unanswered questions and angry machinations.

Most confusing of all was the presence of the Jones girl. He’d hoped never to run into the young brat again, after the previous summer’s debacle - yet here she was in New York, spying on him! Or... was she pursuing this ‘item’ for herself? In which case, who had hired her? Could it be a competitor? Or even the same ‘JB’? Why would JB double-cross him?

He needed answers, and was going to get them. He'd set out that afternoon equipped and ready to incapacitate anyone that got in his way. His plans had gone wrong, yes, but he was more than capable of dealing with Amanda Jones when she emerged, carrying the mysterious €50,000 item. Lafarge wondered whether the girl could open the clock: something was wrong with his instructions, but perhaps she could crack the code for him?

Two hours passed. He became agitated, stoked by the consumption of three more coffees. The museum closed. The lights went off, the doors were locked. But there was no sign of Amanda Jones.

Was she still inside? Had she sneaked out through another exit?

Lafarge's hands were shaking. He could bear it no longer - €50,000 was slipping away from him! He got up, crossed the street, and executed a plan that had formed in his crazed mind over two nervous, coffee-infused hours.

Entering an alley to the side of the museum, he slipped between dumpsters and made his way to the rear of the building. There, a concrete ramp led to a large steel shutter. Lafarge climbed the ramp and banged the shutter repeatedly, as loudly as he could.

It was a matter of five minutes’ impatient rattling before the shutter began to roll up with an electronic grinding noise. Lafarge saw the feet, then the pants, then the jacket of a museum security guard; then finally his elderly face and peaked cap. The guard was not a large man: this would not be too difficult.

“What the hell is that pounding?” asked the guard, incredulous.

“Delivery! Very expenseeve painting from France!” declared Lafarge in his authentic accent.

“No one told me nothing about no delivery mister,” replied the guard, using a triple negative that left Lafarge bemused.

“My truck eees around the side, please come and see…” said Lafarge, beckoning to follow him around the corner. The guard stepped outside with a scowl.

As Lafarge rounded the corner to the alley, he took a plank of wood that he had propped up ready.

What happened next was shielded from the street by the dumpsters: the guard appeared in front of Lafarge with a quizzical look – too late to avoid the plank descending on his head with a force that broke it in two. He went down instantly and lay moaning on the ground, a small trickle of blood running down his forehead.

Lafarge took a small bottle of chloroform from his pocket, tipped some onto a gauze pad and held it over the stricken guard’s mouth until he went quiet. After binding the man’s hands and feet with plastic restraints, he dragged him around the corner, up the ramp and into the museum. He decided to leave the shutter open. This was the perfect escape route. He would not need long. He set off through the back corridors, found the main hallway, and bounded up the grand staircase.

On the deserted third floor, the door to the Fossett Collection was open a small crack. Lafarge pushed it open, silently, then froze in his tracks.

Amanda Jones! She was across the room, with her back to him. The pest must have hidden in the museum. No doubt she considered herself alone. She was tampering with the clock. Perhaps she would open it for him now?

The corner of Lafarge’s mouth turned up in a sneer. He crouched behind a display cabinet, took to the bottle from his pocket, and tipped chloroform onto the pad.

Behind him, the door clicked shut. Lafarge grimaced: had the sound given him away? He waited then peered around the cabinet. Amanda Jones was still engrossed. She had no idea he was there, and was carefully turning the clock hands as he had done. But now the clock began to chime – she had opened it!

Lafarge got to his feet and crept quickly across the carpet. The Jones girl was absorbed, using her phone, completely oblivious to his approach. He closed the distance. At the last moment, the young woman seemed to tense up with realisation, just before Lafarge grabbed her and clamped the pad on her face.

She fought like a tigress at first, and Lafarge worried that she might break free. But he kept the pad firmly over her mouth and nose. It was a matter of time before she must breathe, then unconsciousness would surely follow - and so it did. The young woman’s struggles subsided slowly. Lafarge turned her head to him, still holding the pad in place. Her eyes were glazed over, the lids fluttering. He watched with satisfaction as she passed out and slumped at his feet.

He stepped over the unconscious Amanda Jones, reached down and picked up the letter from where she had dropped it. He stuffed it in his back pocket and congratulated himself: the ruse to drop it ‘by accident’ had worked!

Lafarge knelt down by his troublesome adversary, savouring his moment of triumph over her. She lay on her side in a collapsed heap. Without doubt, the young nuisance had matured into a beautiful, shapely woman. She stood out from the crowd, she turned heads; which was why he had spotted her so easily that afternoon. Recognition had come soon after.

His hand played over her thigh, smooth and shiny in its pantyhose. His other hand gently brushed the hair from her sleeping face and stroked her cheek. He would be there when she woke up, and would find out everything she knew - using whatever ‘persuasion’ was necessary.

Just then, Lafarge's eyes were caught by a metallic glint - they settled on a small brass key that had fallen from Amanda’s limp hand. So, this was what all the fuss was about? He picked it up, examined it briefly, and tucked it in his waistcoat pocket.

It was time to go. Lafarge rolled the unconscious girl onto her front, took her limp arms behind her back, and fastened her wrists with plastic restraints. He did the same with her ankles, pulling the restraints tight: he was taking no chances. He flipped her once more onto her back, reached into his jacket and pulled out a handkerchief and a roll of silver duct tape. He reached under Amanda’s slender neck and lifted; her head tipped back, mouth opening, lips still moist from the damp pad that had put her to sleep. Using two fingers, Lafarge stuffed the handkerchief into Amanda’s mouth then sealed it, criss-cross with two pieces of tape: there would be no calling for help when she came round.

Putting the roll of tape away, Lafarge placed a hand behind Amanda’s shoulders and raised her unresisting body to a sitting position. Her head slumped forward at first, but then lolled backwards as Lafarge put his other arm under her knees and heaved her up into the air, climbing to his feet. Staggering slightly, he leaned to one side, shuffled the weight in his arms and hoisted Amanda over his shoulder. She flopped over his back like a sack of flour.

Satisfied, Lafarge set off for the door. As he disappeared, a pair of canvas sneakers lay forgotten: the newest exhibits of the Fossett Collection. Beside them, a discarded phone lay face down. It began to vibrate.

Lafarge strode through the fashion room with a swagger, giving Amanda’s bottom an exuberant slap in the process. They were going to take a little trip now: soon she would be in packed in the trunk of his rental car, en route to a thorough interrogation.

But when he made it to the third floor landing, Lafarge knew immediately that something was wrong. The hallway and stairs were bathed in blue light, flashing intermittently through the long windows. He set off quickly down the stairs, Amanda bouncing heavily on his shoulder: he gripped her thighs and butt tightly to avoid her sliding off. Pausing at the window, Lafarge looked down and saw a squadron of police cars pulled up in the street outside!

“Putain de merde!” he exclaimed under his breath, but soon his voice was not the only one heard in the building. From the ground floor came the sounds of a frantic search: shouts and the clomping of booted feet.

Now was not the time to reflect on how the police had been alerted; indeed it was some time afterwards that Lafarge guessed correctly that his inauspicious arrival had been observed on CCTV.

But now was the time for action - for escape! Lafarge had surveyed the building no less thoroughly than Amanda, and made straight for the second floor fire escape: ironically the same one that Amanda had been planning to use. But, as Lafarge jogged past urns, inscribed stones and mummies, he puffed and panted with the young sleuth on his shoulder growing ever heavier.

Lafarge recalled that the fire stairs outside were narrow and ended in a drop down ladder. Damn! He realised that if he was to escape at all, he could not take the girl with him. But what to do with her, when she knew everything? If the police found her and revived her, she would blab all about him and where to find him. For a moment, he grimly considered snapping her slender neck. Then, mercifully, something caught his eye:

He found himself in front of a large bronze Assyrian casket on a plinth. It seemed large enough to hide a body – and, conveniently, the lid was open.

After a moment’s indecision, and realising that he had no better option, Lafarge stepped up to the plinth and heaved Amanda’s limp body into the casket. Her head struck the side with a thud as she disappeared into it, leaving only her legs dangling over the side – Lafarge gathered them up and pushed them into the tight space.

“Au revoir, Mademoiselle Jones” he sneered as he slammed the lid and fastened two bronze clasps.

Without a further thought, Lafarge sprinted with renewed speed through the next room and to the fire exit. He broke the glass tube, pushed it open and a rush of warm summer air hit him in the face.

There was no one in the alleyway below. He pelted down two flights of rickety stairs, found the ladder release and pulled it. With a creak and a crash, the ladder swung down and hit the ground. He climbed down the rusty rungs without hesitation and dropped to the concrete, gasping for breath, crouching behind a dumpster.

“Hey you there!” came a voice from some way behind Lafarge. But he was already running for the street.

As he burst out of the alleyway, he heard distant voices in pursuit, calling him to stop. He turned, saw the police cars to his left with their lights still flashing, and ran in the opposite direction.

Moments later, two NYPD cops emerged from the alleyway and looked around for the man they had seen escaping. But this was New York, and Lafarge had melted into the crowd.

Description
body div#devskin0 hr { }

After being thrown out of the Birtwhistle Museum, Dr Gilles Lafarge had taken up position in a coffee shop across the street.

As he ordered a small espresso, his eyes did not leave the museum entrance for a second; the barista’s attempt to engage him in perfunctory conversation failed. Lafarge then sat at the window, stroking his short beard, his devious mind a whirl of unanswered questions and angry machinations.

Most confusing of all was the presence of the Jones girl. He’d hoped never to run into the young brat again, after the previous summer’s debacle - yet here she was in New York, spying on him! Or... was she pursuing this ‘item’ for herself? In which case, who had hired her? Could it be a competitor? Or even the same ‘JB’? Why would JB double-cross him?

He needed answers, and was going to get them. He'd set out that afternoon equipped and ready to incapacitate anyone that got in his way. His plans had gone wrong, yes, but he was more than capable of dealing with Amanda Jones when she emerged, carrying the mysterious €50,000 item. Lafarge wondered whether the girl could open the clock: something was wrong with his instructions, but perhaps she could crack the code for him?

Two hours passed. He became agitated, stoked by the consumption of three more coffees. The museum closed. The lights went off, the doors were locked. But there was no sign of Amanda Jones.

Was she still inside? Had she sneaked out through another exit?

Lafarge's hands were shaking. He could bear it no longer - €50,000 was slipping away from him! He got up, crossed the street, and executed a plan that had formed in his crazed mind over two nervous, coffee-infused hours.

Entering an alley to the side of the museum, he slipped between dumpsters and made his way to the rear of the building. There, a concrete ramp led to a large steel shutter. Lafarge climbed the ramp and banged the shutter repeatedly, as loudly as he could.

It was a matter of five minutes’ impatient rattling before the shutter began to roll up with an electronic grinding noise. Lafarge saw the feet, then the pants, then the jacket of a museum security guard; then finally his elderly face and peaked cap. The guard was not a large man: this would not be too difficult.

“What the hell is that pounding?” asked the guard, incredulous.

“Delivery! Very expenseeve painting from France!” declared Lafarge in his authentic accent.

“No one told me nothing about no delivery mister,” replied the guard, using a triple negative that left Lafarge bemused.

“My truck eees around the side, please come and see…” said Lafarge, beckoning to follow him around the corner. The guard stepped outside with a scowl.

As Lafarge rounded the corner to the alley, he took a plank of wood that he had propped up ready.

What happened next was shielded from the street by the dumpsters: the guard appeared in front of Lafarge with a quizzical look – too late to avoid the plank descending on his head with a force that broke it in two. He went down instantly and lay moaning on the ground, a small trickle of blood running down his forehead.

Lafarge took a small bottle of chloroform from his pocket, tipped some onto a gauze pad and held it over the stricken guard’s mouth until he went quiet. After binding the man’s hands and feet with plastic restraints, he dragged him around the corner, up the ramp and into the museum. He decided to leave the shutter open. This was the perfect escape route. He would not need long. He set off through the back corridors, found the main hallway, and bounded up the grand staircase.

On the deserted third floor, the door to the Fossett Collection was open a small crack. Lafarge pushed it open, silently, then froze in his tracks.

Amanda Jones! She was across the room, with her back to him. The pest must have hidden in the museum. No doubt she considered herself alone. She was tampering with the clock. Perhaps she would open it for him now?

The corner of Lafarge’s mouth turned up in a sneer. He crouched behind a display cabinet, took to the bottle from his pocket, and tipped chloroform onto the pad.

Behind him, the door clicked shut. Lafarge grimaced: had the sound given him away? He waited then peered around the cabinet. Amanda Jones was still engrossed. She had no idea he was there, and was carefully turning the clock hands as he had done. But now the clock began to chime – she had opened it!

Lafarge got to his feet and crept quickly across the carpet. The Jones girl was absorbed, using her phone, completely oblivious to his approach. He closed the distance. At the last moment, the young woman seemed to tense up with realisation, just before Lafarge grabbed her and clamped the pad on her face.

She fought like a tigress at first, and Lafarge worried that she might break free. But he kept the pad firmly over her mouth and nose. It was a matter of time before she must breathe, then unconsciousness would surely follow - and so it did. The young woman’s struggles subsided slowly. Lafarge turned her head to him, still holding the pad in place. Her eyes were glazed over, the lids fluttering. He watched with satisfaction as she passed out and slumped at his feet.

He stepped over the unconscious Amanda Jones, reached down and picked up the letter from where she had dropped it. He stuffed it in his back pocket and congratulated himself: the ruse to drop it ‘by accident’ had worked!

Lafarge knelt down by his troublesome adversary, savouring his moment of triumph over her. She lay on her side in a collapsed heap. Without doubt, the young nuisance had matured into a beautiful, shapely woman. She stood out from the crowd, she turned heads; which was why he had spotted her so easily that afternoon. Recognition had come soon after.

His hand played over her thigh, smooth and shiny in its pantyhose. His other hand gently brushed the hair from her sleeping face and stroked her cheek. He would be there when she woke up, and would find out everything she knew - using whatever ‘persuasion’ was necessary.

Just then, Lafarge's eyes were caught by a metallic glint - they settled on a small brass key that had fallen from Amanda’s limp hand. So, this was what all the fuss was about? He picked it up, examined it briefly, and tucked it in his waistcoat pocket.

It was time to go. Lafarge rolled the unconscious girl onto her front, took her limp arms behind her back, and fastened her wrists with plastic restraints. He did the same with her ankles, pulling the restraints tight: he was taking no chances. He flipped her once more onto her back, reached into his jacket and pulled out a handkerchief and a roll of silver duct tape. He reached under Amanda’s slender neck and lifted; her head tipped back, mouth opening, lips still moist from the damp pad that had put her to sleep. Using two fingers, Lafarge stuffed the handkerchief into Amanda’s mouth then sealed it, criss-cross with two pieces of tape: there would be no calling for help when she came round.

Putting the roll of tape away, Lafarge placed a hand behind Amanda’s shoulders and raised her unresisting body to a sitting position. Her head slumped forward at first, but then lolled backwards as Lafarge put his other arm under her knees and heaved her up into the air, climbing to his feet. Staggering slightly, he leaned to one side, shuffled the weight in his arms and hoisted Amanda over his shoulder. She flopped over his back like a sack of flour.

Satisfied, Lafarge set off for the door. As he disappeared, a pair of canvas sneakers lay forgotten: the newest exhibits of the Fossett Collection. Beside them, a discarded phone lay face down. It began to vibrate.

Lafarge strode through the fashion room with a swagger, giving Amanda’s bottom an exuberant slap in the process. They were going to take a little trip now: soon she would be in packed in the trunk of his rental car, en route to a thorough interrogation.

But when he made it to the third floor landing, Lafarge knew immediately that something was wrong. The hallway and stairs were bathed in blue light, flashing intermittently through the long windows. He set off quickly down the stairs, Amanda bouncing heavily on his shoulder: he gripped her thighs and butt tightly to avoid her sliding off. Pausing at the window, Lafarge looked down and saw a squadron of police cars pulled up in the street outside!

“Putain de merde!” he exclaimed under his breath, but soon his voice was not the only one heard in the building. From the ground floor came the sounds of a frantic search: shouts and the clomping of booted feet.

Now was not the time to reflect on how the police had been alerted; indeed it was some time afterwards that Lafarge guessed correctly that his inauspicious arrival had been observed on CCTV.

But now was the time for action - for escape! Lafarge had surveyed the building no less thoroughly than Amanda, and made straight for the second floor fire escape: ironically the same one that Amanda had been planning to use. But, as Lafarge jogged past urns, inscribed stones and mummies, he puffed and panted with the young sleuth on his shoulder growing ever heavier.

Lafarge recalled that the fire stairs outside were narrow and ended in a drop down ladder. Damn! He realised that if he was to escape at all, he could not take the girl with him. But what to do with her, when she knew everything? If the police found her and revived her, she would blab all about him and where to find him. For a moment, he grimly considered snapping her slender neck. Then, mercifully, something caught his eye:

He found himself in front of a large bronze Assyrian casket on a plinth. It seemed large enough to hide a body – and, conveniently, the lid was open.

After a moment’s indecision, and realising that he had no better option, Lafarge stepped up to the plinth and heaved Amanda’s limp body into the casket. Her head struck the side with a thud as she disappeared into it, leaving only her legs dangling over the side – Lafarge gathered them up and pushed them into the tight space.

“Au revoir, Mademoiselle Jones” he sneered as he slammed the lid and fastened two bronze clasps.

Without a further thought, Lafarge sprinted with renewed speed through the next room and to the fire exit. He broke the glass tube, pushed it open and a rush of warm summer air hit him in the face.

There was no one in the alleyway below. He pelted down two flights of rickety stairs, found the ladder release and pulled it. With a creak and a crash, the ladder swung down and hit the ground. He climbed down the rusty rungs without hesitation and dropped to the concrete, gasping for breath, crouching behind a dumpster.

“Hey you there!” came a voice from some way behind Lafarge. But he was already running for the street.

As he burst out of the alleyway, he heard distant voices in pursuit, calling him to stop. He turned, saw the police cars to his left with their lights still flashing, and ran in the opposite direction.

Moments later, two NYPD cops emerged from the alleyway and looked around for the man they had seen escaping. But this was New York, and Lafarge had melted into the crowd.