It was cold in the closet, almost as cold as a Parisian street in January and about as lonely. Miss Marguerite Smith, occasionally known as Marguerite Krux, who had for a time been a Baroness, and a Duchess, Mrs. Fromeyer and Mrs. Montreau and for a while during the Great War Parsifal, peeked out through the storage closet's keyhole.
The Sully wing of the Louvre had closed twenty-six minutes ago. The last of its curators would leave in four minutes more. Parisians were very precise about the end of their workday. A good dinner required plenty of time, both to shop for fresh ingredients and for the preparation; and if you could believe the Parisians, a well-cooked meal was life's greatest pleasure.
Marguerite's pleasures ran in other directions, and she couldn't cook dinner for a dog. She didn't have a dog.
An experienced thief looked for weaknesses. Marguerite had built her strategy for tonight's job around the staff's regular, predictable schedule.
Holding her watch up to a droplet of light oozing through the keyhole, she checked the time. Three minutes to lock down. That idiot of a watchman would be here soon.
Xan wanted a certain piece the Louvre had recently acquired. Marguerite had left the sketch in her room, but she already knew just where the piece was -- the second cabinet from the left, top tier, rear row, third item from the right end. Label: South American artifact, possibly Incan, 1200 A.D. Acquired Venezuela interior, 1920. Maple White Collection.
After taking both the medallion and its label, Marguerite would re-arrange the remaining pieces then creep back into this closet to wait for morning. Tomorrow at about ten, when the Louvre staff finished opening up and there were at least a few visitors meandering about, she'd step out and leave. It was as simple as that.
It would make a long, uncomfortable night. But she'd spent worse ones in bed with her fourth husband, the Baron. He'd had a fondness for certain … pleasures, ones that didn't involve food, at least not in the usual sense of the word. And he'd snored. Marguerite had been immeasurably grateful when the Baron had had the uncommon kindness to die. If he'd only left her something besides the bad memories.
Like most of Xan's acquisitions, the medallion -- a spiral whirling within a triangle -- probably had mystical significance, but Marguerite would be damned if she knew what. And working for Shanghai Xan, it never paid to care. He had a ways of crushing the most curious cat.
She looked at her watch again. Three minutes and a few seconds left.
The notes on her sketch had said the piece was hand-tooled from iridium.
Iridium? Now if that didn't back memories. Marguerite had been more-or-less respectable in the Great War, as far as spies were respectable, which wasn't far, but at least more so than a sneak thief. Early in '17 there'd been a fabulously complicated triple-cross gambit involving a phony iridium theft, designed to worm Marguerite further into German high command. As a result of the gambit, some brave British officer had gone to jail in her place; he'd been a stranger, someone she'd never met and never would. Her heroic protector.
Marguerite reminded herself that heroes were people too stupid to run when the shooting started. Or those that were left behind lying on the ground.
Not quite two minutes left.
Out in the hall a weak baritone sang "Cher Ami," a song currently popular in the Parisian bistros. He'd reached the third line of the first stanza. "My friend, you are gone and my room is dark …"
Yesterday evening at closing time, Marguerite had asked the night watchman to show her the fastest way out. He'd taken her down the long flight of marble steps that descended from Venus De Milo, past the Mona Lisa and to a side door opening on Boulevard de ##. She'd tickled the fat old watchman's double chin and cooed a "merci beaucoup." He'd drooled. The song faded as the watchman strolled further down the hall.
One minute.
Marguerite stood up. In the small closet, she hiked up her narrow skirt; and pulling her right leg up behind in a graceful ballerina-like pose, she touched her buttock with a booted toe. The broad brim of her hat brushed the wall as she bowed her head. Putting the leg silently back down, she flexed the other then methodically rolled her shoulders and neck, flapped her arms, wiggled her gloved fingers. Checking the small automatic pistol and sharp lock-picking tools in her beaded handbag occupied a few seconds more. For luck, she fingered the heart-shaped gold locket around her neck. She and that locket had survived a childhood of convent orphanages, the Great War, four husbands and three years of working all over the world for Shanghai's bloodiest warlord. The locket's inscription kept her alive. "For Marguerite. Always in our hearts. Mother and Father." She had nothing else to show she had a family, not even a memory.
A dress wasn't Marguerite's usual working gear and only fat farm domesticated cows wore sacks like this. When Marguerite finished this job, she'd make a bonfire of it and dance around like an Apache.
She looked at her watch one last time. Fifteen seconds.
The scratchy baritone "Cher Ami" returned, repeating the same stanza as before. Either the watchman had started the song over or he only knew the first verse.
An electric light switch clicked off and the ribbon of light under closet door disappeared. On the other side of it, the door of exhibition hall number seven slammed shut and its lock snicked. Another and more muffled line of verse and further away another door slammed and snicked. Then a few almost inaudible words of the song and another slam and snick. And another, and another. All progressively further away. Finally, the first floor of the whole Sully wing of the Louvre was locked down.
It was time.
Rows of glass-lidded cabinets shimmered in moonlight oozing through windows overlooking the Louvre's enormous courtyard. Any light in here would be seen outside. Marguerite had to commit her crime blind. To sensitize her fingertips, she'd been wearing gloves full time for days. She pulled them off and put them in her bag.
The cabinet wasn't locked. Marguerite snorted at the careless mistake. By the end of the week, at least two Louvre employees would be out of a job: the curator currently in charge of the Sully and that slob of a night guard. Whatever. Just one less hassle for her. Brushing her fingertips on each piece on the row, Marguerite counted the articles she'd memorized. One -- the carved bone whistle from Bolivia, two -- the heavy gold ring from Mexico (too bad she had to leave that!), and three -- her goal. It felt warm. How odd.
Xan didn't take kindly to rookie mistakes and Marguerite wouldn't get a second chance at this snatch. She must make sure she had the correct item. Carefully picking up the medallion with her fingertips, she brought it close to her eyes.
The room flickered.
For a few seconds the Louvre wasn't around Marguerite, but open space, a black night but with stars and moon overhead instead of a painted ceiling and a campfire a few feet away. Beside it a human shape reclined. Marguerite saw that in the space of a gasp. It disappeared and once more she stood in the moonlit Louvre.
"Oh my god, what was that?" Marguerite tried to whisper, but she made no sound. However, around her the glass display cases began to rattle, bang and jump about, their legs pounding up and down and back and forth on the bare marble floor, much like frightened horses pounding turf. They vibrated hard enough that the lids and sides began to shatter. Glittering in the moonlight, a cascade of gold, silver, and glass spilled out onto the floor. One of the room's tall windows split down the center and collapsed.
Loosely woven strands of green, yellow and blue light whirled out of the medallion and wrapped around Marguerite. A wind howled from nowhere and blew the hat off her head.
Around Marguerite the night flicked again, but the new scene wasn't the same. This time there was no campfire, moon or stars, just a warm rain falling on her face.
Another shiver of night and Marguerite flicked back to the Louvre. Raindrops sparkled on her dress like sequins.
By this time every display case had shaken to pieces and every window had collapsed and still the rumbling escalated. The room's plaster walls began to crumble. Powder filled the air.
It was Xan's medallion. The medallion was doing this to Marguerite. And she couldn't put it down. She couldn't move. She couldn't even speak.
In the corner of her eye Marguerite saw the bright beam of an electric lantern. The dim-witted night watchman stood in the doorway, holding his pistol awkwardly before him like it was a baguette sandwich. Clearly he'd never drawn his weapon before. His loose mouth worked like a fish as he took in the fantastic scene.
Around Marguerite the room flicked and became the open space. It had changed. A campfire blazed to the very heavens and racks stood by it, stark as black skeletons. The human shape poked at the fire and on the far side of it something large and dark moved. Another flick and the Louvre returned. Flick, the open night and a slightly different scene. Flick, the shaking Louvre. Flick and flick and flick. The scenes changed at a faster rate, and each time Marguerite spent less time in the Louvre.
In flashes, Marguerite saw the night watchman raise his gun. She couldn't open her mouth to scream or beg the man not to shoot her. The pistol flashed, she heard a pop. One last time the Louvre flickered out.