I got home and spoke to Simone. Told her I had brought her the painting as promised. Wrapped it in one of her scarves and placed it in a trunk I had specially built with a false bottom. Draped the trunk with a cloth and put a vase in the center so that it looked like nothing more than an ordinary table.

Then I waited.

A day passed. Then another. I scoured the newspapers. But there was no mention of the theft.

How was that possible?

More than once I opened the trunk to make sure the painting was still there. Afraid I had been dreaming.

Another day passed. Still no news.

I paced. I drank. I could not eat or sleep.

It was days later that the story finally appeared. Headlines on every newspaper. The famous Mona Lisa stolen!

I purchased all the papers and read every word. I had to see what they knew.

They did not have a clue.

The Louvre was closed for a week. Sixty policemen searched every inch of its forty-nine acres. They found nothing. Only the glass and frame I had left behind in the stairwell.

The French borders were closed. Every ship and train in and out of the country was searched.

I must admit it gave me pleasure to know the painting was in a trunk just a mile from where it had been hanging.

I read how Parisians grieved for the painting as if it were a loved one and I went to stand among these foolish mourners who left notes and flowers for a painting. I watched people cry. And I cried too. But not for the painting.

When the Louvre reopened thousands flocked to see the empty space on the wall where the painting had once hung.

Rewards were posted. The Louvre offered 25,000 francs. One newspaper offered 5,000. Another 40,000.

I was tempted to return the painting and collect the rewards myself!

Then I read how every worker at the Louvre would be interrogated. I knew they would eventually make their way to me. And they did. Four of them. An inspector by the name of Lapine. His fat assistant. And two gendarmes. They searched every inch of my apartment. Everywhere but the trunk.

Lapine sat me down at the table. The very trunk disguised as a table. He asked me why Ticolat had dismissed me.

I told him about Simone’s illness. How I had stayed home to take care of her. How Ticolat had no pity. I cried. And it was not an act. I said Lapine could ask anyone at the Louvre if I did good work. Anyone but Ticolat.

Lapine asked what I had been doing for work since I had been fired. I told him I had been living on what I had saved from my wages. He gave me a suspicious look. But how could he prove otherwise?

He asked why had I come to France? And what I had done before? He asked about every facet of my duties at the Louvre. Especially my work with the Mona Lisa. I took my time to describe how I had constructed the wooden box piece by piece. How I cut the glass and fitted everything together. How I had prepared the walls for the bolts. I explained everything in minute detail. Over and over. His eyes began to glaze and droop. Just as I had hoped.