Mr. Patrick Duke was walking down the worn cobbled path that wound through the city’s older suburbs. The colourful buildings that lined the crowded street were a mix of old and new. Tall autumnal trees adorned the surrounding patchwork of hotels, bakeries and apartments, sending their orange-brown leaves fluttering over the heads of the bustling passerby. Mr. Duke loved the freedom that came with being a member of the police force. No-one ever stopped to question him, or slow him down with pointless remarks on the weather. When people saw him coming, they would hurry out of his way. He liked being a policeman. It was a good cover for his real line of work. Mr. Duke was not in the old city to admire the architecture, or to stop for lunch, and he wasn’t here on police business. He had ducked into this crowded street because it was the shortest way to where he had to go. His client had requested to meet somewhere other than the usual place, wishing somewhere more private. “He must have something important to say, then, if he needs to stay secret.” he thought to himself. “Perhaps he has finally agreed to our deal”. He had arrived at their agreed location. A decrepit cafe stood alone on the facade of a once famous hotel. The Concordia hotel had been in business since the 1800s, but had closed down recently after it was declared unsafe. It’s leaning supports meant it couldn’t hold it’s own weight for much longer, and it was scheduled for demolition sometime in january. Without breaking his stride, Mr. Maloney turned onto the cafe’s door and pushed it open. It’s rusted hinges squealed in protest, but the door fell open. Again, no-one questioned him. If a policeman wanted to enter the ruined hotel, it was probably safe to assume he had authorisation. They pretended not to notice, and carried on with their lives. Mr. Duke stepped onto the cold concrete floor. The carpet had been long stripped away, and the remaining tables and chairs lay stacked in a corner. The shutters had been drawn on all the windows, but faint light came in through the cracks in the old bricks. The building had an eerily silent quality, and the squabbling of pedestrians could be heard as a faint echo. Mr. Duke shivered at the sudden drop in temperature. “The sooner he got back to his wife, the better”, he thought. He closed the door and climbed the rotting wood staircase. His client had said the second floor. They had agreed to discuss the money. $5,000,000 pounds were to be transferred to his wallet if this interview went well. His client looked worried. That was a good sign. Desperate people would pay a lot more. “Good afternoon, Mr. Blue!” He said as he walked over to the crooked table. Mr. Blue said nothing. “I brought the artwork,” said Mr. Duke, and he had. He had hidden it in his backpack. “I went to great efforts to steal it from the museum, you know. Valued at $6,000,000 pounds! This was a lie, but the more money he could get for it, the better. He laid it on the table.
It wasn’t very big, but it was detailed. You could spend an hour finding little stories woven with the brushstrokes, then get a magnifying glass and see a whole lot more. It depicted the exterior of the same museum it was stolen from, and this was why it was always displayed in pride of place by the museum curators. It showed what the museum was like back in the 1800s when it was painted. It showed countless people playing in front of the museum park, and the nearby bustling marketplace, and all the stories that were unfolding could mean it would be interpreted differently by anyone who laid their eyes upon it. In almost anyone’s opinion, it was one of the greatest artworks ever created. Personally, Mr. Duke thought it looked very cluttered. He had taken it purely because of its worth. Finally, his client spoke. “Mr. Duke, you do know there’s a price on your head, don’t you?” he whispered, staring at the art. Mr. Duke did know. That was why he had become a member of the police force. He was the greatest and most infamous art thief in the world. “Well, you can’t be in my line of work for as long as I have without being wanted by the police,” he replied.” Why the conversation had turned to this, away from the money, he wasn’t sure. “They put the price up yesterday, you know. Anyone who can turn you in gets thirty million pounds.” Mr. Blue looked at him pointedly. Thirty million! “That is a lot of money,” he thought. “They must really want him. Maybe he should turn himself in. then he could afford to bail himself out. “So, ah, about the artwork, he began, then quickly stopped. Mr. Blue had reached into his coat pocket and drawn a gun. He held it pointed at him, and continued as though there were no interruption. “Dead or alive their saying. As long as there’s proof, and I’ve got it right here. You brang it to me. It’l look as though I’ve caught you red-handed with the art, won’t it?” Mr. Duke swallowed. He opened his mouth to speak. Mr. Blue shot at him, but Mr. Duke was too quick. He ducked and the bullet slammed into the crumbling brick wall. Momentarily distracted, Mr. Blue lowered his weapon a fraction. Seizing his chance, Mr. Duke kicked it out of his hands. It landed on the floor and skidded down onto the staircase. Both men looked at each other, then dived for it at the same time. Mr. Blue got there first, and held it in triumph, before being knocked out by one of the wooden cafe chairs. He crumpled to the floor. Mr. Duke run outside as fast as he could. He knew from experience as a detective that he had to get away from the scene as soon as possible. He darted through the crowd toward his home. He decided he would finally reveal his secret double life to his wife. He wasn’t happy about it, but he needed to be sure she wasn’t in danger, and it would help that she was prepared. He had survived that encounter only because Mr. Blue had made a mistake. There could be others like him, after the reward money. He was sure he could trust his wife with the secret. Later that evening, he told his wife he was secretly a professional art thief with a 30 million pound reward for his capture. After hearing the news, Mrs Riley Duke couldn’t believe her ears. 30 million pounds! And all she had to do was hand him to the police…
