The Good Thief's Guide to Paris by Chris Ewan

earpiece. I moved towards him and he stiffened, as if sensing a threat. I had no idea what was at the end of the corridor but I got the distinct impression it was off-limits to the general public. I could see an appointment ledger in front of the guard and a walkie-talkie clipped to his belt. I smiled awkwardly, then veered off in the direction of a pair of cash machines, as though I’d momentarily lost my bearings.
    I didn’t need any cash – I was carrying half of the money Pierre had given me – but I did want to spend a few more minutes in the bank for the sake of completeness, and using the cash machine seemed like my best excuse. So I removed my wallet from my pocket, inserted my cash card into the machine, entered my pin number and selected a modest sum. While the machine worked its magic, I looked up from the screen and aimlessly scanned the wall by my side. And that was when I saw him, staring back at me with a sightless gaze.
    The photograph was only a little bigger than a passport image and it was in a smudged glass frame along with perhaps thirty others. I guessed I was looking at a set of photographs of everyone who worked in the bank. Bruno’s image was towards the far right, fourth row down. His hair was a good deal longer and he had on a pair of wire-rimmed glasses, but it was unmistakably him. “Bruno Chevrier” read the nameplate below his image. The row above contained a headshot of the bald security guard. Way over to the left was a photograph of the obstinate gentleman on the customer information desk.
    I turned and scanned the interior of the bank once more, checking to see whether Bruno was in an area I hadn’t spotted just yet. But he was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he worked at the end of the mysterious corridor, protected by the hairless security guard. Or perhaps in a back room, answering telephones or processing mortgage applications. Hell, maybe he was even watching over me on CCTV.
    For just a moment, I thought about returning to the customer information desk and asking if Monsieur Chevrier was available but I immediately discounted the notion. I’d already asked for Bruno by a different surname once and I didn’t want to create suspicion. Besides, if he was working, he’d be unlikely to come down once he’d gained some impression of who I was. Another idea I had was to settle myself on one of the leather chairs positioned nearby and pretend to consult some of the banking literature in the hope he might appear. But that wasn’t a plausible option either. The chap on the information desk already knew my French was basic, at best, and I got the impression I’d drawn enough attention to myself for the time being. If I sat down and flicked uselessly through some brochures, I’d most probably look as if I was planning a heist.
    Just as I was considering all this, my money spewed forth from the cash machine and I slipped it into my wallet and made my way outside. I checked the time on my watch and found that it was nearing a quarter to five. I crossed the street and shuffled backwards into a recessed doorway between a sweet-smelling patisserie and a cramped tabac that gave me a good view of the front entrance to the bank. It occurred to me that I could wait until the bank closed and try to spot Bruno leaving for the day. Of course, it was entirely possible that there was a separate staff exit or it was his day off, but I figured I’d take my chances and stick with the front. If I was unlucky, I could always return first thing in the morning and try again.
    Instead of just loitering, I decided I might as well pass the time by browsing in some of the nearby stores on Rue Quincampoix. If I was careful and didn’t wander too far away, I could return at five and again at half past to keep an eye on the bank entrance. Besides, Rue Quincampoix was a regular haunt of mine and I felt confident one of the galleries or quirky design stores that lined the street would have something to hold my