Heads You Win

“It’s not a problem, madame,” said Maria. “Should I call for a doctor?”

“No, I’m sure I’ll be all right if I can just rest for a few minutes. But, darling,” she said to Duval, “would you fetch my bag from the van, there are some pills I ought to take.”

“Of course, darling, I won’t be a moment,” he said, taking a closer look at the picture above the bed.

“You’re so kind,” said Anna, clinging on to Maria’s hand.

“No, no, madame, I have four children of my own. And men are so useless in these situations,” she added as Duval slipped out of the room.

He ran down the stairs to find his team were already in full swing, with Rosenthal acting as ringmaster, while Pierre cracked the whip. One by one the masterpieces were removed from the walls, to be replaced moments later with copies.

“You’ll find the Matisse above the fireplace in the drawing room,” Rosenthal said to one of the couriers. “The Picasso belongs in the master bedroom,” to another, “and the Rauschenberg goes right there,” he said, pointing to a large empty space on the wall in front of him.

“I’m looking for a Dalí,” said Duval. “It goes in the guest bedroom,” he added as a de Kooning disappeared out of the front door.

“There are three Dalís,” said Pierre after checking the inventory. “What’s the subject?”

“A yellow clock melting over a table.”

“Oil or watercolor?” asked Pierre.

“Oil,” said Duval as he headed back up the staircase.

“Got it. And don’t forget your wife’s handbag,” said Rosenthal.

“Merde!” said Duval, who dashed out of the house, nearly colliding with two couriers coming the other way.

He opened the passenger door of the van, grabbed Anna’s handbag, and ran back into the house and up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Pierre was just a pace behind, clutching the Dalí. Duval caught his breath, opened the door, and walked in, assuming a look of concern, while Pierre waited outside in the corridor.

“And the problem with Béatrice,” the maid was saying, “is that she’s fourteen, going on twenty-three.”

Anna laughed as Duval handed her the bag. “Thank you, darling,” she said, as she undid the clasp and took out a bottle of pills. “I’m sorry to be such a nuisance, Maria, but could I have a glass of water?”

“Of course,” said the maid, bustling into the bathroom.

Anna leaped up, stood on the bed, and quickly lifted the Dalí off its hook. She handed it to Duval, who ran to the door and exchanged it with Pierre for the copy, which he passed to Anna seconds later. Their second risk. She just had time to hang it on the hook and fall back down on the bed before Maria reappeared, carrying a glass of water. She found the two of them holding hands.

Anna took her time swallowing two pills, then said, “I’m so sorry to be holding you up.” Her well-trained husband came in bang on cue.

“Maria, where should I put the package for Mrs. Lowell?”

“Leave it in the hall, and the butler can deal with it when he gets back tomorrow.”

“Of course,” said Duval, “and by the time I return, darling, perhaps you’ll have sufficiently recovered for me to take you home.”

“I hope so,” said Anna.

“Don’t worry,” said Maria, “I’ll stay with madame until you get back.”

“How kind of you,” said Duval as he left the room. He was running down the stairs when he spotted Pierre handing the Dalí to a courier. “How much longer?” he asked as he joined Rosenthal in the hall.

“Five minutes, ten at the most,” said Rosenthal, as a courier showed him a Pollock. “Far side of the drawing room,” he said without hesitation.

Duval’s eyes never left the bedroom door. He said, “Any problems?”

“I can’t find the blue Warhol of Jackie. It’s too important not to be in one of the main rooms. But you’d better get back upstairs before the maid becomes suspicious.”

Duval walked back upstairs and returned to the bedroom, where the maid was still regaling Anna with tales about her children. He held up five fingers, and as she nodded, he noticed that the Dalí was hanging lopsided.