The Homeless Millionaire - Volume 1 Chapter 29 September 4th 1972 Morning Afternoon

I froze on the spot and instinctively turned around and looked. The street behind me was as empty as it had been moments earlier. But the air was full of the clatter of electric bells, periodically urged on by the wails of a siren.

I forced myself to resume walking – I felt like breaking into a run, I but knew that wouldn’t be a good idea. I turned on the next corner so that I wouldn’t be walking directly away from the museum and realized I was still wearing that f.u.c.k.i.n.g ski mask. I tore it off and dropped it into a public bin next to a bus stop that I passed, along with the gloves and the starter gun. There was a newspaper scrunched up in the bin, and I used it to cover what I had discarded. As I crossed the street, I looked and saw a couple of lights come on in the building in front of me and again had to resist the urge to break into a run. I turned west again and walked on keeping a fast but natural pace, staying close to the wall. The sound of the museum’s alarm grew fainter, and I didn’t hear or see any cop cars. That relaxed me a little, and lit a fresh cigarette and walked on, feeling a bit more confident with every step. But all that newfound confidence evaporated instantly when I realized that Roch and Michel might have been caught.

If Roch had been caught, I had no place to go to, it was as simple as that. I kept walking on automatic, horrified by that new thought. I had no place to stay! I slowed down; by then I was over a mile southwest of the museum, and still hadn’t heard a single police siren. It was amazing, in all the movies I’d ever seen the streets were swarming with cops the moment a serious crime had been committed. Maybe Roch and Michel hadn’t been caught, after all. Maybe they were driving along in the museum van full of loot and having a laugh at my expense. The van! They’d had to go outside to get the van. Those two idiots forgot that opening any entrance to the museum would trigger the alarm if it hadn’t been deactivated.

Whether they’d been caught or not, it was too dangerous to go home in the hope that they weren’t. I had to find a place to stay, just in case. But I did not have any money at all. I had left my wallet at home. I was well up the proverbial shit creek with a hole in my boat and no paddle.

I lit a fresh cigarette and looked round as I did so and it dawned on me that I wasn’t far from the Montrose Hotel. I had a place to stay! I was to begin working there in less than two weeks. Surely Mr Henry Houghton-Briggs would give me room for a day. I’d have to invent a plausible story, but that wasn’t a problem. I could simply say I’d locked myself out, and had to wait for my roommate to return from the long weekend. And that I’d left my wallet my home, which was why I wouldn’t be able to pay until the evening, possibly next morning. I still had around thirty dollars left, that was more than enough for a couple of nights at a place like the Montrose Hotel. But the big thing was, I didn’t need any ID to stay there, the owner knew me. Maybe I wouldn’t even have to pay anything, get the cost of a room deducted from my future wages.

I felt much, much better once I knew where I was going. Unfortunately, it shortly became obvious that I didn’t know where I was going. I was in the residential area where the Montrose was located, but it was a big area and all the streets looked similar. Montrose Avenue ran east to west, and I resigned myself to walking south and checking the street signs at the corners.

I found it just a couple of later. I was so elated that I turned west without a moment’s hesitation. After a few minutes it became apparent that I’d taken the wrong turn, because Montrose Avenue ended and I had to retrace my steps, looking closely at every house I passed. The night made everything look unfamiliar. I was worried that I could walk right past the hotel without recognizing it. It only had the single sign advertising rooms next to the front door, and it wasn’t a big sign.

As it turned out, recognizing the Montrose Hotel turned out to be easy: there was a cop car double-parked right outside it. I was walking down the other side of the street and saw it a long way off and stopped to light a cigarette, having a good long look. One of the cops was out, standing under the streetlamp and writing something in a pocketbook he was holding up to his face. It appeared he was writing out a ticket for one of the cars that lined the pavement. I looked at the house behind him and yes, it was the Montrose, there was a light shining on the sign by the door.

I shifted my backpack with the Rembrandt to my other shoulder and kept walking on my side of the street, keeping the brisk pace of a guy on his way to distribute some early-morning advertising leaflets – I knew how to walk with that special, hurried gait, all right. I threw a glance at the cop as I was passing – it was only natural – and yes, he had been writing out a ticket, he was in the act of putting it under the windshield wiper. I continued to the nearest corner and turned there to move out of sight. I turned again at the next corner, walked a few steps and stopped and listened. I hadn’t heard the cop car drive away; presumably it was still there.

After a short internal battle, I retraced my steps, stopped at the corner of Montrose Avenue, and took a peek. The cop car was still there, what was more the second cop had come out and they were both leaning on the car, smoking cigarettes and staring at the hotell. I had no idea what that meant. It was absurd to think that they were waiting for me; maybe the owner of the ticketed car was a wanted man. Whatever: I couldn’t go to the hotel. Once again, I had no place to go to. I wasn’t going to give those cops the opportunity to become famous by nabbing one of the museum robbers after he’d practically walked into their arms.

Eventually, I started going in the direction of Roch’s house. I couldn’t think of any other option. I decided I would play it safe and check out the area and then watch it for a while before walking up to the front door. I wished that I had at least a couple of quarters to leave the backpack at a luggage locker at a bus or train station. But all I had were three cigarettes and half a booklet of matches and a solid gold medallion – I had examined it furtively along the way, it was gold, I was sure of it. It featured a profile of a beaky-nosed guy with a pigtail on one side and a coat of arms with a Latin inscription on the reverse: it looked eighteenth century to me.

The sky was noticeably lighter by the time I reached Roch’s street; it promised to be a fine, sunny day. I walked down it, keeping to the other side from Roch’s house. There was no light in his house, nor was there any sign of anyone’s presence. I wasn’t happy about that, but I was very grateful that there weren’t any cop cars around.

I didn’t want to wander back and forth on Roch’s street, so I walked back to the main street all the way around the block. There was a small leafy square with a couple of benches across the road, and I went there and sat down on the bench fronting the street and lit one of my remaining cigarettes and watched the sun come up. The constantly changing light was beautiful to watch, and it made me feel at peace once again.

I became so relaxed I dozed off on that bench. I was woken up by the sound of morning traffic. I checked my watch and it was already after half past six, I had slept for nearly an hour. The sun was already shining brightly but I had fog in my head. I sat still until well after seven, fighting the urge to smoke a cigarette. Then I got up and walked again down Roch’s street. Nothing had changed, the whole street seemed to be sleeping.

There was nothing to do but return to my bench on the square; I was too scared to attempt going into the house. By then I was feeling really tired and dozed on and off for almost a couple of hours. I was also getting thirsty and hungry. There was a small water fountain in the square and I drank a few handfuls, but it didn’t help much. I permitted myself a cigarette and things got better for maybe half an hour, then they got even worse.

Around half past eleven I made up my mind to go back to the house. I just couldn’t stand it any longer. I dragged things out by smoking my last cigarette. That was it, I had no choice, I had to go home if only to get a fresh pack of smokes from my room. I would get my wallet too, then I’d leave.

A few small kids were playing with a ball on a front lawn not far from Roch’s house. Their excited screams and shouts made me feel safe. I walked right up to the front door and found it was still locked; Roch hadn’t come home. I shrugged and got my key and opened the door and went straight to the kitchen. I made myself tea and wolfed down almost half a pack of sliced bread straight from the bag.

I went upstairs with the firm intention of getting my wallet and cigarettes and leaving right away. But when I entered my room I could feel my knees buckling. I was exhausted and had to rest, and didn’t care what would happen if I did. I put my backpack with the Rembrandt under my pillow, lay down, and checked my watch. It was nearing one in the afternoon. I meant to get up again to take off my shoes and jacket, but I just couldn’t do it.

I fell asleep.