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“Carter?” Dorian repeated. He’d fixed me a second cup of cocoa, this one with extra cacao so I’d stay awake long enough to explain the truth I’d reasoned out.
“You were right about him,” I said. “But not for the reason you thought.”
“No twin?”
“No twin. But he didn’t pull off the theft himself. He succeeded in accomplishing a seemingly impossible theft by convincing other people to help him. That’s how he managed to have a dozen people as an alibi—including me!” I bristled as I remembered his fake-drunk act in the apartment building’s beautiful courtyard garden.
Dorian narrowed his eyes. “Why would anyone help such a man?”
“He’s a con man. I should have seen it sooner. Everything he did was perfectly planned. He left nothing to chance.”
“Some things were chance,” Dorian cut in. “This apartment building.”
I shook my head. “It’s not a coincidence that we and Carter are in the same building. This is the only apartment building with rental units with this particular view of the cathedral—which is why both you and Carter wanted rooms there. You wanted to be near the cathedral where you were born and we wanted to see whether the backward alchemists had returned. For Carter, my guess is so he could keep a lookout for any unexpected visitors as his accomplice slipped into the wreckage of Notre Dame from the catacombs to plant the fake journal and illustration.”
“Ah, so...” Dorian murmured.
“I hate to say it, but Carter can be incredibly charming when he wants to be. I can easily believe he charmed women into helping him with his deception. There’s one woman in particular I know I’m right about. She’s the key to the supposedly impossible theft. You remember the woman I mentioned who was filming the police right after the theft, supposedly to see what they knew?”
“The late-night jogger.”
“She was the thief.”
“I did not see her enter—”
“Because she didn’t. Not while you were watching. She had time to steal the illustration because she was never in a rush in the first place. She got inside the museum hours earlier by curling up in Carter’s rolling bag. She hid in the cloakroom until the museum closed.”
“Ah!” Dorian cried as comprehension dawned on him. “She set off the alarm when she exited, not when she entered. She would only need a few moments to blend in with the small crowd.”
“I don’t know exactly how Carter got through security with a petite woman inside his bag or how he forged the illustration. But he must have conned the security guard and an artist—unless he was that skilled an artist himself, which I doubt. Men like Carter have other people do the work for them.”
“And,” Dorian mused, “a successful con man would be able to sell the fake illustration on the black market to someone who would not have it authenticated. Because of how much everyone wanted to believe it was real, and because the proceeds would go to the restoration of Notre Dame Cathedral, he counted on the psychology of people not questioning too closely, after the journal itself was proved to be authentic. Yes, yes, this is all very good as a theoretical exercise. But how do you know for certain that the jogger was Carter’s accomplice? There are many petite women in Paris.”
“It’s not only her diminutive size. Remember our burglar?”
“You said she was the cleaning woman who let herself into our apartment, and that I should not worry.”
“I was wrong. That happened right at the moment when Carter said he needed just a few moments to grab his bag. You said she was small, wore sneakers, and inspected the bookshelf before leaving. You noticed the small box being used as a bookend had been moved—I think she took it.”
“But why?”
“Carter has been careful every step of the way. It makes sense he would have left anything incriminating in the attic directly above his apartment, in case things went wrong and his own rental was searched. I expected that box was a real antique and meant to house the illustration for the illicit buyer. Remember how surprised he was that there was another guest staying in this section of the apartment building. The attic wasn’t supposed to be rented out. That’s why it was so dusty, and why it hadn’t been on the market for rent until you convinced the manager to rent the apartment to me. That happened after Carter had inquired to make sure he was the only one at the top floor of the building and that nobody was in the attic apartment.”
Dorian steepled his fingers together and nodded silently. “Your theories are sound. I am convinced. And ashamed that I did not make these connections! Though to be fair, you are the one who spent time with the culprit. Yes, the more I think of it, there was no way for me to make these deductions.”
I suppressed a smile. Dorian’s ego was intact.
“Yet,” Dorian continued, “your brilliant deductions will not be enough for the authorities. Professor Boucher has accused you of involvement in the theft to les flics. We need proof.”
“Then it’s a good thing I have a plan.”
The next morning, I staked out the apartment beginning at dawn to put it into place.
At least, I’d do so if Carter ever woke up and left the apartment. That was the problem with con men. They were creatures of the night. I only hoped I wasn’t a day late to catch this one.