The Art of Theft - Chapter One

Art of Theft

Chapter One

by Murray K.

Kleptomania: A compulsion to steal but, and here's the interesting thing, without any economic benefit.

Monomania: A pathological obsession with a single item, thought or emotion.

Hypomania: A condition of continual heightened emotions, including euphoria, hyperactivity and sometimes, I should admit, feelings of grandeur.

What they all have in common apart the suffix "mania" is that just about every psychiatrist in this town would diagnose me with all three in a heartbeat. Which could be handy if the authorities find me at the bottom of this pool.

It's a mostly pleasant feeling lying here in the dark, listening the steady rhythm of my breath going through the regulator. Limbs weightless, the rebreather tank resting lightly on my back, 8 pounds of lead on my dive belt keeping me stationary. After the initial adrenaline has worn off, my greatest worry is falling asleep. I spend the time running through the plan in my head, trying to visualize it, especially my route. It's only my second visit to this penthouse, although a fortnight ago I had a bit more company. The cocktail party was held to show off the renovations and although it was a little dull at times it was a very thorough tour.

"All the cabinets, here and the study, they're all custom made from mahogany and macassar ebony. Cost well into the six figures but they did it, flawlessly mind you, in just three months. You can say what you like about the global financial crisis but when Lehman's went bust it got a lot easier to hire a carpenter in Manhattan. Come and see the kitchen."

As we follow the house proud host I notice a few people grimace at that last comment and I know why. A lot of people in this room lost a packet on the Lehman's crash, on top of Bear Stearns before it. Yet our host made a small fortune, because she and her husband were short the stock to the gunnels. How do I know? I sold it for them.

"It's a joy to cook in, so much space. These benchtops come from the same Tuscan marble quarry as Michelangelo's David. I told Henry that if he wants inspired cooking..."

You see, I look after a reasonable sized fortune on behalf of Mr and Mrs... in the interest of client confidentiality, lets call them Mr and Mrs Welsh. Early 60's, he made his first millions in property, now they've renovated their dream pad for retirement. My advice is at least partly to thank for that. In markets, timing is everything. For the past 4 years mine has been perfect. Skill, luck, the will of the Gods? Really, it doesn't matter.
"And these ovens are, surprisingly enough, Swiss. Turns out they don't just make watches. And then we get to the living room."

Short Lehmans in August 2008. Loaded up on Citigroup at a dollar. Rode 10 year treasuries down to 2.5%. Big holdings in Caterpillar and Apple. An allocation in physical gold throughout.

"We got that wall knocked out and put the glass in the whole length of the balcony. It's got a great view of central park."

If you look between the canyon of buildings and squint a bit you can definitely see a couple of trees. That's a little harsh I guess. It's a good enough view that a real estate agent wouldn't need to resort to "park glimpses" to keep a straight face.

"And it looks even better from the roof."

As we move to the stairs I realize I'm probably the youngest person in the room. Forget 'probably', I'm the only one under 40. But as I hang back to let the others up the stairs first it's not just out of deference for my elders. Nearly half of these people are clients, and most of the rest are definite prospects. I wait at the bottom of the stairs as they file past and shake a few hands, ask about children and holidays, the usual chit-chat.

Sorry, I haven't introduced myself. Scott Redford. Goldman Sachs, account manager for high net worth clients. I'd give you a business card but I left them in my other wetsuit. The reason I was invited to this shindig is because, without me, instead of celebrating the beautiful renovation of this two storey brownstone penthouse on the upper east side they'd be trying to fit all these guests into a one bedroom apartment in SoHo the size of, well, mine.

"Isn't this deck gorgeous? We raised it so it looks over the infinity pool towards the park."

"Do you share the roof with the rest of the building?"

"No Neville, that's the best thing about this place. The roof went with the penthouse title. We just put in these stairs and shut off the fire stair, and now we've got it all to ourselves."

I wonder how they got that one past the building board, but the view is definitely worth it. When you're down at ground level in New York everywhere feels like a closed room, 4 walls around you and the sky is an eternity away. But once you're on the roof, staring at the buildings at their eye level... Standing here in the twilight, the roofs undulate like low hills and give way to sky scrapers that look like the fading mountains of a Chinese silk painting. Block out the traffic noise below and it's almost possible to forget you're in Manhattan.

"So Henry," I ask as I sidle up to Mr Welsh standing next to the small pool, "can you do laps in that thing?"

"Ha. You think you're kidding Scott, but I do you know. I got one of those jets put in so I can swim against the current."

"Really? How well does that work?"

"For a fit young thing like yourself it might not be any use but let me tell you, 15 minutes swimming against it and I need a lie down."

"Well sir, it's a very impressive setup. Where did you hide all the equipment?"

"It's all just over here. Actually, you've got to see this."

He opens a little cupboard next to the stairs to show a surgically white space full of pipes and blinking LEDs.

"So that's the pool filter and the like?"

"Pool filter, heater, jets, the whole kit and kaboodle. Looks like the engine of a space ship, doesn't it? All automated, the pool guys can monitor everything from the shop, I don't have to do a thing. Shame really, it looks like the kind of thing I'd like to have a tinker with."

"No fear, sir. I don't think Gloria would take kindly to the pool blowing up and flooding her beautiful renovations."

"Oh yeah, ain't that the truth. Speaking of which, we'd better catch her up. I think she's going to show everyone the bathrooms."

Let me get something straight right at the outset. I don't hate these people or begrudge them their money. None of this is about class warfare or righteous anger or even envy. I work for Goldman Sachs for chris'sake, I didn't join them because of their extensive charity work. I'm here to make money and these people have money. By my measures they're successful, they're my role models even. And despite odd pretensions none of them are particularly nasty or annoying. The Welshes are lovely people, even if Gloria is a little too keen to make sure people notice the very expensive pearl handled Italian taps. A little status conscious, sure, but you try living in this town for more than a month and avoiding that. They're not even in the same league as the fashion industry types I know, and don't get me started on the art dealers. No, on the whole these are decent people who, through hard work, good luck and good management, partly my management, happen to have an extremely large amount of cash. It's the way the world works. If you don't like it, go into politics.

"And finally, through here, the master bedroom. Believe it or not, this was is the most expensive room in the house. But as Henry says, we do spend a third of our lives here."

The rest of the guests file in dutifully but this time I have to hide impatience. Here, in this room, is reason I was eager to attend this evening, besides glad handing present and future clients. It's not the spa-bath in the ensuite or the ambient colour changing LED lighting setup. No, my attention is fixed on a small rectangle about a foot a side on the wall opposite the bed.

"And of course, here's where we keep the Matisse. Scott seems to have found it."

Belle Ile en Mer, Beautiful island in the sea. It's a landscape painting but the orientation is portrait, the better to capture the movement of the cliffs falling into the sea. The whole is achieved with short, obvious brushstrokes in a hand full of colours, violets and aquamarine for the ocean, teal green, khaki and burnt umber for the cliffs and islands. Deep shadows in the water and the distant cliffs are the only solid colour. Focus on any one stroke or detail and it looks, well, almost childish. And yet, looking at the whole, it is alive, full of the movement of the waves, the windswept grasses, and the magnificent volume of space to the far cliffs. Signed and dated 1897, the year Matisse discovered impressionism, the works of Van Gogh and colour theory. This is the work of young man whose eyes have just been opened to the vibrancy of the world around him and how he may capture that in paint on canvas.

"Pretty, isn't it."
The room is empty apart from myself and Mrs Welsh, and I realise I've been staring at the painting for five minutes while the others have all filed back out and onto the deck for champagne and nibblies.

"It is quite magnificent."

"Scott, you are a flatterer. It's lovely and all, but it's barely a study. Still, it is a Matisse. We could have bought something more expensive but, you know, Henry and I aren't the biggest art buffs. Come on dear."

Besides, I think as I file out of the room, more expensive art would have meant fewer of those 'six figures' to spend on the cabinetry. But hey, that sounds bitter. Like I said, this isn't about their wealth, nor is it that these people are somehow too uncultured to truly appreciate art. There's no highbrow snobbery or Robin Hood argument here. There's no justification at all. I just have to have that painting.

That's why I'm sitting at the bottom of the swimming pool at five to midnight. I'm going to steal the Matisse.