?le Saint-Louis is one of two natural islands in the middle of the Seine near Notre-Dame. Accessible only by bridge from both the Right and the Left Banks and connected to ?le de la Cité, it’s an oasis of quiet and culture. Developed as a master-planned urban center in the seventeenth century by Henri IV and Louis XIII, it’s both an elegant residential neighborhood and a tourist magnet, with high-priced apartments and a few select streets of restaurants, boutiques, and shops. ISL is also home to the best ice cream store in Paris, maybe the world, called Berthillon. As Breezy, one of my roommates during my junior year who happened to be a blond Amazonian field hockey player from Greenwich, described ?le Saint-Louis, “It’s like French Nantucket! I want a summer house here.”
A spread of Breezy’s wedding in Town & Country confirmed that she was in for a life of whatever she wanted thanks to that blond ponytail and those legs. And, though it looked nothing like Nantucket, Breezy was right that ?le Saint-Louis has a pristine, step-back-in-time quality. Crossing the bridge was like walking into another century. I’d been enchanted by the area as a student, jealous of the Americans who had snagged homestays on the ISL, but they all complained it was too boring and didn’t have enough nightlife.
When the trip to Paris came up, Beatrice Landreau offered to make reservations at a nondescript hotel that catered to tour groups. But I told the museum that I’d take care of my own reservations. The first place that popped into my mind was a little hotel I remembered on ISL because, according to my Blue Guide, it had once been the sight of a royal tennis court. The hotel was in a converted four-hundred-year-old wooden-framed building with towering ceilings in the common area and a glass elevator. I made my reservations at H?tel Jeu de Paume, thinking it would be the perfect spot for me, but I hadn’t planned on bunking in with my Panthéon Sketches.
I didn’t want to ring our security people from the car because I wasn’t sure how much English my driver knew. Better not to let him know I had valuables in my roller bag, so I asked him to pull the car over before we arrived at the hotel.
I took the call in an alley and was assured by Mike Danbretti, our longtime security specialist, on the other end that my hotel checked out. Mike, a former FBI agent, had started a high-end art and antiquities shipping company about ten years ago. He spent his time at the FBI tracking down stolen art and now was on the other side of the equation. With offices in Los Angeles, it wasn’t unusual to run into Mike at the museum or art opens where outside security might be needed. We had a good relationship. He appreciated my embrace of the cloak-and-dagger; I liked his buttoned-down tough-guy act.
“Does this happen a lot? No contact on the other end?” I asked.
“All the time. Buyers that are no-shows. Dealers that forget the delivery, or usually, something bigger and better comes along, so they stall. I’ll check this gallery out on a deeper level, but I don’t see a major problem, Joan.” It still struck me as odd, but Mike was good at his job, so I let it go.
He explained to me how to use the dummy portfolio as a decoy and where to hide the real one. “Good location, actually.” I could tell Mike was sitting at his computer, checking out the H?tel Jeu de Paume, entering the address into whatever database a security company might have. “Off the beaten path, small hotel where the front desk can keep an eye on the comings and goings. I would keep the information to yourself, but feel free to let them know that you don’t expect any visitors. And decline maid service, the usual stuff. I wouldn’t spend too much time away from the room, but the piece is safer in the hotel when you go out than wheeling it around with you when you go shopping.”
“Thanks, Mike. Because pretty much all I do is shop,” I razzed. We both laughed. Mike was forever telling me I should expand my wardrobe, suggesting that I “wear some pink” or “try yellow every once in a while.” Meanwhile, I stuck with the classics, black and blue. “There are more black clothes in Paris per capita than anywhere else in the world. Did you know that, Mike?” I apologized for waking him up and then hung up. I hopped back into the car and was pretty sure that my phone call had raised some suspicions. The driver gave me a long look. Now I was a touch paranoid, which comes with the job.
“?le Saint-Louis, s’il vous pla?t. L’H?tel Jeu de Paume au 54 rue Saint-Louis.”
The jet lag was starting to hit me. I was looking forward to a hot shower and then a walk around town when my phone pinged. It’s Nate. Our reservation is at 8. Can you stay awake that long?
Damn. I had already forgotten about dinner. At least the restaurant was within walking distance from my hotel, which made me feel better somehow, like a mother running down the street for a quick errand while her child napped. I texted back, I’ll meet you there. Pajamas okay?
The hotel was as charming as I remembered it, with walls of stone, timber beams, and coved ceilings in the breakfast room. My room was simple and clean with high-quality sheets and contemporary art on the wall. There was even an old yellow lab that lived on-site named Monsieur Scoop, sprawled on a rug near the front desk. Everything about the place felt cozy and safe. Even still, I was cautious. “I’m finishing up a project for work, so I’d appreciate no interruptions for a few days. Thank you.”
The front desk clerk, a man in his fifties with a crisp white shirt and a name tag that said “Claude,” shook his head and said, “Ah, you Americans. All work.”
“Only a few days, then the city is mine,” I assured him.
Before hopping in the shower, I did as Mike had instructed me on the phone. I had been provided with a duplicate black portfolio, a standard-issue case, filled with fake sketches. It was covered in Bubble Wrap and completely taped up. In theory, anyone looking to snatch the drawings wouldn’t bother to spend the time to open and check to see if the real Panthéon Sketches were inside. It had been inside my roller bag in the most obvious place, buried a few layers underneath the top, in case anyone had followed me through customs and gotten any ideas. I put the fake in the safe in my hotel room, just big enough to hold the yearbook-size piece.
The portfolio with the real sketches stayed in the hidden compartment in my roller bag where it had been since I left Pasadena. The false bottom was undetectable: our own little bit of spy craft. I unpacked my clothes, shoes, and sundries and stowed my bag in the closet, just as a normal tourist would. The Panthéon Sketches were hiding in plain sight.
I felt like quite the operative as I triple-locked the door and got in the shower. It was good to be here.