The year was 1953, Paris, France. Twenty years after the incident that occurred at my previous place of employment, the Louvre Museum. Was it wrong what I did? Was any of it even my fault?
I resent myself for even getting into this whole conundrum. Sure, even if any of it really wasn’t my fault, I could be arrested as an accomplice, or maybe even get off scott free, but evidently I have been noted as the mastermind behind this whole sinister scheme.

There I sat, in an interrogation room of the Paris Judiciaire Département. I awaited the arrival of anyone to question me, and I have run pretty much all the things they could possibly ask me, and the answers. A recorder sat at the end of the table, which made me slightly tense. Never before have I been in a police station, and I did not plan on being here very long.

Soon enough, a tall and lean man with a pencil-thin mustache across his upper lip, Monsieur Debil, walked into the room with sophisticated motions, which made me think he considered himself of some superiority. He announced himself as Paris’ top interrogator. My suspicions were correct.

Debil plopped into his seat and turned on the recorder. “Let us get right down to it, Mr. Arthur Pfeiffer.” He disliked the fact my name was of German descent.

“Tell me everything leading up to the night of May second, 1933.” His thick accent was humorous yet intimidating.

“Okay police chief, here you go.”

I recollected the almost distant memories and spoke clearly and defiantly.

“It all started about seven weeks before the incident. I was an aspiring college graduate with a degree from Stanford, no less. I moved to Paris for one reason and one reason only; to work at the Louvre. I applied for a job as soon as I arrived and got it. I had never been so excited in all my life. The world seemed perfect. I bought an apartment in the Ninth Arrondissement, which was smaller than this room mind you.”

“Skip the minute details, all I want to know is how the Mona Lisa was stolen.” He rudely interrupted.

“Why do you think it was me who took it? There are plenty of other likely people.”

“I ask the questions around here.” He sternly replied as if he already knew who took it.

“What about the night guards, or the other employees?”

“Please do not be foolish Mr. Pfeiffer; we have already interrogated them and all the evidence points to you. Just tell me what happened.”

“Fine, have it your way.” Anger boiled inside me as he continued to pester me with his unruly questions.
I paused and contemplated a way out of this situation. “Sir, you must be mistaken, for I know who took the Mona Lisa.”

He shook with anticipation. “And who might that mystery person be?”

“Monsieur Debil, the thief is you.”

“Moi!” He yelled with sudden amusement in his tone.

“Yes, you! If it is possible for me to take it then it must be just as easy for you.” I hoped he would not notice the quiver in my voice.

“I see. So you did not take it?” He raised it into a question, leading me to believe that was not what he wanted to hear. Debil moved in closer to hear my answer.

“Absolutely not! Only a fool would ever steal the Mona Lisa, they would be caught. Interrogator Debil, I am an innocent man.”

“I am still apprehensive. I understand you knew very little, but do you have any idea who took it?”

“For all we know, Monsieur Debil, you could have taken it.”

“I see. Now that we know you have no connection, I suspect you may leave, although I will be watching you, Pfeiffer” Relief began to flood my body and mind.
…..

Once home, I stood in front of my bed. On the wall above it was a strangely beautiful woman, with long brown hair and a face painted into eternity. Oddly I looked into her ancient and wise eyes and solemnly spoke four little words.

“We did it Mona.”