The Ten House

The target home, located at 10 George Street, stood out both in size and style amongst the multi-story, modern apartment buildings lining the metropolitan road. George Street had been around about as long as the city itself and has been through multiple iterations of so-called improvements. The neighbourhood was the downtown home of busy professionals and their families, and the street itself a convoy of taxis and busses. 10 George St., often referred to as simply “Ten House”, while not unclean or unlivable, remained the only clue to what the city must have once resembled. It was old and stout, constructed from the reddish-brown bricks that might’ve been fashionable a century ago. It faded behind the busy foreground during the day, and at night only a dim light in one of its large windows could be spotted from its exterior.

An easy mark. That window was on the eastern side of the second story of the Ten House. Probably a bedroom or study for its occupant, a stubborn old man who lost touch with society many years ago. The plan was straightforward. First, under the cover of darkness, enter the home on the left-hand side, through the old window held shut by a simple latch. My experience will make this a trivial task – I will be silent and efficient in its opening. Next, move through the house furtively, identifying and extracting any found valuables. During this stage I will have to stay on my toes. The occupant could be anywhere in the home, and I will need to exfiltrate at the first indication that my presence is known. In any case, the job’s final stage will be exiting through the same window through which I will have entered.

The job went exactly as planned. At least in the beginning. Entering through the window went exactly as expected, my dexterous fingers making quick and quiet work of the latch. I moved through the house stealthily through the dark corridors. My recon had indeed been accurate – the house was all but abandoned during the night. The “abandoned” feeling only grew as I peered into the various rooms. There were no paintings on the wall, and the only furniture to be found was purely functional and minimalistic. Many of the rooms had simply been cleared out. This surprised me. It was a known fact that the famed artist Arthur Konigsburg had raised his family in this home, and I expected to find more fruits of his fortune.

The kitchen was equally barren. There was exactly one fork, one knife, and one spoon in the counter drawers. The refrigerator was stocked with pre-prepared meals labelled by the day. Some were past their expiry dates. This gave me some small hope: at least I could be sure that someone was actually living here! I was committed, I would find something in the Ten House. Weeks of research, planning and observation were not going to go to waste.

I became aware that any treasures would be found in that dimly lit second story room, the one place in the home I had committed to avoiding at all costs. I should make my exit. Now. But in that moment, against all my judgment learned through years of experience, my curiosity got the better of me. I had to at least know what the old man was keeping in that room.

I climbed the stairs and approached the eastern side of the house, each careful step making no audible sound. I realized in the silence of my steps that no sound at all could be heard. Strange. One would expect to at minimum hear the nighttime sounds of a sleeping man. A short time later, I could see the rectangular outline of a door, created by the light emitted from within. I made my way to the door and pressed my ear against the cold wood. Apart from the light buzz made by an old desk lamp, nothing.

Was I really going to do this? I had to see inside, and despite the risk, I slowly opened the door. From left to right, the room was revealed to me. A small single unmade bed, a bookshelf, a wastebasket filled with paper, and finally a desk list by a single lamp. In front of the desk, sat on a wooden chair, was the old occupant, face-down in his crossed arms, in a deep, unmoving sleep.

I moved to inspect the area, careful not to wake the man. On the desk, lay dozens of pages, filled with drawings of figures, animals, and abstract shapes. This was where the old man did his work. Many of the drawings were quite beautiful, although even my untrained artistic eye could tell there was something missing from all of them. Many of them were left unfinished, or violently scribbled out or erased. The wastebasket too was filled with crumpled sheets, likely filled with more of the same.

The old man’s stillness was beginning to unnerve me. There was no up and down swell of the man’s back as he breathed. In fact, there was no evidence whatsoever that the man was breathing at all. In that moment I made a dark realization. There was no evidence that the man was breathing because he was not breathing. This old man, the heir to the Konigsburg fortune, was dead.

It was clear that this man’s art was his priority, working intensely at the cost of his health and wealth. I made the grim decision to inspect what the man was working on just before he passed. I lifted his arms and head to reveal a little black book, with a front cover engraved with the initials “A.K”. I flipped through its aging pages and saw what was missing from the sketches found on the desk and in the wastebasket. I knew I had found my treasure after all.

Days later, while waiting for my fence to appraise my find, I reflected on what I had seen. I was the final witness to the life of the old man occupying 10 George Street, a man who dedicated his life attempting to emulate the true beauty of his famed ancestor’s art. A man who was not successful in this goal, who died in its pursuit. Perhaps there is some kind of honour gained by living a life such as his. If I were an honourable thief, what would I do in the situation I have found myself in? However, when the fence gave me his offer, any honourable notions were flushed from my system. I wasn’t interested in honour, virtue, or glory. I was interested in money, and I had just been offered a lot of it. Twenty-thousand dollars. “Quite the take”, I thought to myself as made my exit.