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But he thought it was a well-chosen disguise, and he’d tried to make it perfect.
That was who he was going to be. A mannequin. With a shaved head and stiff limbs at odd angles, and a featureless face, with clothing sitting on him not quite right, a little askew, looking as if it wasn't really meant to be there.
He was nothing more, now, than a clothes rack in human form, something to be overlooked, until the time was right to move. People were looking for a human statue, or a performer, someone bright and shiny and eye-catching. They were not looking for a simple store model that was in hundreds of the high street windows, in different guises.
He smiled at the thought. He'd been so clever to think of this.
But he had been clever in other ways, too. He had been careful to plan his escape route. He had prepared for any eventuality.
He stood still and waited, with a sense of calm. He knew that he had done everything he could. All he could do now was watch and wait. What he thought was likely to happen was that the police would stand down as the night wore on. Either that, or they would arrest the wrong person.
The street performers in Paris were a temperamental bunch. Artistic, passionate. He'd seen fights and arguments since he was here. They were unpredictable and volatile and he thought that would work for him.
One of them, if questioned or scrutinized, could easily explode in a temper, run away, strike an officer, and that would be enough. They'd think they had their man.
There. He checked himself in the mirror, making sure his disguise was perfect.
He straightened up and stepped back, admiring the effect. He was almost certain that this would work. He looked like a mannequin, just a dummy in a shop window, frozen in place.
The police would pass him by, as if he were just part of the scenery. He would be safe.
He took a deep breath, then stepped out into the street. He walked slowly and stiffly, the way a mannequin would, not looking left or right, not stopping, just heading straight for the street corner that he needed, the one where the lines of power for this third and final statue were strongest. Only he could sense that.
Now, he needed to find the right store, any fashion boutique would do – Paris was crammed with them, and there was bound to be one near enough to suit his needs. Then he'd position himself in the doorway, tilting back against the doorframe, just as if the store owner was intending to change his display and had left this mannequin outside, no longer needed for now.
And he waited, with the iron discipline in his mind taking hold, so that even if he'd wanted to move, he couldn't, because it would not be possible.
He became one with the walls, one with the door. He didn't allow himself to move or even breathe. Time slowed for him until it was no longer relevant. He let it drain away, let the night pass, aware of the people moving by - fewer, as the night drew on.
"We'd better get home," he heard a woman say. 'What if this killer's out somewhere? He could get us."
"Yes, it's creepy out here. I don't feel safe anymore. Let's get inside, soon," her friend said, and he felt a wonderful elation, a rush of joy that his powers were causing this. They admired him, they knew him. Soon he would be as famous as the tower itself.
And then, as he waited, a policeman passed him by, a typical French cop, stuffed full of his own importance in his dark clothing and official hat. Staring around, the radio crackling. He saw Goldenface but he didn't see him. He didn't really see him, with the right eyes, the eyes that would notice him.
But even so, it was a tense moment.
"Discipline yourself," he whispered inwardly. "Discipline. Stillness. You are a mannequin and not present in this real life. You are just a plastic form, without sentience."
When the policeman passed by, Goldenface knew he was safe. Even so, his heart was pounding. That had been a near miss. But he saw no more cops around, and he thought, now, that they were giving up.
After all, it was a costly drain on resources to have so many people patrolling the streets for such long hours. And in contrast, he was just one person, a needle in a haystack. He felt a surge of pride that he had managed to evade capture, despite the strong police presence. He was faster and nimbler than they were. He was smarter than them, too.
Already he was looking ahead.
This would be his third statue created here, and then, in accordance with his master plan, he was done with France.
Then he would lay low for a month or two and move to Greece. There were new goals there. The mighty Parthenon awaited. What a structure! What a noble monument. He was looking forward, already, to his next three statues, and how he would position them there. Each creation drew his power to him more strongly along the meridian lines, the directions that only he could sense.
And there were so many places left to go. After Greece, his next stop, of course, would be the Great Pyramid of Giza, and he couldn't wait for the power to flow into his veins as he completed his trio of creations there.
After that, he would go to Rio de Janeiro, to leave statues at the most significant localities surrounding the powerful statue of Christ the Redeemer. He smiled, a grim smile of satisfaction. Yes, he could feel his power growing. Every great statue, every timeless building and construction carried that ability to make him stronger, and each one was adding to his skills.
He drew in a breath, allowing himself to move for the first time in what must have been an hour, but had felt much shorter to him.
He waited a few more minutes, counting them in his head. Then, feeling that it was safe, he stepped away from the doorway, his body still stiff and rigid.
He nodded in satisfaction, and then, with a sudden burst of energy, he began to walk.
