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third-floor storage space, a treasure trove of artifacts that immediately set my heart racing.
    Unlike the Forbes Museum, the Children’s Museum had a substantial security system. The first-and second-floor windows were wired to a sophisticated alarm system. The third-floor windows, however, appeared to have no such safeguards. Later, standing outside the museum, I could see the reason for this: the windows were situated in such a way that only Spider-Man could have reached them. Never one to be put off by such trivial details, I decided that this was where I would make my entrance.
    At the time, the Children’s Museum was housed in an imposing mansion in an upscale neighborhood of equally imposing mansions in the Boston suburb of Jamaica Plain. It was a quiet part of town. On the night of the theft there wasn’t a soul out to recognize me as I parked my van and made my way down the tree-lined Jamaicaway toward the museum. I was dressed in dark clothes, a trick I’d learned from Cary Grant in To Catch a Thief . In a bag I carried two coils of rope and the same pry bar I’d used at the Forbes Museum.
    Many people are under the mistaken impression that short men are at a disadvantage in life. If anything, my stature has been one of my most important assets. A small person who has learned to use his body, as I have, is able to do things larger men find impossible. The strength and agility I’ve developed through years of martial arts training, combined with my naturally compact frame, have always made me an excellent climber.
    On one of my earlier visits to the museum I’d scouted what I hoped would be a fairly easy route up the back of the building. Now it was time to put my skills to the test. Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I shimmied two stories up a sturdy iron drainpipe and, with considerable effort, clambered over the rooftop overhang. Once on the roof I took one of the ropes from my bag and tied one end around one of the mansion’s several brick chimneys and the other end around my waist. Like a mountain climber working his way down the face of a cliff, I carefully lowered myself over the edge of the roof to the unalarmed attic window.
    Spider-Man had arrived.
    After snapping the latch with my pry bar and swinging my body inside, I untied myself and set to work. Unlike the Forbes Museum, where I had been able to literally drive my van right up to the front door, the Children’s Museum presented a special problem. I was going to have to carry anything I took back up to the roof and then down the drainpipe. Over the course of several visits to the museum I’d made a careful selection. Most of the items I planned to take were among those in storage in the attic, but several were on exhibit in the downstairs galleries.
    After pausing in the attic to get my bearings, I headed down the narrow staircase to the second floor. Still cocky from my recent success at the Forbes House, I was fairly whistling as I took the last few steps. It wasn’t until I reached the downstairs hallway that I realized just how misguided my optimism was.
    The scene before me was like something out of a Hollywood heist film: the dark galleries were crisscrossed with infrared beams. I stopped for a moment on the landing, trying to see a way through or around the web of red light, but there was none. I would have to satisfy myself with what I could find on the third floor.
    Turning, I made my way back up to the attic to fulfill my wish list. With that accomplished, I slung my sack over my shoulder and, no doubt looking like a perverse Santa Claus, hauled myself to the rooftop. There, I tied my second rope around the bag and lowered it to the ground. Then, securing myself with the same rope I’d used to climb down to the dormer window, I clambered over the edge of the roof and shimmied down the drainpipe.

Three
    A s the summer of 1965 drew to a close I was in serious need of a vacation. My regular late nights at the Lewis Room, combined with