by Elise Broach
“Was the thief caught?” Karl asked.
Denny shook his head. “Not that I recall. And in that case, he left a nice little note complimenting the gallery on its security!” He smiled. “Again, it’s not your typical crime, and the people involved aren’t your typical criminals.”
“Well,” Christina protested, “sometimes they are. The National Museum in Stockholm? Three men with guns broke in and stole a Rembrandt self-portrait and two Renoirs.”
“Yes, that’s right,” Denny murmured. “They escaped by speedboat. Those paintings were recovered by a Danish policeman posing undercover as an art buyer.”
“Really?” Karl said. “They got all of them back?”
“Yes,” Christina answered, lost in thought. “All of them.”
The room fell silent. Marvin’s head was spinning. It was hard to imagine dusty, quiet museums as the settings for such flamboyant crimes. It was also hard to believe that a drawing or painting could be worth so many millions of dollars.
“But what’s all this got to do with the Dürer drawing?” Karl asked finally.
“There are four drawings, actually,” Christina said, “of the four cardinal virtues: Fortitude, Justice, Prudence, and Temperance. Bellini drew only a picture of Fortitude, but Dürer drew pictures of all four. All miniatures, incredibly detailed.”
“What does that mean . . . ‘prudence’?” James asked.
His father paused. “Carefulness, really. Being cautious, thinking things through.”
That was like James, thought Marvin. James was always careful.
“And temperance is moderation,” Christina explained. “Not overdoing it.”
Marvin rolled his eyes, though no one could see him. Grown-ups couldn’t seem to understand that it was always better to overdo it.
“Okay, four Dürer drawings,” Karl prompted her. “And?”
“And . . . they were stolen. Or at least, three of them were. Prudence and Temperance were taken from a little museum in Baden-Baden, Germany, two years ago—they were so small, the thief just lifted the frames from the wall and tucked them under his jacket.”
It would be easy to hide those drawings, Marvin thought. They were so little.
“Justice . . .” Christina hesitated.
Marvin saw that Denny was watching her, his expression a blend of sympathy and regret. When she didn’t go on, he started talking himself: “Justice was taken last year. The Met had just purchased it, at Christina’s urging, from a London dealer. It was a major coup for the collection. Old Master drawings have become a hot ticket lately, selling for hundreds of thousands. I wanted it for the Getty, of course.” He smiled down at James. “A companion to Fortitude. My museum in California has quite a collection of European drawings, and I have a soft spot for Dürer. For the Virtue drawings in particular.”
“Justice had minor water damage,” Christina continued. “It was in the Conservation Department last March, being repaired, when the office was broken into. That drawing was the only thing taken.” She shook her head at Denny.
“It was terrible,” Denny said. “I was in New York for a conference, and the theft cast a pall over our entire weekend. We were all just stunned.”
“I remember reading about it,” Karl said. “But why only that drawing? There must have been other valuable artworks in Conservation.”
Christina and Denny exchanged a wistful smile.
“Dürer,” Denny said.
“Yes, Dürer,” Christina agreed. “If it were just an ordinary theft—you’re right, there were several valuable paintings in the office. But this wasn’t about the money, in my opinion, nor were the thefts of the two other Virtue drawings, Prudence and Temperance. People have a thing for Dürer.”
Karl raised an eyebrow.
But Marvin immediately understood. That was the power of the drawings: the sadness, homeliness even, of the people. They were so real.
James chewed his lip, studying Marvin’s picture of the woman and the lion. “But I don’t see why you need a copy of this one,” he said. “You have this one. Why don’t you want a copy of Justice, since that’s the one that’s missing?”
“Because, James,” Christina said eagerly, her words soft and rushed, “I think someone is collecting these drawings. And whoever that person is, he’ll want the complete set. The four virtues. This is the only one left.” She turned to Denny. “I’ve been talking to people at the FBI, in the art-theft program. They say it might work. They’re willing to help.”
“Help what?” Karl exclaimed in frustration. “I still don’t understand.”
James dropped into a chair, and Marvin was immediately blocked from any view of the adults. He inched his way out of the pocket and climbed James’s zipper surreptitiously, glad that everyone’s attention was focused elsewhere.
Christina took a deep breath. “Okay, okay. I’m sorry. I know it’s complicated. But everything is almost in place!” She looked at Denny. “I have the support of the FBI. They have an underground contact, someone who deals in stolen art. What I need is a forgery of Fortitude.”
“But why?” James asked.
Christina twisted her hands together, her face flushed. “This is my plan: We’ll have you draw it again, James, on the right paper with the right ink. Then we’ll substitute your drawing for the real one, and stage a theft. Listen, the drawing has to be good, but it doesn’t have to be perfect. Everyone knows Fortitude is part of this exhibition. They know it’s real. Our forgery won’t be judged for authenticity by the thief, only by the person intending to buy it . . . and that deal will never happen.”
“What thief?” Karl asked. “This isn’t making sense. You’re going to hire someone to steal your own drawing?”
“The forgery. Not the real one. And the ‘thief’ will be someone who works for the FBI.” She paused. “They’ll put some kind of tracking device on the fake drawing of Fortitude. The FBI will get the drawing into the hands of someone who deals in stolen art—”
“And that person will lead you to the other drawings,” Denny finished. He nodded slowly. “To Justice. It’s very clever.”
It was clever, Marvin thought. Who’d suspect a museum of masterminding its own burglary? Of forging its own art?
Karl shook his head. “But how do you get the drawing to the black market? That’s not exactly easy. It’s not like you have regular contact with criminals.” He raised his eyebrows, adding, “I assume.”
“No,” Christina allowed. “But remember what Denny said about the Stockholm theft? The undercover policeman? That’s been one of the most effective ways to recover stolen art: police officers or FBI agents posing as underground art dealers. I feel sure we can get the forgery into the right hands.” She smiled. “Or the wrong hands, as the case may be.”
“My hat’s off to you, Christina,” Denny said. “It’s impressive.”
“So you’re going to pretend to steal my drawing?” James asked.
Christina nodded.
“But what if you’re wrong?” Karl asked. “What if there isn’t one person who is collecting the complete set? What if the drawings aren’t together?”
“Well, that’s always a possibility.”
“And what if something happens to my drawing?” James asked. In his spot on James’s jacket, Marvin shuddered. His drawing . . . would it disappear into this world of fake policemen and guns and million-dollar paintings lost forever?
Christina knelt beside James, inches from Marvin, who quickly hid himself in a fold of fabric. “The whole thing is a gamble. I know that,” she said gently, looking only at James. Marvin realized this was one of the things he liked about Christina: how she gave James her full attention, as though anything he said or asked was every bit as important as the comments coming from the grown-ups.
“The FBI doesn’t care,” she continued, “whether our staged burglary leads to the stolen Dürer drawings or to other stolen works of art. It will still point the way to key players in the underground art market. But, of co
urse, I care. If this doesn’t give us Justice, I’ll be . . .”—she hesitated—“so disappointed.”
Karl still looked uncertain. “I see how it could work, but won’t you need a lot of other people on board? I mean, the museum security staff, the New York City police, the papers—”
“Well, not the papers,” Denny interrupted. “I assume it’s important for the press to report this as if it were a real theft.”
“Yes,” Christina agreed. “It has to look like a real burglary from the outside. But, Karl, you’re right about the others. I have to get permission from the director of the Met and make sure the local police are willing to help. That’s why the involvement of the FBI is important. And Denny, I want you to clear it with the Getty, too, obviously, since it’s one of your loaned pieces that’s the center of the whole plan. The thing is . . .”
Christina kept staring at James, her eyes filled with wonder. “This idea occurred to me months ago, when Denny and I were discussing the setup for the exhibit. But I never thought I’d find someone who could do the forgery of Fortitude. I didn’t believe it was possible . . . until I saw your drawing, James. And then I thought: ‘He could do it.’ And you did!”
Marvin felt a strange mixture of pride and fear and worry. James only blushed, staring at the drawing.
“Okay,” he said quietly. “You want me to copy it so you can steal it.”
“Yes,” Christina agreed. “Steal the fake one to find the real one. Justice.”
Hitching a Ride
It was nearly seven o’clock by the time Karl, James, and Marvin returned to the Pompadays’ apartment and provided Mrs. Pompaday with a plausible (but not too detailed) explanation of why James would need to make another visit to the Met that week. Karl described it as a private art tutorial with the Curator of Drawings and Prints, which managed to satisfy Mrs. Pompaday’s hankerings for special treatment, recognition of her child’s distinction, and entrée into an exclusive world of upper-class pursuits, all at once. They agreed that Karl would come for James on Wednesday at four o’clock.
When James finally retreated to the sanctuary of his bedroom, Marvin was frantic to return to the bosom of his own family. They would be beside themselves with worry. He’d been gone overnight—again!—and the whole of the next day, and there was no way for them to know what had transpired. He hoisted himself over the lip of the jacket pocket and began to scurry down the boy’s pants leg to the floor. James stopped him with a finger.
“Here,” he said, “let me help. I don’t know where you’re going, but it’s out in the hall somewhere, right? That’s where you live?”
Marvin sighed. How wonderful it would be if he could just explain to James where home was and hitch a ride straight there. It would take James mere seconds to cross the apartment to the kitchen cupboard, compared to the half hour or more it would take Marvin. Here was a truly bothersome inconvenience of being friends with someone you couldn’t communicate with in any of the usual ways.
But maybe James would figure something out. It seemed worth a try. At least he’d get as far as the hall. Marvin crawled onto James’s knuckle and held tight as the boy walked to the doorway.
“Don’t worry,” James said. “I’ll make sure nobody sees.” He cracked the door and looked both ways. They could hear William bellowing in the kitchen. “Ya ya! Ya ya!”
“I’m coming, William,” James called, smiling a little. James was unaccountably patient with William, Marvin thought, submitting to his hair-pulling, picking up his dropped toys. None of the beetles could understand it.
“My mom’s fixing dinner,” James said to Marvin. “It’s okay.” He crouched and laid his finger on the smooth polished floor, next to the baseboard. “Here?” He watched Marvin.
Marvin started to climb down, but then James said, “Hey! Know what? If you crawl to the end of my finger when I’m in the right spot, I can put you down exactly where you need to be.” He squatted back on his heels, grinning. “It’ll be like that game Hot-or-Cold, you know?”
Marvin beamed up at him. James was so smart. He settled himself in the middle of James’s finger and held on as the boy wandered down the hallway, pausing every few minutes and watching for Marvin’s reaction. Marvin sat tight.
James stepped into the bathroom, then poked his head into his parents’ room. Not here, Marvin thought, shuddering. He couldn’t imagine spending any more time than was absolutely necessary with Mr. and Mrs. Pompaday. What a racket they made with their constant chatter, not to mention the frequent explosions.
“Huh,” James said. “I hope you get what I mean. You don’t seem to be doing anything. Listen, if I’m not close to where you live, crawl the other way, down my finger toward my hand, okay?”
Marvin obligingly crawled toward James’s hand.
James laughed out loud.
“James, is that you? What’s so funny?” Mrs. Pompaday stuck her head around the doorway from the kitchen. James immediately dropped his hand to his side, and Marvin held on for dear life.
“Nothing,” James said. “I just saw something funny.”
Mrs. Pompaday looked at him suspiciously. “Out here in the hall? I hope you weren’t laughing at my Apsara statue.” Marvin watched her cross to the hall table and tenderly lift a small hand-carved wooden figurine of a naked woman dancing. “I noticed some of your little friends laughing at her during the party, but I trust you’re more mature than that. The female body is a beautiful thing, James.”
James squirmed. “I wasn’t laughing at that, Mom.”
“Well, good, because you’re an artist now, dear. You need to show appreciation for the art of different cultures . . . even those silly old Eskimo sculptures your father has lying around. Why, when I think that your pretty drawings might be hanging in somebody’s parlor—oh, it just gives me goose bumps!” She swooped down and kissed the top of James’s head.
James stiffened in surprise and slid his hand behind his leg, shielding Marvin. “When’s dinner?” he asked, clearly desperate to change the subject.
“Twenty minutes.” Mrs. Pompaday returned to the kitchen.
James walked toward the living room. “We’re almost out of rooms, little guy. Here?” He paused in the middle of the Oriental rug, looking around. Marvin stayed close to his hand.
“See my dad’s horse painting?” James asked softly. “Isn’t it great?” He walked closer, leaning over the couch to stare at it. Marvin leaned toward it, too, balancing lightly on his rear legs. The painting was bold and graceful, with its rush of bright blue color. You would never know it was a horse unless someone told you. But once you knew it was a horse, it was impossible to see it as anything else.
James glanced down at Marvin. “Do you think I’ll ever be able to make something like that? Probably not.” He sighed. “I mean, I can’t even draw. You’re the one who can.”
Marvin looked up at him sympathetically.
“But not without my ink set, right?” James said, smiling suddenly. “So it is like you need my help.” He looked at his father’s canvas again. “But could you make a painting? I don’t think so. Not one this big, anyway. It would take you years! We’d better stick to the small stuff.”
Marvin realized it was possible to have an entire conversation with James without saying a word. There were beetles like that, who did all the talking . . . but with James, it was like he did the listening, too, and filled in the gaps with what he knew you would say if only you could.
“Okay. Dining room?” James drifted thoughtfully through the archway. Marvin stayed put. “Huh. I don’t think you live in William’s room. Did I tell you William ate a ladybug once? Yep, he did. Picked it up and popped it right in his mouth. My mom totally freaked out.” Marvin shuddered as James continued. “Let’s try the kitchen, but we have to be careful because everybody’s in there.”
As they turned to the kitchen, Marvin inched toward the middle of James’s finger. James grinned. “Okay! Getting hotter!” he whispered, tiptoeing into
the room.
Mrs. Pompaday was busy at the stove, stirring something with a metal spoon. Marvin crawled to the end of James’s finger and James swiftly bent and deposited him on the tile floor, close to the wall of cupboards. Delighted at the ease and speed of the journey home, Marvin darted gratefully into the shadows.
“James,” Mrs. Pompaday protested, “don’t sneak up on me like that, I almost tripped over you. And what are you doing down there on the floor?”
“Tying my shoelace,” James mumbled, just as Marvin disappeared inside the kitchen cupboard.
Too Risky
When Marvin came through the front door, his mother burst into tears. “Oh, Marvin, darling! Where on earth were you?”
“I’m sorry, Mama—” Marvin began, but before he could finish, she smothered him in a hug, covering his shell with several legs at once.
His father hurried over, clearing his throat gruffly. “Marvin, you’ve had us worried out of our shells! Why didn’t you come home yesterday? You got me in a lot of trouble with your mother, I hope you realize, for ever allowing you to stay behind.”
“We went to a museum—”
“A museum! What?” Mama’s eyes widened. “You left the apartment? Marvin, you have no business doing human things like that. It’s too dangerous! I know you want to help James, but not at the risk of your own life. Why, your father and Uncle Albert made trip after trip to James’s room, looking for you. We had no idea what had happened!”
“I’m sorry,” Marvin said again. He explained about the drawings at the Met, the visit to Christina’s office, and the surprise of being knocked to the floor and left there.
“Oh!” Mama cried. “Darling, you’re lucky you’re still alive! What were you doing there, anyway?”
Marvin sighed. So much had happened since yesterday. How could he make his parents understand? “I’m hungry,” he said. “Could we talk about it at dinner?”