“That’s impossible.” Betty couldn’t believe it.
“It doesn’t say much for the staff at the Louvre at the time, but those were different times. Anyway, Pablo Picasso was a suspect.”
Weevil looked over his shoulder. “Picasso?”
“He was living in poverty at the time and he was suspect because he had unwittingly purchased sculpture stolen from the museum. Obviously, this was prior to this major theft. He had no idea and he handed them over. Picasso had some major flaws as a human being but thievery wasn’t one of them.” Sister had indeed been doing research.
“Well, what happened?” Tootie’s curiosity rose up.
“The painting was missing for two years. The fellow who stole it was an Italian carpenter, Vincenzo Peruggia. He wore his work coveralls and walked in on August 21, stole the painting, and hid in a broom closet until late. He wrapped his coveralls around the painting, which he removed from its case. He walked right out. Actually, he thought the Mona Lisa belonged to Italy. After all, Leonardo da Vinci was Italian. He believed the painting was stolen by Napoleon and his troops. So it should be returned to Italy.”
“Incredible.” Tootie opened the draw pen and the hounds walked inside, as did the people.
“How did they catch him?” Weevil knelt down to check feet.
“He sold the painting to an Italian museum. The Italians celebrated for two weeks then returned the painting to the Louvre. Da Vinci had painted it for King Francis I so it was always French.”
“Did he go to jail?” Weevil wondered.
“He was given a one year and fifteen day sentence but released after seven months. Peruggia returned to France and worked as a house painter. The war broke out, he enlisted in the Italian army. Lived, married, had a daughter, and seems to have troubled no one.” Sister opened the door to the girls’ pen.
“That’s incredible,” Tootie exclaimed, again.
“Well, the truth is stranger than fiction.” Betty watched the girls prance into their quarters.
“There was another theory, which couldn’t really happen today. Some people thought this was a theft masterminded by Eduardo de Valfiermo, a crook. He was a well-known thief who had hired an art forger, Yves Chaudron, to make copies so he could sell them as the missing original,” Sister told them. “Today our media is relatively insistent, so if anyone wanted to see pictures of the stolen Munnings’s paintings, they would have that and if approached to buy the stolen painting, unless they, too, were a crook on some level, they’d know.”
“But how would they know what they were buying was a fake?” Tootie shrewdly asked.
“They wouldn’t. The longer the originals are not found, the easier it would be to sell a fake. But again, the nonstop media makes these things more difficult than in 1911. Still, it could be done.”
“But the originals would need to be stored somewhere.” Weevil then said, “It would really be crazy to destroy them, because in time they either could be discovered and the discoverer considered a hero or they could be sold back to the people who owned them.”
“Have to be pretty slick. To deliver the painting and get the money without being caught.” Betty thought it a clever plan.
“If whoever did this is smart enough to walk out of people’s houses with fabulous art, I’m sure he or she, but I think it’s a he, would have that figured out.”
“The drivers were killed,” Betty interjected. “Those were the original thieves.”
“Yes, I think so, too. And now they are safely out of the way. Although there is one not yet caught or found.”
“Sister, maybe two men have been killed…possibly Sabatini’s man, too, I mean, there is the forefinger and middle finger thing…I doubt our mastermind would take that chance.” Sister opened the door for the boys.
“Well, whoever this is will make a lot of money.” Weevil counted hounds even though all were there; it was a huntsman habit. “All on.” He smiled.
“How about we walk out tomorrow, ride Saturday, then take Sunday off. It’s good for them. Good for us,” Sister said.
“Sure. Nine? Seven?” Weevil gave her an impish look.
“Okay.” All agreed. “Nine.”
After hound walk, Sister returned to the library to research art thefts. Thefts differ not just in time but in countries. What they had in common that she could discern was some were only about money. Others seemed to be the work of unbalanced people.
She wasn’t sure which camp the Munnings and Pater fell into.
As Golly peeped around Gray’s big computer, Gray let Sister take over while he studied the pictures of Munnings’s paintings. It didn’t occur to Sister that finding out which camp these thefts fell into could be dangerous.
CHAPTER 34
March 13, 2020 Friday
Sister rubbed her watering eyes. “Blurred. Well, pollen is starting.”
“It’s all that reading.” Gray sat at the kitchen table, where she had moved her books and her inexpensive computer, which she rarely used. Her research project took over the room.
Golly, at that moment, jumped up on the table, pushing newspaper articles onto the floor. “Whee.”
“Golly, you’re insufferable.” Sister got up to fetch the papers before the dogs walked over them or before Golly, in a moment of wickedness, jumped off and tore the paper to shreds. She lived to tear paper. Good thing she didn’t live with the Franklins.
“There.” Sister placed the cut-out newspaper articles in a pile.
“With all this material you must have reached some conclusion.” Gray had helped her find some items.
“I have.” She looked at him. “Last night I realized art thefts fall into two categories. One is pure profit, well thought out. Impulse thefts, on the other hand, seem to be by people who are unbalanced or think they are righting a wrong, like the theft of the Mona Lisa.”
“And?”
“These thefts fall between both camps.” She held up her hand. “Sounds odd but here’s what I think. Of course, money is the primary motive. Shadowing that is the suicide of Florence Carter-Wood, Munnings’s first beautiful wife. The second was beautiful, too, but made of sterner stuff. All of the thefts involve sidesaddle. There’s a luscious painting, The Morning Ride, painted in 1913, showing Florence sidesaddle on Merrilegs, an elegant bay. She’s elegant, too, in a white jacket and a straw broad-brimmed hat. The marriage was not a success. Munnings was not a particularly sensitive man and she may have suffered from a bit of depression. Hard to say, given the times and the fact that these things were not medically considered. Anyway, she tried to kill herself on her wedding night.”
“Good Lord. What happened next?”
“He continued to paint her, seems to have bumped along, but he said the marriage was never consummated. Anyway, one of Munnings’s best friends, a tall, handsome gentlemanly fellow, Captain Gilbert Evans, liked her, fell for her and loved her. She in turn loved him. Evans left the country in 1914 for Nigeria, the colonial service, feeling this could not go on. He later joined the army, saw action in World War I in West Africa. Retired as a major, returned to Nigeria. She killed herself a few months after Gilbert left. So here’s the thing. The paintings of his second wife are easy to identify. The paintings commissioned for the main subject, usually a wife, are easy to identify. Men love to show off their wives. But other paintings where there are a few women or someone in the background, even racing crowds, it appears to me they resemble Florence.”
“Her image was burned in his brain.” Gray touched his military moustache.
“I think so. As he never mentioned her again the wound cut to the bone. I expect he felt some guilt. For all we know he may have smacked her around, but I truly believe he felt guilt.”
“Did Gilbert and Munnings meet again?”
“Years later Gilbert returned to England with his wife, Joan,
twenty-two years his junior, whom he had met in Nigeria. Some event, I forget which. I’m trying to cram all this in. It was pleasant enough. And Munnings did see that Gilbert was given a painting of Florence. But the friendship wasn’t rekindled. The painting gift, that’s a deep gesture. Munnings had to have known that Gilbert was the better man.”
Gray took a deep breath, thought about that. “Two men of different temperaments. Gilbert seems to be the more giving man, able to respond to emotions. I don’t know. The ideas of how men and women behave were different then.” He paused. “But not as different as we would like.”
“True,” Sister agreed.
“Yes. What a sad story. What became of Gilbert’s wife?”
“She outlived him by many years. He died in 1966. She seemed not to have been troubled by Florence. That was long before her time. A wise woman, I think, and a respected and loved one. They had three children. In the end he returned to Cornwall, retired there, and the family was happy. It’s quite a story. There are even descendants, none of whom capitalized on the past.” Sister changed subjects. “There will be only four of us. If you want to ride out tomorrow, do.”
“Think I will,” he replied. “If you’ve been researching art thefts—”
She interrupted. “With your help.”
“A little. I became fascinated by the Isabella Stewart Gardner theft. Saw the museum long before the theft. In my youth. Mrs. Gardner must have been quite a girl. I discovered that on her birthday, April 14, soon to be here, a requiem is still conducted for the repose of her soul. Kind of like royals in Europe.”
“I consider a requiem mass an insurance policy.” Sister laughed. “In college I visited the museum. Loved it. She must have known everybody.”
“The very wealthy often do. For one thing, most of the people who inherit great wealth are given superb educations. I wonder if our thief is well-educated?”
“Could be. But I would think any successful thief, of big stuff, be it art, jewelry, or even in the old days racehorses, possessed a certain ingratiating charm. Like men who marry heiresses.”
“If a man marries a woman with more money than himself, I think, fine. If he marries her for her money I think he’s a bottom-feeder. A man can’t help it if he loves a rich woman but to marry her to live off of her, the worst. Like Rubirosa.” He named a famous gigolo. “Barbara Hutton, Doris Duke, plus a regiment of women for lovers, all beautiful. And the funny thing is, if we’d met him, we’d probably like him.”
Sister grinned. “Apparently he could charm women into a coma. But it was for the most part a superficial set. I’d die of boredom.”
Gray grunted a bit. “You know, back to research. Why don’t you ask Carter about jewel heists? I think people who do things like that may have common personality traits. Just a thought.”
“A good one.”
She got up, walked over to the landline, dialed Carter’s number after checking the hunt club directory.
“Carter.”
“Sister. Sorry to learn the rest of the season was canceled, but it was wise.”
“You’re not yet at your boat.”
“Thought I’d wait a few days to see how all this plays out. Will more restrictions be put into place?”
“I have a question. Can you think of great jewel heists?”
“Hmm. The Hope Diamond was stolen a couple of times. Originally it was the third eye of a Hindu god and pried out. Never a good idea to assault a god. Are you interested in historic jewel cons or thefts or recent ones?”
“Whatever comes to mind.”
“Well, one of the most famous was the theft of the English crown jewels by an Irishman, Thomas Blood, 1671. Couldn’t keep his mouth shut, of course, plus how did he come into money? Anyway, he was caught but the funny thing is, King Charles II was amused by his cheek. Pardoned him, gave him an estate in Ireland and a title. Originally, Blood had passed himself off as an aristocrat to the Keeper of the Tower of London and promised to marry his daughter. Once accepted by the family he was curious, he said, about the crown jewels. The poor Keeper showed him, got bashed over the head. Blood ran with the jewels, stuffed under his clothing I think.”
“That’s a good one. Even better for what it says about Charles II. Clearly not a boring man.”
“Of course, no one can match the thefts of the Nazis during the war. They even dismantled the Amber Room in Russia, a room made entirely of amber for Peter the Great. Catherine the Great loved it so much she had it moved to her palace in St. Petersburg. It’s never been found. The Nazis looted everybody and everything, among their other achievements.”
“So some of these were thought out, others maybe more of a daring adventure?”
“I think that applies to any form of major theft.”
“Like the Munnings’s paintings?”
“Perhaps. Profit is always a big motive.”
“Carter, don’t you think, like with the crown jewels, someone will have to show off?”
“Maybe. There was another jewel thief, closer to our time, Murf the Surf, a partier. He eventually threw one party too many, bragged.”
“Would you divide major thefts into purely business or a huge adrenaline rush? Then throwing the cash around?”
He laughed. “Well, maybe some thieves put their gain into a brokerage account. I guess the smart ones.”
“Think Buddy would know about furniture thefts?”
“Yes, but due to the size of the furniture there aren’t as many…unless, of course, you have an army like the Germans. Well, any conquering army. And furniture doesn’t seem to inflame people the same way as jewelry. The great blue diamond is still missing. A Thai gardener stole it from his employer, a Saudi prince. There was murder, diplomatic relations strained between Saudi Arabia and Thailand. Jewelry causes huge problems.”
“Well, someone stole Uncle Ray’s Louis XV desk. Still hasn’t been found.”
“True. But furniture theft is more rare. Then again, maybe you should rummage through Buddy’s storage unit.” He laughed. “Oh, movement is more curtailed in Pennsylvania right now and you’ll never guess what Buddy is doing?”
“You’re right. I won’t.”
“Baking. He wants to bring Kathleen something he bakes when he can next visit.”
“How thoughtful.”
“Buddy’s not much of a talker. He’s a doer and he hopes if he gives her croissants or really fluffy biscuits he might win favor,” Carter declaimed with relish.
“I think he will. You’ve been helpful.”
“You do know a Munnings was stolen from Belle Baruch on July 31, 2003.”
“I don’t know enough. I know she was Bernard Baruch’s daughter, sort of an original, especially for her time.”
“Seventeen art works were stolen. The Munnings was Belle on Souriant III, thirty-nine inches by thirty-six. In 2003 it was worth one million. Belle was a fantastic rider. She commissioned the painting in 1932.”
“I take ‘an original’ meant she was gay?” Sister wryly mentioned.
“Well, I suppose,” Carter replied.
“But wasn’t Belle dead?”
“In 1964. But her sixteen thousand acre estate on the coast, near Georgetown, South Carolina, was left intact as a fundraiser. The art was there. Eleven of the paintings, including the Munnings, were recovered in 2016. Thirteen years later. Quite a story.”
“You tell it well,” she complimented him.
“What are you thinking about the thefts?”
“Money, of course. But I keep circling back to Florence Carter-Wood. I can’t quite tell you why, but I think her shadow is over this. And I think Delores Buckingham figured it out.”
“Ah.” Carter drew out the “ah.” “Who is to say, but it’s an intriguing thought.”
“We’re taking hounds out here tomorrow. Only
five of us, plus we’ll be far away from one another. But I want to take hounds out one more time and put all the first-year entry in. It will be the first time they hunt all together.”
“Hope it’s a good hunt. Stay safe.”
“You, too.”
CHAPTER 35
March 14, 2020 Saturday
A cold front blew through last night and early this morning, leaving behind a definite drop in temperature and clouds, which did not promise to disperse.
Aztec, although clipped, had begun to grow out a bit, so the temperature was fine with him. Sister sat outside the kennel as Tootie opened the draw pen and eager hounds, all who were fit, trotted out to gather at Weevil’s feet.
Betty stood on one side of him while Sister stood on the other until Tootie could mount up. Gray, on Cardinal Wolsey, was next to Sister.
“Just don’t get in front of me,” Aztec ordered.
Cardinal Wolsey looked at the dark chestnut, so full of himself, saying nothing. Let the vain thing go first. Also Cardinal Wolsey was a flaming chestnut so he knew everyone would be looking at him despite the fact there was no field today. He’d still outshine the staff horses.
“I called the Bancrofts and Cindy Chandler, too, in case we wind up over there. All are fine with it.”
“How’s Edward?”
“Better. All this virus talk had Tedi worried that he might have the Covid-19 virus but he had the standard flu. They wish us luck.”
Turning to his two whippers-in, Weevil said, “We’ll start in the big pasture, head for the hog’s back. If we don’t pick up scent I’ll let the hounds tell me.
“Come along,” he called to the hounds.
Riding side by side, Gray observed the sky. “Anybody’s guess.”
Looking up, Sister said, “Well, it is, but the temperature is in our favor.”
“You were wise to take the pack out today. Who is to say what further measures will be ordered. And we are all at least six feet away, with less than ten people.”
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