Valfierno looked back in the direction the young woman had taken, but she was nowhere to be seen. He hesitated for only an instant before patting his coat over his inside pocket, the pocket where he kept his billfold.
The pocket was empty. The billfold was gone.
He patted his watch pocket. Also empty.
Valfierno smiled.
* * *
“Good job, boys. You earned your money today.”
The young woman stood once again surrounded by the street beggars, their arms outstretched and their grubby little fingers clutching at the bills she distributed to them from Valfierno’s wallet.
“Plenty for everyone,” she said in Castilian. “We caught a big fat fish this time.”
She stood in a litter-strewn alleyway sheltered from the view of anyone on the main street. The boys yammered with exhilaration as they collected their rewards. But in the midst of the excitement, the tallest boy noticed something over Julia’s shoulder and froze. The other boys followed suit, their eyes growing wide with fear and surprise.
Julia turned. Blocking the alleyway stood the gentleman in the fine white suit. A uniformed policía stood next to him, a look of smug satisfaction on his face. Strangely, the gentleman’s expression seemed to suggest that he was more amused than angry.
The frozen tableau shattered as the boys scurried away like insects caught in a beam of light. With youthful agility they scampered over walls and fences, leaving the young woman alone with all avenues of escape cut off.
“Señor,” she said, reverting to English with all the sincerity she could muster, “once again you have saved me from those terrible boys…”
Valfierno chuckled. “You know, if it had just been the money in the wallet, well, you would have earned it. But I’m afraid that the watch you took holds some sentimental value for me.”
Still smiling, he held out his hand. Her innocent expression turned quickly to one of resignation. She shrugged and stepped forward, placing the wallet and the pocket watch into his palm.
“I’m afraid the wallet is not quite as heavy as it was,” she said, trying to soften her guilt with a coquettish smile.
“I didn’t expect it to be,” Valfierno said. “And may I say that your Spanish has improved greatly since I saw you last.”
“I know this girl, señor,” said the policía, stepping forward and grabbing her arm. “Una carterista gringa. This time she will spend a long time enjoying our hospitality.”
“Please, señor,” she appealed to Valfierno, “you helped me once. The prisons here are terrible places for men, let alone a defenseless female.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Valfierno said. “I have the feeling that you’ll be able to take care of yourself. What is your name?”
“Why should I tell you?” She bristled.
“No reason at all.”
She looked to the policía and then back to Valfierno.
“Julia … Julia Conway.”
“The marquis de Valfierno. At your service.”
As the policía held her in place, Valfierno walked in a circle around them, sizing her up.
“I beg you, señor,” she pleaded. “I won’t last a day in that hellhole.”
“Actually,” Valfierno considered, “there may be an alternative, a way for you to repay me and get out of this predicament.”
“Now wait just a minute,” Julia said, turning her head from side to side to keep him in view. “I don’t know what kind of girl you think I am, but—”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Valfierno interrupted as he removed the bills still remaining in his wallet and handed them to the policía. “Thank you, Manuel. I’ll take over from here.”
“De nada, señor.” The policía released Julia’s arm and gave her a dirty look before walking off.
“No, I had something else in mind entirely,” said Valfierno, offering his arm to her. “A little job to take advantage of your skills.”
Julia hesitated. His expression was hard to read. She had just robbed him and yet he seemed more amused than anything else. Whatever he was up to, he was enjoying it. And, if it involved the use of her own particular talents, then perhaps she would enjoy it too.
“Well?” he persisted. “What do you say?”
She shrugged. And took his arm.
Chapter 3
Mrs. Ellen Hart sat at a small burnished mahogany table in the living room of her husband’s luxury suite in La Gran Hotel de la Paix. Her mother sat across from her, staring out a bay window at the flickering gaslights lining Avenue Rivadavia. The older woman wore the same expression she always did. Her face revealed only a vague contentment, as if she were looking through the world around her to some distant, happy place and time. Ellen wished she could talk to her mother about even the most mundane day-to-day things; she thought of how wonderful it would be just to hear her voice again, to look into her eyes, to tell her—to tell anyone—what lay in the deepest recesses of her heart.
She thought of the last words her mother had ever spoken: “I’m tired, dear. I think I should go and lie down for a while.” It was the last time that she could be sure her mother had actually looked at and recognized her. She had helped her onto the daybed in their New York apartment, the one next to the large window overlooking Central Park. Her mother looked into her eyes and smiled a silent thank-you. Then her lids closed and she drifted off into what started as sleep but ended as a coma, the result of a stroke that took her silently in her dreams. It had been more than a week before she regained consciousness. Their family doctor pronounced her physically healthy, with no impairments to limb or body, but her mind was a different story. Perhaps in time, he said.
But it had been fully ten years now, and Ellen knew in her heart that her mother would never return to her, that she would have to be content with the living photograph she had become. With a lot of help, her mother had learned to take care of many of her own needs almost to the degree she could before the stroke. But what she never regained was the power of communication. Ellen had no idea if any of the words she spoke to her mother were understood. But Ellen could still see her, could still feel her hand, could still put her arms around her, and could still smell her hair. And with these things she had to be content.
The door to the master bedroom opened and Joshua Hart appeared, collarless, his shirt hanging over his trousers.
“Dear,” Ellen said pleasantly but a bit surprised, “you’re not dressed for dinner yet.”
“What did you say?” he asked distractedly.
“Dinner. It’s past eight o’clock.”
“Oh, we’re not going to dinner,” he said as if she should have already known that. “Just arrange to have something brought up.”
“But Mother and I have just finished dressing, as you can see…”
“Well, perhaps you should have asked me first,” he said curtly.
“But I did, dear. We talked about it this afternoon.”
“I’ve simply too much on my mind,” he said, irritation showing in his voice. Then he took a deep breath and added in a forced, soothing tone, “You understand, don’t you, dear? And it certainly doesn’t make any difference to her.”
Ellen turned to her mother, but the older woman’s eyes were fixed on some distant point beyond the window.
“I just thought,” she began, “that it would be nice to go out for a while.”
“I’ll make it up you when we get back to New York,” he said in a patronizing tone. “If you want something to eat, please arrange for it to be brought up.”
He sat down on a chair at a small desk and picked up a newspaper, bringing the conversation to a close.
“I did suggest,” she said tentatively, “that we not come with you on this trip, that we stay at home.”
Hart looked up from his paper, clearly annoyed that she would not drop the subject.
“You are my wife,” he began, as if explaining something to a child. “Wherever I go, you go. That is the way it will alwa
ys be. Try to remember that.”
She lowered her eyes and calmly responded, “Of course, dear.”
He sighed impatiently, gave up on his newspaper, and stood up. He held out his hand.
“Ellen,” he said, conciliatory now, “please try to understand. I have much to consider. This is a very serious business. I’ll make it up to you when we return. I promise I will.”
She nodded with a resigned smile as she took his hand.
He lifted hers and kissed it. “Now,” he said briskly, “I have work to do.” And with that he turned and disappeared back into his bedroom.
Ellen took hold of her mother’s hand, gently squeezed it, and said quietly, “You must be hungry. I’ll arrange for some dinner, shall I?”
* * *
Walking through the gaslit streets of the Recoleta district, on the way to Valfierno’s house and an uncertain future, Julia Conway began having second thoughts and considered bolting. But she quickly discarded the notion. Where would she go? Back to join forces with those horrible boys and their leering, suggestive remarks? Back to trolling the streets for easy targets? No, there was something about this elegant, self-possessed man that intrigued her. She’d give him a chance and find out what he had in mind, assuming of course he didn’t try anything funny. If he did … well, he wasn’t bad-looking—for an older man—but even pickpockets have their principles. And it wouldn’t be the first time someone tried to take advantage of her. She had handled herself before and she was confident that she could handle herself again.
She tried to draw him out concerning his plans for her, but he revealed little, only reassuring her that she would come to no harm. By the time they reached Valfierno’s house on the Avenida Alvear, she had discovered only that he seemed to possess a limitless talent for charming evasiveness.
“This is your house?” she asked as they passed through a decorative wrought-iron gate onto a cobbled path shaded by a line of blossoming magnolia trees.
“The house has been in my family for generations.”
Julia followed Valfierno toward a three-story mansion that was actually relatively small and modest compared to the other grand houses in the area.
“What do you do, anyway?”
“Let’s just say that I dabble in fine arts.”
Valfierno pushed open one of the carved double doors and gestured for her to enter. Julia stepped into a large circular foyer dominated by a grand staircase leading upward before splitting off to the left and right into the upper reaches of the house.
“Wait here.” Valfierno threw his gloves onto a small table. “And try not to steal anything,” he added before disappearing behind the staircase.
“Don’t worry about me,” she responded, her eyes scanning every corner of the room.
* * *
In the rear courtyard, inside a converted carriage house lit by both candle and gaslight, Yves Chaudron applied delicate brushstrokes to a faithful copy of La Ninfa Sorprendida. As he worked, he referenced a master copy sitting on an easel that stood off to the side. In truth, he could almost have painted the masterpiece from memory. This copy would be number five, or was it six? Of course, he had more time to paint now that his legs had become worse. He probably should force himself to move about more, he often thought, but what use was it? At seventy-six, painting was all he had left; it filled his time practically to the exclusion of everything else. Indeed, he hadn’t left the large house for almost a year now. He had little reason to, anyway. He had seen enough of the world outside. Re-creating the brushstrokes of the masters was the only thing that gave him pleasure these days.
“Ah, Yves,” Valfierno said, striding in, “you are farther along than I had hoped. Excellent. If all goes well, we’ll need a replacement before long.”
The old man placed the pad of the mahlstick he held in his left hand onto the painting’s surface to provide support for his brush hand.
“So,” he said, applying paint to the delicate features of the woman’s face, “you have reeled in our fish?” The old man’s words came out like a long, tired sigh.
“Not quite, but soon. It may require a little more persuasion. You look tired, Yves. It’s late. You’ve done enough for one day.” Valfierno considered the painting. “By the looks of things, you’re almost finished.”
“One is never finished,” Yves said. “One can only hope for the wisdom to know the proper time to walk away.”
“Then this is that time,” said Valfierno. “Besides, I want you to come into the house and meet someone.”
* * *
In the foyer, Julia stood admiring a particularly exquisite figurine, part of a set that graced the mantelpiece of a large fireplace. She picked it up and examined it briefly before slipping it into a pocket of her dress with deft, practiced efficiency.
“And what do you suppose you’re doing?”
Startled, she turned toward the main entrance. A tall young man stood in the doorway. In one hand, he held a crumpled-up white blouse; in the other, a rolled-up canvas.
“I was just noticing how dusty it was up here,” Julia replied, running her finger along the mantelpiece for effect.
The young man tossed the blouse and canvas onto a table before striding up to her, suspicion etched on his face.
“Who are you, anyway?” he demanded.
“I could ask you the same thing,” she said in her most indignant voice.
“Émile,” Valfierno broke in as he walked out from behind the staircase. “You’re back. And I see you’ve met Miss Conway.”
“Julia, please,” she said with a theatrical curtsy. “Delighted to meet you.”
“I just caught her stealing,” Émile blurted out.
“How dare you accuse me of stealing. I was just admiring the figurines, that’s all.”
“Then what’s that in your pocket?”
“Why don’t you try to find out?”
“Émile,” said Valfierno, ignoring their exchange, “you’ll have to move your things right away. Julia will be sleeping in your room.”
“What?”
“You can sleep over the carriage house.”
“But she’s a common thief!”
“Who are you calling common?” she protested.
Émile was about to say something when Yves, supporting himself with a cane, appeared from behind the staircase.
“I can’t remember the last time I heard such commotion,” he said with amusement.
“Let me introduce our master painter,” said Valfierno. “Monsieur Yves Chaudron, Miss Julia Conway.”
Yves managed a slight bow. “Enchanté, mademoiselle.”
“Now that’s more like it,” said Julia with a pointed look at Émile.
Émile responded by swiftly sticking his hand into her pocket.
“Get your hands off me!” she screamed as she tried to push him away.
Émile held up the figurine in triumph. “Voilà! She lifted this right off the mantelpiece.”
“It’s just a copy,” said Yves with a shrug. “She’s welcome to it.”
Émile and Julia glared at each other like a pair of belligerent cats until Valfierno broke the standoff. “Well, now that we’ve all become better acquainted, I’ll show you to your room.”
Turning a defiant shoulder to Émile, Julia walked up to Valfierno who, instead of turning to lead the way, stood his ground in front of her and held out the palm of his hand. She gave him a quick look of innocent incomprehension before finally reaching into her pocket and producing a wallet.
Émile’s mouth dropped open as he patted his empty pocket. Valfierno took the wallet from her but continued to hold out his hand. Julia shrugged and, with an impish smile directed at Émile, produced a pocket watch.
“She’s very good,” said Valfierno, taking the watch and returning both articles to Émile, “but you do have to keep an eye on her.” He put one hand on Julia’s shoulder and gestured toward the back of the house. “This way. And I think it’s time that we had a l
ittle chat about how you can be of help to us.”
Chapter 4
Late the following morning, Valfierno and Julia strolled into the lobby of La Gran Hotel de la Paix. Valfierno, dressed as usual in a spotless white suit, carried a long leather valise. Julia wore the new outfit he had bought her that morning on Avenida Corrientes, and looked for all the world like a proper and genteel young woman.
“Tell me who I am again,” she asked playfully as she adjusted her high shirt collar. Valfierno shot her a warning look. “Oh, yes,” she said, “your niece. Not very exciting.”
“That remains to be seen,” he said under his breath as they stepped up to the reception desk.
“May I help you, señor?” asked a tall clerk, his appraising eyes taking aim at them down his long, thin nose.
“Señor Hart’s room, please,” replied Valfierno. “He’s expecting us.”
* * *
Valfierno knocked on the door to Joshua Hart’s suite.
“Remember to be charming,” he warned Julia.
“Just watch me.”
The door swung open, revealing Mrs. Hart. Valfierno could have sworn that when their eyes met, her face flushed slightly.
“Mrs. Hart,” he said, holding his hat to his chest, “buenos dias.”
“Good morning, Marquis,” she responded, quickly composing herself.
This was the first time Valfierno had seen her without her large-brimmed hat. Untill this moment, he hadn’t realized how curious he had been to see her face in full. She was really quite striking, though not perhaps what one would call an obvious beauty at first glance. In fact, he had never seen a face quite like hers before. Her irises were a pleasing coffee brown and her eyes turned down slightly on the outside corners suggesting just a hint of sadness. Her nose was straight but a little too wide for her face, though this was more than compensated for by a perfect, naturally pink rosebud of a mouth.
“Eduardo, please,” he corrected her. “And this is my niece, Miss Julia Conway. She’s visiting from New York.”
Stealing Mona Lisa Page 3