“Please, do come in.”
The suite consisted of a large sitting room with furnishings that would have been considered passé in a Parisian hotel but passed for the height of elegance in Buenos Aires. Doors to the left and right led, Valfierno assumed, to the bedrooms. Mrs. Hart’s mother sat at the small table by the bay window. She stared out without acknowledging the visitors.
“I’ll let my husband know that you’re here,” Mrs. Hart began, but before she could take a step, Joshua Hart barreled out of the master bedroom, towel in hand, his suspenders draping loosely down his trousers.
“Valfierno, I was wondering when you’d show up—”
He stopped in midsentence when he noticed Julia, his demeanor visibly changing. He wiped the residue of shaving cream from his face, tossed the towel onto a table, and tucked in his shirt.
“Good morning, Señor Hart,” Valfierno said. “May I introduce my niece, Miss Julia Conway. As I mentioned to Mrs. Hart, she is visiting from New York, and her discretion in this matter goes without saying.”
“Very pleased to make your acquaintance,” Hart effused, hoisting his suspenders up to his shoulders. “Please excuse my appearance.”
“That’s quite all right,” Julia said with a slight curtsy. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”
“Valfierno,” said Hart as he picked up his jacket from the back of a chair and slipped it on, “you never told me you had such a beautiful niece.”
“An embarrassment of riches,” said Valfierno with a glance to Mrs. Hart, who quickly looked away.
As an afterthought, Hart said, “You’ve met my wife already.”
Julia nodded gracefully.
When Hart finished adjusting his jacket he stepped forward, took Julia’s hand, and kissed it with a flourish.
“Charmed, I’m sure,” he said.
Julia let out a perfectly modulated giggle of embarrassment. She really is very good, Valfierno thought.
Hart motioned her to a padded chair. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”
Julia sat down, making an elaborate show of rearranging her dress.
“Well,” Valfierno began, “shall we get down to business?”
Hart’s demeanor became suddenly serious. He turned away, smoothing the front of his jacket as he mumbled, “I suppose if we must.”
Valfierno opened the valise and removed the rolled-up painting. “We had to cut it from its frame, of course, so there is some minor loss around the edges but nothing significant.” He partially unscrolled the canvas and pointed to the inked initials in a lower corner on the back. “Your mark, is it not?”
Hart examined the mark closely. After a moment, he looked up. He seemed almost annoyed that he could find no fault with it.
“There’s been no news of a theft,” he said, an accusation more than a comment.
“A copy already sits in its place on the wall of the gallery. They waste no time in such matters. It would be bad for business.”
Hart turned away. “I don’t know. I’m still not sure if it’s wise to go through with this.”
“But señor,” said Valfierno in a reassuring tone, “it is your mark.”
“Yes, yes, it’s my mark,” Hart said impatiently. “But what I’m telling you is that I’m not sure it’s such a good idea anymore.”
Valfierno acted as if this were of no consequence at all.
“That’s a pity. You’ve traveled such a long way.”
“This country makes me apprehensive. What if they should stop me at the docks?”
“A few American dollars will smooth over any difficulties, I can assure you.”
“I must have more time to consider,” Hart said. “Come back in the morning.”
“I understood that you were leaving tomorrow,” Valfierno began. “Don’t you think that would be—”
Hart stopped him with a sudden outburst. “I said I need more time!”
Everyone froze for a moment. Then Hart turned to Julia and forced a smile. “Such things are not decided lightly, you understand.”
Julia nodded graciously.
“Of course not,” said Valfierno in complete agreement. “You shall have all the time you require. What time is your boat scheduled to leave tomorrow?”
“Half past eleven,” said Mrs. Hart, trying to be helpful but eliciting only a disapproving look from her husband.
“Then I shall meet you at the docks in the morning,” said Valfierno as he rolled up the painting. “Shall we say at ten?”
Hart hesitated. The only sound in the room was the rustling of the canvas as Valfierno finished rolling it up.
Valfierno broke the silence. “And perhaps we can convince Miss Julia to join us once again.”
“Oh, I’d love to,” said Julia, adding, “that is, if Mr. Hart doesn’t object.”
Julia looked at Hart, an angelic, hopeful expression on her face.
My God, Valfierno thought, next she’ll be telling him how much she loves all the big boats!
“Of course not, my dear,” Hart said. “It would be a pleasure.”
“Then it’s all settled.” Valfierno slid the painting back into the valise. “Come, Julia.”
As Julia rose from the chair, her purse slipped from her lap to the floor.
“Allow me,” Hart said, bending down to retrieve it.
“Oh, that’s quite all right,” said Julia, reaching for it herself. Her sudden movement resulted in a collision with Hart, forcing her to momentarily clutch at his jacket for support.
“I’m so sorry, my dear,” Hart said as he picked up the purse and held it out to her.
She straightened up and took it from him. “No, it was my fault entirely.”
“No, it was very clumsy of me,” Hart insisted.
“Well, señor,” Valfierno broke in, “no permanent harm seems to have been done. We shall take our leave.” He pulled the door open and said, “Julia…”
With a final smile and curtsy into the room, Julia walked past him into the corridor. “Until tomorrow then,” Valfierno said with a deferential nod before following her out.
Hart closed the door behind them. He turned to see his wife standing motionless, looking at him.
“Lovely girl, is she not?” he said, a little uncomfortably.
“Very lovely,” she replied before sitting at the table and covering her mother’s hand with her own.
“Well,” was all Joshua Hart said before disappearing into his bedroom.
* * *
In an alleyway near the hotel, Julia handed Hart’s wallet and passport to Valfierno.
“Charming,” said Valfierno.
“All in a day’s work,” she said, trying to be dismissive but not able to completely suppress a delighted smile.
“Here.” Valfierno handed her back the wallet. “This is yours to keep.”
“I’d rather have a cut of the take.”
“Don’t be greedy,” Valfierno admonished as he pressed the wallet into her hand. “And besides, there is no take yet, and might never be if things don’t go according to plan. Now go back to the house. I have more work to do.”
“The old guy’s wife is pretty,” Julia said, looking to him for a reaction.
“Is she?” Valfierno said lightly.
“Not that you would notice,” she said with a sarcastic flair before turning away with a flourish and strolling off.
Of course Mrs. Hart was pretty, Valfierno thought, turning his attention to the passport. But what concern was that of his?
Chapter 5
Valfierno spent the remainder of the morning seated in a small café with a view of the entrance to La Gran Hotel. His plan depended on Joshua Hart’s reaction to the discovery that his passport was missing. The goal was to exploit Hart’s vulnerable position by offering a simple quid pro quo: Hart would buy the painting in exchange for a supposedly forged passport provided by Valfierno. The trick would be to accomplish this without creating suspicion. It would also require another meeting wi
th Hart today, and that meeting would have to be by chance.
Valfierno hoped that, after discovering the loss, Hart would leave the hotel for the U.S. consulate on Avenida Sarmiento in the Palermo district. He knew that it could take as much as six weeks to obtain a new passport. Hart would use his influence to expedite the process, but it would still take at least a week. Hart would return to the hotel frustrated and in a foul mood. Valfierno would then contrive to bump into him on the street. He wasn’t sure exactly what he would say to the man, but he always thought best on his feet.
The noon hour went by with no sign of Hart. Then, in the early afternoon, Valfierno’s vigil was rewarded by the sight of Mrs. Hart escorting her mother out of the hotel’s entrance. He had to make a quick decision: Wait for Hart, or take advantage of this potential opportunity?
Placing some coins on the tabletop, he rose and followed the two women at a discreet distance as they turned down a busy street dotted with bistros. Within minutes, Mrs. Hart had seated herself and her mother at an outdoor table shaded by a jacaranda tree on the patio of a small café.
Valfierno paused for a moment before crossing the street. As he drew closer, a splash of color caught his eye. The blue, almost purple panicles of flowers adorning the tree perfectly matched the colors on Mrs. Hart’s wide-brimmed hat.
“Mrs. Hart,” Valfierno said, stopping at their table and feigning surprise, “what an unexpected pleasure.”
She looked up, a little startled. “Marquis…”
“Oh, no,” Valfierno said, removing his hat as he stepped closer to the table. “Eduardo, or Edward if you prefer. I really must insist.”
Mrs. Hart gave him a polite smile.
“I see that you have discovered one of Buenos Aires’s best-kept secrets.” Valfierno took in the bistro with a sweeping gesture of his arm. “The asador here prepares the finest chinchulines in the entire city.”
“I thought a stroll and perhaps some tea would do my mother good,” Mrs. Hart said, “though we are expected back soon. Would you care to … join us?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of intruding.”
With a quick look to her mother, she turned back and said, “I wish you would. We wish you would.”
“Just for a moment, perhaps.” He pulled out the remaining chair and seated himself.
“The dish you mentioned,” Mrs. Hart said, “the chef’s specialty…”
“Ah, yes. Chinchulines. I believe in the American South they are referred to as chitlins.”
“I see,” she said with an amused grimace. “Pig’s…” She gently motioned toward her stomach.
“Indeed,” said Valfierno. “You mentioned tea. I recommend yerba mate. A local specialty and quite delicious.”
Valfierno summoned the camarero and ordered for the three of them. Tea and cakes. When the man had left, Valfierno made some comments concerning the weather and the quality of the various bistros located on this particular street, and then lightly inquired about their opinion of Buenos Aires.
“In truth,” Mrs. Hart replied, “we have not had much opportunity for sightseeing. My husband prefers to stay in the hotel much of the time.”
“That is unfortunate. Buenos Aires is known as the Paris of South America, a reputation well deserved.”
The tea arrived with sweet cocoa cakes. Valfierno, cautious about seeming too inquisitive, confined his remarks to those concerning the food and drink. He insisted that they drink their tea through the bombillas—the traditional metal straws the camarero had provided—which Mrs. Hart did with some amusement. As they ate and drank, a rather long and slightly awkward pause developed. Valfierno hoped that it would be Mrs. Hart who broke the silence. He was not disappointed.
“I have to … apologize for my husband,” she began with some hesitation. “This trip has been very stressful and, though I can’t say that I fully approve of his intentions in the matter of the painting, you must understand that his concerns greatly contribute to his mood in general and his indecisiveness in particular.”
“Of course,” Valfierno said, waving it off. “I fully appreciate his misgivings. He must be comfortable with the transaction before proceeding, that is a given.”
They exchanged solicitous smiles.
Another silence followed. Valfierno had hoped she would have mentioned the loss of her husband’s passport by now. He sensed that she wanted to open up to him but was holding herself back for some reason. He had to raise the stakes; it sometimes required a bold stroke to penetrate even the most outer boundaries of intimacy.
“I am curious about one thing, however,” he began tentatively.
“Yes?”
“Well, forgive my frankness but…”
He paused, making a point of displaying his reluctance to continue. As he had hoped, Mrs. Hart’s expression took on an inquisitive air, which he took as tacit permission to proceed.
“Mrs. Hart,” he continued, “if I may be permitted to say so, you are a beautiful woman…”
“Marquis…” she said, seeming to take umbrage at the remark but revealing with a slight blush that she was also flattered.
“I am only stating the obvious. My point is … it seems to me that you could have had your pick of any eligible man. To what does Mr. Joshua Hart owe his good fortune?”
“Marquis,” she said in an obvious attempt to project more indignation than she apparently felt, “I’m afraid that does not concern you.”
“Of course not,” Valfierno conceded. “My impudence is exceeded only by my curiosity. Well, I feel I’ve taken up too much of your time already.”
He placed some coins on the tabletop.
“Oh, that’s not necessary,” Mrs. Hart protested.
“Indeed not,” Valfierno said as he lifted his hat and rose from the table, “but it is my pleasure. I believe I will see you again in the morning.”
“Oh, but something has happened,” she said. “A crisis has arisen.”
Valfierno breathed an inner sigh of relief. He thought for a moment that he had played his hand too aggressively. He slowly lowered himself back into the chair, concern etched on his face.
“A crisis? What sort of crisis?”
“Well, you see,” she began, hesitating for a moment before continuing, “it would seem that my husband has lost both his wallet and his passport. In fact, he suspects that one of the housemaids may have stolen them.”
“Surely he can just go to the bank, and to the American consulate for a new passport,” suggested Valfierno.
“Money is not the issue. But his passport … He telephoned the consulate immediately only to be informed that, at best, it would take a week or more to produce a replacement. The return trip takes almost two weeks. Two days following our scheduled arrival in New York, he is chairing a meeting to discuss the consolidation of the East Coast railroads.”
“You know a great deal about your husband’s business,” Valfierno said.
“Is that so odd? He thinks I have no interest whatsoever in his affairs, but I know more about them than perhaps he would even wish. And I know that if he is not at this meeting, it could cost him a great deal of money.”
“That is a crisis,” Valfierno agreed.
“So you see,” Mrs. Hart concluded, “if my husband is forced to stay in Buenos Aires one day longer than he has to, I fear that he will become quite unbearable.”
Valfierno leaned back, tapping his lips with his fingertips. He took his time; he didn’t want her to think that he had known all along what he would say next. Then, as if a sudden light had been switched on in his head, his eyes snapped back to hers, and he leaned forward eagerly.
“I believe, Mrs. Hart, that our meeting today was fated to occur. I’m a man of many connections. I am sure that, with any luck, I can find the necessary papers for your husband by tomorrow morning.”
“You could do that? You would do that?”
“Certainly.” He paused before adding quietly, “For you especially.”
At
this, she drew back, her expression, which an instant before had registered enthusiasm, suddenly guarded.
“And of course,” Valfierno amended, “for your dear mother as well.”
“We would be most grateful. You’re very kind.”
He nodded a slight acknowledgment, but then a shadow of concern flickered across his face, accompanied by a weary sigh.
“Is something wrong?” Mrs. Hart asked.
“Well,” Valfierno began, emphasizing his apparent reluctance to continue, “there is still the small matter of my business arrangement with your husband.”
“The painting.”
“I know you don’t approve,” Valfierno continued, “but there was significant risk involved in obtaining the item, not to mention expense.”
“I can well imagine,” she said guardedly.
“Your husband seems to be unsure whether he wants to see our agreement through to a mutually beneficial conclusion. If he were forced to stay in Buenos Aires for a week or more, I would have more time to convince him that his fears are unfounded.”
She sat back in her chair, unable to hide the disappointment in her face. “I fully understand. You have your own considerations in this matter.”
“And I’m not just thinking of myself, you understand. There are others involved who have also put much at risk.”
“Of course, you must do what you think is right,” she said as evenly as possible. “Now, I think we should be getting back to the hotel.” She placed her hand on her mother’s arm.
“Please,” said Valfierno, briefly touching her forearm. “Mrs. Hart. I mention these things only because they bear mentioning. I have no intention of going back on my previous offer. Naturally, there will be some small expense involved, but your husband shall have the necessary papers by the morning.”
She was about to speak when he held up his hand.
“No, it’s settled. I am delighted to be of assistance. The agreement between your husband and myself should not be your concern.” He had accomplished all he could. In Hart’s eyes, Valfierno would have legitimately learned of the loss of his passport from his wife. He could now contact Hart and offer his services. Naturally, it would only be fair to expect the consummation of their original deal concerning the painting before a “forged” passport could be produced on such short notice. It smacked a little too strongly of blackmail for Valfierno’s taste, but he saw no alternative. He felt strangely guilty about his manipulation of Mrs. Hart, but it had been unavoidable.
Stealing Mona Lisa Page 4