Stealing Mona Lisa

by Carson Morton

  Hart’s evident excitement over the deal he had just negotiated made him talkative. Leading Valfierno back through the library to the main foyer, he prattled on about his employees’ obsession with such unimportant issues as unsafe work conditions and inadequate housing. It was their constant agitating that had necessitated hiring a man like Taggart in the first place. He was of the opinion that the rabble should be content to be working at all. Valfierno nodded now and again to give the impression of paying attention, but his thoughts were elsewhere. When they reached the entrance, Hart extended his hand and Valfierno took it.

  “In six months’ time, then,” Hart said.

  Valfierno turned and saw Mrs. Hart standing halfway up the main staircase. The look they exchanged was brief, but there was something about her expression that suggested she was trying to tell him something, something that could not be spoken. Or perhaps he was imagining it. Either way, it was an image he would conjure up in his mind many times in the months to come.

  Chapter 20

  “But you said you’d marry me! You promised you’d make an honest woman out of me!” Julia stood in the center of the Grande Galerie of the Louvre, her voice loud and petulant.

  “I said a lot of things. Why are you making such a scene?” Émile’s eyes darted around the gallery; he was all too aware of the attention they were drawing to themselves.

  “You men are all alike!”

  Museum patrons gave them sidelong glances and whispered to each other in disapproval. Over Émile’s shoulders, Julia noticed a guard, a rotund man in his fifties with a large untrimmed mustache, approaching them at the fastest clip he could manage.

  “All you’re interested in is stealing a girl’s virtue,” Julia added for emphasis as the guard put his hand on Émile’s shoulder and spun him around.

  “Please!” the man said, half angry and half pleading, “you must hold down your voices. You’re creating a disturbance.”

  “Monsieur,” Julia appealed to him, softening her voice, “you’re a man of the world. Would you lead a young innocent girl on with empty promises and then just cast her aside like an old newspaper?”

  The guard’s flustered reaction was just what Julia had hoped for.

  “Mademoiselle,” he said, looking around at the patrons watching them, “this is not the place for such talk.”

  Julia shot Émile a glance. It was his turn to contribute.

  “Can’t a man have a little fun without having to promise a girl the stars?” he said, warming to the part.

  “Oh, you promised the stars all right,” Julia said, “but all you’ve ever done is to drag my reputation through the mud!”

  “I beg you, mademoiselle,” said the guard, “please keep your voice—” but before he could finish Julia turned on him with even greater fervor.

  “Tell him!” Julia appealed to the guard. “Tell him he can’t treat a young girl as if she were little more than a woman of the streets!”

  “Please,” the guard implored her, “you have to be reasonable. You have to keep your voice down.”

  “Is there not a single man in all France who will defend me?”

  Reluctantly, the guard straightened himself and looked up at Émile. “Monsieur,” he began in an officious tone, “you should not treat this poor young woman with such disrespect.”

  Julia glanced down at the small brass ring clipped to the guard’s belt. It held a single key.

  “Now the whole world’s on her side,” Émile exclaimed. “If you only knew how difficult she can be! If you only knew what she puts me through!” For emphasis, he threw up his arms dramatically and stalked away.

  “Thank you so much, monsieur,” Julia said, touching the guard’s arm. “You’re a true gentleman, so rare these days.”

  Flashing her sweetest smile, Julia threw her arms around the man and hugged him closely.

  “Mademoiselle,” he pleaded.

  In one swift move, she unclipped the key ring and palmed it. She let go and stepped back, giving him one final smile before bustling away. The guard, his face now almost crimson in color, removed his kepi and mopped his brow.

  A moment later, Julia met Émile in a small utility room at the end of the adjacent Salle des États. Checking to make sure they were unobserved, she handed him the brass ring with the single key dangling from it.

  “Are you sure he didn’t notice?” Émile asked.

  “I’m sure, but he will notice soon enough if you don’t hurry.”

  Émile removed a small tin from his pocket and flipped open the lid, revealing a raised bed of wax. He lifted the key to his mouth and warmed the notched tooth with his breath before carefully making an impression of both sides in the soft wax.

  “Don’t take all day,” Julia said, keeping a lookout.

  “It has to be done right,” he said slowly and deliberately.

  “Come on,” she hissed as he finally closed the lid and handed her back the key ring.

  She wiped away the waxy residue with a handkerchief, slipped it into the pocket of her coat, and hurried back to the Grande Galerie.

  “Monsieur! Monsieur!” she cried as she skittered across the floor toward the guard, who instinctively drew back. “Wonderful news. I don’t know how to thank you.” She planted herself in front of him, breathless, clasping her hands together beneath her chin. “Your stern reprimand has done the trick. He’s agreed to marry me. And it’s all because of you. You are my hero!”

  As she said this last, her hands flew apart to embrace him, knocking off his kepi in the process.

  “Oh, I’m so clumsy! Let me get that.”

  “No, please, mademoiselle,” he sputtered, “you mustn’t make a fuss.”

  As he bent over to pick up his hat, she clipped the key ring back onto his belt.

  Flustered, he straightened up and replaced the kepi onto his head, adjusting it to make sure it was tight.

  “Well,” she began, “I really must be going now. I must tell Maman the good news right away!” And with that she floated off, leaving the man with a wide-eyed, slightly dazed look on his red face.

  Émile waited at the top of the wide staircase leading down to the lobby. Julia ran up and threw her arms around him.

  “We did it!” she said.

  “Yes, we did,” he agreed, giving her a rather reserved pat on the back. “But let’s not overdo it.”

  They separated and she smoothed out her coat.

  “Well,” she said, “I think we make an excellent couple.”

  She threaded her arm through his and they started down the steps.

  Chapter 21

  The shipping clerk at the Hudson River Import and Export Company on the west side of Manhattan had reason to be pleased with Valfierno’s arrival. The well-dressed gentleman appeared every month or so like clockwork. He would show up two or three days in a row until the package he was expecting had arrived. And he tipped very generously indeed.

  “Ah, and you’ve all the luck today, sir,” the clerk said, his West Cork brogue only slightly smoothed by years of living in New York. “I think I have the very thing you’ll be looking for.”

  Ignoring several other customers, the man retrieved a rectangular crate, three and a half feet by two and a half feet and five inches deep. He placed it on the counter.

  “Makes number six, if memory serves,” the clerk said brightly.

  “Yes, and I believe the last.”

  “You’ll be needing some help out,” the clerk suggested eagerly.

  “Thank you, I can manage.”

  Valfierno produced a crisp twenty-dollar bill from his pocket, four times his usual tip.

  “Thank you, sir,” the clerk said, beaming. “Thank you indeed, sir.”

  Valfierno simply nodded and, with a slight acknowledging bow to the clerk’s neglected customers, lifted the crate and left.

  * * *

  As a well-known importer of fine arts copies, there was nothing unusual about Valfierno returning to the hotel with his
new deliveries. It was perhaps odd that he preferred taking the crates up to his room without assistance, but his eccentricities were equally well known to the hotel staff. And, after all, he was French, or Italian, or from some such country. In any case, he certainly wasn’t an American, and unconventional behavior was to be expected and must, within reason, be tolerated.

  Back in his rooms, Valfierno carefully opened the crate. He removed a panel wrapped in cloth and put the wooden crate aside. After the panel was unwrapped, it took only a brief look at the finished result to satisfy him. From the very first copy, Valfierno had been impressed with Diego’s work. This one was so accurate that he wished he could compare it to the original hanging in the Louvre. He knew it would stand the scrutiny of anyone but the most astute art expert.

  Diego had protested at first that it would be impossible to create seven copies—including the one that was to end up in Peruggia’s hands—in the time allotted to him. Therefore, a compromise had been reached. The copies would be of varying quality and would arrive from Paris in order of that quality, beginning with the lowest. Valfierno knew who his customers would be, and it would be easy enough to match the quality of the copy to the perspicuity of its buyer. Indeed, the very first copy he had received—though an excellent reproduction—was earmarked for a particular captain of industry who was more or less blind.

  The copy he held in his hand was actually the penultimate version; the final version was to remain in Paris and had to be of sufficient quality to fool Peruggia, who was soon to have an intimate, though hopefully brief, acquaintance with the original.

  Valfierno carefully replaced the cloth around the panel and carried it to a large closet off the sitting room. He placed it with the five others, all similarly wrapped, leaning against the rear wall. He touched each one in turn, starting with the one closest to the wall, the first copy he had received. One, two, three, four, five, six. The set was complete.

  Walking back into the room, he picked up his copy of the book Apollinaire had written: L’Enchanteur pourrissant—The Rotting Enchanter. It was a strange alchemy of modern and classical verse chronicling Merlin’s obsession with the Lady of the Lake. This infatuation results in his entombment in a cave, a fate that strangely he doesn’t seem to mind at all. A little esoteric for Valfierno’s taste.

  Valfierno put the book down and stepped to the window. The Manhattan skyline spread before him, the setting sun reflecting in the windows of the tightly packed forest of buildings. An image of Ellen Hart formed in his mind, but he forced it away by turning his thoughts to his cohorts in Paris.

  “Bonne chance, mes amis,” he said aloud. “Bonne chance.”

  All he could do now was wait.

  Part III

  We are not thieves, but men that much do want.

  —Shakespeare, Timon of Athens

  Chapter 22

  Vincenzo Peruggia sat fully clothed on the narrow bed in his first-floor room in Madame Charneau’s boardinghouse. He had arisen and dressed sometime after midnight, his restless mind and the unusually warm evening having made sleep impossible. As the first light of dawn painted the room in sepia tones, he thought of all he must accomplish over the course of the next few days. If things went according to plan, by tomorrow night he would be in possession of one of the most revered paintings in the world. He would have completed the first step in fulfilling his dream of restoring the dignity of his native country.

  He had been living in the boardinghouse for almost six months now, as had his companion, Brique, who was quartered in a room across the hall. It was decided early on that it would be unwise to tell the slow-witted Frenchman anything beyond the day and time he would be needed to help in an endeavor that would earn him enough money to live comfortably for many years to come.

  With the exception of Brique, they were all acquainted with each other’s role in the plan, but there was one vital part that was known only to Peruggia, and to him it was the most important part of all. He understood that people took him for a fool at times. Valfierno had assured him that ultimately the painting would be his to return to its rightful home. But Peruggia knew that it was up to him alone to guarantee that this would happen.

  There was no particular hurry this morning. They would not need to arrive at the museum until the afternoon, about an hour before closing time. But Peruggia grew impatient sitting on his bed, his mind racing, and he could wait no longer. He checked his pocket watch: 7:45. He decided it was time to wake his companion and fill him in on the plan for the next two days.

  Peruggia knocked on Brique’s door. There was no response. This in itself was not unusual. Brique often returned late into the night, almost too drunk to stand. He would spend much of the following day sleeping it off, snoring with enough force to rattle the nerves of the rest of the house’s occupants. But this time the room was silent. Peruggia knocked again, louder. Still no response. He pushed the door open. The room was empty. The bed had not been slept in.

  Peruggia roused Julia and Madame Charneau, who hurried to the local boulangerie for fresh bread, stopping at the Hôtel de Fleurie to use the telephone in the lobby to call Émile.

  Within a half hour they were all gathered together in the kitchen. Madame Charneau stood making coffee in a press pot. Émile sat at a long wooden table across from Julia. Peruggia nervously paced the room.

  “That must have been him I heard last night,” Madame Charneau said as she sliced a baguette on a wooden cutting board. “It was almost midnight when he went out, but I never heard him come back.”

  Peruggia thought of the noise that woke him in the middle of the night. He had dismissed it as just the sound of Brique coming home and banging his door shut. But he must have been leaving.

  “No one was supposed to go out last night,” Émile said to Peruggia. “You were supposed to keep an eye on him.”

  “A man gets lonely sometimes,” Peruggia said.

  “Your friend seems to get lonely quite a lot,” Julia added lightly.

  “So where is he?” Émile asked, his agitation lending his voice a sharp edge.

  “Probably out cold in some alley clutching an empty bottle of absinthe,” Madame Charneau said, “or lying in a stupor in some whorehouse. It’s a good thing he knows nothing of the details of the plan.”

  “Except that it was to be today,” added Julia pointedly.

  “This could ruin everything,” Émile said.

  Peruggia stopped pacing and turned to Émile. “He still has time.”

  “But what shape will he be in?” Émile asked. “We’ll have to put it off.”

  “We can’t do that,” said Julia.

  “She’s right,” Peruggia agreed. “The time has come.”

  “But we can’t do it without three people on the inside,” Émile insisted.

  “We have three people,” Julia said.

  “Not if Brique doesn’t get back in time,” Émile said, his exasperation growing, “or if he’s incapable of—”

  “It won’t matter,” Julia insisted. “We’ll still have you, Signore Peruggia”—she paused before adding—“and me.”

  Émile’s fist landed on the table. “Don’t be ridiculous!”

  Julia held up the palms of her hands to punctuate her reasoning. “What’s the difference? Three is three.”

  “Three men!” Émile said, exasperated. “Three capable men!”

  “Oh, your third man was really capable, let me tell you.” Julia rolled her eyes.

  “I’m telling you,” Émile said, appealing to the others, “the plan is in serious trouble if Brique doesn’t show up.”

  Peruggia had been watching this exchange with grim concentration.

  “She’s right,” he said, his voice calm and even. “If he doesn’t return within an hour, she’ll have to take his place.”

  “Are you insane?” Émile blurted out. “We’re supposed to be maintenance men, as in men!”

  “She could go as a charwoman,” suggested Madame Charneau. />
  “That wouldn’t work,” said Peruggia thoughtfully. “The charwomen never associate with the men. And they’re not allowed to handle the paintings.”

  “There, you see,” Émile said.

  “This is a colossal waste of time,” Julia said, rising from her seat. “Give me one of those caps.”

  Émile let out an irritated groan as Peruggia picked up one of three workman’s caps sitting on the table. Julia took the cap, turned away, and pulled it onto her head, stuffing her hair beneath it. She paused and then turned back to the others.

  “Time for you lazy bastards to get off your fat asses,” she bellowed, lowering her voice to a husky pitch. “We’ve got work to do!”

  Émile jumped to his feet and threw up his hands in dismay. “This is absurd,” he said to the others. But Madame Charneau nodded her head in appreciation, and Peruggia, staring at Julia in cold appraisal, finally announced, “She’ll do.”

  Chapter 23

  After walking north to the river and crossing the Pont des Arts, they paid their entrance fee in the Cour Carrée and entered the Louvre. They had waited for Brique until midafternoon, but there had been no sign of him. Left with no other options, Émile reluctantly agreed to let Julia join them on the inside.

  Their attire was respectably bourgeois and they easily blended in with the Sunday afternoon crowd thick with tourists. Julia wore a long dress and white blouse topped by a modest yet stylish hat. Peruggia carried a valise that, under more than casual scrutiny, might have seemed unusually large for a typical museum patron.

  When Peruggia was out of earshot, Julia whispered a question in Émile’s ear. “You did get a chance to test the key, didn’t you?”

  “You’re not even supposed to be in here,” he replied dismissively. “It’s not your concern.”

  “But I am in here,” she shot back, “and if that key doesn’t work, then none of us will be able to get out.”

  “Just do your job and everything will be fine,” Émile said before moving away from her toward Peruggia.