Stealing Mona Lisa

by Carson Morton

  “Beroud,” the man said, “my brushes are not where I left them. Are any of yours missing?”

  “No, they’re all here,” Beroud said as he quickly assembled his paraphernalia and left the man to grumble to himself in the closet.

  Trying to make up for lost time, Beroud walked briskly into the Salon Carré and was pleased to note that no one else had chosen to set up there this morning. He stopped at his favorite spot, put down his supplies, and opened a small canvas stool. Setting up his easel, he placed a small wooden panel upon it and arranged his palette, paints, and brushes. Satisfied, he sat down and made the final adjustments. Only then did he look up at the wall.

  His face collapsed with disappointment. Between the Correggio on the left and the Titian on the right there was nothing but four iron pegs and a ghostly rectangular outline where the wall was slightly darker. La Joconde was gone.

  Beroud immediately sought out a guard to complain. The guard informed Monsieur Montand. The museum director checked for himself but was only mildly irritated to see the empty space on the wall. He summoned Monsieur Picquet, the head maintenance man, and asked for an explanation.

  “There is no need to worry, monsieur,” Picquet told the director with a confident air. “The photographers had La Joconde brought down to their studio yesterday.”

  The director, who in general did not approve of the modern science of photography, was not pleased to hear this. “They had it down there not two months ago. How many more infernal photographs do they need?”

  The question did not require an answer, but Picquet was unacquainted with the finer points of rhetoric.

  “I’m sure I don’t know, Monsieur Director.”

  His irritation growing by the minute, Montand descended through the ground-floor entresol to the labyrinth of catacombs at the lowest level of the museum, all that remained of the medieval fortress upon which King Philip II had built his original palace. Reaching the end of a dimly lit sandstone passageway, he strode into the photographers’ studio and was immediately struck by the strong odor of the chemicals used to process the glass plates. Monsieur Duval, the official museum photographer, was placing one of the new Autochrome plates developed by the Lumière brothers into a large bellows camera. A Rubens rested on an easel set up in front of him. A young apprentice stood to one side ready to make adjustments.

  “I’ve told you previously,” Montand began in his most officious voice, “that I need to be informed at least a day in advance before you remove any of the major exhibits.”

  Duval gave Montand a disdainful look before going back to his work. “I told you about this one last week,” he said in a voice that suggested that he did not appreciate pointless interruptions.

  “Not this one,” Montand said, his impatience rising. “La Joconde.”

  “It’s not on our list for months yet. We’ll let you know in good time.”

  “I need it returned immediately!”

  “That may be so, but I cannot help you.”

  The man’s unconcerned attitude irritated Montand even further.

  “You do realize that today is Tuesday! Half the art students in Paris will be here before the morning is out expecting to copy it!”

  “That is not my affair, monsieur,” Duval said as he adjusted the lens on his camera.

  “Ah, but there you are mistaken. It is my affair, and what is my affair is your affair.”

  Duval shrugged. “Even so, I cannot be of assistance.”

  “And why not?”

  “For the obvious reason that it is not here.”

  “What do you mean, it’s not here?”

  “It is a simple statement, monsieur, though I am happy to repeat it for you. It is not here.”

  Montand started to breathe in short, rapid gasps.

  “Then if it’s not here,” he said, trying in vain to suppress his rising anxiety, “where is it?”

  * * *

  An hour later, Inspector Alphonse Carnot of the Sûreté strode into the Cour Carrée with four smartly dressed gendarmes in tow. Monsieur Montand, flanked by the senior museum guards, waited for him in the center of the room.

  “Inspector,” Montand began, but Carnot cut him off.

  “Monsieur Director,” the inspector began harshly, “why do I still see people milling about in the other galleries? You should have closed the museum by now.”

  “That would have been totally impractical,” Montand said, a little flustered. “We have closed the Denon wing of course, but I saw no reason to cause undue alarm.”

  “The entire museum must be closed at once,” Carnot continued. “The commissioner of police himself will join us within the hour. He will be most displeased if it is not.”

  Montand was not happy with this turn of events. It was still possible that the painting was misplaced somewhere in the museum. Clearing out all the patrons at this point might be an extreme overreaction.

  “Well,” Carnot said, “what are you waiting for?”

  Reluctantly, Montand turned to his head guard. “Do as he says.”

  “But Monsieur Director…” the guard began.

  “At once!” Montand ordered.

  The guard snapped to attention, turned on his heels, and hurried smartly off.

  “Now,” Carnot said, smugly satisfied, “shall we proceed?”

  * * *

  As the last disgruntled patrons were being escorted from the museum, the commissioner of the Sûreté himself, Jean Lepine, accompanied by a small entourage of plain-clothed assistants, entered the Denon wing. He wasted no time in locating Inspector Carnot in the Salon Carré. At six feet, with a shaved head and compensatory handlebar mustache, Lepine towered over the inspector in more ways than one.

  “Inspector Carnot,” he bellowed, skipping any pleasantries, “your report, please!”

  “Commissioner,” Carnot began, “the head maintenance man, Picquet, reports seeing a group of three men dressed as janitors carrying the painting yesterday morning. The museum is always closed on Mondays for—”

  “Yes, yes,” the commissioner broke in. “Continue with your report!”

  Carnot cleared his throat. “These men informed Picquet that they were delivering it to the photographers’ studio downstairs, a routine occurrence. It was never delivered. In my opinion, Commissioner, this was an inside job.”

  The commissioner gave Montand a disdainful look before turning back to Carnot. “Solving this crime as quickly as possible and recovering La Joconde is of the utmost importance. I will not tolerate any mistakes in this investigation.”

  “Of course not, Commissioner.”

  With perfect timing, a young gendarme stepped up, snapped to attention, and saluted the commissioner.

  “Inspector,” he began, turning to Carnot, “some of the copyists report that their equipment has been rearranged in the supply closet.”

  “The thieves must have used it as a hiding place before the theft,” observed Carnot.

  “We have also located the empty frame and its shadow box in a stairwell,” the gendarme continued. “And furthermore, we have found a fingerprint on the glass.”

  “Excellent,” Carnot exclaimed. “Now we have them.”

  “A what?” the commissioner asked impatiently.

  “A fingerprint, Commissioner,” explained Carnot, reveling in the knowledge that he knew something that his superior did not. “It is a new science. The lines on each man’s fingertips are unlike any others, and—”

  “But how will that help us?” the commissioner demanded.

  “Anticipating just such an eventuality, for the last year, I have taken the fingerprints of each and every employee of the museum. If, as I suspect, this is an inside job, we’ll have our man within a day, I promise you.”

  “See that you do,” said the commissioner.

  Carnot could only smile uncomfortably. Now he would have no choice but to deliver on his hasty promise.

  Chapter 28

  The Prefecture of Police s
hared the Île de la Cité with three structures that dated back to the Middle Ages and defined the soul of Paris: the forbidding Conciergerie, the church of Sainte-Chapelle, and that most divine of structures, the Cathedral of Notre-Dame. The island and its sister, the Île Saint-Louis, both sat tethered by numerous bridges in the middle of the River Seine like two stately dowagers. They had always been the heart, the cradle of Paris, the spiritual center of all of France. Here, the Roman legions conquered the Parissi tribe shortly after the time of Christ; here, the original inhabitants of the city took refuge from Barbarian and Viking attacks; here, in the Conciergerie itself, Marie Antoinette spent her final hours before her fatal appointment with Madame Guillotine; and here, Inspector Carnot hoped to impress Police Commissioner Lepine by exposing the man who stole La Joconde.

  The inspector stood in front of a white wall in a third-floor room of the prefecture. In the middle of the room, a young gendarme named Brousard, who often assisted Carnot, readied two primitive projectors, known as magic lanterns, on a table. Another gendarme stood at the ready by the window, and at a separate table sat Commissioner Lepine himself along with various members of his staff. Unfortunately, a sudden change in the commissioner’s schedule had precluded a run-through of the presentation. In spite of this, and a tingle of excited apprehension, Carnot felt confident. He knew the commissioner was skeptical about so-called scientific innovations and that only a concrete demonstration of their usefulness could convince him of their value. Though he wished he had more time to prepare, here was the perfect opportunity for such a demonstration.

  The art of fingerprinting had been in use since the 1850s when an English magistrate in India instructed two illiterate merchants to seal the agreement they were entering into by making ink impressions of their palms on a contract. By 1901, fingerprints were being used in England to identify criminals, and on a visit to Scotland Yard in London during the course of an investigation, Inspector Carnot had witnessed the fingerprinting of suspects.

  Thinking that he might be able to use this new technique to distinguish himself and further his career, he had tried to introduce the new science at the Sûreté. His ideas had been met with indifference, if not downright skepticism.

  His superiors still put their faith in anthropometry, the science of identifying a repeat offender by keeping precise measurements of his physical characteristics, such as his height and the length of his ear. Never mind the occasional innocent doppelgänger sent, at best, to Devil’s Island or, at worst, to the guillotine. Justice was never meant to be perfect, only consistent.

  Carnot had been undeterred by resistance to the new science of fingerprinting and had taken it upon himself to learn as much as he could about the procedure. He had persevered and, though it was yet to be widely accepted by his colleagues, he had used it himself on occasion, albeit with little success so far.

  While investigating a minor theft at the Louvre a year earlier, he had convinced Director Montand to adopt the policy of routinely fingerprinting all employees of the museum. He carefully compiled and filed these fingerprints in the event they would ever be needed. And now that time—and his opportunity—had arrived.

  Satisfied that all was ready, Carnot motioned to the gendarme standing by the window. The man pulled down a shade, darkening the room.

  “You may begin,” Carnot said to Brousard. The young gendarme turned a knob on the lantern, and a large image of a single fingerprint was projected onto the wall.

  “This is our man,” said Carnot with authority. “His fingerprint was recovered from the glass of the shadow box that held La Joconde. By applying a fine talcum powder, and then carefully brushing it off, the fingerprint is revealed. It is then lifted from the surface by the application of transparent cellulose film. This image, of course, is magnified many times over.”

  The concentric whorls of the fingerprint reminded Carnot of the modern art that had recently come into fashion. Impressionism or something or other, though personally he preferred paintings that actually resembled the objects they were supposed to represent. He nodded to Brousard, who turned a knob on the other projector, and another large fingerprint appeared next to the first.

  “This is the fingerprint of one of the almost one hundred employees who have worked at the Louvre in the last year. We simply pressed their fingertips into an inkpad and then onto a thin paper.”

  Carnot gestured with a wooden ruler. “By comparing the lines, here and here, we can see if the two prints match. As you can see, this one clearly does not. Next, please.”

  Brousard advanced to the next slide. “Again, as we can clearly see by these patterns, this is also not our man.”

  The commissioner exchanged impatient glances with his staff. “How long will this take?”

  “I shouldn’t think much longer, Commissioner.” Carnot felt himself beginning to sweat.

  A dozen or so prints flickered by with no success. Carnot tried to maintain his confidence as the commissioner grew increasingly fidgety. A few dozen more went by with no matches. At this point, Brousard got to his feet, walked to Carnot, and whispered something in his ear. Carnot’s face suddenly drained of all its color.

  “Are you sure?” Carnot asked in hushed tones.

  “Yes. I’m quite sure.”

  “Why didn’t you mention something before?”

  “I only just noticed it, Inspector.”

  “What’s going on?” the commissioner demanded.

  Brousard withdrew, and a shaken Carnot gestured to the gendarme by the window to raise the shade. He did so, causing the room’s occupants to shield their eyes against the glare.

  “Well?” said the commissioner. “Why have you stopped?”

  “I am afraid, Commissioner,” Carnot began, in a choked voice, “that we may have a small problem.”

  “What sort of problem?”

  “It would seem,” he said, drawing a deep breath, “that the print we found was from the thief’s left hand.”

  “And?”

  “And, the fingerprints from the workers at the Louvre”—he held his breath for a moment—“were taken from their right hands only.”

  “And this makes a difference?”

  “I’m afraid, Commissioner … it does.”

  The commissioner gave Carnot a long contemptuous look. Carnot could almost hear the door slamming shut on his promotion aspirations. The commissioner would reward exceptional work from his subordinates, but anything regarded as incompetence usually consigned its perpetrator to a windowless basement office, condemned to an endless parade of meaningless bureaucratic tasks.

  After what seemed like an eternity, the commissioner rose to his feet, followed by his staff to the sound of much scraping of chair legs across the floor.

  “You disappoint me, Carnot. I expected better from you.” And with that he turned on his heels and led his staff from the room.

  Carnot stood immobilized, the light from the magic lantern silhouetting his face against the screen. Brousard busied himself unplugging and dismantling the projection equipment. The gendarme by the window remained at attention, keeping his gaze fixed on a point on the opposite wall.

  Carnot was furious, but not with himself or the commissioner. The rage he felt roiling inside was directed at one source only: the perpetrators of this crime. They had not only taken La Joconde, they had stolen the only chance he might ever have to prove to the world that he was more than an insignificant faceless civil servant, that he was indeed a great detective, worthy of the highest honors France could bestow.

  In that instant, he made a solemn vow: He would stop at nothing to bring these brazen criminals to their knees before the merciless god of justice.

  Chapter 29

  NEW YORK TIMES

  October 1, 1911

  STILL NO CLUES IN THEFT OF MONA LISA FROM LOUVRE!

  Leonardo da Vinci Masterpiece Vanished Without a Trace!

  AFTER TWO MONTHS FRENCH POLICE STILL IN DARK!

  Eduardo de Val
fierno placed the copy of the New York Times onto the seat next to him. The train rattled around a slight curve and he glanced up at the seventy-seven-by-fifty-three-centimeter package cradled in the overhead luggage rack. The final delivery at last.

  He thought back to the previous few weeks. Each delivery had required a separate trip from New York with another panel; it was far too risky to transport more than one at a time.

  The deliveries of the first five copies became almost routine. A deferential butler would usher Valfierno into the presence of his client waiting—feverish with anticipation—in a study or a gallery hidden deep within his mansion. Small talk followed, during which the client’s eyes kept darting to the wrapped panel, until it came time for the unveiling and the inevitable stunned reaction. Then, there was the exchange of money, which was never counted or hardly even acknowledged by Valfierno, and the giddy banter with the satisfied client almost drunk with greedy delight. Finally, Valfierno would take his leave, waiting until he was seated in his taxi to breathe a sigh of relief as he felt the comforting weight of the small valise or briefcase filled with hundred-dollar bills sitting on his lap.

  There had been only one precarious moment. On the fourth delivery, the client’s new hunting dog—a jet-black whippet called Maggie—had taken an instant dislike to Valfierno. At first, the client made a joke of it, but the hound’s persistent growling prompted him to recall that the previous owner had boasted of the creature’s aptitude for judging men’s characters. Valfierno was all too aware of the precarious line his clients straddled between self-delusion and suspicion—especially when the whippet started to sniff the painting itself—so it took all his powers of persuasion to gently guide the man to the humorous side of the situation. On taking his leave, Valfierno even ventured a joke, saying that if the man ever grew tired of his hound, he could always find work for her as an appraiser in one of the finer galleries in New York or Paris.