The sudden rush of a train on a parallel track barreling by in the opposite direction wrenched Valfierno back to the present. As the locomotive sped up the Connecticut coast on its way to Newport, his thoughts turned to his current destination: Windcrest, the magnificent house and gardens on the edge of the Atlantic. The home of Mr. and Mrs. Joshua Hart.
* * *
From the moment Taggart—instead of Hart’s butler, Carter—opened Windcrest’s massive oak front doors, Valfierno knew that this transaction would be very different from the others. Hart’s bodyguard said nothing, but his steel-gray eyes bored into Valfierno like a predator sizing up his prey.
“Mr. Taggart, isn’t it?” Valfierno said, masking his apprehension. “I believe Mr. Hart is expecting me.”
Taggart motioned him inside with a jerk of his head.
Valfierno followed the man through the foyer and into the library. He felt a pang of disappointment not to see Mrs. Hart waiting for him as she had been on his last visit. He glanced briefly at the small table by the window where her mother had sat. Of course, he had been to the mansion on a number of occasions in years past without even being aware that Joshua Hart was married; the two women must have been elsewhere in the vast mansion at those times. Perhaps they were in another part of the building now.
Taggart led Valfierno into the study. Hart sat reading the New York Times in a large leather chair by the window. Valfierno’s eyes briefly glanced at a leather valise sitting on a side table.
“Ah, Valfierno,” said Hart, looking up. “It’s about time you got here.”
Hart’s eyes shifted to the wrapped panel beneath Valfierno’s arm. He stood up, tossed his newspaper onto the floor, and stepped forward, his eyes fixed on the object.
“I trust that Mrs. Hart and her mother are well,” said Valfierno, trying to sound casual.
“What?” Hart responded, momentarily distracted. “Oh, yes.” Then he added as an afterthought, “The old woman died.” Then, in a tone that suggested Valfierno would completely understand and agree, he added, “Finally.”
As Hart turned his attention back to the wrapped panel, Valfierno experienced an unpleasant sinking feeling. He tried to imagine the effect that the death of her mother would have had on Mrs. Hart.
“Your wife must be deeply grieved.”
“That’s an understatement,” Hart said. “I couldn’t stand her crying and moping around all day, so I sent her to stay with her relatives in Philadelphia where she can cry all she wants.”
“I’m sorry that I missed her,” said Valfierno.
“All right, enough about that,” said Hart, his attention focused on the panel. “Let’s see it.”
Valfierno laid it on a mahogany table. With great deliberation, he untied the string and pulled the folds aside, revealing the back of the wooden panel. With a look to Hart, he tilted it up and back, revealing the painting itself. Hart’s eyes widened. For a moment, he seemed afraid to approach it.
“It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he finally said before turning to Taggart and adding, “though a bit smaller than I had imagined.”
But Taggart was not looking at the painting. He stood as still as a statue, his eyes fixed on Valfierno.
Hart turned back to Valfierno with a look that appeared to seek permission to approach. Valfierno smiled slightly and nodded an almost imperceptible assent. Hart stepped forward and gingerly took the panel in his hands, lifting it and bringing it closer to his face. Valfierno could see the distorted image of the woman in the painting reflected in the man’s dilated pupils. Hart turned the panel over briefly and nodded in apparent approval.
Then Hart placed the painting on the table and nodded to Taggart, who stepped forward and handed him a cloth tape measure.
“The most basic test,” Hart began. “Twenty and seven-eighths inches by thirty inches. Exact. But don’t worry. I know it’s real. It’s unmistakable. No one but a master could have created such a work.”
It was unfailing, thought Valfierno. A man will always see only what he wishes to see; he will always convince himself of that which he is already certain to be true.
Hart nodded to Taggart again. This time, the large man picked up the leather valise.
“Four hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” Hart said. “A lot of money.” He slowly lifted the painting from the table and added, “But worth every penny.”
Valfierno took the valise and bowed slightly to Hart in a show of respectful gratitude.
“Now,” Hart said, “let’s see how it will look, shall we?”
* * *
In the subterranean gallery, Hart placed the bottom edge of the painting on an antique table. The table sat up against the main wall below an empty space, its future place of honor. He leaned the panel against the wall and stepped back.
“I’ve commissioned a frame from a very discreet source. When it’s finished, I’ll mount it myself,” Hart said, admiring the painting. “I can trust no one else.”
Even sitting on a table, the painting was impressive. Valfierno had to admit to himself that Diego had done a remarkable job. He could be looking at the real thing.
“Now, my collection’s complete,” Hart said, taking it all in.
“Breathtaking,” Valfierno said. “It’s a pity the world can’t share this.”
“But that’s the whole point,” Hart said with relish as he seized the moment to enlighten Valfierno with his guiding philosophy. “All these great works of art now exist for my pleasure alone. They live only for my eyes. That is what makes them so special, unique. Only I can appreciate them now.”
“Indeed,” Valfierno said, starting to feel a lack of oxygen in the room.
“And when I die,” Hart added, walking in a slow circle, taking in the entire collection, “I have arranged with Mr. Taggart to make sure that each and every one of them is destroyed. It will be like taking them with me, like the pharaohs of ancient Egypt.”
Hart turned to Valfierno, looking for a reaction, waiting for a response.
Valfierno found himself in the rare position of not being able to think of a single thing to say.
* * *
By the time Valfierno’s train reached the outskirts of New York City, he had convinced himself it had been fortunate that Mrs. Hart had not been in Newport. If she had been there, he was not sure how he would have reacted, or what he would have said. At the very least, it would have been a complication that was best avoided. Still, he felt genuine sorrow that her mother had died, leaving her alone with her husband. And he gained little satisfaction from the sight of the bulging valise on the seat beside him. Any enjoyment he could have gained from successfully hoodwinking Hart was diminished by the sympathy and concern he felt for his wife.
As the train descended below street level on its final run to Grand Central Station, he forced thoughts of Mrs. Hart from his mind.
* * *
“The key to room 137 please,” Valfierno said to the clerk standing behind the main desk of the Plaza’s lobby.
“Of course, sir.” The man turned to the rows of tiny cubbyholes set into the rear wall.
Valfierno allowed himself to feel a sense of relief. He was finished. Tomorrow he would board a boat for France and within a week he would be back in Paris.
“Ah, yes,” said the clerk, “you had a visitor, sir.” In one hand he held the room key. In the other was a card.
Valfierno felt a stab of apprehension.
“A visitor?” No one on this side of the ocean, not even his clients, knew where he was staying.
“Yes, sir. A lady. She was here all day. In fact, I believe she might still be here. Yes, that’s her over there.”
A woman was sitting on a divan in the lobby waiting area. Her face was partially obscured by a wide-brimmed hat, but Valfierno recognized her instantly. It was Mrs. Hart.
Chapter 30
“I arrived from Philadelphia three days ago. I have a second cousin who lives here. She was kind enough
to let me stay with her.”
It was late for lunch and early for dinner, so Valfierno and Ellen Hart sat alone in the oak-paneled hotel dining room. It had been closed, but with the help of a large tip Valfierno prevailed upon the management to seat them and serve wine. Her crystal glass remained untouched.
“My husband told me that you would be arriving with the painting this week; indeed, it was the reason he let me travel to Philadelphia. He didn’t want my grief over my mother’s death to ruin his moment. Where else would you be staying but in New York? And I was sure you would only stay in the best of hotels, so it became a matter of visiting each one. I was lucky. I found you after only three days.”
“I’m impressed by your perseverance,” said Valfierno, “though, I confess, somewhat mystified as to your motivation.”
She flushed slightly at this, turning to look over her shoulder in evident embarrassment.
“I was greatly saddened to learn of your mother’s death,” Valfierno added.
“Thank you,” she said, turning back and composing herself. “Mercifully, she died in her sleep. In a way, it was as if she had never woken up after peacefully drifting off so many years ago, as if for her, indeed for both of us, it had all been one long final dream.” She stopped and took a deep breath. “I’m being silly. Forgive me.”
“Not at all,” Valfierno said with a kindly smile.
“How much longer do you plan to stay in New York?” she asked.
“As a matter of fact, I leave tomorrow for France.”
“I see.”
He took a sip of his wine. The silence was punctuated by the distant clink of dishes drifting in from the hotel kitchen.
“You once asked me,” Ellen finally said, “why I married my husband.”
Valfierno raised his eyebrows. “Did I? How impertinent of me.”
“Yes, it was impertinent. Yet at the time, part of me wanted to answer the question.”
“It was certainly none of my business.”
“And it still isn’t,” she said. “But now I would like to tell you.”
Valfierno sat up straighter in his chair, signaling his readiness to listen.
She looked down at the table. “My father left many debts when he died.” She let the words hang in the air for a moment before looking up at Valfierno. “I suppose at one time we had been quite wealthy. But in the end, our prosperity turned out to be an illusion.”
Valfierno listened intently, occasionally making small comments for clarification but careful not to break the flow of her story. Though the subject was obviously a difficult one, he noticed that as she got deeper into it, the words began pouring out as her shoulders dropped, and her body physically relaxed as if she had been holding her breath for a long, long time.
* * *
Ellen Edwina Beach had lived with her father and mother in a large apartment overlooking Central Park in New York City. Her father was an investor. His mood rose and fell with his successes and failures, but for the most part his choices were sound and his disposition cheerful. Railroads had proved particularly lucrative. Indeed, it was through his dealings with railroads that the family became acquainted with Mr. Joshua Hart.
Ellen Beach grew up in a fairy tale. She had a nanny and spent much time playing in the park, rolling hoops in the summer and ice-skating in the winter. She was friendly with the doormen, who turned a blind eye when she roller-skated in the lobby of their apartment building.
As she grew older, it became increasingly difficult to spend as much time with her father as she would have wished; he was always away on business, and when he came back he spent most evenings escorting her mother to a string of social gatherings. That was when business was going well. When it was not going well, he sat alone for hours, unapproachable, brooding in his library. Much as she wanted to, she never disturbed him at these times, though it was difficult to resist the urge to go in and sit on his lap as she had done so many times when she was very young. For the most part, however, she enjoyed a childhood of privilege and contentment.
When Ellen was fifteen, her mother without warning slipped into the unfortunate condition in which she was to spend the rest of her life. At first, her father spent hours on end sitting by her mother’s bedside in the sunny bedroom that overlooked the park, but soon he began disappearing for long stretches of time. Ellen saw him only late at night when she peeked from behind her bedroom door as he staggered in, often disheveled and unsteady on his feet, bringing with him the faint smells of cigars, alcohol, and perfume.
Her mother would spend the entire day lying in bed staring up at the ceiling, responding to no one. Eventually, she improved enough to get up, and a live-in nurse would dress her, feed her, and reteach her the basics of taking care of herself. But she passed most of her time sitting by the window staring out at the park. The doctor informed Ellen that her mother’s condition most likely would not improve further. There was nothing that could be done.
Ellen was sixteen when she heard that her father had died. He had been on an extended business trip in California, and she hadn’t seen him in months. Her reaction to the news had been unexpected: It made her angry. Why had he been so far away from her when he died? Why had he left her all alone?
Ellen’s maiden aunt Sylvia—her mother’s sister—moved in to run the household. Ellen had never gotten along with the joyless, overbearing women, and her constant presence only served to remind Ellen of the loss—for all practical purposes—of her mother. Then one day Mr. Joshua Hart, a business partner of her father who had visited on a number of occasions since her father’s death, sat her down to explain that her father left behind many debts and there was no longer any money to maintain the apartment, the nurse, and the two servants they employed. Aunt Sylvia had no great resources of her own, but Joshua Hart assured Ellen that there was no need to worry. He would personally arrange for things to stay as they were, allowing them to live in the apartment as they always had.
On Ellen’s eighteenth birthday, Hart proposed marriage and she accepted. Though he was thirty years her senior, he had been generous, kind even. More to the point, she felt she had no choice. She was certainly grateful for everything Hart had done for her family, yet she had developed no feelings of attachment to him. But feelings had played no part in her decision. She would do whatever was necessary to ensure her mother’s welfare, even if it meant marrying a man whom she knew she could never love.
* * *
“I was hardly in the position to turn down such a kind offer,” she finally said, averting her eyes from Valfierno.
“Hardly,” he reassured her.
“He was pleasant enough at first,” she continued, “but as time went by, he became more and more distracted by his many business affairs. I began to feel like one of his paintings, part of his collection, the only difference being that instead of hanging on a wall, I was always to be on his arm.”
She took her first sip of wine. “I don’t suppose I’ve ever told anyone that story before.”
“I am honored,” Valfierno said gently.
“And now,” she added, “it would seem that my husband has acquired his greatest possession.”
“Yes, I suppose he has.”
“And you’ve been paid well?”
“Very well.”
“I’m sure you earned it.”
“I will admit it was not an easy item to obtain.”
“I imagine not.” Ellen smiled weakly as she looked down and gently stroked the stem of her wine glass between her forefinger and thumb. The faint sound of voices drifted out from the kitchen.
Finally, she spoke. “I wonder, then, if I might ask you a favor.”
Valfierno leaned forward slightly and met her gaze as she looked up.
“Of course. Anything I can possibly do.”
“Marquis,” Ellen began, “Edward … perhaps I can be as forward with you as you once were with me.”
“I would hope for nothing less.”
“With m
y dear mother gone, I have no more reason to stay with my husband.”
She paused, waiting for a reaction. Valfierno’s heart started to beat faster but he wasn’t sure if it was from sheer surprise or something else. He knew he should speak, but he was not sure what he was going to say.
“Mrs. Hart—” he began tentatively.
“Please, let me finish. This is not easy for me. I believe you know my husband well, the kind of man he is, I mean. I can assure you that his appreciation for his collection far outweighs his regard for me. Yet he would no sooner let me go than he would relinquish any one of his other acquisitions.”
“Perhaps you underestimate his regard for you, or misinterpret the way he demonstrates his affection.”
A slightly puzzled look crossed Ellen’s face. “The desire to possess is very different from the sentiment of love.”
Valfierno allowed this with a slight tilt of his head.
“Therefore,” she continued, taking a breath as she gathered every bit of her resolve, “I would ask you—I would beg you—to take me with you to France.”
Valfierno drew back in his chair, unable to hide his surprise.
“Mrs. Hart, I…”
“Ellen. My name is Ellen.”
“Ellen, I don’t know what to say.”
“Perhaps, then, I should restate it as a simple question. Will you take me with you?”
He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.
“I believe, Mrs. Hart … Ellen…, that I understand your situation, the dilemma you find yourself in, and if I can help in any way, I am happy to be of service. But you must understand that what you’re asking is out of the question. No matter what the circumstances, your home is here. Mine is in France. I’m afraid it is impossible. I’m sorry. If I can help financially in some way—”
Stealing Mona Lisa Page 17