* * *
Julia turned at the sound of footsteps on the stairs.
“Please,” Diego pleaded, “can’t you just keep still?”
“Hello? Diego?” Émile’s voice floated down from the top of the stairs.
“Your paramour is here,” Diego said to Julia with obvious annoyance.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, turning her face back to the wall. “It’s just Émile.”
Émile walked down the steps and stopped cold, his mouth dropping open in surprise.
“What is going on?” he demanded.
“What are you doing here?” Julia asked, making a point of not looking at him.
“Never mind what I’m doing here,” he said. “What are you doing here?”
“What does it look like? José is painting my portrait.”
“José?” Émile stammered in disbelief.
“Take a seat,” Diego said. “Learn from the master.”
Émile stepped toward Julia, taking note of the pile of clothing heaped on a nearby chair.
“You’ve taken all your clothes off.”
“Your powers of observation are remarkable,” she commented drily.
“And you’re naked.”
“The two often go together. And why shouldn’t I be? I’m an artist’s model.”
“An artist’s model?” the young man said with contempt. “And is that what they call it nowadays?”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” she demanded, snapping her head around.
“This is useless,” Diego said, throwing down his brush in frustration. “You really are spoiling the atmosphere, you know,” he added for Émile’s sake.
“Spoiling the atmosphere?” Émile said. “I’ll show you how to spoil the atmosphere.” And with that, he picked up the pile of clothes and threw them into Julia’s lap.
“Put these back on.”
“What’s it to you?” she said, hastily holding up her dress in front of her as she sprang to her feet.
Émile said nothing, momentarily transfixed by the sight of the outer curves of her hips that the dress failed to cover.
“Perhaps you should take your clothes off, too,” Diego suggested, “and join her.”
“You debased goat!” Émile snarled and took a step toward him.
Diego backed away with an amused smile on his face, which only served to incense Émile further.
“No need to get excited, Romeo,” the painter said as Émile took another step toward him.
But before he could make contact, Émile tripped on the crate that Diego had been using as a footstool and stumbled. He grabbed the easel for support, but it collapsed beneath him and he tumbled to the floor on top of the canvas.
“You’re ruining my painting!” Julia cried out as she pulled a blanket off Diego’s cot and wrapped it around her.
Diego gathered up his worn jacket and cap. “It wasn’t any good anyway,” he said dismissively.
“What do you mean, it wasn’t any good?” Julia shrieked. “Why not?”
Émile tried to get back to his feet but slipped on the gobs of paint on Diego’s palette.
“The subject was not inspiring enough,” Diego said.
“Not inspiring enough?” Julia said indignantly.
Diego had reached the foot of the steps by the time she hurled a clay pot full of brushes at him. He easily deflected the pot with his arm, sending it shattering into the wall.
“I need a drink!” he called out as he hurried up the steps. “Perhaps some Madeira will provide me with the inspiration I crave!”
Émile struggled to his feet, glaring up in the direction of the staircase. Picking up a rag, he attempted to remove globs of paint from his jacket, in the process only making the stains worse.
Julia turned her attention to the mess on the floor, stooping down and picking up the painting.
Her mouth opened in astonishment. The woman—if you could call it that—looked like something you’d see in a carnival fun-house mirror. For one thing, the proportions were all wrong, the outlines too haphazardly drawn. Her breasts—more like a pair of pastry bags used for decorating a cake—seemed to grow out of her back. The exaggerated curve of her waist flowed down to a pair of oversized buttocks that somehow still managed to convey sensuality.
“My ass isn’t that big!” she howled. “And what are those supposed to be?” She pointed to the red-tipped pastry bags in horror.
“What do you mean?” Émile said facetiously. “I think it looks just like you.”
Julia let out a growl of frustration.
“You like showing off. You know you do,” Émile said as he tried to wipe paint from his face, only to smear it and give himself the aspect of a wild Indian.
Julia picked up a knife that had fallen from the broken vase, and for a moment Émile thought she was going to use it on him. But instead she turned on the canvas, embellishing it with a series of angry slashes.
“You’ve only got yourself to blame,” Émile said with a lofty air.
“What did you say?” Julia hissed as she turned on him, blade at the ready.
“Careful with that knife.” Émile drew back.
Julia looked at the weapon in her hand as if seeing it for the first time, and threw it down in disgust. She picked up Diego’s paint-smeared palette and smashed it onto what remained of her portrait lying in tatters on the floor. For good measure, she knocked over a small table, spilling an old newspaper, rags, and a full ashtray into the mess.
“You’re crazy, do you know that?” said Émile.
“Get out!” she screamed. “Get out!”
Grasping the blanket tightly up to her neck with one hand, she was about to physically push him up the stairs with her other when they were distracted by a voice from above.
“Julia! Émile!” Madame Charneau cried out as she shuffled down the steps, drawing up her skirt to keep from tripping on the hem. “Did you tell her?”
“Tell me what?” asked Julia.
“Signore Peruggia,” Émile began, making a gesture that suggested it was her fault he hadn’t had the opportunity to tell her earlier. “He’s decided to leave.”
Safely at the bottom of the steps, Madame Charneau took in the mess around her. “What happened here?”
“Ask her,” said Émile, jerking his head toward Julia.
“You should have told me right away,” Julia scolded Émile.
“It’s all right,” Émile said defensively. “He’s not leaving for a few days.”
“But that’s just it,” Madame Charneau said frantically, “he’s just now informed me that he’s leaving this very afternoon. And he’s taking the painting with him.”
“The copy, you mean,” said Émile.
Madame Charneau gave Julia a look.
“You did switch the paintings, didn’t you?” he asked them both.
The look Julia exchanged with Madame Charneau gave him his answer.
“I don’t believe it!”
“Give me a minute to get dressed,” said Julia, exasperated. “I’ll explain on the way over.”
Chapter 33
“He hardly ever left his room,” Julia said breathlessly as they hurried to the cour de Rohan. “There was never enough time to get in to replace the original.”
“But you’ve had a copy of the key for months,” Émile said.
“Haven’t you been listening?” she said. “He’s only left his room to go across the hall for a few minutes each day. There’s simply been no time and I didn’t know he was leaving so soon.”
“What time did he say his train was leaving?” Émile asked Madame Charneau.
“He told me that his train for Florence leaves the Gare de Lyon at four o’clock.”
“Then we’d better hurry,” he said before turning on Julia. “You had one simple thing to do!”
Julia was about to retort when Émile increased his stride and pulled ahead. Instead, she just growled in frustration as she took Madame C
harneau’s arm to help the older woman keep up the pace.
Fortunately, when they arrived at the boardinghouse a little after one o’clock, they could hear Peruggia moving about up in his room.
“All right, genius,” Julia said to Émile in the form of a challenge, “what would you suggest?”
“I don’t know,” he snapped, trying to keep his voice down. “You’re the one who should have taken care of all this by now.”
Julia hesitated, thinking. “All right,” she finally said. “Madame Charneau, fetch that carafe of brandy from the sitting room and bring it up to my room with two glasses.” The older woman nodded and bustled off. “Émile. You go up to the attic. Don’t let him hear you. Get the copy and then wait for a signal at the top of the stairs.” She removed the key from her pocket and handed it to him. “I only hope you did a better job at copying it than the last one.”
“So now you want me to do it?” he whispered as she hustled him up the staircase.
On the way up to the second floor, Julia quickly and quietly explained what she wanted Émile to do.
Leaving Émile at the foot of another small staircase leading to the attic, Julia doubled back to the first floor. She reached the door to her room just as Madame Charneau was coming out. Julia whispered instructions to her before disappearing inside. Madame Charneau adjusted her housedress and knocked on Peruggia’s door. After a moment, Peruggia appeared. He had eaten very little in the last few months and his rather shabby three-piece traveling suit hung loosely on his frame.
“What is it?” he demanded suspiciously.
“Monsieur Peruggia,” Madame Charneau began, “Mademoiselle Julia wishes to say good-bye to you.”
He gave her a puzzled look, then poked his head out and peered down the hallway.
“Where is she?”
“She said she wished to say good-bye to you in her room.”
Peruggia hesitated for a moment, scrutinizing Madame Charneau’s face. She shrugged, gave him a pleasant smile, and began fussing with a vase of flowers sitting on a small side table. Peruggia stood for a moment in the doorway, then stepped out of his room and locked the door. He walked down the hall to Julia’s room, smoothed back a lock of hair, and knocked. Almost immediately, the door opened.
Julia looked up at him with a friendly smile. “Signore Peruggia,” she said with evident delight.
“Madame Charneau said you wished to say good-bye.”
“Yes, please come inside.”
He stood motionless.
“Please,” she repeated, stepping aside and making a sweeping gesture with her hand.
He hesitated, then walked in. Julia gave a quick conspiratorial look to Madame Charneau and closed the door.
Madame Charneau scurried to the stairs. Émile stood on the upper steps holding the wrapped panel beneath his arm. She gestured with her hand, and he hurried down and followed her to Peruggia’s room. Taking out her master key, Madame Charneau unlocked the door.
* * *
Julia picked up the carafe from a table, poured two glasses of brandy, and offered one to Peruggia, who stood rather stiffly by the door.
“I’ll be sorry to see you go,” she said, taking a sip from her glass.
Peruggia took the glass, raised it to his lips, and emptied it.
“I’ll miss seeing your handsome face around here,” she continued. “Not that we’ve seen much of it lately.”
He remained stone-faced.
Julia managed a pleasant, relaxed smile.
“And where will you be traveling to?” she asked, wondering if the man would ever speak.
* * *
Émile unwrapped the copy of La Joconde and placed it on the mattress. He reached underneath the bed and pulled out the trunk. Removing the copy of the key from his pocket, he placed it into the lock and twisted it.
The lock didn’t respond.
* * *
“Florence,” Peruggia finally answered. “I shall be traveling to Florence.”
“Florence,” Julia said, refilling his glass. “It sounds so romantic.”
“Italy is my home.”
“Oh, I’m sure you have a lady friend waiting there for you, eh, Signore Peruggia?”
“My mother lives there,” he said, a dour expression on his face. “But I’m not particularly eager to see her.”
“Oh, but surely there must be someone.”
Peruggia looked suspiciously at Julia. Then he lifted his glass and drained it again.
“There was someone … once.”
* * *
Émile broke into a cold sweat. This couldn’t be happening again. When dealing with sophisticated locks, like the ones that would be found on small safes, it could be expected that a copy would not work without some additional filing to make fine adjustments. But with crude locks, such as those found on trunks like this one, even a rough copy should work right away.
He tried to turn the key a number of times with no success. He pulled it out and examined it. He noticed a slight burr on one of the crenellations. Somehow it had escaped his attention when he copied the key. Removing a small file from his jacket pocket, he hurriedly filed it off. Replacing the key in the lock, he took a deep breath and turned it. The lock clicked open.
* * *
“I knew it,” Julia said, deftly refilling Peruggia’s glass. “It would be hard to imagine a catch like you going unnoticed for too long.”
Peruggia stared into the dark liquid in his glass as if it were some kind of crystal ball. “She ran off with a butcher.”
“A butcher…” said Julia, trying desperately to think of an appropriate comment as he drained his glass yet again. Finally, sounding as sympathetic as possible, she said, “For the meat … no doubt.”
Peruggia nodded his sullen agreement. “She always did have a big appetite.”
“There you are, then,” Julia said.
There was a moment of awkward silence as the subject trailed off like a dying wisp of smoke. Peruggia suddenly tore himself away from his reverie. “I have to go.”
“Oh, so soon?” Julia protested. “But you’ve plenty of time. Please stay a little while longer.”
He fixed his gaze on her. “Why do you want me to stay?”
“Because I enjoy your company, of course.” She tried to refill his glass but he covered it with his hand.
“No more,” he said, turning to go.
“And besides,” she said, stepping between him and the door. “It will be so lonely once you’re gone.”
* * *
Émile opened the trunk and removed a number of folded shirts to reveal La Joconde. He gingerly grasped each side of the panel and placed it onto the bed next to the copy.
“Émile,” Madame Charneau’s voice came through the door.
Wrenched from his intense focus, Émile stepped to the door.
“What is it?” he asked, straining to keep his voice to a whisper.
“You must hurry!” she said through the door.
“Yes, yes,” Émile said impatiently before returning to the bed. Kneeling again, he reached for the copy.
He froze.
He looked at the two identical paintings lying next to each other. Which one was the copy? Which one did he put down last?
This is ridiculous, he thought. He had just put them both down. Ah, yes, of course. The one on the right was the copy. Or was it the one on the left? No, the one on the right. He remembered distinctly now.
He slid the painting on the right into the trunk. He replaced the shirts on top of it, closed the lid, locked the trunk, and pushed it back beneath the bed.
* * *
Julia stood between Peruggia and the door. Her face held a provocative smile.
“And why, all of a sudden, do you like me so much?” he asked, placing his empty glass onto the mantel of the small fireplace. “You’ve barely spoken to me in months.”
“You’ve kept to yourself so much,” she said coyly, “and besides, you know women. We ne
ver know our own minds.”
Without changing his expression, Peruggia closed his eyes and lowered his face to hers.
He’s going to kiss me, Julia frantically thought. It’s the only way to keep him here. I have to.
But she couldn’t. She sidestepped, leaving Peruggia slightly off-balance. He opened his eyes and caught himself by reaching out and propping his hand against the door.
“See what I mean?” she said, smiling lamely.
Peruggia smirked, shrugging slightly. Then he turned the doorknob. As the door opened, Julia stepped once again into his path, took him by the lapels, and turned him around so that his back was to the hallway.
“But I will miss you,” she said. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Madame Charneau standing by Peruggia’s door signaling her frantically that Émile was still inside.
Julia had no choice. Pulling Peruggia forward and down, she firmly planted her lips on his. They felt wet and rubbery, and she was sure she could taste the Belgian blood sausage she had brought up to him for dinner last night. She cocked open one eye in time to see Émile exit Peruggia’s room with the wrapped panel beneath his arms. She kept kissing Peruggia until Émile and Madame Charneau disappeared down the staircase. As soon as they were gone, she let go and stepped back. Julia suddenly became all business as she extended her hand.
“Well,” she said, “bon voyage.”
Before he could do or say anything else, she gently but firmly pushed him from her room. Closing the door behind him, she leaned back against it, completely drained.
* * *
Ten minutes later, Peruggia stood with Madame Charneau at the open front door. He wore his heavy coat and hat, and in one hand he carried his traveling valise. Beneath his other arm, he held the panel, which he had wrapped in cloth.
Stealing Mona Lisa Page 19