Stealing Mona Lisa

by Carson Morton

  “Good-bye, madame,” he said with a curt nod. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

  “It has been my pleasure, Signore Peruggia. I hope you have a pleasant journey.”

  Peruggia started to go, then stopped and turned back. “I think,” he began, his voice low and serious, “that the young lady may need a little extra attention for a while.”

  “Of course, I understand.”

  With a final awkward bow, Peruggia walked away. Madame Charneau waited until he disappeared from the inner courtyard before pushing the front door shut. Immediately, Émile appeared from the kitchen as Julia hurried down the steps.

  “That was close,” said Émile.

  “You managed to make the switch?” Julia asked breathlessly.

  “Of course,” Émile answered.

  “And the key?”

  “It worked perfectly the first time.”

  “You’re my hero!” she chirped, throwing her arms around him.

  “Well done, Émile,” Madame Charneau said.

  When Julia let him go, he stood for a moment a little dazed. Then he quickly patted his pocket to make sure his watch was still in its proper place.

  “And you, too,” he said to Julia before quickly including Madame Charneau, “the two of you. Well done.”

  “The marquis will be proud of us all,” Madame Charneau said.

  “How did you manage to distract him?” Émile asked Julia.

  She shared a quick conspiratorial smile with Madame Charneau before answering, “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

  And with that, she darted forward and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek before whirling away and scuttling back up the stairs. Émile watched her in astonishment.

  “That’s the second time she’s done that.”

  “It’s the third time you have to worry about,” said Madame Charneau with a twinkle in her eye. Then she turned serious. “Where will you keep the painting now?”

  “A very good question. I’ve actually given it a lot of thought.”

  “And?”

  “And what better place to hide an elephant,” Émile began, “than in a herd of other elephants?”

  He was halfway down Saint-Germain by the time he realized his pocket watch was missing.

  * * *

  Holding the wrapped panel beneath his arm, Émile knocked on the street-level door to Diego’s studio.

  “Señor Diego?” he called out. There was no response. “Señor Diego?”

  As he had hoped, the artist had not yet returned. Letting himself in with the hidden key Diego always kept in an old rusted gas lamp attached to the wall—the same one Émile had replaced when he, Julia, and Madame Charneau left in such a hurry hours earlier—he let himself in and descended the steps to the basement.

  Stepping over the mess on the floor, he went immediately to the small room the artist used as a storage closet. It was a jumble of easels, boxes, canvases, panels, and supplies. The only furniture was a child’s wooden school desk jammed into a corner. Copies of La Joconde leaned haphazardly against the walls. Some were incomplete, but one or two looked finished. Some of Diego’s copies were smaller than the original, and some were slightly larger. Émile reasoned that they must have been the legitimate reproductions he had been creating for the tourist trade. Diego must have included his correctly proportioned master copy with the frames he had sent to Valfierno. Therefore, Émile thought as he placed the original among them, it would be easy to pick out when the time came because of its unique size and obvious superior quality.

  Pleased with his deception, he left the room and walked back up to the street.

  Chapter 34

  Valfierno stood with Ellen Hart on the stern deck of the Prinz Joachim watching the dying sun stain the horizon red.

  Ellen had to raise her voice to be heard over the rush of wind and the rumble of the propellers beneath them.

  “I hear from the other passengers that we’ll dock at Le Havre by midnight, perhaps two o’clock at the latest.”

  She leaned on the railing next to Valfierno, one hand holding her hat in spite of the wide ribbon tied around her chin.

  “And in Paris by morning,” Valfierno said.

  The voyage from New York had been mostly unpleasant. A nor’easter brought driving rains and strong winds down from Nova Scotia to lash the ship for much of the journey. Only when they neared the European coast did the storm abate. Valfierno and Ellen spent practically all their time belowdecks in their separate cabins. Their main contact was at the supper table, which they shared with other first-class passengers as well as—on occasion—the captain, so there had been little opportunity for personal conversation.

  Ellen suspected that this suited Valfierno fine. He had clearly avoided her, and this made her wonder about his motivation for agreeing to bring her along in the first place. Had she left him with no choice, or had he made his own choice? At any rate, his choice now was to keep their arrangement on a strictly business level, the level that he seemed most comfortable with.

  On the day before their arrival at Le Havre, the weather cleared and, following an early supper, she had asked him to join her up on deck for some air.

  They both watched as a sliver of orange flame limned the horizon like a mirage before extinguishing itself in the sea.

  After a moment, Valfierno turned to her and asked, “What will you do?”

  “I have no idea. My family used to have friends in Paris, but that was a long time ago when I was a little girl. I wouldn’t even know how to find them now.”

  “My friend Madame Charneau runs a rooming house near the Latin Quarter,” Valfierno said. “I’m sure you would be able to stay there until you’re settled.”

  She nodded. Clearly it wasn’t the most pressing issue on her mind.

  “Edward,” she began hesitantly, “I’m sorry that we haven’t had much opportunity to talk.”

  He nodded but made no response.

  She added, “May I ask you something?”

  Valfierno stared out at the darkening sea for a moment before answering, “Of course.”

  “Why do you do it? Is it just for the money?”

  “Why else?” he said, shrugging the question off.

  “I don’t know,” she said, answering his rhetorical question. “For the excitement perhaps, the thrill of the con.” She embellished the last word with dramatic flair.

  “I think you’ve been reading too many novels,” he said lightly.

  “There must be something else. Take the present situation. There’s no profit in helping me.”

  “You forced my hand.”

  “I have a feeling that no one can force you to do anything.”

  “Besides,” he said playfully, “how do you know I won’t hold you for ransom?”

  “That’s not a bad idea,” she said with a demure smile. “You could cut off a finger and send it to my husband. Here, I hardly ever use this one.”

  She held up her small finger. Like everything else about her, Valfierno thought, it was as slender and perfect as that of a porcelain doll.

  “Too gruesome,” he said dismissively. “Besides, you’re the one blackmailing me, remember?”

  Ellen dropped her bantering tone and turned serious. “Who would have believed me even if I had gone to the police? And even if they had, my husband would have made sure that everything was hushed up.”

  “It’s true,” he said, considering. “He is a powerful man.”

  “Then why did you help me?”

  “Let’s just say,” he answered, making brief eye contact with her, “that the thought of another long ocean voyage without the company of a beautiful woman was unbearable.”

  She took a hard look at his profile as he continued to stare out at what remained of the horizon. It wouldn’t be easy getting the truth out of this man.

  They stood for a moment, both looking out over the wake as it widened and dissipated into the dimpled copper surface of the sea. Finally, he pushed away fr
om the railing.

  “We should turn in and get some rest while we can,” he said. “Tomorrow will be very busy. I’ll bid you good night.” He tipped his hat and turned to go.

  “Edward.”

  He stopped to face her. They looked at each other in silence for a moment. Then she stepped forward, placed her hands gently on his arms, slowly lifted her face, and pressed her lips to his. He didn’t resist. As the kiss lingered, her fingers tightened around his arms. Did she detect the faintest response, or was he just acting the gentleman? She let go and stepped back.

  “Thank you for helping me,” she said quietly.

  He took a breath as if to say something but stopped himself. Instead, he bowed his head slightly and said, “De nada.”

  She watched him turn and walk away along the deck. After he disappeared down a set of steps, she looked out over the sea. All that remained of the day was a faint wash of ochre lingering on the horizon. As the last traces of light faded and the first stars reclaimed their place in the night sky, she understood she had sailed past the point of no return.

  Chapter 35

  The yellow-and-burnt-orange buildings lining the Ponte Vecchio stirred to life with a clattering sonata of opening wooden shutters. Walking across the bridge in the direction of the most imposing structure in Florence, the Cathedral of Santa Maria del Fiore—the Duomo—Vincenzo Peruggia stopped to look through a gap in the tightly knit shops. Below him, the Arno flowed gently away from a ring of distant green hills, their crown of cypress trees piercing a cloudless pale blue sky still shrugging off the darkness of the retreating night. He was finally home, and the lingering mist burning off the river could have been the heavy fog lifting from his heart. Catching the first sweet scent of fresh-baked cornetti on the warm breeze, he adjusted the wrapped panel beneath his arm and resumed crossing.

  With two hours remaining before his appointment at the Uffizi Gallery, Peruggia strolled along the Via por Santa Maria to the Piazza del Duomo. He circled the great domed cathedral again and again, trying to dissipate the intense energy and anticipation that possessed him. The piazza steadily came to life. Beggars staked their claims, assuming their penitent positions near the entrance to the cathedral; market vendors arranged their wares on makeshift tables; artists set up stools and easels to display their caricatures; tourists trickled into the piazza accompanied by the steady click of their heels on the cobblestones.

  At ten o’clock, Peruggia appeared at the doors of the Uffizi. He was sure that it would not be long now before his name was acclaimed across his beloved homeland. He would be the man, the hero, who had returned Italy’s greatest treasure to its rightful place. He would be famous, not that fame was what mattered, of course. It was justice that he craved, justice for the people of Italy, justice for the nation that was always at the mercy of rapacious tyrants—despots who took what they coveted without mercy or compassion—and justice was what he was about to deliver.

  * * *

  Peruggia sat in an airless anteroom on a wooden bench, the wrapped panel leaning against his knee on the floor beside him. He checked his pocket watch again. It was almost three o’clock. He had been kept waiting for five hours now. Didn’t they appreciate the significance of his presence here? No matter. As soon as they realized their mistake, the apologies would flow over him like the River Arno.

  The door to an inner office finally opened and out stepped a heavyset, smartly dressed woman, her hair in a tight bun.

  “He will see you now,” she said, her expression as blank as the walls of the anteroom.

  Entering the office, the first thing Peruggia saw was a man—presumably the museum director—writing something at a polished mahogany desk. He was so engrossed in his task that he didn’t even look up. How foolish he would soon feel, thought Peruggia, when he realized the significance of the object he possessed.

  Only when the heavyset woman closed the door did the man at the desk take notice and raise his head. He was in his sixties, his unnaturally black hair cut in a short style, reminiscent of an ancient Roman emperor. His expression held no welcome, only a vague, surprised curiosity.

  “Ah,” he began, “Signore…”

  “Peruggia.”

  “Yes, yes, of course. Signore Peruggia. I am Signore Bozzetti. Prego. Won’t you sit down?”

  Extending a small, pudgy hand, he indicated a wooden chair on the opposite side of the desk. Peruggia felt a sudden stab of apprehension, as if an inner voice were telling him to leave immediately, to run as far away as possible. But he swallowed his trepidations and sat down, clutching the panel to his chest.

  “You had a pleasant journey, I trust.”

  Signore Bozzetti was not exactly fat, but his soft, round body reminded Peruggia of bread dough. The skin around his neck hung as loose as an ill-fitting suit, though clearly no expense had been spared in custom-fitting his actual suit to his ample body. It was well tailored and shone vibrantly, which made Peruggia all too conscious of his own shabby suit.

  “I must admit,” Signore Bozzetti continued, “when you telephoned, I was a bit skeptical. You understand that many people claim to have things in their possession that, in fact, exist only in some fantastic recess of their minds.”

  Was he being insulted? Peruggia wasn’t sure, so he remained silent.

  “I’m curious,” Bozzetti persisted, indicating the panel. “What have I done to deserve such an honor?”

  “I understand,” began Peruggia slowly, “that you have a certain reputation for discretion.”

  “That is very true,” Bozzetti said, nodding his head with pride, quickly adding, “depending on the situation, of course. You mentioned that your primary motivation was to return the painting to its rightful home.”

  “My only motivation,” Peruggia corrected him.

  “Other than the fifty thousand lire you mentioned.”

  “That is only for my trouble,” Peruggia said. Didn’t this man understand the nature of fairness, that justice does not come without a price?

  “Then you must have gone to much trouble. Assuming, of course, that the painting is genuine.”

  This is where Peruggia had him. With a satisfied smile, he began to unwrap the panel, taking his time, as if he were removing the petals of a rose.

  As the cloth fell away, Peruggia turned the face of the painting slowly toward the museum director, a smug smile on his face.

  Bozzetti made a steeple of his forefingers beneath his chin as he appraised it, his eyes narrowing to slits. After a moment, he nodded with cautious approval and looked at Peruggia, his mouth twisting into a condescending smile.

  “May I?” he said, opening his hands.

  Peruggia hesitated for a moment before holding the panel out from his body. Rising from his chair, Bozzetti leaned over his desk and took it from him. He stepped to the window, turned the panel over and examined the back, his eyes squinting as they explored each quadrant. After a few moments, he turned the panel over. His examination of the painting itself seemed cursory compared to the attention he had paid to the back.

  “Very interesting,” Bozzetti said, conceding as little as possible in his voice. “Tell me, how did you manage to cross the border with this?”

  “I chose a train that I knew would be crowded,” Peruggia said. “I thought it was a risk worth taking. As I had hoped, the border guard simply walked through the car and only checked a few passports.”

  “I see.” Bozzetti turned his attention back to the panel. “Do you mind if I ask some colleagues to help me authenticate it?”

  Peruggia sprang to his feet.

  “We agreed there would be no one else involved.”

  “It will take only a minute,” Bozzetti said as he walked around the desk to the door.

  Peruggia felt trapped and the room suddenly grew very hot.

  Bozzetti pulled the door open. Two men, both wearing dark suits that appeared a size too small, stepped in without a word. Their hard expressions revealed nothing.

&
nbsp; “Signore Peruggia, may I introduce Signore Pavela and Signore Lucci of the carabinieri.”

  The Italian police! Peruggia’s stomach lurched.

  Pavela stepped forward and laid a confident grip on Peruggia’s arm.

  “Signore Peruggia,” he said in a flat, officious voice, “I am placing you under arrest for the theft of La Gioconda.”

  Chapter 36

  Stuck in his new tiny office in the basement of the Prefecture of Police on the Île de la Cité, Inspector Alphonse Carnot scowled at the file sitting before him on his desk. It detailed the case of one Claude Maria Ziegert, a German national who had lived in Paris for a number of years. Herr Ziegert had recently brought himself to the attention of the police by murdering his landlady, Madame Villon, forty-seven years old at the time of her death. Ziegert was thirty or thirty-one—the record was unclear—and the two were probably having an affair. Perhaps, Carnot considered, he earned a discount on his rent for servicing the woman; or perhaps they had been in love and there had been a lovers’ quarrel. Judging by the photograph of Madame Villon’s ample body—her throat not very neatly cut—it was probably the former.

  The case was now more than three months old and no one had the slightest idea of the whereabouts of Herr Ziegert. The entire affair was as cold as the dead fish sold in the markets of Les Halles and, as far as Carnot was concerned, reeked as badly.

  That was why the commissioner had given it to him, of course. Carnot had made the fatal mistake of not only wasting the commissioner’s time but also disappointing him, and now he was paying the price.

  Disgusted, he closed the file and tossed it into a growing pile of thick folders. Seconds later the door opened and in walked the young gendarme who had been assigned to Carnot when he was in the commissioner’s good graces. Although the young man was present at the fingerprint fiasco, Carnot couldn’t remember his name.

  “Inspector,” the young man began brightly, “the Italian police have arrested a man in Florence for trying to sell La Joconde.”

  Carnot’s eyes turned to the next file. “And what would that make,” he asked dismissively, “the tenth or eleventh time someone has tried to pawn off some amateurish copy?”