Stealing Mona Lisa

by Carson Morton

  Valfierno reluctantly sat back down.

  “Don’t worry. I won’t spoil your little rendezvous. I’ll say my piece and then just disappear. Like a little bird.” She made a fluttery hand gesture before homing in on him with partially lidded eyes. “You know, Eduardo, I always regretted that we never … got to know each other better.”

  “I’m not sure your husband would have approved of that.”

  “Indeed. Of course, now that he is out of the picture, that particular concern is no longer relevant.”

  “You flatter me, madame,” Valfierno said, “you really do, but time has a stubborn habit of constantly moving forward. One has as much chance of rewinding a clock as of reversing the course of a river.”

  “Oh, Eduardo,” she said with a disappointed sigh, “you really should have been a poet instead of wasting your life as a cheap charlatan.”

  “Madame,” he said with mock indignation, “a charlatan perhaps, but never cheap.”

  “Tell me,” she continued, indicating herself with a flourish of her hands. “Honestly, how can you possibly turn this down?”

  She must be forty at least, Valfierno thought, but she was still one of the most alluring women he had ever laid eyes on.

  “It’s not easy, I admit,” he said as he rose from his chair, “but one must be strong. Well, it has been good to see you again, Chloe.”

  She stood up, a sly look on her face.

  “This guest you’re expecting is of course a woman.”

  “A good friend of mine.”

  She teasingly placed her hands on his chest. “I was right, wasn’t I?” She suddenly turned playfully petulant. “You can tell me. Exactly how good a friend is she?” Her tone was thick with theatrical jealousy.

  He gently took her hands in his and lifted them. “Chloe. You’ve never changed and you never will. The world needs women like you, if for no other reason than to remind men what passion really is, not to mention to show them how beautiful and dangerous someone of your sex can be.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “You should.” He gave her hands back to her. “I only hope that your next husband appreciates the exquisite rose he will be holding.”

  “Tell me,” she said, pulling on her gloves, “is she more beautiful than me? Younger perhaps?”

  “Madame,” Valfierno replied as he led her from the sitting room, “as for the former, it is not possible to find a woman more beautiful than you in all of Paris; and as for the latter, well, as you are ageless, the point is moot.”

  “You’re very smooth, Valfierno,” Chloe allowed, “but I doubt that this woman, whoever she is, is a match for you. If you were smart, you’d realize that if you fell in love with me there would be nothing in the world you couldn’t accomplish. Not only would you taste pleasures beyond your wildest imaginings, but between the two of us we could have all of Paris in the palm of our hands in no time at all.”

  “Chloe,” Valfierno said, not unkindly, “the trouble with people like us is that we have forgotten, if we ever knew, how to fall in love. We hold on too tightly to our little worlds, the worlds we have created and know so well. To let go is too painful.”

  “Oh, I see,” said Chloe in a mocking lilt. “We are talking about love now. I didn’t realize this was so serious. How generous of you to allow this poor unsuspecting creature into your sordid little world.”

  “It’s been delightful,” Valfierno said, ending the conversation as he swung the door open and gently guided her out onto the narrow strip of pavement.

  “It’s a rare man indeed who would so eagerly show me out to the street.”

  Valfierno acknowledged this with a knowing smile and a slight tilt of his head.

  “Well,” she said, resigned, “the least you can do is give me a good-bye kiss.”

  He took both of her hands and raised them to his lips.

  “Good-bye, Chloe,” he said, releasing her. “I hope you’ll find whatever you’re looking for.”

  She gave a slight shrug, masking her face with a cherubic smile.

  “And I am truly sorry that you never will.”

  She raised herself up on her toes, cupped his chin in her gloved hands, and gave him a lingering, passionate kiss. Then, with a flirtatious backward glance, she sashayed off toward rue de Bretagne.

  After Valfierno closed the door behind her, he removed his pocket watch to check the time.

  * * *

  Ellen stared up at the enameled blue plaque on the side of the brick wall: rue de Picardie. Barely more than an alleyway, the cobblestone street was hardly wide enough to accommodate a single cart or motorcar. The buildings on either side, each painted a different pastel color, rose to different heights, which lent the street a pleasant haphazard quality.

  Checking her reflection in a shop window, she self-consciously straightened her coat. When she was satisfied, she turned in time to see two people emerge from the third house on the right.

  Her heart jumped.

  Valfierno stood with his back to her talking with a woman at least a head shorter than he was, dressed in black.

  Valfierno took the woman’s hands, lifted and kissed them. When he let go, the woman said something before raising herself onto her tiptoes, putting her hands on his face, and giving him a lingering kiss. She couldn’t make out Valfierno’s reaction. She only saw him gently touch her arm.

  The woman stepped past Valfierno and, giving him a backward glance, started to walk toward Ellen. As Valfierno went back inside and closed the door, Ellen quickly spun back to look into the shop window, her heart pounding.

  As the woman approached, Ellen could not resist glancing to the side, briefly catching her eye. She turned back to the window and saw the woman’s reflection as she walked behind her, catching her eye again in the mirrorlike glass. The woman walked forward for a few steps but, instead of turning into rue de Bretagne, she stopped. After a moment’s hesitation, she turned back to face Ellen.

  “Excuse me, madame,” the woman said, stepping forward.

  Ellen turned to her.

  “Forgive me,” the woman continued, “but have you come to see Monsieur Valfierno?”

  Ellen felt suddenly short of breath. She stared at the woman for what seemed like an eternity. It was difficult to tell her age. She was not tall but quite shapely with slender arms and legs. She was dressed entirely in black and her dark hair was bunched beneath a short velvet toque.

  “Yes,” Ellen finally said, as if in a daze. “Yes, I am.”

  “I knew it,” Chloe said. “I have a special sense for these things. Oh, I’m sorry. I’m being terribly rude. I am Madame Laroche. Chloe Laroche.”

  Chloe extended a gloved hand. Ellen looked at it for a moment before taking it.

  “I’m … pleased to meet you,” Ellen said.

  The woman narrowed her eyes, a slight knowing smile playing on her face.

  “You are an American.”

  “Yes,” Ellen said. “I’m afraid my French is not as good as it should be.”

  “Mais non. It is excellent. You must be Eduardo’s new friend. He mentioned you.”

  There was something about this woman’s manner that made Ellen uncomfortable. She seemed to be probing for something, as if she had some superior knowledge that she was trying to verify.

  “Yes,” Ellen answered. “I am Mrs. Hart, Mrs. Ellen Hart.”

  “Mrs. Hart,” Chloe repeated with evident surprise. “Enchanté. Do you know Eduardo well?”

  “Not very well, really. You … are his friend?”

  “Oh, yes. I should say so,” answered Chloe. “We have been … friends for quite some time. Since before he left for Buenos Aires. It was unfortunate that he had to leave Paris so suddenly. Between you and me, I do believe there is more to his exporting business sometimes than he cares to reveal.”

  Ellen felt the sudden urge to get away from this woman.

  “Well, it has been a pleasure to meet you.” Ellen nodded politely
and moved to step away.

  “Madame Hart.” Chloe put her hand on Ellen’s arm to stop her. “I believe I know why you are here.”

  “You do?”

  “Of course. It’s very clear. You are in love with him.”

  Ellen took a sharp breath. “I don’t think that is any of your—”

  “But my dear, he confides in me totally. As one always does with une amante. Comprenez? What’s the word I’m looking for? A very special friend, a paramour, you understand?”

  Ellen felt suddenly faint.

  “He did not tell you?” Chloe asked with mock surprise tinged with sympathy. “Well, that’s a man for you. Never wants to hurt a woman, especially a pretty one. And you are quite pretty. You look pale. Are you all right?”

  Ellen could think of nothing to say. And the pitiful, sympathetic look the woman was giving her made her want to strike that beautiful face with the back of her hand.

  “Excuse me,” Ellen finally said, stepping around her.

  “There I go again,” said Chloe, calling after her. “I just say what I think, whatever pops into my silly head. I’m sure that Eduardo will straighten everything out.”

  Chloe Laroche let the satisfied smile settle into her face as she spun around and started off down rue de Bretagne, turning the heads of various men as she passed.

  Struggling to hold back tears, Ellen approached Valfierno’s door, finally stopping on the cobblestones as she raised her hand to muffle the sobs. She stood for only an instant before turning and walking away quickly to the end of rue de Picardie.

  Hurrying off down rue de Bretagne back toward the river, tears snaking down her cheeks, she welcomed the rain as it began to fall again, harder than ever.

  * * *

  Even the pelting rain did little to wash the black coal dust from the miners’ faces as they trudged through the muddy streets of Lorroy on their way to their midday meal. The livelihoods of everyone in the small community situated fifty miles south of Paris depended on one thing: coal. Most men toiled long hours in mine shafts cut into the hills; others loaded the coal onto barges on the canal to be floated down to the Seine for its journey to Paris and points farther north. But the heavy rains had made it impossible for the barges to return to pick up more loads. The swollen, rushing tributaries feeding into the Seine had stopped all river traffic, the canal docks had overflowed, and the mine carts stood idle, clogged with coal that could not be unloaded. But still the dangerous work of scraping the black gold from the hills of Lorroy continued.

  The men were used to hardship, but the relentless rain made their harsh existence almost unbearable. At this time of year, it was dark when they left their homes in the morning and dark when they emerged from the tunnels at the end of the workday. The walk home at one o’clock for their midday meal was their only opportunity to see the sun. But there was no sun this day, as indeed there had been no sun for weeks. Thick, sodden clouds hung over their heads, obscuring the tops of the hills lining the canal. At best, what little light they allowed through made for a constant murky dusk.

  Still, as they approached their modest brick homes lined up at the foot of a hill, they could see the lamps burning within and their spirits lifted at the thought of the wine, bread, and cheeses being laid out by their wives and children.

  They trudged forward, their heads lowered against the rain. Then, as one, the men stopped in their tracks and exchanged quick, confused looks.

  “What is that?” one man asked.

  “I don’t know,” another replied.

  They all felt the same thing. The ground beneath their feet was vibrating, rippling the puddles of water all around them.

  They stood mesmerized for a moment before one called out, “The hill!”

  The men looked up. The hill was moving.

  “Avalanche!” one of them screamed in panic.

  Trees crisscrossed at crazy angles as the hillside sloughed off and the liquefied mire slid down toward the houses, their houses. In an instant, the wall of mud and timber engulfed the structures, collapsing the roofs, breaking the windows, blowing doors off their hinges, dousing the welcoming lamps.

  Lifting their boots from the viscous, clinging mud, the men lurched forward as they called out the names of their wives and children.

  Chapter 41

  Inspector Carnot had little trouble convincing the Italian authorities to release Peruggia into his custody. His crime, in their eyes, had been relatively minor. He had merely tried to sell a forgery of a recently stolen painting. The copy itself was so accomplished that the price he had asked was actually reasonable. As it turned out, the Uffizi kept the painting and planned to display it as an excellent example of a reproduction. Carnot wondered at first if they were lying to him about the painting being a forgery, but they had little incentive to deceive him, as they would never be able to display the painting as the original. At any rate, he had what he wanted: the man who would lead him to the genuine masterpiece, and more important, to the mastermind of the plot.

  The Italian authorities had not yet released information of the arrest to the newspapers, and Carnot convinced them to keep it that way. The less Peruggia’s cohorts knew about his situation, the better.

  Peruggia said little on the train ride back to Paris. That was fine with Carnot. The man had been cruelly betrayed. Carnot wanted him to have plenty of time to let that sink in. Carnot did not shackle the Italian. He counted on Peruggia’s own desire for revenge to keep him from trying to escape, and he needed to gain the man’s trust.

  Carnot had so far kept his discovery of Peruggia as much under wraps as possible. He had cabled his immediate superior at the Sûreté to inform him that he had traveled to Florence simply to question someone who might have information about the theft. He now had to orchestrate his plan very carefully indeed. He would have some explaining to do to the commissioner, but if he could crack this case, all would be forgiven.

  Upon their arrival in Paris, Carnot took Peruggia by motor taxi through the rain-soaked streets to the Île de la Cité and slipped him through a side entrance of the Prefecture of Police. He immediately sought out the young gendarme, Brousard, who had originally brought the intelligence regarding Peruggia, and assigned him the role of the prisoner’s keeper.

  “Place him in a comfortable cell,” Carnot told him. “Make sure he has all he needs.”

  “What about the commissioner?” Brousard asked. “Shouldn’t he be informed?”

  “Not just yet. If we do this right, in a few days’ time, we will have the whole gang. And that will be a huge feather in both of our caps.”

  “I understand, Inspector,” Brousard said, beaming. Then he quickly added, “There is something else. There are two American gentlemen waiting in your office. They’ve been here all day.”

  “American? Who are they?”

  “I don’t know, monsieur.”

  “Then why did you let them into my office?”

  “They insisted. One of them seems to think he is very important indeed.”

  “Very well.” Carnot wondered what these men wanted. No matter. He would get rid of them and then return to the business at hand.

  He dismissed Brousard and went downstairs to his basement office. Upon entering, he saw a tall, solidly built man with a shaved head standing by the window. An older, well-dressed man sat smoking a cigar in the chair behind Carnot’s desk.

  “Are you Carnot?” the man in the chair asked.

  “I am Inspector Carnot,” he answered, bristling, “and who might you be?”

  “I suppose I might be anybody, but in fact, I am Joshua Hart. Perhaps you have heard of Eastern Atlantic Rail and Coal.”

  Carnot said nothing. Who had not heard of Eastern Atlantic, one of the largest business empires in the world? And the name, Joshua Hart, yes, he had heard it before. The inspector closed the door behind him. Something about these men made him nervous.

  “Yes, I believe I have,” he said, trying to sound disinterested as he
removed his hat and coat and hung them on a rack.

  “This is my associate, Mr. Taggart.”

  Taggart nodded, a stony expression fixed on his face. Hart rose and stepped to the side of the desk, making a point of relinquishing the chair by gesturing toward it with his hand.

  Carnot seated himself. “And what can I do for you gentlemen?” he asked, hoping that he sounded authoritative. “I am a very busy man.”

  “I believe,” Hart began, “that it’s more a question of what we can do for you.”

  “I really don’t understand. And, as I mentioned, I am quite busy.”

  To emphasize the point, Carnot picked up some papers from his desk and began shuffling through them.

  “I have information regarding the theft of the Mona Lisa,” said Hart.

  Carnot stopped shuffling and looked from one man to the other. “La Joconde?”

  “Whatever you want to call it, yes.”

  Carnot looked back down to his papers, feigning indifference.

  “So why come to me?”

  “We made some inquiries and heard that perhaps you had a personal interest in the matter.”

  Carnot looked up at them sharply. “Is that so? Then, in that case, you gentlemen have wasted your time. My interest is purely professional and, besides, I have all the information I need. In fact, it is only a matter of time now before I apprehend the guilty parties.”

  “I’m impressed,” allowed Hart. “Then perhaps we should join forces.”

  “Monsieur,” Carnot said with as much indignation as he could muster, “I am a police inspector. I have no intention of joining forces with anyone.”

  Hart shared a glance with Taggart. Carnot thought he could see the faint gleam of a smile crack the façade of the larger man’s face.

  “I see,” Hart said, flicking cigar ashes into a small tin ashtray on the desk.

  Carnot stood up. This had gone on too long. “I’m afraid I have no more time for this,” he said. “I must ask you to leave.”

  “Let me ask you something, Inspector,” Hart said in a casual tone. “I’m curious.”

  The room was silent for a moment. Then Hart leaned across the desk and fixed Carnot with a hard look. His eyes were so penetrating that Carnot involuntarily drew back.