Stealing Mona Lisa

by Carson Morton

  “Exactly how much money does a police inspector make?”

  In spite of himself, Carnot could feel his heart suddenly pumping faster.

  “Judging by this office,” Hart continued, “I don’t imagine it could be very much.”

  “It is none of your business, monsieur.”

  “But I would like to make it my business.”

  “Are you trying to bribe an officer of the law?”

  “That would depend…” said Hart, stubbing out his cigar in the tin ashtray “… on the officer.”

  Chapter 42

  As afternoon faded to evening on the day of Ellen’s expected visit, Valfierno’s growing impatience gradually changed to a strange mixture of anger and disappointment. Since she had arrived in Paris, he had not led her on in any way. On the contrary, he had done his best to avoid her so as not to give her the wrong idea. Every time he tried to sort out his feelings for her, he came to an impasse. And so he had convinced himself that only when this whole affair reached its conclusion—when La Joconde had been returned to the Louvre, when he had learned of Peruggia’s fate, when sufficient time had passed—would he be able to resolve his emotional quandary.

  He should have been relieved that she hadn’t come to her requested meeting, but the initial disappointment he felt was so deep that he became angry at himself for allowing such feelings to run rampant.

  When Émile returned that evening and casually inquired about Ellen’s visit, Valfierno curtly informed him that she had never shown up.

  It only made matters worse when Valfierno, who prided himself on his ability to sleep soundly through even the worst crisis, could find little rest during the night. The constant lashing of the rain on the windows didn’t help matters, and he did not fall asleep until a dull gray morning light penetrated through the windows. He awoke in the late morning only to find that the few hours’ rest had done little to remove the turmoil of the previous day.

  At noon, without a word of explanation to Émile, Valfierno walked to the local garage, climbed into his motorcar, and drove west along the river. He paid scant attention to the gawkers on the Pont-Neuf gathering to witness the growing spectacle of the steadily rising water; the river typically rose at this time of year, and this had been an especially wet winter. Crossing over to the Left Bank, he continued down rue Dauphine.

  Within a few moments, he drove into the cour de Rohan. Stopping the car next to a low wall, he hurried through the rain to Madame Charneau’s front door, using the cat’s-head brass knocker to announce his presence. The door opened almost immediately.

  “Marquis!” exclaimed Madame Charneau, astonished. “Come in. Come in. You’ll catch your death.”

  “I’ve come to see Mrs. Hart,” Valfierno said, stepping into the foyer.

  “Mrs. Hart?” Madame Charneau said with surprise. “But didn’t you know?”

  “Know what?”

  “Well, I thought she visited you just yesterday to say good-bye.”

  “Good-bye? Where is she?”

  “She’s gone. Only a few hours ago. She packed her bags and took a motor taxi to the Gare d’Orsay.”

  “Where is she going?”

  “Vienna, I believe she said. It was all so sudden.”

  “She didn’t tell you why?”

  “No. She spoke with Mademoiselle Julia for a while but—”

  “Is Julia here?”

  “Yes, she wanted to go with Madame Hart to the station but—”

  “Where is she?”

  “Up in her room.”

  Valfierno brushed past Madame Charneau and all but ran up the steps to the first floor.

  “Julia,” he called out at her door. “Julia. Please open the door.”

  “Go away!” came Julia’s voice from inside.

  “What did Mrs. Hart say to you?”

  “I said go away!”

  “Please, Julia.”

  “How could you? Now, go away.”

  Frustrated, Valfierno banged his fist on the door before hurrying back downstairs to Madame Charneau.

  “She said nothing to me,” she began, “only thanked me for—”

  “What train is she taking?”

  “I don’t know. As I said, it happened so quickly. She just announced that she was leaving…”

  But Valfierno had already left and was hurrying out to his motorcar.

  “Marquis!” Madame Charneau called out as Valfierno drove off. “I thought you knew!”

  * * *

  Valfierno realized his mistake too late. He drove along rue Mazarine toward the river only to find it blocked off. A gendarme told him there had been some minor flooding up ahead. He turned around and drove to rue de Lille, his progress slowed by the mass of traffic diverted from the routes along the river. Finally, he pulled to the front of Gare d’Orsay and hurried to the main entrance.

  The dim light barely penetrating through the vast skylight gave the expansive station an eerily claustrophobic feel. Valfierno strode to the arrival and departure board. Craning his neck, he scanned the board until he found it. Departure. Vienna. 1:30. He turned to look at the clock above the main entrance. It read 1:16.

  He hurried to the railing overlooking the dual train platforms on the lower level. There was only one train, white vapor venting from its locomotive as it built up a head of steam. He pushed through the crowd to the staircase and scurried down.

  On the platform, he forced his way through the throng of passengers and well-wishers saying their good-byes, and porters loading baggage into the cars. He reached the end of the platform where only a small handful of people were gathered. There was no sign of Ellen.

  “Edward.”

  He spun around at the sound of the voice.

  Ellen Hart stood amid the jostling crowds. She wore a white dress with a brown traveling jacket; her wide-brim hat was pushed back slightly, revealing a guarded look on her face.

  Valfierno stepped up to her. They stood for a moment, face-to-face, the swirl of people around them merging into indistinct blurs.

  “Ellen, what are you doing?”

  “I’m leaving, Edward. I’m sorry I didn’t say good-bye, but…”

  She let the word hang in the air.

  “But why are you leaving?”

  “I have a cousin in Vienna. His name is Jonathan. He’s a third or fourth cousin really. We spent a lot of time together when my father was alive.”

  “But why leave so suddenly?”

  “I don’t belong here, Edward. Sometimes I’m not sure I belong anywhere.”

  Valfierno hesitated.

  Ellen continued. “My cousin and I have exchanged letters in the past few weeks. I have reason to believe that he will welcome me, that he can help me. And perhaps more.”

  All around them, passengers clambered into the carriages, loved ones saying their final good-byes.

  “I should get on the train.”

  Valfierno stepped closer.

  “Ellen, your husband may be looking for you. He’s bound to follow every lead. You’ll be safer if you stay in Paris.”

  “I’ll never be safe from my husband, but the farther away I go the better.”

  “But I will assure your safety.”

  “You’ve already done more than necessary. I’m not sure I’ve shown you enough gratitude for all you’ve done.”

  “Then show it now by listening to me, by staying.”

  “All aboard!” the stentorian voice of the conductor blared out across the platform.

  “I must go.” She turned toward the carriage.

  Valfierno placed a hand on her arm. “You’re making a mistake.”

  “Am I? And why is that? You’ve told me you don’t think I should go, but you don’t tell me why. Oh, I know, for my safety. But that’s not enough.”

  She looked him squarely in the eyes, challenging him to say something.

  “Because,” he said finally, “because I want you to stay.”

  She waited for him to say more. T
wo thin, sharp blasts of the conductor’s whistle cut through the babble of voices around them. A man jostled Valfierno from behind as if encouraging him to speak, but he said nothing.

  “Edward,” Ellen finally said, “you once told me that you take from people only that which they are more than willing to part with. I wonder. Do you also tell them only that which they wish to hear?”

  A muffled growl of thunder rattled the canopy of skylights above, a counterpoint to the strident blare of the train horn.

  “Good-bye, Edward.”

  She let a conductor help her up the steps into the carriage. Without looking back, she disappeared into the corridor. Valfierno moved to the side, trying to see her through the compartment windows, but there were only strangers.

  With a screech of metal and a hiss of steam, the train lurched into life and started to roll away down the platform. Valfierno could only watch as it receded.

  * * *

  Spectators on the Pont de l’Alma looked down in astonishment at the stone statue of the Zouave standing guard over the bridge.

  The soldier, carved in stone and adorning a support pillar, had acted for fifty-six years as an indicator of the river level. Standing proudly and defiantly—his left hand on his hip, his right across his chest—his feet normally stood just above the water level. At times of seasonal high water, the surface of the river rose above his toes; at times of unusually high water, it reached his ankles. The river had now risen above the hand that rested on his hip. How much higher, many in the crowd speculated, could it possibly go?

  * * *

  Ellen stared at her reflection in the window as the train rattled through the tunnel picking up speed. Highlighted against the black tunnel wall, her face appeared old and worn. Or perhaps it was just her mood. Her feelings now were a stark contrast to the exhilaration she felt less than a month ago when she first rode the train into Paris.

  The sudden lurching of the carriage pulled her from her reverie. She looked around; the other passengers were turning their heads and murmuring concerns. The train was slowing down. And then it stopped, rocking her slightly forward. A conductor hurried past her toward the front of the train. A passenger asked why they had stopped but the man in uniform only said, “I’m sure we’ll only be delayed a moment, monsieur.”

  Ellen listened to the faint hiss of steam escaping. She was not happy to be leaving Paris, especially under these circumstances, but the physical movement of the train on its way somewhere, anywhere, had given some momentum to her life. But now, as she sat there motionless, she could feel all her doubts and fears closing in on her like the dark walls of the tunnel. She felt the overwhelming urge to get off the train at any cost. The thread of growing panic was suddenly cut by the appearance of the conductor at the front of the car.

  “Messieurs et mesdames,” he began breathlessly, “I am afraid there is a small problem.” A low murmur ran through the passengers. The conductor signaled for quiet. “There has been some minor flooding reported farther along the line. I am afraid that we will have to return to the terminus.” A barrage of questions assaulted the conductor as he made his way through the carriage to the next, but he simply waved them off, repeating, “Je suis désolé, monsieur, je suis désolé…”

  The train lurched and started rolling backward. As the rest of the passengers mumbled their complaints, Ellen turned back to the window. Slowly, a faint smile of relief spread across the reflection of her face.

  * * *

  As soon as the train returned to the terminus, the passengers were told that all service had been suspended due to flooding on the track. Reaching the top of the staircase, Ellen noticed people lining the railing and pointing downward. She saw a strange mirrorlike sheen beneath the train where the tracks should have been.

  “The river,” someone said, and she realized that the tracks were now completely submerged under a layer of water that already covered the bottom rims of the wheels.

  “Madame,” said the porter who had brought up her luggage, “I will try to find you a motor taxi.”

  With a last look at the reflection of the terminus lights on the water’s oily surface, she turned away and followed him to the entrance.

  * * *

  “I’ve never seen such weather,” Madame Charneau said as she moved Ellen’s bags against the wall of the foyer. “Flooding in the train station. What will happen next?”

  It had taken Ellen’s taxi more than an hour to reach Madame Charneau’s house. The streets were jammed with carts and motorized vehicles diverted from the river.

  “Did the marquis ever find you, dear?”

  “He did,” Ellen said. “He came to say good-bye.”

  “What a fuss he made.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know what got into him. He burst in here all excited, he didn’t seem to know that you were leaving at all. Yet I thought he had seen you only yesterday. Surely you must have told him.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Oh, don’t worry about all that now, my dear. Let’s get you dry first, and you can stay here as long as you like. The rain will stop soon and all will be well again.”

  “Ellen!”

  They both turned to see Julia standing at the first-floor landing.

  “What happened?” she called out as she bustled down the steps.

  “The train station was flooded,” said Madame Charneau. “Don’t bother her with questions now. Help her out of her wet things. I’ll make some tea.”

  As Madame Charneau disappeared into the kitchen, Julia took Ellen’s wet coat. “He was here looking for you.”

  “I know,” Ellen said. “He found me at the station right before the train was to leave.”

  “What did he say to you?”

  “I don’t know,” Ellen began, her voice betraying her weariness. “He said he didn’t want me to leave.”

  “Did he give you a reason?”

  “He just said it wouldn’t be safe for me to leave Paris.”

  “That’s all he could say?”

  “I implied that my distant cousin in Vienna was a young man and that he was interested in me.”

  “Your cousin?” exclaimed Julia. “You told me that she was fifty or something. Oh, you didn’t.”

  “I’m afraid I did,” Ellen said with a sheepish smile.

  Julia put her hand to her mouth to suppress an involuntary chortle.

  Ellen nodded her head as she too began to find this funny. Suddenly they were both trying in vain to suppress their reflexive laughter.

  “It’s really not funny,” Julia said in an unsuccessful effort to control herself.

  “No, it isn’t,” Ellen said, failing to keep a straight face.

  It took a moment for their laughter to subside.

  “Anyway,” Julia finally said, wiping away a mirthful tear, “after what that horrible woman Chloe told you about him, he deserved it.”

  The last remnants of Ellen’s laughter suddenly transformed into real tears, prompting Julia to put her arms around her. “Don’t worry. We’ll get you into some dry clothes so you can rest. I’ll bring up the tea to you.”

  Before Julia could lead Ellen up the stairs, there was an insistent knocking on the door. The two women drew apart and exchanged puzzled looks.

  “Maybe,” Julia began, “he heard about the trains being canceled.”

  Another series of knocks. Ellen hesitated. Julia gave her an encouraging nod and she lifted the latch and pulled the door open.

  Standing against the wall of driving rain was a short, heavyset man with a round face.

  Inspector Carnot removed his hat, his mouth twisting into a condescending smile. “Madame Hart, I presume.”

  Chapter 43

  Ellen stopped breathing for a moment. Should she deny it, simply say he had the wrong person? But the man, whoever he was, clearly knew that he didn’t. And then, the fear that gripped her was suddenly swept away by the realization that, in the depths of her soul, she
was no longer Mrs. Hart, and she could simply tell him the truth.

  “My name is Beach,” she finally said, drawing herself up straight. “Ellen Edwina Beach.”

  “I am Inspector Carnot of the Sûreté, and, by whatever name you prefer, I have to ask you to accompany me to the prefecture.”

  “For what reason? I’ve done nothing.”

  “Of course not. We’d like to ask a few questions. Merely a formality, I assure you.”

  “Questions regarding what?”

  “It will all be explained at the prefecture, madame.”

  “You’ve got no right to take her anywhere,” Julia said, stepping up behind Ellen.

  “Ah, the other American.” The inspector gave Julia an appraising look. “Mademoiselle Conway, I believe.”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “A stroke of good fortune. For you see, we would also like to ask you a few questions.”

  “Do you have a warrant?” Julia demanded.

  “And why would I need a warrant, mademoiselle?” Carnot answered, trying to keep his rising impatience in check. “You are not wanted in connection with any crime at the moment. Besides, you are in France now. We do not bother with such things as warrants. Of course, if you prefer that I return with some gendarmes…”

  “It’s all right,” Ellen said to Julia. “I can go with him. I have nothing to hide.”

  “Very wise, madam,” Carnot said. “I have a car, so you shouldn’t get too wet.”

  “I’ll go with her,” said Julia defiantly, before adding in English, “but only to make sure everything is on the up and up.”

  Smiling amiably, Inspector Carnot moved aside. As Ellen and Julia stepped out the door, Madame Charneau appeared behind them.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” she asked. “Where are you taking them?”

  “It’s all right,” said Ellen. “We are just going with the inspector to answer some questions.”

  “What kind of questions?”

  “And you are?” inquired Carnot in a challenging tone.

  “I am Madame Charneau and this is my house.” She drew herself up proudly.