Stealing Mona Lisa

by Carson Morton

  And now, the speeches had been given by the various dignitaries, praise had been apportioned to both the police and the museum curators—including, of course, Monsieur Montand himself—for making this day possible. Montand could be confident that his position as director—which he had come perilously close to losing—was now assured, at least for the foreseeable future.

  After the recovery, the other curators had been in complete agreement: The quicker La Joconde took its rightful place on the wall of the Salon Carré, the better. No need to wait for the arrival of the self-proclaimed Italian experts who had offered their services to authenticate the painting; the French could handle it very nicely alone, thank you. Duval had insisted on being part of the process so Montand had been forced to allow him to examine the panel, albeit for as little time as possible.

  And now it was done. The world had demanded that the masterpiece be returned to the people of France, and it had been accomplished.

  Of course, there had been that one small detail Montand had to take care of to make sure everything would go smoothly. Though he was an expert in many things related to the thousands of artworks under his care, he found himself strangely unmoved by them. He was more interested in the technical aspects of art and spent no small amount of time studying the technique of well-known forgers. It was with this eye that he appraised La Joconde. The painting recovered from the flood—the same one that now hung on the wall in the shadow box—was exquisite. The man must be a master in his own right, and Montand himself would have been fooled. If it hadn’t been for one thing.

  No matter how magnificent their skill, the nature of their work relegated forgers to complete obscurity. To counteract this, many had affected a mark—a sort of signature—that only they would recognize. This man had been devilishly clever. While most forgers changed some minuscule aspect of the image—an extra strand of hair or blade of grass—he had made his mark on the rear of the panel. Not one man in a hundred would have noticed that the crosslike strip of wood, applied in the last century to repair damage caused by the removal of the original frame, should have been right of center, not left of center as this one was. He considered the possibility that this could have been an error on the forger’s part, but the painting itself was too perfect, too flawless; the incorrect positioning of the cross had to be the forger’s mark. It had made Montand smile. Such a simple change. Such a bold statement. Such perverse genius.

  And then he had remembered Duval.

  The man had always irritated him. Montand had never seen the value in the contributions of the photographers’ studio; it was expensive to operate, especially when one considered Duval’s salary. Indeed, he had unsuccessfully tried to close down that particular department on a number of occasions. For this reason, he always kept a close eye on everything Duval did, and he remembered something he had seen on a surprise visit shortly before the theft. He had demanded to see all the photographs taken of La Joconde during the department’s existence. There were many images and Montand had hoped to use this fact as evidence of unnecessary expenditure. Why did so many expensive photographs have to be taken, anyway? Weren’t there already enough? But his complaint to the Board of Trustees had fallen on deaf ears; they were too captivated by this relatively new science.

  But shortly after authenticating the painting, he had remembered one particular photograph he had seen, one unlike any of the others. It seemed especially worthless at the time. What possible use could there have been for a photograph of the back of the painting? How ironic that this one photograph could have ruined everything, including the reputation he had just worked so hard to restore. But there was no longer any reason to worry. He had taken care of it personally.

  * * *

  Monsieur Duval pulled open the large sliding drawers containing his photographic collection. He was a meticulous man and immediately located the series of photographs of La Joconde. They were numbered sequentially and he remembered that the image of the rear of the panel would be somewhere in the middle.

  Methodically, he shuffled through the prints. The one he had taken of the rear of the panel was missing. Indeed, the numbers abruptly jumped from 26 to 28. Someone had removed number 27. He went to a large cabinet where the original Autochrome glass negative plates were stored. Each sat in its own cardboard slot to keep from touching the plates on either side. As he had feared, plate number 27 was also missing.

  There was no doubt. Someone had removed both the negative glass plate and the only print he had of La Joconde’s rear panel. He had been unable to put his finger on what it was exactly that bothered him, and, without the photograph, he would have no proof that the painting being mounted at this very moment was not the original. Indeed, without the photograph, he would never even be sure himself.

  Part VI

  And thus the whirligig of time brings in his revenges.

  —Shakespeare, Twelfth Night

  Chapter 54

  NEWPORT, RHODE ISLAND—1925

  Three weeks after its publication in the London Daily Express, Hargreaves’s story was reprinted in the New York Times as a curiosity piece, all but buried in the arts reviews. Appearing as it did almost fifteen years after the sensational robbery, the article did not create much of a stir, though it was noticed by the financial secretary of Mr. Joshua Hart, who read it to his employer.

  * * *

  Hart sat in the wicker seat of his wheelchair positioned in front of the easel in his cramped studio at the rear of his subterranean gallery. At seventy-five, he might easily be mistaken for a man ten years his senior. Paralyzed from the waist down as a result of injuries sustained in the great Paris flood, he had ordered an elevator to be constructed, really no more than a glorified dumbwaiter, to transport him to and from his studio. In the years since the flood, his mind had steadily deteriorated, and now he depended on the help of a small army of nurses and servants who attended him around the clock.

  He remained convinced of two things: He had held in his hands—if only for a tragically short time—the greatest masterpiece of the ages; and, even though he would never lay eyes on it again, it still belonged rightfully to him and him alone. And now he had the satisfaction of knowing, once and for all, that the marquis de Valfierno—the man who had dared to cheat him—was dead. He had always hoped that he had drowned, but there was never any proof. Now the newspaper story confirmed that, although Valfierno survived the flood, he ended his days destitute, withering away, and ravaged by a life of sin and deceit.

  The story made no mention of Hart’s part in the affair. Solicitors from the London Daily Express had contacted Hart’s financial secretary and an agreement guaranteeing complete discretion was quickly put into place. The story did include a report that Valfierno’s companion—referred to in the article as Ellen Stokes—had drowned in the flood. Hart felt a tinge of unexpected regret. The feeling quickly faded, replaced by relief. He had always felt afraid that she might be tempted to use her knowledge of his various unscrupulous business dealings—not to mention his art dealings—against him. Besides, she had gotten only what she deserved. Over the years he had spent a great deal of money on private detectives in an attempt to hunt down both Valfierno and Ellen. There would be no need for their services anymore.

  These days, Hart came in contact with his collection only while being pushed in his wheelchair on his way to and from the tiny studio in the rear of the gallery. It was in this room that he spent most of his time.

  He lifted his brush and added more detail to the tree in the painting. He had been working on it for months now, or was it years? The trees he had painted were so lifelike that their branches seemed to sway in the gentle breeze blowing across the imagined landscape. Light from a blazing sun coruscated off the fluttering leaves, reflecting back into a blue sky feathered with wispy clouds. A family—mother, father, and child—stood hand in hand on a gently sloping hillside.

  The door behind Hart opened, and Joseph—a large man whose coal-black skin contrasted w
ith his spotless white uniform—approached the wheelchair. He was the only one of Hart’s attendants allowed into the gallery.

  “Are you all right, sir?” Joseph asked, noting the sweat beading on his employer’s face. “Mighty hot down here. Maybe it’s time I took you upstairs.”

  Joshua Hart spoke in a thin, raspy voice. “Joseph, what do you think of it?”

  Joseph looked at the canvas on the easel. He saw a hopeless mixture of colors and meaningless shapes haphazardly strewn across the canvas as if by a small child. Rivulets of paint had dripped over the lip of the easel, forming dried splotches on the floor. Indeed, a child could have done better than create this mess, a mess that seemed to grow worse each day.

  “It’s real nice, Mr. Hart. Real pretty.”

  “Do you see the trees, the sky, the sun, Joseph?”

  “Well, sure I do.”

  “Do you see the family?”

  “Real nice family, Mr. Hart. It’s the prettiest picture I ever seen, and that’s a fact.”

  Hart grunted, already tiring from the effort it took to talk.

  “It’s time to go up now, sir.”

  Joseph gently removed the brush from Hart’s hand and placed it into a jar filled with dirty water. He released the brake on the wheelchair and spun it around, maneuvering it out of the room.

  “Maybe we should turn on some more lights down here, sir,” Joseph said as he pushed the wheelchair through the dimly lit gallery. “You know, so you can see all your nice pictures.”

  Hart didn’t respond. He kept his eyes on the floor, never looking up once.

  Chapter 55

  PARIS—1925

  Five months following the publication of the London Daily Express article concerning the theft of the Mona Lisa, seventeen men, uncomfortably warm in their starched collars and suits, sat in three rows of elegantly carved chairs in the top-floor salon of the Hôtel Athénée. They had grown impatient waiting in the oppressive summer heat, so when the door finally opened and a well-dressed gentleman in his fifties walked into the room, they greeted him with a murmur of excited anticipation. Followed by an entourage consisting of two men and two women, the older man—his steel-gray hair flowing back like the bow wave of a ship—strode over to a set of heavy drapes drawn across a large window and held up his hands to signal for silence.

  “I am Victor Lustig,” he began, “and I apologize for keeping you waiting. My associates and I welcome you most heartily, and I can assure you that the patience of at least one of you will be well rewarded.”

  His associates sat down on chairs arranged in a row behind him.

  “You have been carefully selected,” Lustig continued, “as the lucky group who will have the privilege to bid on this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. You have distinguished yourselves as among the most successful, the most sagacious entrepreneurs ever to grace your singular and noble profession.”

  The men visibly puffed with pride.

  “As junk dealers extraordinaire, you have taken your place among the elite of the true leaders of the Third Republic. But nothing has prepared you for the monumental commission the boldest of you must now undertake.”

  He nodded to one of his female associates. She rose, stepped to the drapes, and took ahold of a thick hanging cord.

  “The effort required will be monumental,” he continued, “but the profits to be gained have hitherto only been dreamed of, for whoever bids the highest in the next few moments will have the distinguished honor of dismantling for scrap metal the greatest architectural eyesore ever created by man…”

  Some of the men in the audience leaned forward, their eyes wide with anticipation.

  “… that odious column of bolted metal…”

  A whispered buzz, like the hum of nectar-starved bees, rose from the assemblage.

  “… that monstrous erection…”

  A girlish snigger escaped from the young female associate still seated, only to be cut short by the sharp elbow belonging to the young man next to her.

  “… that giant and disgraceful skeleton … that hideous iron asparagus…”

  His buildup reaching its crescendo, Valfierno turned to Ellen and nodded. With a yank, she pulled aside two heavy curtains, bathing the room in light and revealing a perfect view across the Seine. Valfierno’s voice rose in climax:

  “La Tour Eiffel!”

  A gasp rose from the audience. Émile, Julia, and Peruggia stood up and began clapping. On cue, the men erupted into applause, jumping to their feet like puppets yanked up by hidden strings in the ceiling.

  Ellen and Valfierno exchanged triumphant grins as the men, all caution stripped away by Valfierno’s performance, shouted out their frenzied bids.

  Epilogue

  GIVERNY—1937

  If a man is capable of dying from loneliness, then certainly such a fate befell the farmer called Girard. His wife, Claire, had died suddenly a year earlier; one minute she was tending her garden behind the house and the next she was gone forever. With her, she had taken Girard’s heart and soul, and left behind a man as hollow and fragile as a rotted tree trunk.

  The things she left behind in the farmhouse provided a certain amount of comfort at first, but they quickly became painful reminders, and he had methodically removed them from sight. He hid the small figurines she had cherished so much in boxes in the backs of dark closets; all her clothes were bundled together and taken to the local church for distribution to the poor; even the decorative bowl that held her fresh tomatoes and pears was consigned to a dark corner of the kitchen pantry.

  And then there was the painting, the one he had presented on her birthday so many years ago. She had treasured it above everything else she owned. For twenty-four years it had graced the mantel above the fireplace. Each night as she sat knitting before the fire, she would look up every now and then and smile. Girard had even seen a likeness between his wife and the woman on the wall. Of course, the woman never aged, never suffered the ravages of time, while his wife’s face showed all too clearly the hardships of a life as a simple farmer’s wife. Only Claire’s eyes never seemed to age. Like those of the woman in the painting, they remained clear and focused and kind until the end.

  So, when the day came that he could no longer bear looking into those eyes, he took the painting down, carried it out to one of the barns, and placed it on a shelf in the hayloft.

  Each night after that, before he lay his head on his pillow, he muttered only one prayer, that he would never wake again but instead join his beloved Claire in the Kingdom of the Father. And one night, a few days ago, his prayers had finally been answered.

  * * *

  Monsieur Pilon, the local magistrate, pulled the door to the farmhouse closed, inserted a padlock into the newly installed hasp, and locked it shut. Girard, the farmer who owned the house, had no children and, as far as Monsieur Pilon could discover, no living relatives. The farmhouse would have to remain locked until the estate could be settled. To make matters worse, it was a bad time for such things. Rumors of a coming war had been brewing for months now, and what the future would bring was anyone’s guess. All Pilon knew was that he had already done his bit in the last war. Let the young men sort this one out.

  Pilon walked back to his car, tugging at his collar as the heat of the day lingered even as the sun descended into the west. As he reached for the door handle, the harsh cawing of a crow made him turn back toward the barn. Silhouetted against the late afternoon sun, a line of the large black birds adorned the roof ridge as if patiently waiting to take possession of the farm. Wiping the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his jacket, Pilon climbed into the car, pushed the self-starter button, and drove off.

  As soon as the whine of the car’s engine faded away, the crows lifted from the barn roof and wheeled away into the fields to feast on the neglected harvest. But a solitary bird broke rank, alighting on the sill of the open hayloft. Small clouds of dust mixed with slivers of dried hay rose from the floor of the hayloft as the crow ho
pped down in search of an insect or a dead mouse. The sound of something scuffling in the darkness stopped the bird as still as a statue. The creature’s head darted this way and that, alert for danger. A movement on the wall drew its attention. A thin shaft of sunlight had found its way through a crack in the siding and was slowly snaking down the wooden planks.

  Reflecting like white pinpoints in the crow’s black eyes, the light moved across a patch of skin, revealing another pair of eyes staring straight back at the bird like a predator waiting in the darkness. Another scuffle from the corner spurred the crow to action. Cawing madly, the bird flapped its wings and, in a cloud of billowing dust, escaped through the hayloft door out into the gathering evening.

  On the wall, the blade of light moved slowly below the eyes, down across a long aquiline nose to lips pursed in a patient, eternally amused smile.

  In less than a minute, the light had moved on, once again veiling the face with darkness.

  Author’s Note

  Leonardo da Vinci’s Portrait of Mona Lisa—known in France as La Joconde and in Italy as La Gioconda—was stolen from the Louvre Museum in 1911 in a manner similar to the one depicted in this novel. Two years later, an Italian named Vincenzo Peruggia attempted to return it to Italy. He was arrested for his troubles. In 1925, a story appeared in the Saturday Evening Post purporting to be an interview with one Eduardo de Valfierno, a self-professed con artist who claimed to have masterminded the theft as part of an elaborate forgery scheme. The world-renowned artist with whom I have taken inexcusable liberties was actually questioned by the police in connection with the theft. Jean Lépine was Prefect of Police at the time of this story. All the other characters are entirely products of my imagination.