The Art Thief: A Novel

by Noah Charney

  Delacloche remembered her first experience with fine art. Dressed in white with a blue bow in her hair, her tiny hand clasped inside her father’s, she was led through the Musée Rodin in Paris. Her father had stopped in front of Rodin’s The Kiss. He knelt to whisper to her. “This is how I remember Mommy, Geneviève. If you ever want to remember her, too, just come here.”

  The bidders were dressed in their best this evening. Auctions, almost exclusively Christie’s and Sotheby’s auctions to be precise, were places to see and be seen. They were social gatherings. Christie’s was a moving museum, every week a different collection of artworks available for purchase on display on the walls, for anyone to see. But the event that was the auction, that was what kept such venerable institutions as Christie’s in business, and fearless of such machinations as the Internet.

  Those within the scope of private wealth who purchased art would invariably prefer to pay more to have bought a Renoir at Christie’s than to have acquired it in any less distinctive manner. For sellers, the international nature of Christie’s and Sotheby’s made the world the buying pool and invariably would attract more attention, and higher prices as a result, than local auctions or fixed-price galleries.

  The room was packed with people: greeting, milling, speaking, phoning, reading, plotting, calculating. Delacloche surveyed, looking for familiar faces. It was far easier to count the unfamiliar. There would be a couple of tourists who wandered in, having read that “attending an auction can be a nice change of pace for a rainy day in London.” There were some of the less-preferable clientele: the gallery owners from up north who fancy themselves big shots; one or two Portobello Road junk salesmen who would prefer not to sell junk, or would at least like to balance the junk with real goods, to give their junk the illusion of value; private collectors, either new to collecting, new to London, or in person, when they’re usually absentee or phone bidders. Delacloche knew how all this worked, from her two years working in the Twentieth-Century Paintings Department at Christie’s Paris.

  When the room was at capacity, and the crumble of mumbled voices was like sitting by the sea, the auctioneer stepped up to the podium. The crowd hushed.

  CHAPTER 9

  Sir, I think you should see this. We may have a situation.”

  The fourth-floor computer terminus was the security nerve center of the National Gallery of Modern Art, in London, a half mile from the Christie’s auction rooms. The room was ringed with computers and closed-circuit television screens. Two security personnel, including Jillian Avery, sat in black-suited surveillance. Jillian now called to her supervisor.

  “There’s a disturbance in the basement, in the utility room. We’ve registered some movement, but the closed circuit isn’t showing anyone. See?”

  Overnight security coordinator Toby Cohen leaned over Avery’s shoulder as his eyes scanned her computer screen and skipped across to the CC-TVs on the wall. The TV screen showed an empty utility room.

  “Anything on the nature of the disturbance?”

  “A door is reading as unlocked. The main door to the utility room. Must have swung open. That’s all we’ve got.” Avery clicked at her computer. “What should we do?”

  “Radio to Stammers and Fox. Tell them to check it out.”

  Avery dialed into her computer and connected to the security walkie-talkie. She spoke into a microphone. “Control to Security Two. Control to Security Two. Do you copy? Control to Security Two. Do you copy? Control to…”

  “What’s going on? What’s wrong with them?” Cohen approached the computer.

  “They’re not responding, sir.”

  “I know they’re not responding.” He leaned toward the microphone.” This is Control and Security One to Security Two, please respond. Control to Security Two! Where the fuck are they? Control to Security Two?”

  “Shall we try Hammond and Hess?”

  “Yeah, give me Security Three.”

  Avery manipulated her computer.

  “They should’ve been picking up on the Security Two line.” Cohen leaned forward. “Control to Security Three. Control to Security Three, please respond. Control to…”

  “Sir, look at the CC-TV.”

  Avery pointed to the wall of monitors, which showed a selection of rooms in the museum, as well as corridors, entrance and exit points. Every monitor showed an empty room.

  “There’s no one there. None of the guards are there. What the hell’s going on?”

  Cohen stormed toward the wall of monitors.

  “When was our last communication with a team?”

  Avery checked the computer. “That was twenty-three minutes ago.”

  “Rewind the CC-TV screens.”

  Avery typed and the monitors rewound. Suddenly guards flickered into focus.

  “When was that?”

  Avery scrolled down. “That was twenty-nine minutes ago. Nothing after that.”

  Cohen paced for a moment, then stared up at the monitors.

  “Wait. Go back, and then let it run forward again.” Cohen stood cross-armed before the barrage of monitors.

  “See,” he continued, “they disappear. The guards don’t walk out of the picture. They’re there, and then they’re gone. What the fuck’s going on?”

  “Sir.” Cohen crossed to Avery once more. “We’ve got a disturbance again. Something’s in the utility room.”

  “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to this auction of Important Russian and Eastern European Works of Art. We begin on page six of the catalogue, lot one, a photograph of his sculptures by Constantin Brancusi, which you can see with the porter to my left. I have a bid for eight thousand to start, eight thousand to start. Do I hear eight thousand five hundred? Eight thousand five hundred, thank you. Nine thousand, the absentee bid, with me. Nine thousand five hundred? Nine-five? Nine-five? Surely, folks, nine…thank you, nine-five with the new bidder at the back. And I have ten thousand here in the book. Ten-five? Thank you, to the lady in the second row. Eleven thousand? I am out at ten-five. Still ten-five in the second row. A very lovely piece, excellent condition. Eleven…thank you, madam, eleven thousand with you now. Do I hear eleven-five? Are you out at eleven-five? I am selling at eleven thousand five hundred. And…oh, I see you, Jessica. We’ve got a new bidder at eleven thousand five hundred on the phones, thank you. Twelve thousand in the room. We’ve got twelve in the room, twelve-five? Twelve-five on the phones, thank you, Jessica. Thirteen? Do I have thirteen? No? I am selling, then, at twelve and a half thousand pounds to the phone bidder. And sold,”—the hammer came down with a bright wooden crack—“to the telephone bidder. If I could have the paddle number, one-nineteen, thank you, Jessica. Lot two…”

  The auction fell into its rhythm, as the bidders fidgeted in their seats, flipped catalogue pages, and whispered among themselves. Above the auctioneer stood the price screen, showing the current bid value in pounds, dollars, euros, and yen. An auctioneer’s assistant sat, elevated with a laptop computer, to the right of the podium. To the left of the auctioneer, a steady stream of porters carried out the objects for sale. Of course, everyone bidding had been to see the objects on public display during the last week, but this was a formality that Delacloche always enjoyed.

  At the back of the room, a team of Christie’s technical experts surveyed. They could see everyone in the room from their position. While there was nothing that they could do to intervene, they could identify the illicit goings-on that inevitably took place during the course of any given auction.

  A glorious floral arrangement bloomed, preventing anyone from standing directly behind them. In the anteroom, a Christie’s attendant sat behind a small desk, there to answer questions of the bidders and take paddle numbers for those who had purchased. Security guards stood on either side of the anteroom. Behind, the main stairway leading out to the lobby, and the street below, swept off into the evening.

  Delacloche remembered her very first auction, in Paris. Not long after that trip with her f
ather to the Musée Rodin. He had been crying, and he left the room when the painting came up for sale. Malevich’s Untitled Suprematist White on White. It had been in her mother’s family since it was first painted. Her father had wanted to keep it very badly. But financial circumstances, being what they were…They had made enough money from the sale to solve all of their problems, her father had said, and to send little Geneviève through the best schools, to university abroad, and to buy her a home. All this, for a piece of hemp canvas, painted all white by a Russian fellow about a hundred years ago. She knew that her father would have been proud to know that she studied Malevich, and followed the painting to the Malevich Society, which had bought it from them so many years before. Once she had the painting, hers to protect, she would not lose it. Not again. And now…

  Delacloche flipped through the catalogue and turned to the faces behind her, as the auctioneer’s voice rumbled. Raphael Vilaplana in the fifth row center, she thought. I’m sure he’ll bid on the Popova in lot twenty. Bet he’s got a buyer lined up already. Wonder how much he thinks he can get for it? Delacloche knew, or had heard of, every expert or collector in the world of early-twentieth-century Russian painting. Recognizable names rose to the surface when stirred in the finite soup of the industry. In her analogy, she considered that collector and lawyer to the stars Thomas Frei would be a particularly large dumpling. The art world was small. Any specific period of art, and the world shrinks further.

  A particularly bizarre and unattractive sculpture came up for bid. Dear God, thought Delacloche, that’s awful. But, if one buyer thinks that shit is of value, and is willing to pay for it, then its value is as much as he’s willing to pay. The trick is that if one person thinks it’s great, then others follow suit. Delacloche smiled to herself as first two, then two more bidders, dove in after the sculpture.

  “Fifteen thousand…thank you, ma’am, and sixteen with the gentleman…”

  A four-year-old girl could sneeze on a piece of paper, and if someone loved it, and was willing to pay one hundred thousand pounds for it, then its value is one hundred thousand pounds, full stop. Delacloche flipped to the next page in her catalogue. But, she thought, if a competitor sees the sneeze, and most important hears the price, and wants one of his own, then maybe you get a bidding war, and up goes the value. Come to think of it, she thought, this is a brilliant idea. I should preempt Damien Hirst and corner the market on sneeze-related art. Next time my little niece catches cold…

  The selling price has nothing whatsoever to do with the work of art being good or not. It has to do with what people are willing to pay for it at any given time. The auction house sets much of the value, when they put an estimate on the price. They set the estimates based on research of past selling prices for similar objects. If they give a high estimate, then buyers will think the piece more important, perhaps, than it is. But if they aim too high, the market won’t bid. If they undervalue, the piece loses its cachet, but chances are more people will bid, get the momentum going, and they’ll end up with a higher hammer price. It seemed to Delacloche that it was all too arbitrary. Maybe they sacrifice chickens and determine estimates based on the arrangement of the entrails. She smiled to herself.

  What are they up to now? Lot 8, a small drawing by Kuznezov. He probably spent fewer than ten minutes on it, perhaps a sketch made while in the bath, some abstract design he thought up in a moment, then left aside, never taken up again. Maybe it was destined to be a monumental painting, the hub of his masterwork, but it never panned out. So here we are, left with a sheet of scrap paper, with some lines in pen scrawled over it. And it’s quite lovely. It has interest, but no story behind it to up the value. It cannot be firmly placed in the context of the artist’s oeuvre. But in the audience today, Delacloche looked over her shoulder, there are three bidders interested. And the estimate, she glanced down at the catalogue, three thousand pounds, is on the high side. Trying to jump-start interest in an easily overlooked piece.

  “How much do you think it’s really worth?”

  Delacloche overheard someone speak behind her. Not a regular of auctions, to be sure. There is no such animal as “real worth.” It does not exist. If someone says otherwise, they’re full of it. Value is some number miraculously pulled out of the stratosphere. A combination of rarity, execution, perceived rarity and execution, number of buyers interested and their spending money, and how much the piece is propagandized. If it’s got a color photograph in the catalogue, it will get more interest than a black-and-white, or no, image. A full page, maybe a two-page spread? So much the better. And for pieces like that Titian, sold not so long ago for thirteen million, that got an entire catalogue and sale all to itself, and was written up in international newspapers weeks ahead of time. So, the better question is how much would you, as an individual, pay for the piece, not what its value is.

  In the auction room, the ebb and flow of the auctioneer’s rhythm was in full swing, and there was little ebb. The auctioneer was skillful. His pace was leisurely, but he maintained the sense of tension that many bidders relished. Touristic onlookers were surprised at how calm and deliberate were the auctioneer’s words, so unlike their only other exposure to auctions, which tend to be fire sales or cattle auctions. Auctioneers there speak at a rate of knots, unintelligibly, riling the bidders into a frenzy, those bidding unaware of what exactly they’re doing, what they’re bidding on, where they left their car keys, their mother’s maiden name…A furious flurry of words with two intents: speed and disorientation. They have eight hundred steers to sell in four hours, and a confused bidder is more apt to spend than a thoughtful one.

  This auction had none of the hectic edge, but it was an intense, focused experience. Hearts raced. It was like watching a thriller, suspense palpable whether or not one was bidding, or even knew the bidders. And this excitement was infectious.

  The auctioneer enunciated, made everything clear, but never broke from his constant control of the situation. He never mentioned names of bidders, except those of his colleagues on the phone and presenting the objects for sale. There was never a moment of unintended dead air. Bidders were expected to be prompt, but they were never bullied. And it was nearly impossible to tell who was bidding. It seemed, to the untrained eye, that the merest flare of one’s nostril, wink, or telepathic communion with the auctioneer, indicated intent. After one’s initial bid was made clear, all subsequent bids for that same lot could be administered as subtly as one wished.

  There were reasons for desired anonymity. For a private buyer, no one wanted any uncontrolled publicity around the purchase, nor did one want well-wishers, or dealers asking if they’d resell their new purchase. This was one of the reasons why Delacloche was sitting in the heat of things, taking note of every bid and, more important, every buyer. And why she attended every auction in which a Malevich work was to be sold. These objects could completely disappear after the sale. Melt into the distance, into any city or country house across the globe, traceless, unless the buyer wished to be known. Museums would want to know whom they should ask for loans. A losing bidder might want to try to broker a private deal. The press might wish to pursue the story behind a purchase of interest, or by the interesting. But the auction house code of honor protected the anonymity of both seller and buyer as much as either wished to be protected.

  The gossip chain within Christie’s leaked out, of course. When celebrities made a purchase, or attended one of the many parties and cocktail functions sponsored by Christie’s, to keep the auction house firmly imbedded in the world of socialites, the staff talked about it. Delacloche kept in touch with a few friends within the auction world, as sources for just such information.

  One sale she recalled, in particular, from her days at Christie’s Paris. There were six major dealers in the Russians who had been in and out to examine pieces for an upcoming sale. They’d all looked at this sketchbook, with something close to fifty drawings inside plus notes, by Rodchenko. It was estimated conservatively at two h
undred and fifty thousand.

  They’d all shown significant interest, although they tried to hide it. She’d seen the Turkish bazaar dance of feigned disinterest so many times, it had become a formality. All six dealers should have been bidding on this sketchbook, competing against each other, driving up the price. It was clear that they were all salivating over it. But when the lot came up, there was one private buyer, and only one of the dealers, bidding. The book sold for one seventy-five, barely above the reserve price, below which it can’t be sold.

  Standing at the back of the room, observing the auction, Delacloche had figured out what was going on. But there was nothing anyone could do about it. She’d seen all six of the dealers earlier at the Red Lion around the corner, drinking pints and laughing. Then they sat together in the middle of the floor while the auction was going on, and none of them ever bid against each other. Yes, she knew exactly what had happened. The tidal swell of the auctioneer’s voice woke her from her thoughts.

  “Lot thirteen…”

  CHAPTER 10

  What do you mean that something’s in the utility room? Why can’t we see it?”

  “I’m not sure, sir.” Avery’s fingers fluttered across the keyboard, as Cohen’s eyes rooted onto the utility room monitor.

  Nothing moved. The room looked empty. So why was the motion sensor registering? And what had happened to all of the guards?

  Cohen looked over his shoulder.

  “Are we locked in here?”

  “Sir?”

  “Is this room secured?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, lock it! Lock us in now, damn it!”

  Avery fumbled keystrokes, and the metal bolts on the control room door snapped into place.

  “Secured, sir.”

  “Now, what do we know? We’ve lost communication with all security personnel. Twenty-eight minutes ago, they all disappeared from the CC-TV. We’ve…”