The Art Thief: A Novel

by Noah Charney

  “I promise.” Coffin poured himself another cup of coffee, putting his feet up on the chair in front of him.

  Vallombroso stood up. “I’ll have a shower.”

  Coffin smiled. “Don’t bother dressing afterward.”

  Warm lashes of rain pelted the dirty glass outside the Wickendens’ ground-floor flat. Silhouettes huddled by, shoulders pinched to raise coats in defense, but the rain was inescapable. Most of them turned to look into the mustard-colored kitchen and saw Harry Wickenden eating a piece of blackened toast with marmalade, the sort with the little bits of orange peel mixed in, wearing his tattered baby blue bathrobe that he refused to retire.

  Harry hated being on the ground floor, “the fishbowl,” he called it; the subject of inadvertent, mindless gawking streetwalkers. He’d considered buying one-way glass, but deemed this option too drastic and obvious an avoidance of the more logical cure: moving. But Harry, and particularly Irma, was possessed of inordinate inertia, and the only event that could drive him to move elsewhere, was if his current residence burned down. For Irma, the inertia was physical, not mental, as she could not imagine walking all the way to the store, and then walking home up stairs. And so, the Wickendens had maintained residence at 82 Ferraby Rows, Flat 1A for twenty-seven years, the next February 18. All the while, curtains had never occurred to him, but might have if he had given them enough thought.

  Harry looked down at his toast, then up at the window. A rain-slicked, stick-thin boy of ten or so was looking in at him, a nearly translucent red cotton jumper pulled up over his head. Perhaps I should blacken the windows, thought Harry, knowing that nothing was the most he was likely to do.

  Irma was slicing at her second plate of eggs over-medium, bacon, and tomato. Her small eyes shone from under gray bangs, several decades out of date, and caught and refracted the light from the fluorescents overhead, which ricocheted off the silverware. Harry’s gaze, meanwhile, slung heavy on his face, remained fixed on the minute sawing of his wife’s knife, an act which annoyed him daily, and which he’d never once, in thirty-two years, articulated to her with any greater eloquence than a roll of his eyes, never noted by Irma.

  Without looking up from her plate, she said, “Why don’t you just give the medicine a try, then?” Silence. “Dr. Wild thinks that they might help you.” Silence. “Can’t hurt.”

  “Could.”

  “Well…”

  “I don’t need…”

  “Of course not, but…”

  “I don’t want…”

  “I know, luv.”

  For the next seven and a half minutes, Harry looked through his wife’s slicing.

  Then the phone rang.

  Wickenden picked up the phone on the third ring, as always.

  “Yup. It is. Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me. Bloody hell. I’ll be right over.”

  Wickenden mounted the front steps of the National Gallery of Modern Art. The sun was unusually bright and blinded off the avalanche of white marble steps. He was met by Elizabeth Van Der Mier.

  “Can you bloody-well believe it?”

  Wickenden looked up through the glare. Van Der Mier was haloed in brilliant light, like a nimbus. “I can,” said Harry. They walked into the museum.

  “My grandmother taught me a word for this: chutzpah.”

  “I don’t know what that means, but I know what you mean,” Harry said, trying to keep up with Van Der Mier’s long-legged gait. “I can’t say that the thought didn’t cross mind. This means that it may not have been stolen on commission, and that makes my job much more difficult.”

  “Because it eliminates…”

  “…eliminates motive for choice of object stolen. Anyone could have learned of the purchase, and known that the Malimich painting was in Conservation, since you were so good as to announce it at the press conference…”

  “…don’t give me flack, Inspector, I…”

  “…and that would diminish the percentages on a profile fitting the criminal.”

  They wound down a gleaming hallway and stepped into the elevator.

  “So,” continued Wickenden, “how much did they ask for?”

  “Six-point-three million.”

  “That’s not a coincidence.”

  “I know.”

  “Not good.”

  “I know.” Van Der Mier tapped with her foot as the elevator ascended. Wickenden noticed the lights and the movement of the elevator. The electricity had been restored.

  “That further suggests,” he droned in his usual tone, “an uncommissioned crime, perpetrated perhaps by professional thieves, but not by experienced art thieves. Probably part of a larger organized crime syndicate. Come to think of it, it’s the worst amount they could have possibly asked for, from my perspective. It shows that they…no. It suggests that they have no idea of the actual value of the piece, so they wind up asking exactly what you paid for it, a number that the press have touted about.”

  “The theft was too professional for amateurs, surely, Inspector.” The elevator dinged, and they stepped into Van Der Mier’s office.

  “True.” Wickenden sat down. “But experienced art thieves don’t steal for ransom. It’s dangerous, uncertain. There’s no guarantee that the money will be paid. Then they’ve risked for nothing, and they’re stuck with a painting that they don’t want. And any idiot with a toe in the black market knows that you can’t shop around high-profile stolen art. No, it’s got to be professional thieves, but without a connection to the art world. They would have been commissioned by someone who knows what they were doing, but the sale fell through. That’s the most likely scenario now. You don’t steal to ransom. Their Plan A failed. Now ransom is Plan B. Ransom takes all the fun out of crime.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to spoil your fun, but frankly, I don’t give a flying fuck. What am I going to tell the trustees? What do you do with ransom demands? Do you respond, or what?” Van Der Mier sat behind her desk to give herself, in her time of confusion, an illusion of authority.

  “We can call in more troops from the office. But the more pertinent question is, do you want to pay it?”

  “Of course not.”

  “I mean, given the situation.”

  “It’s not my money. I’ll have to pose it to the board of trustees. I can call an emergency meeting, if you think we should consider…”

  “…consider all options, Ms. Van Der Pfaff. If you ignore completely, then the painting will be retained by the thieves, disposed of in some way. I’d always call the bluff that they’d destroy it. Makes no sense to anyone to destroy it. The valuable object is gone, and it can’t inform on you, the way a kidnap victim could. They want the piece off their hands. It can either go back to you, or disappear. If you respond and offer to pay, then you will probably get your painting back. My bosses don’t want me to say that, but I’m playing straight with you. Probably…”

  “Probably?”

  “Consider that the thieves cannot dispose of it in any way other than ransoming it back to you, or hanging it in their living room. They want the piece off their hands, like I said. It’s burning. The theft was well considered, but ransom, by nature, is not. We’re not dealing within the art sphere, or the thieves would have known better. Or something well planned fell through. Commissioned art theft is the only way to play the percentages.” Wickenden paused. “Could you raise the money?”

  “I don’t know. The museum can’t budget it, certainly, not after the auction purchase. We’d be relying on private funds. The board might feel obliged, to save face. I appreciate your keeping this out of the public eye…”

  “…as much as we can, for now. Though gossip is a boat full of holes.”

  “Yeah, well…”

  “So…may I have something to drink?”

  Van Der Mier looked surprised. “Oh, uh, certainly. What would you like?”

  “Do you have any green tea?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Green tea. Good for the blood. Stimulates the bra
in. It’s green.”

  “Oh, right. Well, um,” she pressed the intercom on her desk, “Sarah, could you bring in some, uh, green tea for Inspector Wickenden? Cheers.”

  They stood in silence.

  “What did it sound like?”

  “Pardon?”

  “The ransom demand. What did it sound like?”

  “The call came in soon after I got into the office this morning. I don’t have caller ID here. Sarah patched it through. It sounded like a man’s voice, but it was far too low…”

  “A voice concealer.”

  Van Der Mier looked suddenly pallid. “This is real, isn’t it? I mean, it seemed sort of like a bad dream, like something I was floating through. But this is real. It’s like in the movies.”

  “I’m afraid so. What did he say?”

  “To leave the light to my office on overnight tomorrow, if I wanted the painting returned, and he would contact me. That was it. He was on the phone for less than a minute.”

  “Are you sure that it was real?”

  “You mean, like, a crank call? Not enough people know about it, I hope, for that.”

  “If you wanted to stall for time, to raise the money, we could ask for proof of possession,” Wickenden offered.

  “How would I contact him, though,?”

  “I’ll be honest, ma’am. I’m good at the detecting part, but I don’t deal well with ransomers. I’ve encountered this twice before, and most recently we called in someone who knows much more than I.”

  Van Der Mier paced. “You don’t inspire confidence, Inspector.”

  “I just want to be straight with you, ma’am.”

  “I’m just wondering…” Van Der Mier walked behind her desk and began to flip through files that splayed at incongruous angles on her desk of glass and perpendiculars. She looked up at Wickenden. He was fingering something in his pocket, looking down at the floor. “Do you know the director of the Yale British Art Museum, Inspector? No? She’s a school friend of mine, and we’ve kept in close touch as we’re both in the art world, you know. Well, they had a painting go missing a few years back…”

  Wickenden pricked up. “I never heard…”

  “That’s the point, Inspector. They didn’t want news to get out, even within the law enforcement community. Someone tried to ransom a Joshua Reynolds back to the museum. The painting was insured, and there was a top insurance investigator on the case who got it back for them. News never surfaced, face saved, everything. I’m wondering if we can call in this fellow…”

  “The Yard will provide everything that…”

  “This is nothing personal, Inspector. This is trying to push the fan out of the way before the shit comes flying in, if you’ll forgive the expression. I appreciate your honesty in your strengths and weaknesses. It takes a strong man to ask for help. Here it is…”

  Van Der Mier extended an ivory business card toward Wickenden. He took it as if it were a precious metal. He looked at the name on the card. Van Der Mier thought she could detect a ruffle in the corner of his mustache. But perhaps it was nothing.

  “Look, I’ll yield to whatever you suggest, Inspector. But I don’t want this publicized if we can help it. Everything’s been very discreet, and if we can keep it that way, well, we’d all be grateful. A private tragedy is one thing, but public is far worse.”

  Wickenden was still looking at the name on the card.

  Gabriel Coffin and Daniela Vallombroso were just finishing their sticky toffee pudding at Rules restaurant, when Coffin’s trousers began to vibrate.

  “Daniela…” He kicked her under the table.

  “Ma, cosa?”

  “Oh,” he said, “scusa.” He reached into his pocket and retrieved his mobile phone. “Sì? I mean, hello? Oh, Ha…Harry, it’s been ages…”

  Daniela looked around the room. It was a horror vacui. Not an empty space in sight. Every piece of yellowy wall was covered in a painting, watercolor, taxidermied animal head, Vanity Fair cartoon, plant, quotation, or otherwise Victorian vertiginous excess. Waiters in white shirts and black vests roamed, trays balanced precariously but with utmost precision. A maître d’ surveyed and picked up every instance overlooked by staff. A dropped fork, a low water glass, a new order, where is the restroom, cognac, please. The circulation of activity was mesmerizing, yet it was meditative to be seated looking at it as it transpired around you, in the soft cocoon created by great restaurants. However many hundreds of diners, you were made to feel as though you were the only one that mattered. And there were few better than London’s oldest restaurant, Rules.

  “…I hadn’t heard. Just got to London, actually. But that’s incredible. Or more so, as you’ve been able to keep it out of the media. That’s understandable of course, but easier said than done. No, I haven’t been professional for some time, now. Getting on in years, I suppose. No, didn’t think you’d ever stop. I’m just in London to give a lecture, actually. Yes, tonight. At the Courtauld Institute. That’s what keeps me off the streets, still. And I’m on a bit of a holiday. I have to go back to my old haunts, whenever I’m in town. At Rules, right now. Yes, have you ever…oh, well you must make it sometime. Really? Well, I suppose…yes, I think that would be all right. Why don’t…listen, can you meet me after the lecture? Then we could go somewhere and speak privately. Right. From five to six, so…oh, that would be…lovely. Cheers, see you then.”

  Coffin clicked shut his phone and sat for a moment, staring at the stuffed, severed head of a dik-dik that smiled upon the wall.

  Daniela leaned in. “Allora…”

  “You are absolutely not going to believe this…”

  CHAPTER 23

  I finally got through to Sallenave’s household, but I’m afraid the news is not promising. Have you tried the pear?” Lesgourges and Bizot sat on the banks of the Seine, beneath an inviting sun. Lesgourges’ legs hung down toward the muddy green water, while Bizot’s legs rather extended horizontally. They consumed tiny boules of Berthillon ice cream.

  Bizot replied through a chocolaty beard. “Mmmph.”

  “It’s good, you should. It’s like eating a pear.”

  “Mmmph.” They sat in silence for a moment, digesting their discussion.

  “So, the bad news,” Lesgourges continued, “as far as the case is concerned, is that Luc is ill. He’s taken to bed, and has not been out of the house in some time. Christien Courtil is at the château with him. I spoke to Luc’s secretary, but he was reticent. He’s half Austrian, of course.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “I know. But he and I have always been mutually respectful. It’s been a long while. Last time I was at Luc’s château was six or seven years ago. We’d talked about exporting my Armagnac abroad, but he was asking a small fortune, and I prefer to keep my nectar exclusive, anyway. But I couldn’t get any more information out of the secretary. Not sure how serious, but at Luc’s age…. Anyway, it must be pretty bad, if Courtil flew down there to be with him. Maybe even last will and testament…”

  “Right. So that means that Courtil is out of town, and the Galerie Sallenave will be closed.” The last of Bizot’s ice-cream cone disappeared into the vacuum amidst his beard. “I think I should pay a visit to the gallery. I have enough to get a search warrant.”

  Lesgourges looked disappointed. Bizot paused, before continuing. “Are you coming along, then?”

  ”…Which is another one of the many dangers of the art market. The best forgers are those within the art world. Because of an intimate knowledge of the methods available, not only for forging, but also for the detection of forgery, conservators are popular suspects. It is their job to authenticate works of art and sift out the fraudulent. Skilled and knowledgeable about the most advanced detection methods, they are in a perfect position to exploit the weaknesses of their own industry.”

  The fourth-floor lecture hall of the Courtauld Institute in Somerset House in London, with its sloped maroon seating, was filled with bright-eyed students, most of them either pea
rled and feminine, or gay. The majority sat at attention. Others took notes, or perhaps sketched, in their notebooks.

  “Logic is a greater tool in detection than extensive knowledge of art history. Scholarly knowledge can only help, and will speed the process, but anything may be looked up these days, and experts may be consulted on specific matters. Let us use your abundant knowledge, then, and piece together how the master forger succeeds and, thereby, how we can catch him.”

  Harry Wickenden stood in a corner at the back. He had seen Gabriel Coffin twice before and met him only once. He had been surprised at Gabriel’s apparent recognition of his name and voice. Perhaps his reputation preceded him, more so than he’d imagined. Or perhaps Gabriel was just polite.

  “Let us take a painting, for example. Why would a forger choose a painting? Surely there are easier pieces to forge? A drawing has fewer dimensions, requires only the ink and the paper. We will discuss the forgery of drawings in a moment. But for now, let us consider a painting. An inherent difficulty is that most of the famous artists have been extensively catalogued. Their works of art known to be extant are in identified locations. So, a forger needs either to paint an invented, anonymous artwork, or to research works by known artists that are listed as ‘lost.’ Both methods have worked, but the second is better. Can you guess why?”

  The first time that Wickenden had seen Coffin was at a lecture, much like this one, given at the Victoria and Albert Museum, in South Kensington, nearly ten years ago, when Coffin was newly a professor and Wickenden was in his midforties. He attended, back then, out of enthusiasm and interest. Both had dwindled, insofar as his extracurricular attendance was concerned. He could muster fervor only in the heat of the hunt, and he had noticed, to his own dismay, that his taste had blunted for extramurals of any sort.

  “The success of any work of art that is being sold, is the provenance. If the documented history of any given artwork is solid, its authenticity will not be questioned. The soundest provenance would be a signed contract from the artist, selling the piece to the family of its current owner, with a price indicated and both parties undersigned. If I were to buy an original artwork today, for example, I would save the contract, which would become the provenance for the piece. Through centuries, few artworks have such tight provenance, but you’d be surprised at how much has been preserved. Art has always been recognized as of great value, and documents relating to artworks and transactions are often saved. One of the dangers of the present is that computers eliminate the paper trail that is so important to historical research. It is too easy to delete relevant documents, or lose them in the depths of a computer.