by Noah Charney
“Now, we can see that the bartender has been approached by a gentleman in a dark suit and top hat. He is set off at an angle. But how can we see it? Surely, he is in front of the woman, standing where we, the viewers, stand. It is because everything behind the bartender is a mirror reflection. You can see the subtle lines of light refracting off the mirror’s surface, all over the backdrop.
“The gentleman wants something. Is it a drink? An orange from the bowl at the bar? A Bass ale? You think I’m joking, but see that brown bottle with a red triangle insignia? That’s right. Good product placement.
“Perhaps he wants a drink. But more likely, he wants sex. That’s right. She’s a prostitute. Prostitution was different back then. That period saw prostitution as a norm. Gentlemen had mistresses who would accompany them socially, often as much like a geisha service as cash for sex. A woman might become a bartender at establishments such as the Folies-Bergères, in order to meet clients.
“But what is going through this woman’s mind? Stare into her eyes. She has just been solicited. She needs the money but hates what she has to do for it. Perhaps she has a child to support. She is torn. She needs a client to provide, but she cannot abide her life. Yet she cannot see escape on her horizon. Others tell her that she has a good job, in a good position. The men she meets are wealthy and clean. She has a salary to supplement her true profession. She inhabits the heartbeat of the world of Parisian society, its whirl of art and literature in the late nineteenth century. The Folies-Bergères, Moulin Rouge, Toulouse-Lautrec, Émile Zola…But don’t you have the sense that she’d rather be a quiet housewife? Rather an Emma Bovary than a Nana? Yes. I’d take that one. But then, it wouldn’t be here for all of you to enjoy.”
The students just stood for a moment. Lucy spoke.
“Wow. I would just take the one nearest the door.” Everyone laughed, except for Harry. The students mingled a bit longer.
Wickenden wandered the rooms, past Kandinskys, Fauvists, Rousseau, until Coffin finally caught him. “How about we adjourn for a proper drink?”
They descended the torqued staircase, and out into the cotton London night.
“I didn’t know you were a Manet scholar,” Harry said.
“That? Oh, I don’t know any more about Manet than a survey student. That impromptu lecture was based solely on logic and observation. You know, at Yale University Medical School, there’s a required course in which students visit the Yale British Art Museum, and do clinical diagnoses of people in the paintings. They have tests in which a student is given thirty seconds to look at a painting and then must describe it in as much detail as possible, or diagnose the depicted figure. That’s brilliant. Logic and observation are two universally possessed tools that no one realizes they have.”
They turned right along the Strand, past the Royal Courts of Justice, and left. Soon they came to the hushed seclusion of the scarcely traveled street behind the Royal Courts.
“Here’s my favorite pub in the city. The Seven Stars. It’s usually teeming with lawyers, but despite that fact, it’s a wonderful escape.”
Wickenden had not been. He favored the Coach & Horses across the street from his flat, and felt it a trespass to drink elsewhere. But, when in Rome. He glanced in the long, horizontal vitrine that ran across the stomach of the windows of the Seven Stars. It was lit in an umber glow, more like sepia, Harry thought. And full of strange objects. A stuffed owl. A horse’s skull dressed in tortoiseshell glasses and a judicial wig. The battered black sign, with seven gold stars, like asterisks, swung in the mild wind.
Inside, Coffin bought two pints of best bitter and carried them carefully to the table beneath the yellow poster of a lawyer film starring Peter Sellers. “It’s good to hear of your work, Harry. Word travels around the business, as you no doubt know. You have quite a reputation for no-nonsense success. In fact, I’ve not heard of a case that you haven’t solved.”
“There are some that I consider disappointments. I’ve been fortunate. I’ve always retrieved the art, or the thief, but occasionally only one of the two. I’ve never come up empty-handed.” Harry sipped his beer, moistening inadvertently the droopy tassels of his mustache, and surveyed the pub. Long and thin, like a galley kitchen, the round-rimmed glasses on the balding bartender, a sextet of lawyer-types laughing and standing by the bar.
“Your career with the Carabinieri was very impressive, I must say.”
“Oh, I’ve done well enough. But that life was too much for me, to tell true. I had too many other interests, and to be good at that job, it was consuming.”
“Didn’t I read that you were a boy chess champion?” Wickenden maintained a steady lack of eye contact as he conversed.
Coffin leaned back and smiled. “Parents’ pipe dreams. But yes, sort of. I prefer to dwell in the present.”
Wickenden could see he’d made Coffin uncomfortable. “You’ve done very well. Highly recommended…”
“My few triumphs were part of group efforts. But you usually work alone, don’t you?”
“I…prefer. People are a pain in the ass.”
“L’enfer, c’est les autres.” Harry didn’t know what that meant. Coffin continued. “Think you’ll retire soon? You’re nearing retirement age, aren’t you? Should get a nice package and put your feet up.”
Harry looked into his pint. “Well, I’ve been younger. But no. What the hell else am I going to do? I’ve never before excelled, and never will after. Live out what you’re good at, and contribute while you can. And then…well…”
“I understand.” Coffin sat back. “That’s why I’m still in the lecture circuit. It doesn’t pay enough of the bills, I can tell you. I need to think of all sorts of creative ways to supplement my income. But, like you say, if you do something well, then it’s a crime not to do it. Most of the time.”
“I was thinking, uh, Gabriel…The last time I worked with you…there was that bafflingly inept burglar, small potatoes, who wanted to raise his status on the criminal food chain. It sounds a bit familiar to the case I’m on now. I could use…well, I’ll tell you about…I mean, I was wondering what happened to…”
Coffin smiled and shook his head. “Ah, Dunderdorf. He’s one not easily forgotten. It’s funny you should ask. Good story. He’s been in and out of prison, always on a small sentence…that much you know. But, I’m afraid we won’t be seeing him for a few years, now.”
“Oh?” Harry sipped beneath a frothed mustache.
“You’re entirely correct, he was trying to eat above his social status, an Untouchable reaching for Brahmin, and it wasn’t meant to be. But his latest caper was too delicious. He was intent on making his mark on the art world, and he certainly has, although not quite as he’d hoped, I think.” Coffin leaned forward. “He’d decided that there’s no glory in stealing a painting or sculpture. That had been done.”
“So, what did he do?”
Coffin smiled. “He tried to steal a room.”
“Pardon?”
“He tried to steal an entire room, in one fell swoop. Out of the Philadelphia Museum of Art, in the United States. There’s an installation of a room brought over from a house in Holland…seventeenth-century Haarlem, a Vermeer-style drawing room, with all the original inlaid wood panels, a chandelier, coffered ceiling, furniture…a bed, for God’s sake…. He tried to nick the whole thing at once, lock, stock, and barrel. It was made all the more amusing by how concerted was his effort. Needless to say, it was ill conceived and ill fated, so you can cross him off your suspect list. But I’m sure we’ve not seen the last. I hope not. I rather liked him.”
They sat for a moment in silence, broken only by intermittent sips of beer.
“Now, how can I help you, Harry?”
CHAPTER 24
The boardroom in the National Gallery of Modern Art was a cacophony, every seat filled and occupied by a loquacious, well-dressed figure. A guard outside the door closed it carefully and stood at watch.
It was after working hours.
The majority of the museum staff had long ago returned to their homes. The white oak round table in the center of the room was ringed with the board of trustees in twelve chairs, the museum director, and other powers-that-be. Inspector Harry Wickenden and Gabriel Coffin stood at the back of the room.
As the door knocked shut, Elizabeth Van Der Mier stood and addressed the assembly.
“Thank you all for coming on such short notice, and at this…inconvenient hour. This is a crisis meeting. I’ve spoken with each of you individually, to inform you of the situation. We must now, collectively, decide what to do about it. I’d like to introduce to you some…professionals, who are here to advise and help us through our…situation. Inspector Harry Wickenden, of Scotland Yard’s Arts and Antiquities Division, is in charge of the case, and has been most helpful and understanding in keeping this out of the media thus far. His men are up in my office at the moment, in…anticipation of an incoming phone call. And we have someone joining us in an…advisory capacity. This is Dr. Gabriel Coffin, formerly of the Carabinieri, and a renowned expert on art crimes.” Van Der Mier now took off her black horn-rimmed glasses. Beads of sweat coagulated at her temples.
“So we’re all on the same page, here are the facts. Last Wednesday night, while we were at the auction purchasing the work in question, our computer was breached, and control seized, externally, of our communications and security systems. Thanks to Inspector Wickenden’s detection, we are aware that during the computer hack, the utility room was breached and an explosive placed inside the fuse box.
“On Thursday night, the explosive was detonated, and our electricity was knocked out. During the blackout, our new £6.3 million purchase, the Malevich White on White, was stolen from the Conservation Department. It was the only object stolen. It had been recently delivered by Christie’s, after I had made the purchase, on the museum’s behalf. The painting was insured by Christie’s until successful delivery. We are currently in debate with our insurance coverers, as to whether the Malevich was covered at the time of theft or not. As you can imagine with insurance companies, the answer will probably be not.
“The painting spent only a few hours in the museum before the theft. It was in Conservation to be cleaned and reframed, but the examination had only just begun. With electricity, the painting and museum would have been perfectly secure. In its absence, as a fire precaution, internal doors default into the unlocked position. Therefore, all doors were open at the time of the theft. The fuse box is locked, and protected further by a steel cage. There is still question as to how the thieves initially breached these defenses. Inspector Wickenden continues to investigate. But our focus must now turn to the ransom demand that I received yesterday. I’ll yield the floor to Inspector Wickenden.”
Wickenden groaned up to the podium and addressed the assembly without ever raising his eyes from the floor.
“Thank you. Yesterday morning, Ms. Van Der Mier received a phone call patched into her office, from an anonymous person whose voice was concealed electronically. It sounded like a man, but technology leaves the gender in question. The voice demanded a ransom of £6.3 million, in exchange for the safe return of the Malevich painting. Ms. Van Der Mier is to leave the light on in her office overnight tonight, if the demand will be met. If not, she was informed that the painting would never be seen again.
“There are a number of components that allow us to profile the ransomer, who is most likely also the thief. Unfortunately and paradoxically, the clues make the search more difficult. The demand for £6.3 million, the exact cost of the painting, shows a lack of imagination and forethought in pricing the ransom, that suggests an unprofessionalism, or an inexperience in the art world. It also suggests that the thieves developed the heist plot after they knew of the museum’s purchase, and knew of the likelihood that the painting would be in the Conservation Room, after it was announced at the press conference.
“Investigation has shown, however, one very interesting piece of information. Last Wednesday night, the computer was hacked before the museum purchased the painting.”
There was a stir of discussion within the room. Van Der Mier looked nervous.
Harry continued above the din. “Please, a moment longer. This fact leads to one of two conclusions. One: The thieves were planning the heist, and later chose to steal the Malevich as a crime of convenience, because it was neither in a vault, nor bolted to the wall, and they knew of the monetary value. The other possibility is not so nice. It may mean that this was an inside job.”
The room gushed once more. Van Der Mier stood up and took the floor. “This is merely a possibility, my friends. But this, along with the wish to avoid publicity, is a reason most of the museum staff are not present at this meeting. Only museum staff and board members would have known of the museum’s intention to buy the painting, and of the high price we were willing to pay, in order to claim a centerpiece for our upcoming show and help to publicize it. In theory, only a few staff members were aware, but I am not naïve enough to think that word does not leak. Gossip is a boat full of holes. But that is the situation, as it stands now. We must decide how to deal with the ransomer. I open the floor.”
“I’d like to hear what Dr. Coffin thinks on the matter.”
A voice spoke from the crowd, and all eyes swung to the trustee standing in the corner, wearing the light blue Tyrwhitt shirt, a gray vest, and with a matching gray jacket slung over his akimbo arm.
Coffin stepped forward. “I have had some experience in such matters during my professional career. I do not wish to sway the congregation when it is not my money at stake. But it is my belief that the surest way to get the stolen object back, however unpalatable it may be, is to comply and pay the ransom. You must do so, however, in such a manner that the ransomers feel safe, and that you can be certain of having the painting returned.
“These ransomers are scared. Inspector Wickenden is correct in saying that the evidence suggests that the thieves are not veterans of the art world, and this may very well be their first art theft. They want to get rid of the painting. They did not steal it for decoration. They want cash. Consider the options. If you do nothing at all, ignore the request, they will probably try to contact you once more, press the issue. They are, if you’ll forgive the expression, shit out of luck, if you do not want to pay them. If they don’t have a backup buyer, and try to find a black market for it, law enforcement will track them down. So, they will either keep the painting or destroy it.”
The assembly did not like this idea at all, and the voices began to rumble. A voice from the back of the room called out, “Suppose we offer the ransom and trap the thieves?”
“If you lead the ransomers to believe that you will accept their proposal, but plan to double-cross and have the police lying in wait…well, let’s just say that the percentages don’t favor success. The ransomers will have to make a gross error that will lead us to them, in order for the police to apprehend both them and the painting. A failed attempt at capture will certainly result in the disappearance, and possible destruction, of the Malevich. I think that it is safer to use the theft as our indication of the criminals’ ability, rather than the ransom price asked. The theft was beautifully executed. It leads me to believe that those involved would not err in the ransom stage of operations, despite their inexperience with the art world.
“Obviously the best end that can come of this is to have the police find and arrest the thieves, and retrieve and return the painting, unharmed. But unless the criminals make a mistake, the advantage is theirs. The questions, I believe, are do you want the painting back, and do you have the money for the ransom? If the answer to either question is no, then problem solved. You can ignore the ransomer, and hope the police track him down, or you can try to draw the ransomer into a trap, helping the police. But you run the risk of the destruction of the Malevich or, more probably, its disappearance indefinitely. If the answer to either question is yes, then…you can hope for an arrest, but I think that the ran
somers have you by the…upper hand.”
Coffin stepped back from the hushed table. He mouthed to Wickenden, who nodded. Coffin exited, as he heard Van Der Mier’s voice rise, the door closing gently behind him.
”…I understand that you’d like to be kept informed of the progress of the investigation, Mademoiselle Delacloche, and, as I’ve said, I will keep you abreast. You’ve been most helpful, thus far. But I’m not obliged to say any…I understand, of course. I can only tell you the old news, not the current, if anything is in a precarious, and easily compromised position. Right. Of course, of course. That’s fine. Au revoir.”
Bizot clapped shut the mobile phone, and tucked it into the holster on his belt, below his considerable circumference.
“We’ll have one cheese fondue, and one meat, s’il vous plaît. And two white wines.”
The waiter, abrupt and brusque, draped in a squirrel-tail gray mustache that drooped down either side of his chin, rendering his jawline invisible, spun off to the kitchen.
Bizot sat on the long bench that comprised one wall of Refuge des Fondues, behind and beneath Sacré Coeur, at the foot of Montmartre. Every inch of the walls, benches, tables, and chairs was covered in carved and penned graffiti. It was not so much encouraged by the management, to carve one’s name on any available surface, but it was frowned upon if one did not. Bizot’s name could be found beneath the second table on the right, as one walked through the door. No one sat in the chair opposite him. In the back left corner of the tiny restaurant sat the owner and friends, who resembled remarkably the cast of an Astérix and Obélix cartoon, Bizot often thought.
The waiter arrived with two baby bottles full of white wine. Bizot lifted one and suckled at the silicone nipple. Always something strangely soothing about this, he thought. Then the rainstorm outside flew in with the swinging door, followed by lanky Lesgourges.